Giant Lizard

In a recent post I discussed briefly why many veteran dangerous game hunters have enlarged Africa's "big five" and now refer to the "magnificent seven" by including crocodile and hippo in that elite group of dangerous African big game animals. These are those animals that, given an opportunity and a bit of provocation, are apt to bite back at the unsuspecting, unskilled or unlucky hunter.

Some are surprised to learn that, without question, the hippo kills more people than any other single big game species in Africa; but I suppose with the elephant as the only possible exception, of the seven the crocodile might be the most supremely and assuredly fatal once it successfully has a potential victim in its grip. The croc is a fast and vicious attacker, but a slow killer. Very few humans have escaped to tell the tale of the horrifying experience of a crocodile attack. It kills by drowning - by dragging its prey to the depths of a river or water hole and rolling it over and over to disorient it; then waiting patiently with its prey in vice-like jaws while the victim struggles and ultimately drowns. When the killing is done, the attacking croc eats the victim amongst a host of opportunistic crocs that have been lured to the scene by the commotion and are eager to engage in the melee.

Long-time and noted Professional Hunter, Fred Duckworth, in his memoirs, A Far From Ordinary Life, describes the current condition of the Nile Crocodile population in southern and eastern Africa:

Only Righteous preservationists in their safe-living situations in Western environments insist that crocodiles, like elephants, are endangered. No one asks the opinion of these unfortunate people who live every day of their lives in close proximity to them. If the truth were told, the tribal African people would be quite happy if these two species, more than any others on the continent, were eliminated completely.

While I certainly don't share the natives penchant for annihilation (or even reduction) of the Nile Crocodile population, I can attest that the Zambezi River of Northeastern Zimbabwe is literally lousy with the reptile. The sights of crocodiles on the sandy banks of the river that are so novel and striking to the newly-arrived visitor soon become commonplace and unremarkable. Only the sight of a tremendously huge beast would even warrant mention. By the time I had spent 14 days on the river in 2008, I was retrospectively embarrassed by my excitement and enthusiasm for each new croc I saw as we fished for two days at the Tafika Camp and travelled 65 kilometers down river to the Masau camp. A native river guide explained that, during the nesting season, commercial croc farmers are allowed to take 15,000 crocodile eggs from nests along the Zambezi in the stretch between Lake Kariba and the Mozambique boarder. Amazing that, even with this harvest, I am certain the river is at near carrying capacity for crocodile and plenty of young crocs are
evident.

Baby croc sunning safely in an isolated pool

Despite the liberal allocation of eggs to leather farms, National Parks is remarkably stingy in its allocation of sport hunting licenses. Unlike the commercial trade which focuses on more usable young (about 1 meter) crocodiles, a sport hunting license allows the harvest of the biggest of the crocodiles. When Kory Woodbury and I finally agreed that we were going to "the valley" I decided straight away that I would try to add a croc to buffalo, elephant, hippo and leopard in my pursuit of the magnificent seven. There are other good areas in Africa to pursue "the aquatics" - hippo and croc, but none better that Zimbabwe's Zambezi Valley. Unfortunately, I was informed in short order by Tim Danklef, the booking agent, that Chifuti's croc quota was already allocated for the next several years. I asked to be wait-listed, and was surprised to learn only 2 months from our departure that a last minute cancellation would afford me the opportunity to hunt a crocodile.
It was 5 days into the 14 day hunt before we turned our focus to the elusive "flat dog." By that time we had left the Pedza hunting camp, which is inland from the Masau camp about 65 km, and moved back to the banks of the Zambezi and the Masau camp. The Masau camp is more often used by groups of fishermen, who come to this stretch of the Zambezi in search of the huge Tiger fish to be had there. Normally, hunters will stay there only when pursuing the aquatics, though there are good numbers of buffalo, elephant, bushbuck, bushpig and klipspringer to be had nearby.

Building the fruitless blind

The day after we had moved from Pedza to Masau, I was fortunate to take a nice bull hippo from a water hole about a mile from the river. Our plan was to use some of the meat from the hippo to bait a large croc onto the sand back to feed. We'd be hidden in a carefully constructed blind nearby and put the whammy on the lizard while he fed. Typically, this is how croc hunting is done.

Driving stakes to hold the croc bait

For two days, our plan looked like it should be perfect - huge sandbar, nice chuck of hippo ribcage, expertly constructed blind, patient hunter and two professional hunters - and absolutely no crocs! We were seeing plenty in the river and on other sandbanks, but not a single croc visited the sandbank we surveyed, let alone attempted to feed on the bait. Despite having covered our bait with branches, the only wildlife interested in our bait were vultures (a foul with a head remarkably similar to my own!) and the opportunistic ground hornbill.

Vulture looking for a free meal at the bait

Ground Hornbills eyeing the bait

Vultures on bait as we approach the blind in the boat

We chummed the river heavily with hippo innards and muck, but nothing was bringing the dogs in. One defiant medium-sized croc spent several hours of both days sunning himself on the far side of the sand bar we were sitting over. He was well out of rifle range and we assumed not of shootable size, but shear boredom forced us late in day two to try a stalk on him. We amazed ourselves when a roundabout route and strategic use of a riverside berm brought us to within about 75 yards of him. For practice I set up for a dead-rest rifle shot, which we elected not to take because of his size (we later agreed be might have made 12', but that would be all). While fruitless in terms of bag, the experience was educational and inspired us. We conceded defeat with the baiting and abandoned our blind for more active (and what would prove to be arguably more frustrating) pursuit tactics.

I was soon educated on the cunningness of the Nile Crocodile. They are probably the most wary creature I have ever hunted. Since we were seeing plenty of nice crocs on small sandbars at the base of a very large cliff face above the Zambezi, we decided we would have better fortune by spotting the stationary crocs from the pontoon boat on the river, beaching the boat a half mile or mile upriver from the croc and stalking down toward him. The primary difficultly in this plan, apart from the croc's innate cragginess, was the fact that biggest crocs were not on the biggest sandbars. Most we saw had claimed a piece of dry real estate not much bigger than the croc himself and situated at the base of the cliff.

Imposing cliff and thick brush along the river

What little vegetation we could use as cover consisted of vine-covered trees which were defiantly and unbelievably growing amongst basketball to Volkswagen-sized boulders which have fallen from the cliff for centuries and formed a 30 yard high embankment from the river's edge up to the base of the cliff. Most of this area is probably underwater during the rainy season, but now the whole thing was covered with a 6 inch blanket of dried leaves which were about as quiet as walking through a field of corn flakes. We could only stumble and fall from boulder to boulder with our feet entangled in a mass of vines while praying that none of us sustained a hunt-ending ankle sprain. Robert, the head tracker, was so dubious about our Anglo hunting abilities and oversized Courtney hunting boots, that several times, when we had advanced close to a resting croc, he would slide down the rocks to a shooting position, clearing leaves and meticulously moving sticks and vines to make a more quiet trail before motioning for us to follow. It was a rather humiliating process, but I understood there was otherwise too much chance of startling the croc into the water without this help.

View from the base of the cliff back toward the river

We spent 5 days trying to get into shooting position of a decent croc. Every day we worked on no less than 4 separate stalks, each one culminating in either the sight of an empty sandbar where we otherwise expected the beast to be, or the more infuriating sound of someone throwing a cast iron bath tub into the river. The manner of the croc's escape from the ambush is solely determined by the croc's perception of the threat. An irritated croc will simply slide silently into the water, while a startled croc will belly flop in with all the charm and finesse of an intoxicated Midwestern redneck at a Saturday bar-b-que. In either case, a pair yellow eye bulges then usually appear on the water's surface within 5 minutes and about 20 feet off shore. The croc's defiant gaze would survey the scene to identify the intruder, and we discovered, that many times, if we simply waited a half hour, some of these crocs would slowly reemerge on the same sandbar.

On the seventh day of crocodile hunting we stalked into a position about 10 yards above a absolute monster! We were working along the cliff face toward a more distant croc that we had seen downstream while on the boat. Somehow this brute had come ashore on a small sandbar during our stalk and was in a position between us and our intended target. We were lucky to have spotted him before he felt the vibration of our approach or sensed our movement. Robert had scooted off the steep embankment to a ledge above the croc, clearing a trail of leaves, loose rocks and twigs for the approach of his less nimble and larger hunting companions. Henry then shuffled down into position behind the trunk of a large mopane tree. I was last, and shimmied past Robert about half way down. He whispered to me, in passing, that it was one of the biggest crocs he'd ever seen. When I was finally at Henry's side, he and I were able to take a breather and assess the situation. We were obscenely close - within 10 -12 yards. A younger and considerably smaller croc had taken up position on the bar below us and to our left. We agonized over the predicament for the better part of 30 minutes. There was simply no way to get a shot with any degree of precision through the tangle of vines, leaves, limbs and debris. Finally, due to lack of options and cramped muscles, I gambled a change of positions and knelled up to look for a higher shooting lane. The gig was up. The smaller croc eyed me and both were in the water in a instant.

I wouldn't put my hand on the good book a swear to it, but once the croc had bugged out and we were able to survey his spoor in the sand, I put an honest to goodness 17 steps from the end of his tail mark to where his chin was resting. Would that croc have made 17 feet? I don't know, but he dang sure was way north of 15'. We never saw any sign of him again. They don't get that big by giving sport hunters two looks at them! The magnitude of that beast was driven home when I realized Henry was more devastated than I.

View from river; cliff and trees/brush on left - Zambia on right

The next day Henry was on a mission to locate the beast again, and we spent most of the morning trolling the waters on the Zambian side of the river across from the sandbar where he'd been resting. He wasn't to be seen again. We played around with a couple of smaller crocs before finally spotting a big yellow croc on a bank not far from the previous day's failure. We pulled the boat against the cliff about half a mile down river and jumped precariously onto the large boulders that were partially submerged in the river. Henry, Robert and I slowly made our way toward his position.

Henry's son and aspiring professional hunter, Fred, moved the boat with the other trackers, skinners and game scout to the far side of the river to monitor our progress. About halfway there he informed us over the radio that the croc had gone into the river. We held our position and waited for about 20 minutes, until Fred reported he had surfaced and was lurking off shore. Finally, we were informed that he was again slowly crawling out of the river on the same sand bar.

We cavalierly made our way to a position we believed to be about 30 yards above and 50 yards downstream from the sandbar, and Robert again went ahead clearing a path of the leaves and twigs, until he was convinced his clumsy companions would not bugger the chance at another fine crocodile. Once he was satisfied with his work and in position behind a large boulder, he located the croc and motioned for Henry to follow. I watched as Henry slid down the hillside and took up a similar position. When I was motioned to follow, I did did the same.

The croc's front half was visible from the position behind the boulder. His hind legs and tail were still in the water and a fallen tree truck was partially obscuring the part of his body that was out of the water. His head and front legs were evident. Though we were only about 50 yards from him, I was not comfortable with my rifle rest positions from behind the boulder, primarily because the bullet would have to pass dangerously close to the underside of the fallen tree trunk for the shot to be effective. A croc's brain is roughly the size of a walnut, but a brain or spinal shot are the only options to cleanly and immediately anchor a croc on the sand bar. Anything else, and the croc will absolutely get into the river and, though he might die, will never be recovered. A deflection off that trunk or any part of the thick brush in front of us would likely result in a 2 - 3 inch variance in the impact point, and a lost croc.

I whispered to Henry that I would have to try to shimmy over the boulder to get in front and below. Once there, I believed I could use the shooting sticks for a steady rest and a higher percentage shot. Henry was certainly skeptical of my plan and I, too, thought my chances of making that position change without detection were small. I don't know how I did it, but I flopped up and over the boulder and sat down in front. Henry eased the sticks around the boulder and I set them up creating a dead rest with my .375 H&H.

Guys beaching the boat at the start of another stalk

I rocked back at the recoil of the .375 and, by the time I had recovered, I could hear the giant tail thrashing back and forth in the water. Henry was yelling at me to shoot again, while at the same time frantically ordering Robert to get down the cliff and stop the croc from sliding back into the river. I jacked another shell in and followed the first shot with a second into the head of the croc. Robert was there immediately and had a hold on the front leg of the croc. Upon later reflection, I appreciated how cavilier Robert's actions had been, as the croc was very much still moving and capable of delivering a damaging bite. In fact, Henry repeatedly warned me as we were admiring the croc and taking pictures that the primitive nervous system of a croc makes it possible for a dead croc's mouth to instictively and quickly close on an unsuspecting hand fiddling with business end of the croc.

Finally! 14' Croc!

We couldn't have been more thrilled. The croc was larger than we had estimated. He taped out at just barely under 14 feet and was the interesting yellow color of a minority of crocs on the river. I found that variation to be more attractive than the darker green/black color, and had secretly hoped that the one I ultimately bagged would be of that color (though, obvioulsy, I considered any acceptably-sized croc to be a target). It took eight of us to wrestle the huge beast into the pontoon boat, and several more staff to get it from the boat and into the back of Henry's cruiser at Masau.

Too long for the skinning block

We took the croc intact to Pedza, 65 km inland, to show it to Kory and have it skinned. He was too long to hang at full length in the tallest block and tackle at the Pedza camp. Though most of the natives will not eat croc, others esteem the tail to be quite the delicasy. The skinner was anxious to have the tail, and I didn't hesitate. No, I don't know if it tastes like chicken, because I didn't try it. I asked the skinner to empty the stomach contents so I could recover the rocks that all crocs ingest throughout their lives for ballast and digestion media. We were surprised to also recover a huge panel of hard plastic that the croc had eaten at some point. How it went down, I'll never guess, but it was rolled up in the stomach like a tube.

Ingested plastic

Rocks for ballast

Most casual sportsmen do not immediately think of hunting crocodile when they dream of a trip to the Dark Continent. To those with more experience, who've ventuered over a couple of times, the pursuit of the "flat dog" is appreciated for what is truly is - one of the most challenging and rewarding of all dangerous game hunting.