I was on my third Safari with my good friend and guide Roger Coomber of Vieranas Safaris in Namibia, when all too quickly it was my last day on Vieranas, and it turned out to be the most magical day in my fifty years of hunting.
We had decided to go to an area that was surrounded by a large number of Kopjes (granite boulder hills of varying sizes and height). These Kopjes provided protection from the strong winds, which were creating serious dust storms out on the plains. I had fond memories of this wild rugged place, as it was here that I had shot my wonderful fifty inch Kudu Bull two years ago.
Kudu’s are probably one of the most sought after game in Africa. With their long spiraling horns and regal appearance, these wonderful animals are often referred to as the ‘Grey Ghost’ of the desert, a reputation well deserved with their ability to disappear into the smallest amount of cover right before our eyes.
We were only in the blind an hour, when a huge Kudu bull came in. Roger and I had previously discussed the possibility of a big one coming in, and I had suggested to him, that I was not interested in getting another one unless he was 55inches or bigger, (thinking that I was unlikely to see one remotely near that size). When this beauty walked in Roger started to get excited. His first guess was that he was 53-54 inches. “Very nice” I whispered, but I was still happy with the one that I already had. As the Kudu turned his head, Roger started to get really agitated. “I bet he goes at least 55inches” he whispered, “look at the way those magnificent curls come out from the base; I have never seen anything like him before”. Well I can tell you that really put the pressure on me, almost without thinking, I put an arrow tight in his shoulder through both lungs. After a mad dash, he fell over within eighty meters. Roger and I looked at each other completely dumb founded. Then the adrenalin kicked in. We were bouncing off the walls with excitement. Just as suddenly I stopped and thought, “oh shit” what have I done? I had only recently got my original Kudu from the Taxidermist, and now I had another one on the ground. I had visions of my wife Jan, slowly killing me when I got home. Those thoughts however were quickly forgotten, as I walked up to him. The closer we got the bigger he become, and I started to get the shakes. Roger whipped out his tape measure and with very unsteady hands started to measure him. We could not believe our eyes when the tape stopped at a whopping 58 inches. We were not sure if he would make the top ten bows shot Kudu in Namibia, but Roger said he would certainly be right up there.
We spent a long time admiring the size and symmetry of his horns. “He’s by far the biggest that we have had off this place, in fact he’s the biggest that I have ever seen” Roger said. Word gets out fast in the hunting world, within 24hours Roger had two enquirers from overseas hunters, wanting to hunt a 58 inch Kudu. I kid you not.
While all the measuring and photography was going on, the pickup truck was called in, and with very little fuss the Kudu was on its way to camp. Kudu meat is highly prized over there. In fact I was very impressed with the efficient way all the meat was handled. Nothing is wasted, everything is utilized either by the main camp, or by the staff and their families.
After a quick discussion we decided to stay in the area for the rest of the day, so we settled back in again. We had just finished our packed lunch when a faint movement out of corner of my eye caught my attention. Barely daring to move I slowly, very slowly, turned my head to get a better look. Where only a few seconds ago there had been nothing, now stood two incredibly beautiful Klipspringer’s. These wonderful animals only stand at 56 centimeters (twenty two inches) at the shoulder and weigh in at less than eighteen Kilo’s (forty lbs). Hardly daring to breathe I watched those lovely tiny light brown creatures timidly making their way down to the water hole, ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger. One was a very pregnant older Ewe, and the other a very proud young Ram. After delicately drinking their fill, they tip toed back to the point where they had appeared from, suddenly vanishing as if they had never been.
The spell was broken, and we both started talking at the same time. Not quite believing what we had seen. Sometime later I realized that it had not even occurred to me to pick up my bow. An opportunity lost perhaps, but on reflection, I know that I could not have drawn back on one of those wondrously rare creatures.
Although I have been a bow hunter for more years than I care to remember, for me hunting is only secondary. Getting out there and witnessing nature at its best is the greatest reward. Roger and I had just witnessed something unique. As long as I live I will regard that moment as one of my most memorable hunting highlights. And who better to have shared it with than my PH and good friend, Roger Coomber.
Thinking that the day just could not get any better, it did. At around 4 pm a bruiser of a Warthog came in. He was a real old boy with his tusks worn well down, but with great bases. He had a big gash down one side, and old scars all over his body. He must have felt the weight of the whole world was upon him as he came into drink. Man he had a belligerent attitude. Darting here and there, he was trying to pick a fight with his own shadow. He finally settled down, and while he was quartering away I slipped an arrow through his rib cage. He scorched the earth getting out of there, breaking trees three inches thick, as if they were match sticks. He only went forty five yards and was down; my heart went out to that grand old warrior. He obviously had experienced a very eventful life, which was nearing its end. Roger and I both agreed, better to fall to a hunters arrow than become prey to the Jackals one dark night, as most of them do when they get too weak to defend themselves.
What a day, I could not have scripted it better. There were two very happy hunters that returned to camp that evening, to have a celebratory drink, and to pack for an early start in the morning on the second part of my safari.
A small extract from a story I wrote called Africa Three
Ray Scott
New Zealand
Archery Addix Forum Member
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