River Horse

Accepted statistics and bush lore contend that the hippo is the most dangerous of all of Africa's big game. Having now spent some time around them, I'm not sure I can say I have the same timid respect for them that I do of the African elephant. Regardless, I can certainly understand that where they exist in numbers the prospects of an unfortunate encounter between a shortsighted hippo and an unsuspecting villager are potentially tragic.

Most of my hunt to the Zambezi valley was spent literally living on the Zambezi river itself. It is simply stunning in aesthetics and full of amazing wildlife. Hippos are ever present. The grunting vocalization of the hippo is the largely ignored backdrop sound for every event on the river. They are remarkably intolerant of other hippos or any other wildlife in the area, and announce their displeasure with boisterous grunts and bellows, that can be heard throughout the day, but particularly at night when they are feeding in the shallows and on shore. During the day, they mostly hole up in a deep pool and watch the passerbys with distain. Certainly, a "bucket list" item for any outdoorsman should be to spend a week hunting around and living in proximity to hippos.

Pod of Hippos in the Zambezi

The first night Kory and I were in the Tafika camp (on the banks of the Zambezi) Kory was awakened to a rustling sound outside his chalet, only to peek out and find a cow hippo feeding on the grass within 10 feet of the doorway. While I had seen hippos on the rare occasion on other trips to Africa, this was my first opportunity to spend significant time around them.

During my 2008 Zimbabwe trip, I had hunted with Henry Prinsloo for the initial 5 days from an inland camp called "Pedza" before moving back to the Masau camp on the Zambezi River, near the Mozambique border. Henry's son, an aspiring professional hunter named Fred, had initially met us in the Masau camp when we arrived in the area by boat from the Tafika camp, but remained in that camp and was monitoring wildlife movement in the area. In fact, I had been able to hunt with Fred on a couple of occasions in the days prior to our return when our search for buffalo brought us closer to the Masau camp and the cover of thick jess on the sides of the river.

By the time we returned to Masau to begin hunting the aquatics, I had developed faith in Fred's abilities and was encouraged when he informed us that, in recent days, 3 - 4 hippos had left the river and taken up residency in a large pan (pond of water) about a mile from the river above camp.
We had arrived at Masau late in the evening on day 5 and so could not check the pan that night. Fred assured us, though, that he had carefully approached the banks that evening, had looked the group over, and was convinced that one of the hippos was a nice bull.

The next morning we took the cruiser, loaded with native trackers and skinners, to the pan to survey the situation. Sure enough, the three hippos were in the water, but were not cooperative in coming anywhere near our position on the shore.

Henry and Fred climbed a tree in order to better evaluate the hippos in the pan

At this point it's helpful if the lay reader learns two things about about hippo hunting. First, it's remarkably difficult for any hunter - professional or otherwise, to tell the difference between a bull and a cow; second, when shooting a trophy, a brain shot is almost essential, as the beasts rarely venture from the safety of the water, and after the shot recovery of the trophy can be tricky at best. In any deep or swiftly moving water, the accepted method is to shoot the hippo and then wait several hours for the contents of its stomach to ferment and bloat the animal to the surface. The complexities of this are apparent, however, when one is hunting in a river near an international crossing. If a bull is shot in the river on the Zimbabwe side and then drifts across into Mozambique, recovery of the trophy is impossible. Not wanting to deal with those uncertainties, I was glad to learn Fred had located possible quarry which had left the current of the Zambezi River, and was feeding a mile away in the stagnant waters of a receding pan.
Hippo in the pan
We spent that morning waiting and watching the three uncooperative hippos feed on reeds on the opposite shore of the 5 acre pan. On several occasions we had to chase village fishermen from the pond (who legally shouldn't be fishing, but are generally ignored when hunters are not around) from the shores of the pond. We certainly didn't want to endanger someone with an errant bullet skipping across the waters of the pond. Eventually, with enough badgering and disturbance from us, the trio moved into the deepest waters and appeared content to spend the remainder of the day submerged in the murky depths. Conceding defeat for the morning we returned to camp for lunch and to allow matters at the pan to cool down a bit.

When we returned in the early afternoon, we were surprised to see that the pod had moved to the far side of the pan and were feeding some distance off shore in the thick reeds. Inexplicably, we were able to stand on the shore, at the nearest dry spot to them, without any appreciable alarm from them. They were still prohibitively far for a shot - both because a precise brain shot would have been difficult and a recovery from that terrain would be almost impossible. In addition, we couldn't be sure which of the three was the bull (difficult to tell, unless you're given a good look at the tusks when the hippo is yawning or fighting). We sat up in the shade of a tree and watched for several hours.
Nothing to do but wait for the hippos to come closer

Finally, as the sun was setting the three appeared determined to come onto dry land for a night of feeding in the thick jess between the pan and the Zambezi River. For whatever reason, they moved toward our position and it seemed likely they were going to come ashore about 10 yards from where Henry, Fred and I were now crouched for concealment in much less relaxed condition under the tree. We finally got a good look at the tusks in the nearest hippo, and I was convinced he was a nice bull. Henry left the final determination and decision up to me, as he was unwilling to make a definitive call. When they were about 15 yards from the shore and 25 yards from us, I had to make a decision - it was either shoot, or stand and run, clearing the way for them to come out under the tree. A hippo is tremendously dangerous when startled on land, and surprisingly fast. There was little doubt things would get western in a hurry if those things made landfall and we had not cleared a path prior.

With our options dwindling fast, I made a call and decided on a side brain shot on the nearest one (that I had previously determined was a bull) at 25 yards with the .458 Lott. The two others retreated back into the pond and everything was still. The targeted hippo had gone under and was out of sight.
I don't think I had fully appreciated, prior to that moment in time, what a predicament recovery of a 6,000 pound animal from the bottom of a swampy pond can present. After the high-fiving and backslapping, Henry was the first to lament, "I don't know how we're going to get him out of there." I suggested we somehow attach the cruiser to a leg (all of which were submersed) and pull him ashore. Henry assured me that the cruiser wouldn't have near enough power to budge him an inch.

It was then I recalled a conversation Henry and I had had several days earlier while driving though a nearby village. Though the people of that village, like all rural Zimbabweans, struggled for every mouthful of food and stitch of clothing, there sat prominently displayed in the middle of the village the nicest, newest, shinny blue farm tractor one could ever imagine. I was puzzled when I saw it because, at most, these people are subsistence farmers, with small family garden plots only - hardly room for a large commercial-grade farm tractor to be used. Henry explained to me that Zimbabwe President, Robert Mugube, had given similar tractors to the chiefs of most villages in a bold and unabashed attempt to curry favor with rural voters in the upcoming election. President Mugube, in power since 1980, was facing such disapproval amongst the populace that even his signature Chicago-style election poll intimidation and ballot box stuffing was unlikely to assure him a victory in the national elections which (coincidentally) were held while I was in the bush. Mugube lost the election, but disputed the close results, and eventually held on to power though various corrupt means and a sham reelection . Apparently, it never occurred to the rurals, who voted for him based on the tractor gift, that tractors run on diesel fuel - a commodity that is extremely difficult to come by in remote villages. Chifuti has the stuff trucked to their camps on a schedule, but is understandably stingy about it's allocation and use. I suggested to Henry that he dispatch a couple of the guys to the village to ask the chief for use of the tractor in exchange for a bit a diesel fuel and an allotment of the hippo meat.


A couple of the guys left and within about 30 minutes we could hear the tractor coming off the hill with an escort of at least 50 villagers, several of whom were carrying an indigenous dugout canoe.

Loading the dugout into the pan for the recovery
The dugout
By the time we launched the recovery efforts, it was well past sundown and very dark. Three villagers and Robert pushed a short way off shore in the dugout and, leaning over the edge, were able to attach a stout rope to the foreleg. The rope proved not stout enough later, though, because it snapped when the tractor put heavy tension on it to pull the bull from the pond. After an couple of re-rigs, the hippo was pulled onto the shore, amidst a throng of meat-hungry villagers.

Village Tractor

In the darkness decent photos were out of the question. I was intent on having them, though, and we knew the villagers would hack the thing to pieces the minute we were out of sight. The solution was to leave three of the crew there to sleep on the shore for the night with a fire. In the morning we returned to find even more villagers waiting for meat with all manner of bags, pots and buckets in which to carry the booty back to their huts. We were able to take many nice trophy photos, and I distributed several bags of hard candy that I had taken with me. All villagers waited for the meat, and some were handsomely rewarded - the owner of the boat, the chief for the tractor, and those who helped with recovery. The rest got mainly scraps, though they were clearly grateful for anything and didn't appear to have any better way to spend a morning than watching the butchering of a 6000 pound hippo bull.

Cleaning the bull with the villagers looking on
Getting the hippo set up for photos

We loaded the entrails and a good share of the meat into the cruiser, and I thought we were going to break a leaf spring. We used the goo later as a stinky (though ineffective) crocodile bait.

The tusks later measured a respectable 23 inches - turned out he was a nice bull. Hippo hunting is so unique. I expect this won't be the only time I attempt it.