Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Africa Back from my Zimbabwe safari... Aug-Sept 2015

Part 6: Elusive Eland... and Africa Says Au Revoir

I bagged my kudu on Day 5 of my safari, which meant that I had beaten the odds of collecting two of my 3 target species by a wide margin. It also meant I had 4-1/2 days to try for the third, eland, and I have to admit I was feeling confident. But Africa had other plans.

We had seen eland bulls every day up to that point. Most were immature or breeding age bulls, but they were bulls nonetheless, and we had seen a couple of mature or "blue" bulls. For the uninitiated, eland start off a distinctive buckskin color, but as they age, the bulls turn a blue-grey color, particularly the forequarters and neck; hence the term "blue bull", which denotes an older bull, mature and usually past his peak breeding years. As well, bulls grow a topknot of hair above the eyes which pretty much typifies an older, shootable animal. The dewlap under the neck may be bigger in an older bull as well. In terms of record-book numbers: a younger bull at peak breeding age will usually have longer and "prettier" horns, but these wear down with use so a mature bull won't typically score well with the SCI tape-measure crowd.

Here's a pic of a classic blue bull. I have no idea who the hunter was, I stole this pic off th' innanet:




In the 10 days I hunted in the BVC (which is considered to be, historically, classic and traditional eland hunting country since whites first came to this country) we had seen a lot of eland. Mostly cows, of course, but at least one or two bulls a day for the first 6 days, and on two occasions we saw great huge blue bulls: once on the banks of the Bubye River, and once in the thick mopane brush of Chamalaya.


And here's a photo of a young bull, probably a bit young for a herd bull, but getting close to breeding age:



Note the difference in coloration compared to the older, "blue" bull; the young fellow isn't much different in color from a cow. Also, the bigger and lighter horns, compared to the darker, bulkier, and shorter horns of the old boy; and of course the absence of the forehead ruff.

Anyway, the story of my search for eland is classic AWA (Africa Wins Again). Day 6 dawned hotter than the previous days. It was easily 100 degrees shortly after sunup, and by early afternoon temperatures were pushing well into the 120's. Wind was minimal. This was the 5th straight day of temperatures above 100, which usually doesn't happen in this part of the world until October or November, said my PH. "I've been hunting in this part of the world for more than 30 years, and I've never seen heat like this in August!"

Isaac, the head tracker, shook his head slowly in agreement, muttering something that you didn't need to speak Fanagolo to translate: "October's gonna be a bitch!"

The heat had been driving the game into the thickets each day, but on Day 6 it was even worse. Even the omnipresent zebra and wildebeest were scarce, and only the giraffe seemed to be unaffected. We saw a lot of giraffe. We tried sitting up on a kopje that morning, but it was too damn hot; the rock seemed to heat up like a frying pan and by 11 am it was all we could do to get down off the hill without melting the soles of our boots. Nap time after lunch was miserable: too hot to sleep, no wind, no A/C. Ugh.

At about 3 pm the wind started up. A good breeze at first, then a steadily strengthening blow. Clouds suddenly blew in from the west, high cirrus clouds at first, then high cumulostratus. They cut the strength of the sun somewhat, and we were hopeful for the appearance of eland, but none showed. After dinner that night the wind increased to near-gale velocities, and we had high hopes for cloud cover and cooler temperatures in the morning.

I awoke at 0200 to pee and the wind was still howling. But at that point I could smell rain. When we got up at 0500, the wind had died, clouds cloaked the sky, and a wet mist permeated the air. It was much cooler, perhaps mid-70's. Visibility wasn't terrible, so we loaded up rain gear and set out. Unfortunately, the eland (and everything else!) seemed to be spooked by the sudden weather change, and we saw nothing of eland: no tracks, no sign at the waterholes, no eland in the brush. By late afternoon the weather had turned to a steady rain.

The rain continued for the duration of my hunt. Game was scarce that entire time, so we drove miles and miles looking for tracks or a chance sighting of a herd without success until late in the afternoon of Day 8. We spotted a small herd of eland moving through open mopane bush perhaps 200 yards from the road: 6 buckskin colored cows and a darker, greyer breeding age bull. The bull had very good horns. We glassed them for 15 or 20 minutes, and John and Isaac debated back and forth for some time. Finally John spoke to me.

"I know you want a blue bull," he said, "But that one's really big, and he's got massive horns. He's not a classic old fellow, but he's mature and he'll score very well."

"Would you call him shootable?" I asked.

"Yes, absolutely," he replied. "But only if you're willing to shoot less than a blue bull."

"In this weather we're not likely to see one of those, though, I imagine," I mused.

"Likely not."

So we got out. The herd was about 250 yards to our left front, feeding steadily toward our front-center. A waterhole was dead on the road about 1000 yards ahead. We decided to circle into the heavier bush to the right of the road, downwind, and try to get closer to the eland by coming back upwind toward them. But before we could start to put the sneak on them, the eland spooked and started running across our front.

John put the shooting sticks up and I laid my rifle in it, cranking the scope up to 7X, and aiming straight down the road. Sure enough, the eland popped through and crossed the road perhaps 200 yards out. Doable, with 6 inches of holdover. Cow, cow, cow, cow, then the unmistakable blue-grey bull, but he was partly covered by another cow and followed closely by yet another.

"No shot," I said, and took my rifle down.

"Didn't think so either," John agreed. Isaac said we should swing around as we had originally planned, and we might surprise them in the brush. So we set off. It was about 1700 and the light was starting to fade.

"We've only got about an hour's shooting light, at most," John said to me. "And we won't want to be tracking a wounded bull in this rain. There's a lot of lion about."

"Right," I said. "I'm not going to take a shot unless I'm positive."

"Fine," he agreed. "Just be aware that if you don't kill him right there, all you're going to recover for a trophy will be a skull and horns."

"Got it."

So we headed off. It took about 20 minutes to cross the trail of the eland, and since we were now upwind of them, we circled will around to the east on them, hoping to come up across-wind to them, if not actually downwind. Twenty minutes later Isaac froze and pointed. John put up the sticks, and we all peered through the sodden brush to try to pick the bull out. I saw one cow clearly, and the hint of another, but that was it. John shook his head.

"The bull's gone," he whispered. We gradually moved forward, and the tracks confirmed it. Trudging back to the car, we discussed shot placement on eland, trying to keep our spirits up in the damp weather.

Supper was a treat: we had saved the kudu tenderloins, which I had Stan the cook cut into inch-thick medallions which I seasoned personally with the spices on hand. Sadly, they had no Texas BBQ sauces, no chipotle chili powder, etc... but we made do. Stan deep-fried some "chips" for us, and I grilled the steaks over mopane coals, drizzling olive oil on them to keep the meat moist and cooked to perfection at the tipping point between rare and medium rare. After days of heat (which kills the appetite) we were finally hungry, and having Texas-style grilled kudu steaks with french fries and salad was a great treat. We scarfed down 3 medallions apiece, and had leftovers for Jessie, John's fox terrier.

Day 9 dawned even colder and wetter than the previous days. We went out, but by this time the rain had soaked the roads and the Land Cruiser slewed and skidded in the mud. There was no game to be seen, with the exception of occasional impala or zebra or wildebeest. Even the giraffe had given up.

"I'm amazed," John said, shaking his head at supper time and sipping at his sundowner. "Thirty years I've hunted this country, and not once has it rained in August or September. Now this. I can't understand it."

Oh, well. Africa had decided not to offer anything more, apparently. That evening I packed up my gear, unloaded and cased my rifle, and went up to the skinning shed to say so long to my buffalo and kudu skulls. I gave Gibson, the skinner, a bit of an extra tip for putting up with my autopsies. He grinned and talked me into buying some giraffe-hair bracelets, which were the only "souvenirs" I brought back from the trip. We left for Bulawayo the next morning, and spent that night in John's beautiful home there. He has some amazing trophies, let me tell you!

Example: this former world-record buffalo head was purchased by John at a gunshop in South Africa many years ago. It's a long story which doesn't bear repeating here; suffice to say that the man who shot it in Mozambique, Major Pretorius of Cape Town, went back the next season to try to kill its bigger brother, but was killed by it instead. It's over 57" wide:




Next day at noon I was on the plane to Jo-burg, and at 1700 we were wheels-up and headed home. Africa, hidden under a swath of cloud, slipped into the night beneath the airplane as the excellent South Africa Airways flight attendants served a superb dinner.

Many of my Africa veteran friends, including some of you 24HCF denizens, had smiled indulgently as I planned this trip, because I kept saying I was only going to Africa once. Well, I understand now.

Now that I have my buffalo, and my kudu, I've achieved a certain satisfaction that is already giving me the confidence to say, "I'm willing to work at doing better..." A 43"+ buffalo, and/or one of those magnificent heavy-horned 57-1/2" kudu bulls, would be worth another 10 days of PH and game conservancy fees. Not to mention that blue eland bull who slipped away from me this time around!

So as I winged homeward, I didn't say goodbye to Africa. I said 'au revoir'... until we meet again.