It had been a long, delightful day on the Namibia savannah. Strange animals, wondrous birds, weird, exotic cries cutting the hot air kept one guessing what amazing experience would pop up next.
The afternoon’s hot sun was settling above the treetops, its rays quickly losing their former power. The desert air had already acquired a touch of coolness. When the sun disappeared the temperature would plummet rapidly and a warm jacket would be necessary when we sat around the crackling campfire after dinner.
The sun turned brilliant red, sinking steadily below the tree line, silhouetting the acacia and camel thorn trees against its glowing light in a magnificent sunset. Then the breathtaking colors slowly faded and a grayness stole over the land.
We were halfway back to the lodge when without warning a large animal burst from the darkening scrub and leaped the road. Its large body, white striped hide and magnificent head and tall spiral horns left no doubt what it was: a kudu.
We hadn’t seen a single, big kudu bull the previous two days of hunting, but a single glance at this magnificent creature elevated him instantly above all other antelope species. We’d seen a few kudu cows, but I wasn’t prepared for the effect this tall horned big bull had on me. My mouth was hanging open as the kudu dashed majestically through the scrub, head and spiral horns high, disappearing into the fast growing darkness.
Our guide Andre stopped the land cruiser and looked at me expectantly.
“What do you think about hunting kudu now?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. He’d strongly hinted I should do so previously.
Kudu hadn’t been on my original list of animals, but the sight of that bull burned into my mind. Chrissy was impressed as well and spoke up immediately.
“Dad, use your head, you may never be able to come back again.” She seemed impatient I hadn’t already made the correct decision.
At this point there wasn’t really a choice to be made.
“Andre, you’re on! Find me a kudu, they’re incredible!”
Andre smiled knowingly and related many hunters can’t appreciate the overwhelming emotion sighting a big kudu bull generates. They must be seen to be truly appreciated. They can also be very elusive; this was the first we’d seen in three days of hunting. I wondered what my chances were of getting a shot.
Andre felt about 15 mature bulls lived on the 20,000 acres he guided on. They move very little during the heat of the day, are shy, but the good news was he knew the areas they frequented. He guessed I had a better than average chance of seeing another, but there was no guarantee. They’re nicknamed the Grey Ghost for a reason.
I grew more nervous when the many oryx we’d seen everyday mysteriously vanished, but on the positive side we began seeing occasional kudu cows and small bulls the next two days. We chased blue wildebeest to no avail other than aching legs and acute frustration, couldn’t catch up with the blesbok or impala either, though I did get a warthog and beautiful springbok.
This evening as the sun once again sank enchantingly in glorious splendor behind the trees, Andre took a little used trail telling us to look sharp as this was an excellent area for kudu. All eyes stared into the brush. Suddenly a sharp tap on the roof, Simon our tracker, talking quietly, but excitedly from his lofty perch in the truck bed.
Andre killed the motor and said tersely; “Kudu, a big bull!”
Gulping, my mouth suddenly went dry; Lady Luck was unexpectedly smiling upon me. I slipped quietly from the truck and loaded the rifle. Crouching we hurried back along the track until reaching a slight knoll overlooking a wide, shallow draw. Andre placed the shooting sticks and we all lifted our binoculars glassing the far scrub and trees.
Simon suddenly pointed and following his gaze I searched desperately for a sign of our quarry. Andre stiffened and I dropped the binoculars, raising the rifle for at the same instant I saw a gray form that could only be the kudu.
“Do you see him?” Andre hissed.
“Yes,” I answered, trying to steady myself and calm my slamming heart.
Through the scope I saw the big bull was facing to my right, half hidden in brush. The top of his chest was clear, the bottom third covered by wait-a-bit thorn.
Gulping nervously I steadied the weaving rifle as best I could and squeezed carefully. Wham! The rifle cracked sharply, the kudu leaped forward and then vanished.
Lowering the rifle, I recognized too late the bull had been further off than I first thought, at least 300 yards.
Simon was smiling broadly at me, he’d heard the bullet hit, but Andre, intent and serious told me to stay put and be prepared to shoot again. He thought my shot was a good one, but was taking no chances.
All I could think of was the bullet dropping into that tangle of thorn brush and deflecting. I was concerned.
The light was fading fast as Andre and Simon hurried to the opening the bull had stood. When both men were only 20 yards from it, the kudu jumped up, running to their left; neither saw nor heard him. I’d had no shot, the last light faded and darkness fell.
(To be continued)
