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.