A Very Texan Holiday

Sow No. 1...

We left the record breaking high temperatures of Michigan and came to Houston so my wife could spend Christmas with the man of her life, our grandson Sylas! It is very hard after being married for twenty five years to be replaced by a miniature of a man that calls me Fufu (his own way of corrupting the "Brazilian" Vovô.)

But since I was forced to abandon the last days of Michigan grouse season and completely miss late antlerless gun season at Neverland, I had to find a way to enjoy Texas...well, my way.

After returning a rental car at the airport on Saturday we all met at The Academy on Westheimer Street to buy hunting licenses and a pair of boots to Daniel after I convinced him that loafers were not suitable for hunting. And then, when after lunch the two Marias (mother and daughter) convinced Daniel to join them on a shopping expedition taking Sylas along, Zak took me on a much more pleasurable quest: visiting gun shops.

We spend several hours at Collectors Firearms at the corner of Fondren and Richmond, and to say that this is one of the finest gun stores that I ever visited would almost be an understatement. Collectors has just about everything you can imagine to just about every taste and every pocket, from Napoleonic wars weapons, through fine hunting firearms all the way to full automatics. I have never seen so many Colt Pythons under one roof! Not to mention an iron frame Henry Rifle in fantastic shape, that could be yours for exactly three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus taxes of course.

Then on Sunday morning we drove to San Antonio where my single purpose was to visit The Alamo, which we did soon after having lunch at the River Walk. I watched John Wayne's The Alamo enough times that I could almost glide through the place, but I could do little to hold my emotions by being at a place of such historic significance where brave men, from both sides and multiple backgrounds, fought for their ideals and presented offered their final sacrifice in their names. I cannot help but be awed by unselfish demonstration of bravery and honor.

On Monday morning after breakfast the Marias and Sylas returned to Houston while Daniel, Zak and I drove to Pierce to go hog hunting. A couple months ago knowing of the inevitability of our trip to Texas I started researching some (affordable) hunting options around Houston where I could take two relative neophytes to hunt, my son Daniel and my son-in-law Zak, and after some research and a couple phone calls I booked an afternoon hunt with Karankawa Plains Outfitting Co., located at the famous Pierce Ranch.

The Pierce Ranch today has 32,000 acres of pastures, rice fields and row crops, but under the hands of its famous founder Abel Head "Shanghai" Pierce on the heydays of the 1870's Old West it amassed over a half million acres. Karankawa offers free ranging whitetail and hog hunts, as well as dove shooting, upland birds and waterfowl.

We met at the Pierce Post Office at 3:30 PM and were escorted to the ranch work complex, which is about a mile or so from the extensive housing area where we met our guides and got ready to be transported to our respective blinds.

I was dropped at a nice prefabricated ground blind that could comfortably seat three people and provided at least a 180 degrees field of view of a rather wet plowed field with a feeder directly in front of it 90 yards away. To my back was the road and some and past it dense second growth vegetation. Just after the feeder and no more than 60 yards to my right there was also dense vegetation but with older and taller trees. And to my left the tree line was at least four of five hundred yards away. So I had an ample field of fire.

I had a hard time deciding which gun to take on this trip, as ideally I would like to avoid to travel with a long gun case, but in the end after several false starts and a lot of procrastination I decided to bring my 30-06 CZ 550 American topped with a Bushnell Firefly 3-9X40mm. The last time I had shot this rifle was on 4th June 2005 when I got my Kudu in South Africa's Eastern Cape, and I even took the same ammunition I used on that safari, Remington Premier Safari Grade loaded with 180 grains Swift A-Frame bullets.

I got situated in the blind, opened the windows as it was quite warm and also because I wanted to minimize movement and noise when the time arrived. At around 4:15 PM the feeder came to life and distribute a nice amount of corn around it and shortly afterwards two small hogs came trotting from the far end of field to my left and I had another veritable case of buck fever, or should it be hog fever?

I don't know if the hogs heard my heart pounding or winded me, but well before they came to the feeder they just disappeared into the bush. I did not have much time to be disappointed as minutes later I noticed movement inside the woods just behind the feeder, and after the usual waiting game two whitetail bucks came to feed on the corn. One was a small fork horn or maybe a six-point, but the other was a most beautiful buck, that would have been a ten-point had he not have broken his G3 and G4 on the right side. He must be a fighter.

Watching a deer like that with a loaded 30-06 was almost as tempting as looking at a 62 inch Kudu during my last trip to the Limpopo at Richard Hobbs' BuffaloThorn when we were tracking a Blue Wildebeest I had shot and I was carrying a loaded 375 H&H. I did not even raise my rifle and only observed the deer through my range finder.

It is always a pleasure to watch wildlife, especially when I am hunting, because at these times I can feel that I am truly an integral part of a larger ecosystem, and I am not just an observer.

And as I was idyllically watching those beautiful deer a deer of hogs came out of the far end of the woods behind the feeder and started grazing, rooting or do whatever pigs do when they are feeding. There were around twenty five or thirty animals of all sizes and with the scope set at 9X I searched for the biggest animal with most brisk hairs on the bag.

The problem is that the hogs did not stop moving, and smaller animals moved in front of my intended target all the time, and during the few moments that I would have a clear shot that particular animal was on the move, and never offering a good broadside shot. Finally the bigger animal stopped quartering towards me at about 170 yards and I had enough time to put the cross-hairs just behind the left shoulder and press the light single set trigger of my CZ.

After the shot all hell broke loose and pigs where virtually flying in all directions. As I reloaded they started getting back to the bush and the animal that I had hit must have been the leader of the sounder as it was leading the retreat, but I had time to pick another target and send another lethal A-Frame bullet on its way. The second pig dropped almost immediately.

I waited for a couple minutes and walked towards where the second pig laid, but unsure where the first one had gone. With a full magazine and scope at minimum magnification I approached the dead pig, touched its eye with the barrel muzzle and went looking for the other animal. It was maybe thirty feet away. I repeated the procedure and finally relaxed.

Feral pigs and wild boars are extremely destructive animals that cause substantial environmental and economical losses around not only in the United States, but several other countries in the world, and with no natural enemies and high reproductive rates, hunting is one of the few successful measures to check their population. Had I had the opportunity I would have shot a couple more pigs.

Back at the blind I waited until dark when the guides, other hunters and the kids came to pick me up. We walked back to the pigs and since I had shot them and had enough young free labor, I did not feel compelled to drag the heavy swines by myself.

Back at the ranch I received a demonstration of how fast experienced people can disassemble a pig. We bid everyone goodbye, dropped most of the now pork at Junior's Smokehouse for processing and brought the tenderloins and two hind quarters home.

We had the tenderloins for dinner tonight and will have one of the "hams" for Christmas dinner.

Daniel and Zak did not see any hogs from their blinds, but they saw deer, raccoons, armadillos and other animals. They both told me that they really enjoyed the day, and clearly understand that hunting is much more than pulling the trigger or killing an animal. And I hope that they tell their own version of this story, either on this blog or elsewhere.

...and sow No. 2

Idle Observations on "MAN HUNT"

The moment of truth?

This week I watched again, repeatedly as I taped in DVR, the movie 1941 film Man Hunt directed by Fritz Lang and starring Walter Pidgeon as main character Captain Alan Thorndike. The film is based on the 1939 novel Rogue Male by George Household and it is a attempt by fictional British big game hunter to perform a "sporting stalk" on the biggest game and most dangerous of all game at the time: Adolf Hitler.

Rogue Male is said to have influenced David Morrell's first novel, the 1972 First Blood, where John Rambo first came to light, and personally I think that Household may have been influenced by Richard Connell's short story The Most Dangerous Game, which is the quintessential man hunt story.

Man Hunt opens with Captain Thorndike stalking the Berghoff and getting ready for a 550 meters (or would that be yards) targeting Adolf Hitler and ends with the same Captain Thorndike being hunted and trapped by Nazi Major Quive-Smith in Dorset.

While the movie is excellent and the story takes place in both Germany and England, the choice of firearms clearly shows that the movie was made in the United States of America and that whoever picked up the guns did not give due consideration to the characters.

The rifle used by Captain Thorndike in the opening scenes just doesn't have the delicate lines, fine engraving and Mauser 98 action that would be expected from a British stalking rifle of the period and which we expected a renowned big game hunter of high birth would use. Although I could not positively identify the rifle it appears to be a Winchester Model 70 including the hooded front sight and a Lyman Model 48 receiver sight, instead of multiple folding leaves express sights or a Rigby style bolt mounted peep sight. The scope is also pure American, a Weaver K2.5 with a detachable slide mount instead of an European design (like a Zeiss) and their highly elaborated mounts.

Shortly after, when Major Quive-Smith and the Doctor go out in their morning hunt expecting to locate Thorndike's body the Doctor is using a side-by-side hammerless shotgun apparently in 12 gauge, where in Bavaria I would expect him to be using a gracious Drilling  with smooth bore barrels chambered in 16 gauge. The biggest disconnect here is Major Quive-Smith using an all too American Savage Model 99 lever action rifle. Neither of the two "Nazi" guns has a scope which we would expect from high class German hunters of the time, and also the social stature, political background and affiliations of Major Quive-Smith would make it unacceptable for him not to use a refined, expensive and exclusive German or Austrian gun.

Later on the film, when Major Quive-Smith traps Captain Thorndike he is using a semi-automatic pistol that I am almost certain to be a Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless. Again, an unusual choice for a high ranking Nazi officer. Either a Walther PP or maybe a Sauer 38H. The Mauser HSc would not be in production until the year after when the story takes place.

Finally, on the final scene when Captain Thorndike parachutes in occupied Europe to resume his hunt, no longer a sporting stalk, he has a Winchester semi-automatic carbine, either a Model 1907 or a Model 1910, strapped to his jump suit, with a Scout-like long eye rifle mounted Weaver K2.5 scope. Well, these Winchester carbines are not a long range hunting, stalking or sniper rifle and would have been a somewhat poor choice for the real big game hunter. Also, intermediate or long eye relief scopes were not commonly available until the mid-1960's with the possible exception of German Zf-41, which again was introduced a couple years after the story takes place.

I am not as idle as it may appear, but I just wanted to write about some inconsequential topic today.

My Middle Eastern Take On The Midwest

Getting ready!

Eating venison is one of the best, but not the only, reasons to spend countless hours in a blind or up in a tree stand like an overgrown and overweight squirrels that is afraid of heights in all kind of weathers, mostly bad.

After getting my deer on Opening Day for the first time in years, and for only the second time ever, I took the carcass of my deer to be processed by a butcher - in this case Gabe's in Maple City.

One of the key "side effects" of having your deer processed is that we end up with quite a bit of venison "burger", neatly packed in one pound bags, but the problem is that there are too many ways to perfectly ruin good venison in the ground former.

So in order to both put my venison "burger" to good use and pursue a culinary prowess for some years now I've been doing VENISON KAFTA.

Kafta is a type of meatloaf that is very popular throughout Northern Africa, the Middle East, Central Asia and India that is generally pressed around a wooden skewer so it is more easily managed on a grill.

As any regional and popular dish recipes vary according to country, city, restaurant or household, so the one I will present below is mine, or more precisely my middle eastern take on the greatest of the midwestern foods, whitetail deer venison.

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs ground venison
• 1 large sweet yellow onion, finally chopped
• 5 cloves of garlic, finally chopped
• A large handful of fresh parsley, chopped
• Fresh dill, chopped - as much as you like
• 1 large cup of shelled salted pistachios, chopped
• 2 table spoons of kosher salt

Preparation:

• Mix all ingredients in a bow using your hands (please, wash them)
• Wrap mixture around wooden skewers (I like my kafta "fat", so it doesn't dry while cooking)
• Grill on a real grill using lump charcoal so you get all the flavor from the smoke that will caress the meat
• Savor it with family and friends

This delicious dish can be either be served as an appetizer or as a main course and I have not yet met anyone that did not like it. Even my wife that does not like venison that much loves venison kafta.

Opening Doe

Opening Doe

I haven't been writing much, and unhappily neither have been reading that much. The usual justification would be that work and other earthly responsibilities are taking too much of my time, but maybe, just maybe, there could be other reasons.

From mid-September through the first weekend in November I've been doing as much bird hunting as I could afford, with the exception of a weekend when my friend Bob Scott came bow hunting. And we had fun even if we never saw a deer and spent some great time together.

To say that grouse hunting was challenging would be an understatement. There was very little fruit, and therefore birds did not concentrate in coverts, and finding them was not only difficult but almost accidental. I only shot two grouse so far (my friend Del shot more, but logged many more hours and miles for those). The first was in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in a beautiful early fall morning. We flushed that grouse at least twice before it flushed from a tree and I got it with a right barrel. The only shot that I fired that morning. In order to celebrate such a prize Del and I stopped at the Western Avenue Bar and Grill in Glenn Arbor, the small city that is still recovering from the destructive power of the August 2nd storm. I had their fantastic Lobster Seafood Roll and a couple Two Hearted Ales.

The other grouse came in a rather gloomy and wet late October Saturday after Del, a couple of his friends and I had lunch at Jodi's Tangled Antler where I had their excellent Rueben. We were exploring a covey that was productive in previous years. Our group split in two and I was engaged in good conversation when I heard a call of BIRD! I pivoted counterclockwise and fired two Hail Mary shots at the fast crossing grouse. Either because I am an accomplished shotgunner or less likely for being lucky the best tasting bird in the world came down. Probably from a single gloden BB, but who cares? What a beautiful bird.

For as hard as grouse hunt was, woodcock was a different story all together. We hit local birds in late September and the flight came strong in early October and we had no problem in getting limits almost everytime we went out. I even had a one of the great moments of my hunting life when I shot a true double on woodcock. The right barrel dropped a bird that flew straight away from me and the left barrel got a bird that flew to my right. The only problem is that the two witnesses, my "good friends" Del Whitman and Bill Berghuiss are considered less than reliable by some! And since Bill was not shooting that well that day...

(Bill had to have another stent roto-rooted in his heart and now say that is the reason his shooting was off. Some people will find any type of excuse!)

But the great goal this season was to collect rent from the deer living in Neverland. Last year I had a glimpse of a doe on Opening Day and that was it. The weather pattern was so strange that the deer probably took vacations to better climates.

Well, whenever I was not bird hunting I was bow hunting at Neverland and although there was a lot of deer signs (tracks, trail cam photos, and disappearing apples) my tenants were very unpolite and refused to meet me. To add insult to injury Del shot a doe on November 5th when I was working in Texas.

Last week I did my first complete circuit around Lake Michigan and logged 1,300 miles during four days. And the mileage along with long working days took their tool on me and I was only able to hunt the morning of the silent day (14th), again without seeing anything and I slept almost all afternoon. That evening my wife asked where I was going to process my deer and I told her not to worry since with all the luck I had so far I had no great expectations for Opening Day.

And not having great expectations I had the best night of sleep before any previous Opening Day and woke on time and almost rested at 5:00 AM. I was in Neverland just before 6:00 AM and waited for Del. I decided to hunt the tree stand by the beehives, in part because it is much more comfortable than the one by the feeder and also because deer hunting is the best alternative to gambling that I know: why should you pick red over black in the roulette?

The sunrise was majestic with each star fadding away one at a time until only Venus, which is not a start at all, was visible. During those early twilight hours the shadows and light play havoc with the hunter's imagination and we see gigantic deer floating over and around every bush and even among the crown of trees.

And when light was just strong enough the shooting began just to reassure me that Sunday was another Opening Day. First a single shot due west, then northwest, following shots, and several minutes later more shooting to the southwest. And my turn came just before 8:00 AM when a small group of deer started walking from the cedar swamp just north of the beehives and probably not fifty yards from our parked cars. 

There I was looking at the deer, all antlerless, and remembering how fast they can disappear into thin air I set the cross hairs of my 1949 vintage Winchester Model 70, of course in 270 Winchester Center Fire on the biggest of them and all hell broke loose. I did not see anyone drop and there were deer running towards cover and one dow took the other directions into the power line clear cut towards Del. But the doe stopped and at about 120 yards I aimed for the neck, the first shot did nothing but made her turn arounf and the second dropped her.

I came down from the tree stand, took off my heavy coats, reloaded and went after the doe, and even with two bullets in her she tried to run away. Del made two shots from his tree stand and at least one hit her. We found the doe just before the old railroad tracks, still trying to get away, but done for.

We gralloched (isn't this a better word than gutted?) the doe on the new trail that Del had cleared on top of the old tracks and I had her to the butcher by 9:00 AM, the first deer of the day. I was home by 10:00 AM with enough time to shower and shave before church. We had brunch at Bistro FouFou to celebrate France an undying symbol of LIBERTY, EQUALITY and FRATERNITY.

Vive la France!

Vacations from Vacations

End of part one

We are always reminded that Ortega y Gasset also equates hunting as "the vital vacation from the human condition," and then I would like to humbly propose that that being true, then bird hunting is a pleasurable and relaxing vacation from such "vital vacation."

So, with such thought in mind I made sure that I booked at least one day of bird hunting, or bird shooting if you are more insular, right in the middle of my all too short week on safari (by the way, I am not sure if the term continues to apply as I was not really traveling during the hunt.)

On Wednesday, 15th July, Richard drove me at some ungodly early hour to a rendezvous at a certain crossroad with Chrisjan Swart who guides for wingshotting & criter calling. While Richard provided me with a basket full of shotshell boxes, Anna made sure that I had a basket full of breakfast, including tea, rusks and biltong.

Chrisjan took us to a farm close to small town of Settlers that had several man made lakes to supply water to several center irrigation pivots. On arrival we met Mexican hunter Luiz and his family with their Spanish guide Antônio and started setting up the rotating geese decoy (that later in the morning would be repurposed to be a rotating pigeon decoy) and selecting a suitable place among the reeds that surrounded the lake.

As the first waterfowl were begining to fly Chrisjan let me in a comfortable bucket with a Spanish 12 gauge side-by-side shotgun, several boxes of AAA (about T size at .20" diameter) 36 grams (1 1/4 ounces) heavy game loads, my breakfast basket a some words of warning: "Be aware of the hippos."

We are always reminded that the hippopotamus is an ill-humored (must be because they fart through their mouths), territorial and aggressive animals, infamous for being responsible for more human fatalities in Africa than any other large animal. Hippos also can run at over 20 miles per hour (while I can't) and I doubt that AAA shot would even penetrate their skin that over two inches tick and from which the famous kiboko or seekoei sjambok is carved. 

Oh well, life needs spice!

I heard some hippos complaining (or farting, who knows?), but never saw one, and by the time the sun was up it was clear that the Egyptian geese were not flying over the lakes, but over some nearby fields, and we relocated. And during the next couple hours we shot at them, shot at then, and...shot at them as they continued to fly away. I guess armour plating and altitude would be the best excuses for such a deplorable display of wingshooting skills.

But a poor soul can only take so much punishment from heavy game loads, and by mid morning we relocated again to try our luck at pigeons and doves. This was clearly a strange morning as the majority of the pigeons and doves were either on vacation or strike as by 11:00 AM I had used a good part of a box of NOBELSPORT 28 grams (1 ounce) 71/2's to bring down exactly two doves.

And then, in the next half hour I shot and retrieved fourteen doves and rock pigeons or speckled pigeons (Columba guinea) with their beautiful red patched eyes. Had I suddenly relearned how to shoot?

We broke for a field lunch which included cold meets, wild game pates and a fantastic Spanish tortilla brought by Antônio (this is the same dish as the Italian frittata, a thick potato omelette that my grandmother used to make and that my wife makes to perfection.) A cold beer provided the perfect pairing for the meal.

After lunch we drove a short distance for afternoon with bird dogs, which included a brace of English pointers and another of German shorthairs. We started to follow the dogs in the knee high grass and not a minute into this hunt a pair of Swainson's francolin took off and I brought them down with a right and a left barrel! A true double on over dogs is the ne plus ultra of shotgunning, and if I remember correctly this was my seventh true double.

As far as I am concerned the hunt could have ended right there, but it didn't. I shot another francolin just before we dived into the thorns and briar, and I was really happy that I had brought my chaps. Every single bush was intended in drawing my blood. We had no luck with birds in the heavy cover, but instead flushed a duiker and a pair of steenboks.

if Biathlon combines cross-country skiing and rifle shooting, then guineafowl combines cross-country running and shotgun shooting. We found a big flock of helmeted guineafowl on the thorny savanna, and the four dogs had a terrible time holding them in the short grass, so we had to run (and I hate running!)

Guineafowls, dogs and hunters started to disperse in all directions in absolutely frantic action. Lots of birds were running, then suddenly part of the flock would take to wing, guns would blaze away and eventually the odd bird would crash. For well over an hour, maybe close to two, we had to combine endurance and speed to track and then flush the polka-dotted grey chickens until they eventually took us on a big circle back to the bakkies.

And while Chrisjan arranged the day's bag for the photo shoot I stripped my chaps and savoured another cold beer to replenish the essential salts, minerals and fluids that I had lost during the mad hunt for these birds that easily out run the fastest pheasant that you may have crossed paths with.

After posing for photos and saying goodbyes Luiz and Antônio departed to avoid driving during night, and Chrisjan took me back to a brush strip formed by two center pivot fields to wait the Egyptian geese evening flights. The decoys were set and we set on our buckets waiting for some distracted bird to come within shotgun range.

While we waited, dusk started to prevail over the departing day and a nice male bushbuck came out of nowhere to feed in the luxurious crop of the pivot behind us. And when the geese came within range and the shotgun barrage started Mr. Bushbuck didn't pay any attention to it. This reminded me of several times when shooting skeet at the Southern Michigan Gun Club and the whitetail were grazing or browsing in plain site and probably under a shower of No. 8 pellets, and they just didn't mind us.

Either the birds were flying lower (most likely) or our shooting improved (least likely) or both, but the truth is that Chrisjan and I brought down three of the most beautiful geese that I ever had the pleasure to hold. They crashed across the field and the dogs made great retrieves.

Coronation of part two

We waited until full dark for spur-winged geese, but they never showed up, and after a long day we collected the gear and headed towards the rendezvous with Richard, at the same crossroad. On the way out of the field we saw some Cape foxes going about whatever business foxes do at night (probably hunting for the same birds we did, but with greater success and a lot less noise).

To say that I had a fantastic day a field would be an understatement. One could point out that the morning was a bust, but the afternoon and evening more than made out for that. The dichotomy just serves to remember us that we were hunting and not shooting, and that the birds will be where they want to be and they will do their best to avoid us, as they do with any other predators.

In the short story "Fathers and Sons" Hemingway says that "When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying.They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first." The day afield with Chrisjan more than validates Hemingway's observation and I pray to continue to be able to enjoy the sensation.

Buffalo Soldiers

Richard's "Alma Mater"

One of the great things about sharing a hunting blind, or hide as it is called in South Africa, is the opportunity to engage in conversation and learn. You can learn about hunting, natural history, game management, animal behavior, shot placement or most important, and generally more fascinating, about the person that you are sharing the blind with.

Over long hours of conversation, several times interrupted by the appearance of game animals when we had to be quiet, Richard told me about his military service, when for some time he served with the prestigious and highly decorated 32 Batallion, also known as the Buffalo Soldiers.

The South African Buffalo Soldiers had one similarity with the American West Buffalo Soldiers: the soldiers were black (either black African's Angolans or African-Americans) and the officers and majority of Non-Commissioned Officers were white (I am even going to try to discuss all the possible geographical or cultural backgrounds of contemporary caucasians, but let's say there were a fair number of South African and former Portuguese Army soldiers).

The (South African) Buffalo Soldiers had their origin in South Africa's involvement in the Angolan Civil War and was originally formed by cadres from the dying FNLA (Frente Nacional de Libertação de Angola) who at the time were fighting both FAPLA (Forças Armadas Para Libertação de Angola) and UNITA (União Nacional para Independência Total de Angola) and eventually became a de-facto South Africa foreign legion.

Richard background is artillery and while in the 32 Battalion he served with a Valkarie 127mm Multiple Rocket Launcher (MRLs) battery, and the way he described to me is that they were in loan from South Africa to Jonas Savimbi (the head of UNITA), and in order to disguise South African involvement they did not use any identification, not even a dog tag. The only way to identify a casualty or fatality was by a serial number in the inner side of their belts.

Anyhow, the Buffalo Soldiers were based at the very remote Buffalo Base (therefore their name), and they really thought that Jimi Hendrix's Buffalo Soldier was composed for them (and not the others, a century earlier and ten thousand miles away), so before a deployment Buffalo Soldier (the music) was played over the base PA system to motivate the soldier, who in large numbers also used other means to build up their courage for battle!

On my way back home at the OR Tambo Johannesburg International Airport I came across the book by Colonel Jan Breytenbach, first commander of 32 Battalion, and I had to read it, if for no better reason than to understand the stories that Richard told me. The book is passionately written, and independent of one's background or political views a couple points cannot be contested: individual soldiers are capable of immesurable acts of heroism and, battles are won by warriors in the field and wars are lost by politicians.

The Fruits of Neverland II

The sweet fruit of their labor

 

I will continue to tell about my latest "safari" in South Africa, but wanted to take a small brake to talk a little about Neverland, my own little piece of paradise in Leelanau county, Michigan.

 

Last Saturday, after shooting sporting clays at Cedar Rod & Gun Club - not particularly well mind you, and having lunch with my wife at the Rare Bird in Traverse City, I met Del at Neverland to set up a feeder for deer season. Of course setting up the feeder took a lot more work than planned since the brutal storm that hit northern Michigan on Sunday August 2nd caused a bit of havoc at Neverland, with many broken and uprooted trees, and we had to cut a new trail through the debris.

 

The bright side from the destruction is that the "Bridge over the Mann Creek" is intact, although surrounded with deadfall, and that all the downed trees should create space for new growth that will create fresh habitat for ruffed grouse while also increase the area where deer can feed. Eventually we would have to do similar work with a chainsaw!

 

Anyhow, after we were done with the feeder we paid a visit to the thousands of workers that toil daily in my domains. Of the three colonies where they live, each with a queen duly appointed and sanctioned by me, two are doing absolutely great, and we are concerned that the third will likely not make it through next winter. This is hard, but there is little we can do about it.

While examining the healthy colonies, we were able to savour a sample of the sweet fruits from the labor of my workers. One of the colonies was overflowing with honey and honeycombs, and in order to put the cover back on Del had to scrape the excess, and we would not allow that to go to waste. As one hand scraped the excess the other would bring light wild honey to mouth.

And everything went really well until due to either lack of attention or a bit of gluttony I did not notice that there was a bee stuck to a honeycomb and upon chewing on it I got stung in the tong.

I tell you, the honey was so pure and sweet, with a very light champagne color, that the sting didn't hurt that much, but eventually I had to stick my tongue out so Del could scrape the stinger away. The end result is that I could not comfortably close my mouth for a couple hours, but that isn't really a problem either.

And before I forget, Del - the experienced beekeeper - got stung a good dozen times or so. He had protective gear, but being an experienced beekeeper, he refused to wear it! Sorry, but I had to say it, as he is saying we will not a honey harvest if I continue to eat the bees (just like an old bear.)

Just a Great Day!

A Perfect Shot

While Fred Bear, who is considered by many to be "the father of (modern) bowhunting," said that "a hunt based only on trophies taken falls far short of what the ultimate goal should be,"  and I totally agree with him, we also must go back to quoting Ortega y Gasset on The Ethics of Hunting: "Death is essential because without it there is no authentic hunting: the killing of the animal is the natural end of the hunt and that goal of hunting itself, not of the hunter."

So, with both of this important principles in mind I rose before dawn to once again sit with Richard at Wag-'n-bietjie hide in order to change our luck.  My commitment was to take the first " trophy" animal, meaning a fully mature male specimen, that would present an opportunity for an ethical shot.

On the nice cool or almost cold morning, Simon took us on the open Landcruiser on the very short drive to Wag-'n-bietjie and dropped us at the hide, along with a thermos of hot unsweetened tea and a nice supply of the always sweet rusks - a perfect combination.

Shortly after daybreak and while we still had shadows over the water through the blesbok came. And they came in droves, always wary, each animal drinking uneasly and departing soon afterwards, without looking back.

Richard located a nice older male, but the never ending movement makes shooting challenging, and the lucky animal moved back towards the open field and was soon out of danger. But there was another one, that stood alone at 25 yards just long enough that I could draw my bow and send a broadheaded arrow flying straight towards its heart. The arrow penetrated about halfway and was broken in half when the blesbok started the short run that took him across the road and into the feldt. We could see him when he started wobbling and laid down.

Richard radioed Simon and by 7:30 AM we were admiring the beautiful animal. The shot placement was perfect, and later on I was presented the heart with a clean triangular cut at its center.

Back at Richard's home Anna served us a large breakfast (I don't think that I had a single small meal at Buffalo Thorn), and by mid-morning we were on our away to Waterbokke hide with the normal equipment and supplies.

Young and stupid?

Soon after Simon departed a herd of Kudu came in to feed. There were several cows, a half dozen young animals and two immature bulls with their horns just starting their second turn. Just like large whitetail bucks, kudu bulls don't grow to be sixty inches by being stupid, so these young bulls apparently have a lot to learn about how not to trust an easy meal.

The kudu stayed around by quite some time, but the cows were constantly moving around and would eventually wind us. Then they would go out to the bush, but the inexperienced bulls and young animals would rang around, and eventually the cows would return, very uneasy, but none the less, still among us.

But nothing last forever, and eventually a very old cow pinpointed us and barked loud enought to drive the whole herd away. And as the kudu departed, a large herd of impala approaced leasurely. There were between 50 and 60 animals, maybe half of them females, and the balance yearlings and other immature animals, including several young rams with their small half moon horns. And there was a single mature dominant ram.

As a nice impala was high on my list, as soon as the herd approached I had my bow in my hands while Richard scanned the revolving herd for the ram. And Buck Fever started to play games, not only with me, but with Richard as well. Impala came and went, moved around, pushed each other around, always on the move, never an instant of stillness.

It took over an hour from the time the impala came in to the hide to when I was finally able to take a shot at the herd ram. During this hour I was really grateful for shooting a relatively low draw weight bow, set at 56 pounds. This allowed me to draw and release my bow several times, always in the hope of a clear shot, repeatedly shattered by the perpetual motion of the herd.

Finally, the ram walked in front of the hide, from left to right, and stopped. I drew the old Razortech on a steep quartering away angle, and as I released the arrow the ram took a long step forward.

And once again, Richard radioed Simon so he would come release us from the hide. Once free, we soon found the arrow that was a complete plass though and Richard pronounced dreadful words as he brought the arrow to his nose: "I smell guts." And to make matters worse, there was not a single drop of blood!

In the next half an hour Richard demonstrated what makes an experienced hunter. He was able to locate the exact spot where the ram was when the arrow hit him, and started to track him in dry ground among hundreds if not thousands of other imprints. Richard would point out the spread hoof marks from the ram that run away, and as he followed them my heart was sinking as there was not a single drop of blood!

But the gods or godesses of the hunt were good to us, and Richard finally located the beautiful ram under an acacia thorn tree. The arrow hit him well behind the last rib (mea culpa, mea máxima culpa) and came out behind the left shoulder. Due to the rather shallow angle, the arrow went through the diaphragm and cut the back on the left lung.

For as perfect the shot at the blesbok was, the shot at the impala was a lucky one. And without Richard's tracking ability I am unsure of how long it would take me to find that animal.

A Lucky Shot and a Perfect Tracker

Interstice

The Closing of the Second Day

On Monday, 13th July, we started towards the Impala hide before sunrise on a cool and comfortable morning. When we arrived it was still dark enough that we needed a flashlight to help us get set. I adjusted the release around my wrist, knocked an arrow and hang the bow from one of the hooks so it stays easily at hand while keeping the broadhead safely away from the hunters.

Richard poured hot tea in a couple enamel cups and opened a container full of rusks, the hard double baked South African sweet bread, that is almost like hardtack. In order to preserve the teeth, one should dunk the rusks in tea, coffee or milk before eating it. I love rusks and tea in the morning, especially when hunting. Hunting and rusks in morning and hunting and biltong later in the day are just perfect combinations.

The first visitors of the day were a herd of Impala, but there was not a mature ram among them, and sometime later they were pushed away by the arrival of Warthogs, a sow and several immature pigs. They stayed around for a sometime, but again no trophy, which in this case would take the form of nice tusks.

After the Warthog departed a herd of magnificient Eland came to water. There were several cows with their long and slender horns, and a handful of bulls with much heavier spiral horns. The Eland moved around and divided their attention between the water and some feed that Simon had left for them. The cows were a lot more wary than the bulls, and by going round and around they eventually winded us and the herded stampeded towards the bush.

The Wharthog came bag, probably the same animals as before, and by around 10:00 AM me started back to the lodge (actually Richard and Anna's home) for brunch, or was it lunch?

We came back in early afternoon, and the only visitors were giraffe. Shorty is the male, Strippes the female, and then Baby No. 1 and Baby No. 2. Baby No. 1 was almost as tall as his mother. The giraffes are Anna's pets, and they decided not to name the babes any more, as she had a hard time when they sold the previous ones.

Apart from a large diversity and number of birds, no other animals came to the hide that afternoon, but the day ended with a gift of a beautiful sunset that almost made me wish that like Le Petit Prince I could relocate my chair to watch it again.

When planning for this trip, I started to consider which animals I would like to go after. I really wanted a nice Impala and a long tusked warthog, and also Red Hartebeest and Blue Wildebeest would be very high on my list. But in hunting, under ethical and sporting conditions, and especially under the self-imposed limitations associated with bow hunting, the hunter should understand that he who is too picky may go home empty handed.

And although Buffalo Thorn is high-fenced, like almost all hunting properties in South Africa, there is no canned hunting in its one thousand acres. There are three water throughs within the four hides, and the hunter can only be in one of them at a time, the animals can move freely anywhere in the property, and many species can go for days without water.

As I mentioned before, the situation is not intrinsically different from bow hunting for whitetail in Michigan or hunting black bear over bait in Ontario. The surroundings are clearly different, and diversity of species and number of specimens bring constant entertainment to any hunter that loves nature.

During dinner Richard mentioned that he was concerned that for the past two days I had not had the opportunity to take a shot. I assured him that irrespective of that I was having a wonderful time, but that in order to change our luck I would take the first " trophy" that came along the next day.

The Way Hunting Should Be

Bait and friends

In Green Hills of Africa, Ernst Hemingway when pressed by the approaching raining season says that “it is not pleasant to have a time limit by which you must get your kudu or perhaps never get it, nor even see one. It is not the way hunting should be.” The problem is, paraphrasing José Ortega y Gasset, that “in our rather stupid time” we do have time limits for almost everything we do, especially for taking a “vital vacation from the human condition.”

So, in order to avoid feeling pressed by time I just decided that during my week hunting in the Limpopo I would not be a slave of time, and this would only be possible if I really accepted that “the hunter does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, he kills in order to have hunted,” and specially that although the kill consummates the hunt, one does not necessarily needs to kill every time in order to have a great hunt.

This more relaxed attitude allowed me to enjoy the hunting much more, and also take time to spend with friends and their families during the week, have long relaxing conversations during the all too frequent meals that almost put an end to my diet, appreciate the people that welcomed me to their home, and learn as much as possible, from conversations, observations and even actions.

So, on my first morning, Sunday 12^th July, I did not set an alarm clock and when I woke up the sun was high in sky and I walked out in my pajamas to great Fanie and Pieter and their families, Ana and Richard. By mid-morning I finally got dressed in more appropriate safari clothes (meaning the same green Bermuda shorts and shirt that I use on a warm weekend around my home) and climbed in the Land Cruiser to drive around the farm, visit each of the four blinds (Buffalo Thorn or Wag-'n-bietjie, Kudu which is the only one without a “water hole”, Impala or Rooibokke and Waterbuck or Waterbokke) while distributing some supplemental feed to help the herd during the dry South African winter.

But even an unpretentious drive can bring surprises, especially when we encountered a small bachelor herd that had at least two Kudu with horns between 55 and 60 inches. Back in 2005 on my first safari I shot an Eastern Cape Kudu that is a beautiful representative specimen for the area, but the Greater Kudu appears to be much larger. Although I love hunting Kudu and in my opinion it is the most beautiful of all antelope and perhaps of all antlered or horned animals, I had already decided that I would not hunt for Kudu this time. My goal was to relax and enjoy a relaxing hunt, and not to drive myself to my physical and psychological limits in a quest for Kudu. But when you see the magnificent animal the heart accelerates, the trigger finger trembles, and your previous resolution is brutally tempted. Oh well, I did not have my bow with me, so it was not so hard to resist temptation.

The Limpopo semi-arid bosveld is both beautiful and diverse and each turn of the dirt road or clump of thorn bushes could hide a new surprise. I knew that bow hunting in Africa would have certain similarities to bow hunting for whitetail deer in Michigan or bear hunting in Ontario: sitting in blind, be quiet and wait…and wait…wait. But it can also be very different, since the hunter will have the opportunity and pleasure to watch and admire a greater number of species and specimens of large game animals in one morning in Africa than in many seasons back home.

Anyhow, after the recognizance drive we came back for a very large breakfast that may or may not have involved a couple beers (it is always after five some place in the world), and then shooting some arrows on a target formally to sight in the bow, but really to allow Richard to evaluate if the hunter (in this case, me) would be able to kill cleanly and not injure and inflict suffering to his animals. And during the it became clear to me that Richard really loves his animals.

By midafternoon, after a nap to fight the jetlag and while Fanie started the braai Simon drove Richard and me to Wag-'n-bietjie, the closest blind to farm compound. In order to not disturb or alarm the animals, there is very little walking on the farm during hunting season. The hunter is driven on the open Land Cruiser to the blind, and after the hunter is inside the blind the door is closed from the outside in order to prevent the temptation to roam around. Along with biltong and drinks, we would also have a couple pee bottles and a radio to call Simon to come and retrieve us, either after a shot was taken or when it was simply time to go.

Soon after we were imprisoned in the blind and Simon left the parade started. First came the birds, doves and pigeons, sand grouse and francolins, and then the boisterous guinea fowl. Shortly after, I was introduced to Bait. In order to bring new blood line and avoid consanguinity, it is the practice in South Africa, where most huntable private land is high-fenced, to introduce new animals to the herds. Bait was one of a couple young impala rams that roamed around the compound, and was clearly recognized by a red tag in its right year. His close friend traitor had the tag in the left year. I only gave them their names towards the end of the week, for whenever we hunted Wag-'n-bietjie either one or both of them would be the first animals in after the Simon left in the Land Cruiser.

Afterwards a herd of Red Hartebeest arrived, but no mature male came close to the water. As the sun started to dip behind the trees that separated Wag-'n-bietjie from the open veldt the wary Blesbok came in. While the hartebeest were almost relaxed and stayed around munching on the feed and licking salt for a long time, the blesbok very cautious and suspicious, and as soon as they drank their fill they hightailed back to the security of the open veldt. During all the time Richard would calmly explain the behavior of each species, how to differentiate between male and female, young and mature animals. He would also patiently answer to my never ending torrent of questions.

By the time the blesbok departed it was becoming too dark to shoot, so Richard radioed Simon to pick us up and after the first cold Carlin Black Label we sat for dinner with roulades (pork, smoked pork and pork belly), roasted corn and squashes. To put the night to bed we polished the remaining Macallan while making plans (or would we better call them dreams) for the following days.

8,571 Miles Close to Home

A Warm Bonfire Turns Night Into Home

On Friday 10^th July 2015 I left my home at Old Mission Peninsula in Traverse City, Michigan, USA (44°52’41”N, 85°31’46”W) and after about twenty-four hours of not necessarily comfortable travel I arrived at Richard Hobbs’ Buffalo Thorn Farm, not far from Modimolle, in the Limpopo, Republic of South Africa (24°47’59”S, 28°37’21”E).

The planning for this trip started over one year ago, when Pieter and Fanie began to scheme my return to South Africa after our weekend in the bushveld at Falmouth in April of 2012, which took place on the front end of a business trip.

It is amazing how a short weekend of hunting and comradeship in the great outdoors can forge the strongest friendship knot. While Fanie and I worked together for several years at the same company (which I left shortly after that weekend) and had the opportunity to create strong personal and professional bonds, Pieter and I only met for very short three days that many years ago. But those three days could as well have been three decades!

Besides basic luggage and an old Hoyt Razortech bow with all the necessary supporting elements I brought a single bottle of The Macallan Fine Oak 15 Year Old Scotch which amanzingly enough survived the first night! But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Fanie and his family picked me up the the Johannesburg OR Tambo Airport and then we drove about two hours to Buffalo Thorn to be met by a warm bonfire tended by Pieter, who was talking with Richard and his wife Ana, both of whom I would get to know and admire over the next week.

After an embrace from Pieter, at least as warm as the burning fire, and proper introductions, I had the opportunity to quench my thirsty by sipping from a cold bottle of Carlin Black Label after a ten year hiatus.

Dinner main course was buffalo stew and dessert was a fantastic English style pudin with custard. Ana's cooking would set me back almost a pound per day over the next week!

Before the stress and strain of the trip and the amber warmth of The Macallan drove me into the land of dreams, we set around the bonfire telling tall tales and small lies, and the feeling I had was that I was just 8,571 miles close to home.