The raucous cacophony stirred my early morning blood as it drifted up from the dense tropical vegetation far below. The hounds were in full pursuit and giving tongue as the hot scent of the kudu-killer filled their lungs. Through my binoculars I picked up an explosion of reds and greens as a big flock of Knysna louries took wing in front of the dogs, but the vegetation was too dense to sort out prey from pursuer. Philip felt sure it was the caracal that had killed the young kudu and not another jackal.
Four exciting chases over the previous two days had produced several black-backed jackals, but the staccato barking of the hounds seemed kicked up a notch now. Catching jackals is great sport, but my goal for several years had been an African lynx, or caracal. Maybe my luck was about to change. We jumped in the Landrover and headed down a steep rocky trail in pursuit of the dogs.
Martha and I had come to South Africa in May with several hunting friends and their spouses. The party consisted of Bruce and Elisabeth Ford, my son Wyck and his wife Marcy, Jeff Watkins and his brother Terry, Lloyd and Billy Murray, Robbie Ward and his mother, Suzanne.
We relaxed for a day in Capetown, enjoyed two days in the wine country of Stellenbosh and Franschhoek, and then spent two days driving up the coastal Garden Route. It was a wonderful and scenic five days and a good way to get rid of jet-lag, but I was now ready to go hunting.
On May 7th we arrived at eZulu, the Price brothers’ 66,000-acre concession. The word eZulu is Xhosa for Heaven, and it would be hard to describe the Prices’ facilities, amenities and hunting area in more accurate terms. Their newly completed lodging was the best I’d experienced anywhere on the continent. Martha and I were ushered into our cottage, which had a king-size bed, couches and chests, double lavatories with showers overlooking the African plain, and a claw-foot whirlpool tub in the center of the adjoining huge bath and dressing area. Each cottage had its own deck, complete with fireplace and hot tub.
Years ago I’d hunted white rhino at Philip’s 32,000-acre Bower’s Hope mountain home, and I was looking forward to spending some time there as well. The Prices also have Puti and eManzini on the coast, a total of 12,000 acres near Port Alfred. We were scheduled to hunt all four estates.
Everyone was after a mixed bag. Bruce and Elisabeth, who were on their first safari, wanted to take a few of the smaller antelope such as springbuck and duiker, though that would quickly change. On the first day Bruce spotted a bull eland and after a short stalk killed it with one shot. The excitement of that encounter changed his thinking, and he went on to take 24 animals. By safari’s end, he was making plans for his next trip.
Jeff and Robbie also took several dozen animals. Lloyd Murray, and Wyck and Marcy were after a more select group of trophies, as they had already logged a number of hunts in Africa. My objective was to pursue several unique species of animals that had eluded me on previous safaris.
On the first morning Philip, Martha and I along with Lolipop, Philip’s long-time tracker who had guided me on my rhino hunt, headed out for a relaxing drive through eZulu. The concession is a mix of rolling plains broken by heavy brush. We saw herds of just about all the South African plains game, in addition to kudu and waterbuck in the dense bush.
Lolipop spotted a lone black wildebeest far out in the open and I decided to try a stalk. By using small clumps of brush as cover, we cut the distance to 350 yards and quickly set up the shooting sticks. My shot was good and a beautiful wildebeest bull was headed to my home in Georgia.
The most obvious feature of this odd creature is its horns, which sweep downward and forward, then curve sharply upwards. Also known as white-tailed gnu, black wildebeest prefer high, treeless plains where when alarmed, they often take off running in wide circles that end right where they started.
Philip said there were ostrich on the plain and that afternoon we found them. With their telescopic vision, ostrich can be one of the most difficult game animals to take. It seemed like the big birds can read your mind, especially if you intend to do them harm. We made several unsuccessful stalks and were about to give up when Lolipop spotted a large male standing along a small dry wash.
By crawling along the ditch we were able to cut the distance to a reasonable Hail Mary and I got lucky. It was a beautiful, nicely plummed bird that would feed our entire group and make a nice pair of boots. I now had two of the animals I was seeking, but the tougher ones were yet to come.
When we returned to camp we found everyone excited and happy. Wyck had taken a big red hartebeest, Marcy a springbuck and Jeff a nice gemsbok.
Each meal at eZula was a memorable experience and often presented in a scenic setting apart from the camp’s elaborate dining facility. That night the Prices threw a big party with country music, roast lamb and “puff adder,” roasted kudu intestine filled with liver and grilled over hot coals. The salads, breads, vegetables and deserts were strictly first cabin. Someone remarked that our meals were both delicious and photogenic.
On our second day the professional hunters brought all of us together at a boma in the forest where their staff presented a barbecue lunch. Robbie Ward had taken a beautiful sable, and after lunch Wyck took a record-book red lechwe.
The next morning Martha and I left with Philip for Bower’s Hope, his mountain camp. Here, I would hunt animals that remained on my African wish-list, including mountain reedbuck, vaal rhebok, caracal and African wildcat. Returning to Bower’s Hope brought a wave of nostalgia. Ten years ago I was having heart trouble while hunting rhino there. Both situations turned out well enough, and it was a blessing to return to these beautiful mountains and Philip’s childhood home.
The 32,000-acre estate is lousy with mountain reedbuck, but they are very cautious and shy. It also has a good population of vaal rhebok, though mature males are hard to find and shots are invariably long.
We had been slowly crawling over the mountains in the Landrover for several hours when we spotted a good male rhebok coming up the slope through the boulders and scrub brush. Philip and I raced about 200 yards, cutting the distance in half. The animal finally stopped in a brushy draw and Philip whispered “Shoot!” I was having trouble holding the crosshairs steady as a stout breeze was blowing up the mountain. But when I pulled the trigger the vaal fell dead, shot through the heart. It was pure luck.
The vaal (grey) rhebok thrives in the high, rocky terrain of the Eastern Cape. It has a grey wooly coat, mule-like ears, and upright, pencil-sized horns. It’s one of the less-common animals of Africa, but is sought by many sportsmen. The Prices only allow a few to be taken each year, and mine was a wonderful animal with horns more than ten inches. I had seen a good rhebok on this same slope ten years ago. Sometimes things that are a long time in coming are more special.
The next morning we left before dawn and climbed to an area where Philip had seen a number of caracal. Lolipop had left at 3 a.m. on horseback with the hounds in hopes of striking spoor at daylight. It was cold at 7,000 feet when the hound chorus began reverberating through the mountains. We knew within minutes the dogs were chasing a pack of jackals, because these canny animals seem to enjoy passing their pursuers off to each other like relay runners with a baton. An hour of this jackal trickery found the hounds falling to the ground in exhaustion.
After lunch we stalked the rocky crags and hillsides for several hours trying to get close enough for a shot at a mountain reedbuck. The animals would invariably spot us first and slip away, but there were so many that by sheer luck I was soon able to take one.
I had stopped to rest when a good ram came trotting over the rise and stopped at 70 yards. It was a simple task for my Browning A-Bolt 7mm.
Mountain reedbucks can weigh up to 150 pounds, though most are smaller. Their preferred habitat includes open grassy flats with clumps of reeds or brush, usually close to rocky slopes where they can disappear quickly when pursued.
At 9 that evening we bundled against the cold and headed back up to the high country with a sealed-beam spotlight. Our quarry was the African wildcat, a shy, nocturnal species that had eluded me on previous safaris.
We had been winding over tortuous, rocky trails for several hours, seeing nothing but bedded springbuck when Lolipop spotted the eyes of a predator glowing like tiny coals. The animal was about 100 yards off, but there was no way to drive close enough to see the animal’s body with the light.
Judging by the set of the eyes and a portion of the animal’s head that I could see, I figured its body extended to the left. Holding the crosshairs where the shoulder had to be, I squeezed off my shot.
Philip saw the cat jump and determined that I missed. While we held the light, Lolipop struggled up to the area but in the dark he couldn’t see anything. He was not overly happy about looking around in the dark for a wounded cat and soon returned to the vehicle. I asked Philip to bring me back the next morning as I felt good about the shot. I’m sure he thought we’d be wasting our time, but after some discussion he relented. The next morning we found my wildcat dead on the rocky slope, right where it had been shot.
Weighing as much as 15 pounds, the African wildcat resembles a common tabby, but with longer legs and rich, reddish-brown on the back of its ears. They lie up in rock crevices during the day, then venture out at night to pursue the young of small antelope and ostrich, along with reptiles and field mice. Today, I treasure my wildcat mount as much as I do my lion.
Martha and I returned to eZulu with Philip, and the next morning we were up early for our two-hour drive to eManzini where we would hunt blue duiker and once again chase caracal with the hounds. We encountered a misty rain as we neared the coast, which I thought might be good for stalking the tiny duiker as it would enable us to move more quietly through the dense underbrush. We failed to see a duiker in the rain, but the wet conditions held scent better for the hounds. Soon they were running wide open after what I hoped was a caracal. We jumped in the Landrover and drove furiously from one ridgetop to another, stopping often to listen. Few things in the outdoors are more exciting than listening to six yelping hounds in hot pursuit of an animal.
But after three miles the chase ended abruptly. Once again we realized the dogs had been pursing a jackal instead of a caracal. A cat would have taken to a tree, intensifying the staccato of the baying hounds. The jackal, however, finally tired of running and stopped, deciding he would end the matter by making a stand. Only then did he discover his mistake. Instead of one dog, there were six, and the pack made short work of the luckless jackal.
When we returned to camp we discovered that Wyck had taken two caracals, a genet cat, and a porcupine early in the evening.
Graham, the caretaker at eManzini (“at the water’s edge”), called that night to report that a young kudu bull had been killed by a large caracal, and the next morning we were back there at daybreak. Graham had already released the hounds, most a mix of bluetick, plott and black-and-tans. They struck a trail immediately, but it was a jackal that soon eluded them.
Around lunchtime Lolipop heard a bushbuck bark a warning and it was assumed that a caracal was close by. We released the dogs and within minutes they struck a strong spoor. Once again Philip drove like a man possessed. Following the hounds was a passion he inherited from his father and it readily showed. After several miles the hounds veered off into heavy cover where there were no roads. I grabbed my Ithaca pump loaded with No. 1 buckshot and took off on foot after Philip.
We ran for a half-mile through the thornbush. I was bleeding from my arms and face and about tuckered out, but the closer I got to the cacophony the harder I pushed. This had to be a cat and he had to be treed, though he might not hold.
Suddenly I realized I was within 20 yards of the melee, but I couldn’t see through the dense brush. To get closer I would have to crawl. Philip yelled “get in there,” making sure he stayed back so he wouldn’t be in front of the shotgun.
I pushed through the thorns to the base of a large euphorbia tree, and as I peered up toward the mass of screaming hounds, the caracal growled and came flying down from a height of 15 feet. The cat hoped to clear the hounds and make good his escape, but I caught him in the air with a load of buckshot. He hit the ground and never moved.
I crawled over to inspect the lynx, which was an absolutely beautiful animal, one of the largest males Philip had ever seen. The big predator was evenly colored in reddish-fawn and had long ears with dark, tufted tips.
Lolipop came over to Philip and said something that I didn’t understand. “He said that no other client would have ever made that shot under those circumstances,” Philip interpreted. It really made me feel good, but I knew better. Once again I had been very lucky.
The next day we hunted blue duiker, this time with Jack Russell terriers that ran a huge bush pig by me at six yards. The No. four shot I’d hoped to use on a tiny antelope worked well on the 300-pound boar. But that’s where my luck ended. Three more days of dawn-to-dark hunting ended with us never seeing a duiker, yet every morning we’d find their dime-sized tracks sprinkled across our footprints from the day before.
So good for them. I had more than my share of luck and I will not begrudge some to them. Besides, I now have a reason to return to the Eastern Cape where I will once again chase after Africa’s shyest and most elusive critters.