The Sound of Thunder

By ANDREW BALDRY

When the animal has the advantage, hunting can be dangerous but exhilarating.

The sound of thunder is ominous. It is the pending sound of violence. The date was June 2014, and I had just returned from my first safari of the season and was privileged to have experienced some of the finest hunting of my career. I was returning from my Kafue concession in Zambia and had a story to tell. June is considered early season and there is still much moisture around after the rains, which usually dissipate in May. This was the first hunt of the year.

For whatever reason, the usual big herds of buffalo had not yet crossed from the Kafue National Park into my Kafue concession. There was also quite a bit of lion activity, which could make for a viable excuse, and pickings were therefore slim. However, all was not lost, and my game scouts found evidence of some lone bulls up against the communal belt occupied by the Kaindu tribespeople, the traditional landlords of this area. Here the soil is clay and is dominated by the thick and long Hyparrhenia grass varieties. Buffalo seek out this damp, dense cover, and hunting was electric and very exciting indeed.

The grass stems were as thick as fingers in places and mostly impenetrable for us humans. My client and I were initially both carrying open-sighted .404 Jeffery rifles that had to be held upright as we pushed through the morass of grass. I remember taking a break that first morning and opted to upgrade to my .500 double rifle. After all, this is what doubles were designed for and a second barrel would be welcome.

June is our winter season and it gets bloody cold. The grass in most places was still fresh, but here and there patches of burn afforded some visibility, and I was hoping that these slight openings would be our battleground. The buffalo was having no such thoughts, however, and sought the deepest cover, waiting for us until the last few seconds before thundering off. Now and again, we would catch a glimpse of an ominous dark shadow, but a shot was never offered. The grasslands were so expansive that the buffalo would often simply circle us and wait. Michael, my tracker, would be a few inches in front of me and was told to duck down if he saw or heard the animal. He trusted me enough to shoot over his head if need be.

In Zambia, we call these solitary males ‘kakulis’, but they are commonly referred to as dagha boys – dagha meaning mud. Their hoofprints are oversized and often has a squarish appearance, unlike those of the younger bulls whose prints are more circular. In the Kafue, these bulls are massive bodied and generally short on temper. This type of hunting is not everyone’s cup of tea, but my hunter was very experienced and wanted an up-close opportunity to use his open-sighted .404 Jeffery.

 

EXCITING HUNTING

In long grass your trophy is purely the buffalo and the sport. Horns are irrelevant. Age is determined before the chase and the shooting is offhand and quick. The target is often obscured, and good bullets are essential. A double rifle is handy for this sort of work, and during the next few days mine was often pointed with serious intent.

These lands are a potential minefield of noises that could alert your quarry, thus steps are thoughtfully taken and carefully placed. Glossy piles of fresh dung give you an indication of the proximity and direction of the animal, but once you get close to your quarry the bush becomes ominously quiet. It is almost like nature holds her breath and is content to quietly observe the unfolding drama. My mental inclination is to dismiss the instinctive and persistent signals to flee, but I’m not sure what everyone else will think when the tracker disappears from sight to be replaced by a dark and foreboding silhouette.

The sound of thunder at your feet is a black storm that you have chased and is the sound of a buffalo at close quarters. (I might add here that I had some clients who simply refused this pursuit and opted out, hoping for more favourable conditions. However, the client on this hunt was of solid constitution and he relished this style of hunting.) Under these conditions the buffalo does not smell you but rather senses you at a few paces. It takes a couple of minutes to compose yourself after such an encounter. Checking the guns are back on safe and with an unconvincing grin you wipe down your sweaty hands. Talk is whispered. When all are reasonably composed, the game starts again.

At first, the tracking is easy, as the running hooves have pounded the dirt, spilling soil on either side of the track. But it is not long before the buffalo again seeks deep cover; he is forewarned now and will walk wide circles to pick up your scent. The game is usually over at this point and these dagha boys will look for new territories and walk miles to find it. By then the sun is high and the wind fickle, and it is probably a good time to break. The hunting for these old boys is reserved for the gloom of early mornings, when they leave the cathedrals of long grass to seek grazing.

 

ON THIS PARTICULAR DAY

We were doggedly pursuing one specific bull that would stray into the communal farming belt and keep to the confines of thickets and corridors of high grass. His territory was limited to a few square miles, and we would pick up his tracks early and hunt him until the wind or odds were out of our favour. It has been my experience that to persistently harass an animal often leads to a charge scenario and as my job is to keep my client safe, I would call off the hunt if I felt we had pushed the game too hard.

My tracker, blessed with a sixth sense, would warn me every now and again that the buffalo was becoming agitated. He claims that he can smell it. It becomes dangerous to let your guard down in such situations. Common sense is often called upon, and there are many a brave man who has been gored (or worse) by disregarding it.

We took a break and there was an outpouring of relief, a chance for us to mentally regroup. It was cold but we were sweating. We had previously agreed that when we bump the same buffalo a third time it would be a good time to stop. It was a rule we adhered to daily.

It had been icy the previous evening and there was a dusting of frost on the ground. The open vehicle made for an uncomfortable ride and the dripping wet grass even more so. I made a small fire and some coffee to warm us whilst Michael scoured the ground for tracks. He returned shortly and with much excitement said that he had actually seen the buffalo and it was massive bodied. It was holed up in a small area of grassland adjacent to some thickets which we knew well.

I decided that this was an ideal opportunity to change our hunting method and that we would ambush this clever animal and use the wind to our favour. I loathed to shed my jacket and gloves, but they can be a hindrance when shooting in tight conditions. We shivered and talked about the situation, and in the frozen twilight of the dank morning, we concocted what we thought was a cunning plan.

Our approach would now be a complete reverse of our previous day’s hunting, and we would use Michael’s scent to force the buffalo out of its cover, stationing ourselves downwind and hiding out in a gap that afforded us some degree of visibility. The stage was set, and the show was about to begin.

The anticipation was incredible, and emotions ran high as we knew that at close quarters the buffalo would want to fight rather than flee. The tracker had to station himself upwind of the grassy bed and this buffalo, as always, would seek out the deepest cover. We were squarely in-between. I thought at the time that it was like playing chicken on a train track… blindfolded.

The onset of the sound of thunder and the breaking of vegetation warned us that the showdown was imminent. The noise was all around us, and yet we could not see the beast coming. I was swinging my double, looking over the front-sight bead for a target that I could not see. I felt I had lost complete control of the situation and someone was going to get hurt. At that point in time, I was feeling very unprofessional and was worried about my client. Had I been too brazen? Typical of wild animals, they do not conform to rules or the ways of man, and this one did the unpredictable. The old bull, for whatever reason, opted for the more open country of scrubland and stands of stunted acacia. This was somewhat of a relief, and we regrouped to resume the chase using more traditional methods.

Visibility was good but the wind wasn’t, and Michael had to circle the immediate area for sign. It was extremely pleasant to be in the open and to be entertaining what could be considered a normal tracking hunt. The bull had made a mistake, and perhaps this would be our opportunity. An oxpecker (tick bird) flew overhead and pointed us in the right direction. The chitter-chatter of these small birds would eventually lead us to the animal, and for the first time I felt that we had gained the advantage.

Again, the trembling adrenaline coursed through our bodies and the grip on our rifles became firmer. We quietly stalked the twitter of birds, one tender step at a time. The old warrior had bedded down behind a fallen tree and, sensing us at close proximity, he lifted his great body and head from the debris. There was to be no clear shot until he turned and for what must have been half a moment, we locked eyes on each other. He looked down his nose at me in terrible anger.

My client sent a bullet through his heart and the buffalo stumbled in death. His fight was over, and we watched him draw his last breath. Our silence gave this grim beast the respect that he deserved as he had awarded us the best of hunting and had been an admirable quarry. The sun broke through the greyness of clouds and the birds resumed their dawn chorus. Africa had certainly been kind to us that morning.

 

WHY DO WE DO IT?

Is this why we are attracted to the hunting of dangerous game? Is it to experience emotions that are not often encountered in ordinary life? We continue to risk our lives for the pursuit of our sport and are prepared to acknowledge defeat. This was fair chase and it was us who were most disadvantaged. Anyone who has experienced a charge or wild animal at close quarters will know the eerie slowness of time and the immense concentration it takes to be firm. One has to look through the animal into its anatomy to place the bullet into a vital area whilst your body wants to flee. The hunting of buffalo is what and how you make it and it is not for me to suggest rules or standards, but to be in close proximity of these animals is a somewhat primeval experience, and I do it simply because I am able to do so.

In my short absence from my camp and in between safaris, a pride of lion had wounded two buffalo bulls who sought the murky recesses of a nearby swamp. Probably hiding up in some long grass. The sound of thunder will have to wait for another day.