Note: I apologize for the unintended hiatus I have taken from writing the rest of the story . . . my story. After the third chapter, I felt as if it had become a bit of a chore, and I did not want this to become something that had to be written. Rather, I wanted it to be something that received the time and attention to detail that a tale such as this deserves, or, at a minimum, the time and attention that I feel it deserves. Furthermore, it seems like the rigors of day to day life do not always provide ample opportunity. However, as of late, I have received a few words of encouragement from friends and family to find the time to complete what I started over a month ago. I am grateful to those that have taken the time to read my words, and want to hear more. So, with that being said, I’ll take up where I left off . . .
As I presumed, sleep did not come easy for me the night before “the beginning.” To the best of my recollection, I may have slept a grand total of two or three hours, and, even those were difficult to find. Had it not been for the Castles and the Ambien, I doubt those precious moments would have come at all. I was soon to discover that most of my nights would follow the same pattern of searching but not finding. The anticipation for the next day was too great as the images of the previous replayed over and over again in my mind, until the pre-dawn sounds of camp staff began to saturate the cool morning air reminding me that the memories of the next were ready to be made. It seems like time, even in Africa, waits for nobody.
Slipping out of the clean linens of my bed, I quietly turned off the alarm clock, which had yet to sound, and began my morning ritual, including showering, brushing teeth, and making my way to the veranda of our guest house to gather my hunting clothes, which had been hung on the log framework of the porch to take on the smells of Africa. As I slipped my boots on I could hear the sounds of game moving in the bush, a mere 200 yards from the bed where I had found temporary respite.
Even at this early hour, the lights were on in the main camp house were burning bright, and, as I made my way across the graveled space separating our house from the base of operations, I could see bodies moving in and out of the darkness, in preparation for the hunt. Ruger greeted me halfway to the breakfast area, as he triumphantly pranced in and out of the main house, simultaneously letting me know that his nocturnal watch was over, and that mine was about to begin.
I entered the dining room to find Lee and his guide, Erik discussing the plan of action for their spot and stalk rifle hunt for the day. After pouring a cup of coffee, I made my way back outside to watch the sun break over the eastern horizon, making intelligible forms out of what had previously been nothing of importance. No sooner had I scalded my mouth with the morning brew, I heard Kannes’s familiar hearty congenial Namibian accent.
“Well Chris, today could be the day.”
“Indeed it could, Kannes . . . indeed it could.”
“Is Denise going out today.”
“Yes, she’s getting ready now. She’ll be good to go in about 15-minutes.”
“Good. I’ve got our gear loaded, and as soon as she gets her breakfast, I’ll grab the lunches Mia has prepared for us, and tell Jon (our tracker, skinner, and driver) it’s time to go.”
Half an hour later, after wishing the others the same luck we hoped for, we climbed up into the truck, and we were off. By this time, the sun had hemorrhaged the eastern horizon, and the birds began doing their best to coax the hesitant sun to break over the acacias and take its rightful place. Ruger was perched on the high rack, between Denise and I . . . docked tail wagging in anticipation of what lie ahead.
Today we would be hunting a concession directly across from the camp concession . . . .the same concession we had driven the night before. The drive was short, but half way through the drive, I was happy to have worn my fleece, as the cold air bit at my exposed hands that now held my bow. A smile broke across my face, as I sheepishly recalled someone on some hunting site suggesting a light pair of gloves for the morning drives.
The road ended, and I saw the waterhole and sunken pit blind 20-yards beyond. It looked a lot like a termite mound, and it was clear that Hannes had taken a lot of time in designing and constructing the hides. We unloaded our gear, and situated ourselves in the blind in preparation for what was to prove an approximate 11-hour day. Kannes spoke in Afrikaans to Jon, and, after a tooth bearing grin, Jon nodded back, and he was off.
“Now we wait” Kannes whispered.
And wait we did . . . . .
As the day progressed, various game animals came and went. First the sable, then the eland, followed by warthog, Kudu, Vervot Monkeys, and the ever present obnoxious horn bills. As each animal paraded to and from the waterhole, Kannes pointed out how to differentiate between male and female . . . youth from maturity. It was not long, before I was making my own judgment calls, and glancing back to Kannes for verification . . . his voiceless nod was the sign of approval . . . his upturned brow the sign to look harder and choose more wisely. As the sun made its way from east to west, the air grew warmer, until I was wishing I could trade my long sleeve shorts, drab Carharts and hunting boots for khakis and flip flops.
It was 1:20 on the nose . . . . somewhere between sleep and awake when my first mature “hit list” animal appeared. In retrospect, it is somewhat difficult to understand how two syllables (“bles-buck”) can cause one’s heart rate to go from normalcy to hyper drive in a matter of minutes, but, before I even saw the object of my desire, that is exactly what happened.
All joviality had drained from Kannes face, as he gestured with his right hand to be very still. After what seemed to be an eternity, he almost imperceptibly vocalized me to slowly stand, grab my bow and get ready for the shot. As I did, I could tell that my breathing had grown shallower and I could feel my heart beating at what seemed to be the base of m throat. I began to take deep breaths, in an attempt to calm the rising flood of emotion, but, apparently, my pulse had other ideas . . .
I was now standing upright, bow in one hand, release in the other, waiting for the shot to present itself. I slowly bent down to peer out the paned window, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of my quarry. I saw the black nose first, followed by the white blaze, the spiral horns. I am not ashamed to admit it, but, at that moment, standing on the sand lined floor of the pseudo termite mound, bow in hand, at the ready, I was nervous . . . .extremely nervous. There was no sense of calm . . . .none.
The largest of the three muscled his way to the front of the other two, locked onto the water hole, and started to walk directly toward it. Kannes looked at me and gestured to prepare myself for what was about to happen. I flexed my fingers around the wooden handle of my LX and made sure my peep had not rotated. For the first time I noticed that the other animals that had been around the waterhole for the better part of the day, had slipped away, unbeknownst to me, as every fiber of my attention was not dedicated to the animal rapidly approaching.
Then, just as confidently as he had began to come, he stopped. I don’t know why, and I never will, but, he just stopped and stood there. I remember well . . .he did not look right . . . he did not look left . . .he did not even look back. He just stared at the waterhole . . . .unwavering . . . . . the sweet smell of moisture in his nose. Then . . .he very calmly turned around and walked away . . . .the bush enveloping him . . . and then it was over.
By the disgusted look on Kannes face, it was easy to tell that he was disappointed. There had been no wind to carry our scent. . . there had been no sound to draw his attention. Yet, the ram did not like what something, and he did not stick around to find out what it was he did not like.
The rest of the day dripped by, as I held onto some hope that old blezzy might come back, but, deep down, we all knew that he would not. About 6PM, we called it a day, and radioed Jon to come pick us up. In a few minutes, we were back at camp. As the others trickled in, the fire became the stage upon which everyone relived their day in the field. Some had been successful, some had not.
The next day, the decision was made to head back to the same hide we had called home the previous day. Today was a little different in that we now knew all the actors and, as the morning act came to a close, it seemed like it could be a carbon copy of day one.
At 1:20 Denise, who had heretofore been relatively consumed in her Twilight novel, glanced at Kannes, and calmly stated “Here come some animals.”
Kannes and I, who had been discussing broadheads, or fishing or music, or quilting or whatever it is that you talk about after you have talked about everything, promptly stopped our conversation and peered out the window in amazement . . . blesbuck! The buggers came back exactly 24-hours after we had our first encounter that ended somewhat prematurely.
Before Kannes could gesture, I had grabbed my bow and situated myself in one smooth motion. This time, there was no hesitation as the ram made his way to agua dulce. He’d been thinking about it for 24-hours, and, by God, it was time for a drink.
As the animal approached the moss lined water hole exactly 22 yards away, I was quite certain that, if he tried hard enough and canted his head just right, he very may well hear my hear pounding quite uncontrollably. Hell, he probably felt it. He was now at the waterhole, staring at the cool water that now lay a mere inches in front of him. A quick drink, and I’ll be gone . . .
As soon as his head went down, Kannes turned his head from the window, and stared at me as if I owed him money, and said the two words that professional hunters are bred at birth to say . . . “take him.”
So, this is what it had come down to . . . .
I took one deep breath and drew my bow . . . .the silence of the blind was almost imperceptibly cut by the sound of carbon sliding against mole skin. As the familiar touch of my Winners Choice string hit my nose, I gazed through the peep and saw the animal. With the pin floating on and off the shoulder, I made sure that I was going to clear both sides of the 8” wide shooting window. It would be tight, but it should be OK. I was as far the side of the blind as possible.
Then, quite possibly as the blesbuck began to feel pleasantly satisfied, I squeezed the trigger and send 409 grains of “greetings from Texas” on it’s way.
Note: What happens next is somewhat embarrassing, and, I did consider falsifying the truth, in an attempt at self preservation. However, I’m above that, and, years from now, when I’m old and sitting by my Spanish oak fire with my dog, drinking bourbon and branch (with lemon), reliving this story, I’ll know that I told the truth . . . .and I’ll probably laugh and wish I would have lied. Oh well . . .
As soon as I released the arrow, I know something had gone wrong. It wasn’t a gut feeling or an intuition . . .it was the sound of my arrow, traveling at 260 some odd feet per second smacking into the side of the shooting window.
But wait, it get’s better . . .
As I watched the shoulder of the blesbuck through the riser of my bow, waiting for the arrow to strike home, my eyes were unexpectedly drawn to the explosion of blood erupting from the animals neck.
“What the !@#$ happened.” I asked Kannes
“I don’t know, but you hit him in the neck. Did you see all that blood? He’s going down now.”
For those of you thinking that I should have paid more attention to me clearing the shooting window . . . you get a gold start by your name. My broadhead had hit the side of the shooting port, somehow deflecting the arrow more than a foot to the left and about the same distance down (later inspection of the broadhead and the window port confirmed this). The impact of the broadhead had quite effectively severed the jugular, leaving a blood trail that was quite startling.
I did not know quite how to feel. The animal was clearly dead, and it was a clean death. Yet, it was clearly luck, not skill that could rightfully claim victory today, and that was one scenario (possibly the only scenario) for which I had not prepared myself. In all honesty, it took me a while to accept it for what it was, but I want go down that path. Too philosophical . . . .perhaps later . . . .by the fire . . . with the dog and bourbon.
As we approached the animal, Ruger realized that all his anticipation had been for not, and that his nose, nor his stealth nor his bravado, would not be needed today. To demonstrate that is was not a complete loss, he approached the animal, grabbed the tail with his mouth and gave it one good tug. Counting coup would have to suffice for today . . . **** Texans.
As the handshaking and backslapping began, Kannes confirmed that he was an old man, pointing to the skin that had began to pull away from the horns. In matter of minutes, Jon showed, up and the animals was situated for the glory shots.
Following the photo session, we headed to the skinners shed, where quick work was made of the beast. The rest of the day was spent on the same concession, different blind. We were greeted by several immature warthogs and waterbuck, but no shooters.
During my 48-hours in camp, the word had gotten around that I had a deep rooted hatred for guinea fowl. You see, when I was a kid (think Chapter 1, farmhouse, young Czexican), we raised guineas. I specifically remember two things about them: (1) their affinity for defecating on vehicles, and (2) their incessant vocalization. I vowed that, if ever given a chance, I would have my revenge. This hatred rapidly became the stuff of legend around camp. So, when a flock of my avian enemy came in, Kannes knew that not offering a shot would be perceived as bad form. So, when he asked if I would like an opportunity to “manage the herd”, I nodded. The judo point did its job, and the shot was good.
That night, around the table, Hannes made it a point to recognize my kill, amongst those of others. Chic gave me the nod of approval, and that was good enough for me.
As the night before, as the fire began to die, various individuals began to fall out one by one . . . retiring to formally accept the end of the day.
Prior to his departure, Kannes glanced across the fire . . . . “There are a hundred ways that could have played out Chris. . . and we got the best one. Tomorrow could be the day of the impala, or the day of the warthog. You never know. Get some rest . . .sleep well.”
I knew I would not get rest, and I knew I would not sleep well, but that was OK.
“I will . . .you too.”
It seemed like the polite thing to say . . .
To be continued . . . .
As I presumed, sleep did not come easy for me the night before “the beginning.” To the best of my recollection, I may have slept a grand total of two or three hours, and, even those were difficult to find. Had it not been for the Castles and the Ambien, I doubt those precious moments would have come at all. I was soon to discover that most of my nights would follow the same pattern of searching but not finding. The anticipation for the next day was too great as the images of the previous replayed over and over again in my mind, until the pre-dawn sounds of camp staff began to saturate the cool morning air reminding me that the memories of the next were ready to be made. It seems like time, even in Africa, waits for nobody.
Slipping out of the clean linens of my bed, I quietly turned off the alarm clock, which had yet to sound, and began my morning ritual, including showering, brushing teeth, and making my way to the veranda of our guest house to gather my hunting clothes, which had been hung on the log framework of the porch to take on the smells of Africa. As I slipped my boots on I could hear the sounds of game moving in the bush, a mere 200 yards from the bed where I had found temporary respite.
Even at this early hour, the lights were on in the main camp house were burning bright, and, as I made my way across the graveled space separating our house from the base of operations, I could see bodies moving in and out of the darkness, in preparation for the hunt. Ruger greeted me halfway to the breakfast area, as he triumphantly pranced in and out of the main house, simultaneously letting me know that his nocturnal watch was over, and that mine was about to begin.
I entered the dining room to find Lee and his guide, Erik discussing the plan of action for their spot and stalk rifle hunt for the day. After pouring a cup of coffee, I made my way back outside to watch the sun break over the eastern horizon, making intelligible forms out of what had previously been nothing of importance. No sooner had I scalded my mouth with the morning brew, I heard Kannes’s familiar hearty congenial Namibian accent.
“Well Chris, today could be the day.”
“Indeed it could, Kannes . . . indeed it could.”
“Is Denise going out today.”
“Yes, she’s getting ready now. She’ll be good to go in about 15-minutes.”
“Good. I’ve got our gear loaded, and as soon as she gets her breakfast, I’ll grab the lunches Mia has prepared for us, and tell Jon (our tracker, skinner, and driver) it’s time to go.”
Half an hour later, after wishing the others the same luck we hoped for, we climbed up into the truck, and we were off. By this time, the sun had hemorrhaged the eastern horizon, and the birds began doing their best to coax the hesitant sun to break over the acacias and take its rightful place. Ruger was perched on the high rack, between Denise and I . . . docked tail wagging in anticipation of what lie ahead.
Today we would be hunting a concession directly across from the camp concession . . . .the same concession we had driven the night before. The drive was short, but half way through the drive, I was happy to have worn my fleece, as the cold air bit at my exposed hands that now held my bow. A smile broke across my face, as I sheepishly recalled someone on some hunting site suggesting a light pair of gloves for the morning drives.
The road ended, and I saw the waterhole and sunken pit blind 20-yards beyond. It looked a lot like a termite mound, and it was clear that Hannes had taken a lot of time in designing and constructing the hides. We unloaded our gear, and situated ourselves in the blind in preparation for what was to prove an approximate 11-hour day. Kannes spoke in Afrikaans to Jon, and, after a tooth bearing grin, Jon nodded back, and he was off.
“Now we wait” Kannes whispered.
And wait we did . . . . .
As the day progressed, various game animals came and went. First the sable, then the eland, followed by warthog, Kudu, Vervot Monkeys, and the ever present obnoxious horn bills. As each animal paraded to and from the waterhole, Kannes pointed out how to differentiate between male and female . . . youth from maturity. It was not long, before I was making my own judgment calls, and glancing back to Kannes for verification . . . his voiceless nod was the sign of approval . . . his upturned brow the sign to look harder and choose more wisely. As the sun made its way from east to west, the air grew warmer, until I was wishing I could trade my long sleeve shorts, drab Carharts and hunting boots for khakis and flip flops.
It was 1:20 on the nose . . . . somewhere between sleep and awake when my first mature “hit list” animal appeared. In retrospect, it is somewhat difficult to understand how two syllables (“bles-buck”) can cause one’s heart rate to go from normalcy to hyper drive in a matter of minutes, but, before I even saw the object of my desire, that is exactly what happened.
All joviality had drained from Kannes face, as he gestured with his right hand to be very still. After what seemed to be an eternity, he almost imperceptibly vocalized me to slowly stand, grab my bow and get ready for the shot. As I did, I could tell that my breathing had grown shallower and I could feel my heart beating at what seemed to be the base of m throat. I began to take deep breaths, in an attempt to calm the rising flood of emotion, but, apparently, my pulse had other ideas . . .
I was now standing upright, bow in one hand, release in the other, waiting for the shot to present itself. I slowly bent down to peer out the paned window, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of my quarry. I saw the black nose first, followed by the white blaze, the spiral horns. I am not ashamed to admit it, but, at that moment, standing on the sand lined floor of the pseudo termite mound, bow in hand, at the ready, I was nervous . . . .extremely nervous. There was no sense of calm . . . .none.
The largest of the three muscled his way to the front of the other two, locked onto the water hole, and started to walk directly toward it. Kannes looked at me and gestured to prepare myself for what was about to happen. I flexed my fingers around the wooden handle of my LX and made sure my peep had not rotated. For the first time I noticed that the other animals that had been around the waterhole for the better part of the day, had slipped away, unbeknownst to me, as every fiber of my attention was not dedicated to the animal rapidly approaching.
Then, just as confidently as he had began to come, he stopped. I don’t know why, and I never will, but, he just stopped and stood there. I remember well . . .he did not look right . . . he did not look left . . .he did not even look back. He just stared at the waterhole . . . .unwavering . . . . . the sweet smell of moisture in his nose. Then . . .he very calmly turned around and walked away . . . .the bush enveloping him . . . and then it was over.
By the disgusted look on Kannes face, it was easy to tell that he was disappointed. There had been no wind to carry our scent. . . there had been no sound to draw his attention. Yet, the ram did not like what something, and he did not stick around to find out what it was he did not like.
The rest of the day dripped by, as I held onto some hope that old blezzy might come back, but, deep down, we all knew that he would not. About 6PM, we called it a day, and radioed Jon to come pick us up. In a few minutes, we were back at camp. As the others trickled in, the fire became the stage upon which everyone relived their day in the field. Some had been successful, some had not.
The next day, the decision was made to head back to the same hide we had called home the previous day. Today was a little different in that we now knew all the actors and, as the morning act came to a close, it seemed like it could be a carbon copy of day one.
At 1:20 Denise, who had heretofore been relatively consumed in her Twilight novel, glanced at Kannes, and calmly stated “Here come some animals.”
Kannes and I, who had been discussing broadheads, or fishing or music, or quilting or whatever it is that you talk about after you have talked about everything, promptly stopped our conversation and peered out the window in amazement . . . blesbuck! The buggers came back exactly 24-hours after we had our first encounter that ended somewhat prematurely.
Before Kannes could gesture, I had grabbed my bow and situated myself in one smooth motion. This time, there was no hesitation as the ram made his way to agua dulce. He’d been thinking about it for 24-hours, and, by God, it was time for a drink.
As the animal approached the moss lined water hole exactly 22 yards away, I was quite certain that, if he tried hard enough and canted his head just right, he very may well hear my hear pounding quite uncontrollably. Hell, he probably felt it. He was now at the waterhole, staring at the cool water that now lay a mere inches in front of him. A quick drink, and I’ll be gone . . .
As soon as his head went down, Kannes turned his head from the window, and stared at me as if I owed him money, and said the two words that professional hunters are bred at birth to say . . . “take him.”
So, this is what it had come down to . . . .
I took one deep breath and drew my bow . . . .the silence of the blind was almost imperceptibly cut by the sound of carbon sliding against mole skin. As the familiar touch of my Winners Choice string hit my nose, I gazed through the peep and saw the animal. With the pin floating on and off the shoulder, I made sure that I was going to clear both sides of the 8” wide shooting window. It would be tight, but it should be OK. I was as far the side of the blind as possible.
Then, quite possibly as the blesbuck began to feel pleasantly satisfied, I squeezed the trigger and send 409 grains of “greetings from Texas” on it’s way.
Note: What happens next is somewhat embarrassing, and, I did consider falsifying the truth, in an attempt at self preservation. However, I’m above that, and, years from now, when I’m old and sitting by my Spanish oak fire with my dog, drinking bourbon and branch (with lemon), reliving this story, I’ll know that I told the truth . . . .and I’ll probably laugh and wish I would have lied. Oh well . . .
As soon as I released the arrow, I know something had gone wrong. It wasn’t a gut feeling or an intuition . . .it was the sound of my arrow, traveling at 260 some odd feet per second smacking into the side of the shooting window.
But wait, it get’s better . . .
As I watched the shoulder of the blesbuck through the riser of my bow, waiting for the arrow to strike home, my eyes were unexpectedly drawn to the explosion of blood erupting from the animals neck.
“What the !@#$ happened.” I asked Kannes
“I don’t know, but you hit him in the neck. Did you see all that blood? He’s going down now.”
For those of you thinking that I should have paid more attention to me clearing the shooting window . . . you get a gold start by your name. My broadhead had hit the side of the shooting port, somehow deflecting the arrow more than a foot to the left and about the same distance down (later inspection of the broadhead and the window port confirmed this). The impact of the broadhead had quite effectively severed the jugular, leaving a blood trail that was quite startling.
I did not know quite how to feel. The animal was clearly dead, and it was a clean death. Yet, it was clearly luck, not skill that could rightfully claim victory today, and that was one scenario (possibly the only scenario) for which I had not prepared myself. In all honesty, it took me a while to accept it for what it was, but I want go down that path. Too philosophical . . . .perhaps later . . . .by the fire . . . with the dog and bourbon.
As we approached the animal, Ruger realized that all his anticipation had been for not, and that his nose, nor his stealth nor his bravado, would not be needed today. To demonstrate that is was not a complete loss, he approached the animal, grabbed the tail with his mouth and gave it one good tug. Counting coup would have to suffice for today . . . **** Texans.
As the handshaking and backslapping began, Kannes confirmed that he was an old man, pointing to the skin that had began to pull away from the horns. In matter of minutes, Jon showed, up and the animals was situated for the glory shots.
Following the photo session, we headed to the skinners shed, where quick work was made of the beast. The rest of the day was spent on the same concession, different blind. We were greeted by several immature warthogs and waterbuck, but no shooters.
During my 48-hours in camp, the word had gotten around that I had a deep rooted hatred for guinea fowl. You see, when I was a kid (think Chapter 1, farmhouse, young Czexican), we raised guineas. I specifically remember two things about them: (1) their affinity for defecating on vehicles, and (2) their incessant vocalization. I vowed that, if ever given a chance, I would have my revenge. This hatred rapidly became the stuff of legend around camp. So, when a flock of my avian enemy came in, Kannes knew that not offering a shot would be perceived as bad form. So, when he asked if I would like an opportunity to “manage the herd”, I nodded. The judo point did its job, and the shot was good.
That night, around the table, Hannes made it a point to recognize my kill, amongst those of others. Chic gave me the nod of approval, and that was good enough for me.
As the night before, as the fire began to die, various individuals began to fall out one by one . . . retiring to formally accept the end of the day.
Prior to his departure, Kannes glanced across the fire . . . . “There are a hundred ways that could have played out Chris. . . and we got the best one. Tomorrow could be the day of the impala, or the day of the warthog. You never know. Get some rest . . .sleep well.”
I knew I would not get rest, and I knew I would not sleep well, but that was OK.
“I will . . .you too.”
It seemed like the polite thing to say . . .
To be continued . . . .
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