Report by: Barron Brittingham
Location: Madaba Camp
Date: 30 August 2006
Buffalo #2
After hanging fresh meat at all of our leopard baits the night before, we woke from a restful night filled with the sounds of hyenas, hippos, and a variety of birds. At nearly 7:00 AM, we were back on the truck and looking forward to whatever might cross our path.
Not 15 minutes outside of camp, Meshak spotted the tracks of a bull hippo, and we decided to check it out. We walked only about a kilometer until we came to a small, rocky riverbed. We followed the tracks up the riverbed until Peter saw a single hippo standing on the rocky bank. We moved closer, and, to our surprise, there were over thirty hippos in a pool the size of a decent backyard swimming pool. They were literally piled on top of each other; cows, calves, and one large-bodied bull standing out of the water. We were not more than ten yards from the huge mass of large, clumsy-looking animals. Normally, this would be a dangerous predicament as hippos kill more people on land than any other animal in Africa. The crocodile kills more people in the water and is second overall only to the mosquito. We were in no danger, however, because the rocky bank on which we stood rose a good twenty feet above the hippos. Once we decided that the bull was not big enough to be shot, we sat down to enjoy the rare spectacle. The hippos began to get agitated, and they were literally climbing on top of each other trying to get out of their natural enclosure. Seeing this, we decided to leave them alone and head back to the truck.
Coincidentally, when we got back to the road, we arrived at the same spot as a lone buffalo bull had crossed the same morning. With our success yesterday in a similar situation, we had no reason not to get on the trail and pursue the lone bull as lone buffalo bulls usually tend to be older bulls that have left the herd and are no longer productive breeders. These bulls, whether they have large horns or not, are prime candidates for hunting for several reasons: first, the fact that they are alone makes approaching them easier as there are not multiple sets of eyes on the lookout; second, since they are typically old and split from the herd, they are past their breeding prime and are no longer beneficial to the herd; third, bulls this old are usually nearing the end of their life and will likely die naturally before long; and, finally, there’s just something about going face-to-face with a large, old buffalo bull that makes Cape buffalo hunting the intense, adrenaline-pumping sport that it is.
We got on the trail, and just like the day before, Meshak and Abdala had no problem staying on the trail that was invisible to me. After a short stalk, probably 45 minutes or so, Abdala stopped us when he heard the Ox Peckers fly off the bull’s back. He pointed to a large, black blob through the tall grass and said that that was the bull facing away from us with his head down. I rechecked my CZ .458 Lott to make sure it was loaded, and Peter and I began to move in. Before I knew it, we were standing thirty yards away from the massive bull, who still had not turned to face us, and Peter continued to close the distance. At twenty yards, a twig snapped, the bull turned broadside to see what had made the noise. Peter nodded that the bull was mature, and I raised my rifle. I squeezed the trigger, and the boom of the rifle had not even registered when the 500-grain soft-point slammed into the bull’s shoulder. He dropped in his tracks and tried to regain his feet, but I made sure to give him a few finishing shots to seal the deal.
We approached carefully from behind, and, when we were sure the buff was dead, the hand-shaking began. A careful inspection of the buffalo revealed that he was blind in the right eye with a festering wound that must have been causing him immense pain. The bull was in poor condition with his hip bones sticking out and peculiar white spots all over his skin, which Peter said he’d never seen before. He was covered with ticks and flies, and his bosses were worn down and the tips of his horns were well broomed.
Even with all this, his spread still measured 40 inches, and it was obvious that this was the perfect trophy for me to take. It was almost certain that he would have charged any human that he encountered as is common with a sick, old bull that was livid with the pain and suffering of his condition and, ultimately, destined for, as Jack Brittingham would call it, SHD, or a slow horrible death.
It is now time to go out on the afternoon hunt on Day 2 at Madaba, and I can’t wait to see what this amazing place will throw at us next.