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.

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.

Kiss of Death

When neither Byron or I are lucky enough to draw Nevada big game tags ourselves, we are more than happy to sign on to assist the more fortunate applicants in hunting their big game. Over the past several years we've had no difficulty finding willing successful elk applicants who want some inside information in finding elk. Since 2003 we've hunted areas 22 and 23 almost every year, and in the process have gained some valuable education about those areas and their hot spots.

In 2007 we were fortunate to have three separate acquaintances who drew area 22 elk tags. One was Jed Topham, a Henderson veterinarian from northern Utah, whose father and brother were and are Utah Division conservation officers. His father, Jack Topham, was with me when I shot my 2008 antelope in Utah. The second was the wife of a buddy, John Hymas, Becky Hymas. The final was Mike O'neal, who is good friends with Tracy Truman.

Jed, Jack and Jed's brother, Jay had been hunting in 22 for about a week by the time Slim and I were able to get away from work and get up to their camp near the base of Grafton Peak 60 miles north of Pioche. When we arrived at Jed's trailer, which was parked on the side of highway 93 in the northern reaches of the unit, late on Friday afternoon Jed, Jack and Jay were gone hunting (we later found out) on the face of the mountain near Patterson Pass. Slim and I took the opportunity to go out on our own and scout for bulls in other areas.

This was the first year that the BLM was enforcing their wilderness area restrictions for much of the area. We drove up as close as we could to the base of Grafton Peak before we were impeded by barricades designating vehicle restrictions in the newly-formed wilderness area. Since it was getting late in the day, we opted to forego hiking for the day and instead glassed the surrounding hillsides and ledges for potential shooter bulls.

Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while, and that afternoon the adage ran true. I was able to locate a fairly nice 6 point bull feeding about 2 miles away on a steep hillside. There were a couple of smaller bulls in the same general area, but they did not seem to be the quality of the 6 point we were focused on.

When we finally met up with Jed and his group at Jed's trailer that evening, we described the bull and showed him the video of it we had akwardly taken by holding my video camera to the spotting scope. All were impressed with the bull and wanted to try for him in the morning.

The following morning, we parked at the wilderness barricade and hiked in to a higher vantage point to begin glassing. Slim and I located a couple of bulls high up in the basin almost immediately. There were other bulls that we eventually discovered, but the two up high appeared to be easily superior. Jay had brought horses for the group to use and he and Jed took off on the horses toward these two bulls. Slim, Jack and I were in the cat bird seat watching the thing unwind. As we would later discover, we were about 2 miles from the action - the distance was deceptively far because of our use of the spotting scopes and the undulating terrain between us and the elk. Even though Jay and Jed were on the horses in the bottom of the draw and moving steadily toward the elk, it still took them the better part of three hours to get any where near the bulls. We could see the elk intermittently, but were never able to see Jed and Jay. We were able to communicate with them on the radio sporadically, but only when they were on the top of the ridge. They were on their own to find the bulls.

After three and a half hours or so we heard some very distant shots. They seemed so remote that we couldn't fathom they were Jed's. Several minutes later Jay's voice came over the radio informing us that Jed had killed the five point bull. Slim and I began the death march in to the area to assist with recovery of the bull. Jack returned to the trucks to get another horse. It took us several hours to get to the downed bull, which was on a ridiculously steep and completely burned hillside. We could barely field dress and cape the bull, because every time we'd turn it, it would want to slide downhill. We ended up simply quartering the bull and hauling the quarters to the bottom of the burned hill where they were prepared to load on the waiting horses. Jack is a taxidermist, and was able to cape the head once we had carried it off the hill.

The bull turned out to be a big five point. Jed was thrilled with it. I later green scored it at 305, which I didn't think was shabby for a five point.

A week later, we were back in the area, but about 10 miles west of Grafton Peak to help three more lucky applicants in their endeavors. This time it was Mike O'neal and Becky Hymas (wife of John Hymas - and yes, she really was going to shoot the bull herself).

Hymas had been hunting hard for weeks and had seen plenty of elk, but had yet to get on a decent bull. The first morning Slim and I were there, we took Mike and hunted a separate area from Hymas. We spotted a few small bulls that morning before deciding to, as I like to say, "put the boots to it." It appeared there was a nice draw at the top of a huge ravine that we were unable to see from the truck. Our suspicions were confirmed after we had hiked the ridge for about a mile above the truck.

Slim and I had set up to glass and couldn't see all of the sagebrush flat directly below us. Mike walked up a bit further before we heard him ask, somewhat frantically, over the radio,"which of those two bulls is the biggest?" Not being able to see any bulls, we were at a loss. We hurriedly changed position and then were able to see two very nice bulls feeding in the sagebrush draw below us. It was clear the closer was the better of the two, but Mike was disagreeing over the radio. Surprisingly, the bulls must have heard the radio chatter even at 447 yards (confirmed later as the distance to the closer bull). They began moving away and soon were out of even "hail Mary" shooting distance.

We watched them steadily move up the draw and into some think pinion/juniper trees. It appeared they intended to bed down for the day. Once we had time to look them over completely in the spotting scope it was clear one was a nice 5 point (better than Jed's) and the other a tremendous six point. I guessed him at 370.

Well, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . we decided they would bed there for the day, feed the night in the basin and we could get back on them in the morning. Don't disturb them we thought, let them be, push them now and they'll be gone. We didn't even try to hunt them in the evening.

Next morning, the strategy had been thought out, planned, discussed, reassessed, analyzed. In our minds we'd already won the duel with these bulls. All were deciding where either Mike or Becky was going to hang that magnificent trophy. In fact, we were presumptuous enough to think we might get both of these bulls! That was until about 20 minutes after Slim and I had hiked in the pre-dawn darkness and set up to glass. That's about the time Slim's voice came over the radio and asked me in the most nonchalant fashion, "you see those elk quarters hanging in the tree on that ridge?" OH THE LUCK! In our enthusiasm and stratagem, we had unintentionally pushed the bulls onto a ridge and in view of a couple of guides out of Pioche with a client from Texas. Sure enough, the bigger bull came in right at 370"!

We talked to the lucky trio while they were unloading the horses at about 10 in the morning (they'd slept in of course) to ride in and get the meat out. They were not appreciative, and really didn't even recognize our role in their success. We were left with the grainy pictures posted here which we were able to finagle with my small digital camera jury-rigged to my spotting scope.

I keep telling everyone that hunts with me about my luck (or lack thereof). I'm the kiss of death. Despite all evidence, people never learn to stay away!

1/4 Slam

I'd like to fancy myself among the ranks of the extreme sheep hunters of the world. You know, guys that years ago passed the laudable goal of collecting North America's "grand slam" of big horn sheep and have moved on toward collecting more exotic sheep around the world, like Northern Asia's Marco Polo, the various urals of the middle east and the capra species that dot the far reaches of almost every continent. I'd like to consider myself as equal to those hunters, but I can't. I'm not saying I couldn't learn to push myself beyond the limits of human physical capacity like those guys do, to risk life and limb for in the pursuit of sharp-eyed game that is infinitely more well equipped to be climbing among the cliffs, shale rock and unsure scree fields of the highest elevations. I don't place myself in those ranks because I at least understand that membership in that fraternity is earned through the experience of doing and the actual proof that one has the fortitude and mental toughness to actually play that demanding and dangerous game. I don't consider my limited experience with sheep hunting to yet be sufficient for me, in any fashion, to attempt any claim to a part of sheep hunting's elite.

Tracy Truman, who I met in 1993, is a sheep hunting fanatic. He is a certified 3/4 slammer, which means he has collected three of the four required sheep to compete his North American Grand Slam. Tracy has the desert bighorn, the dall, the stone and only lacks the rocky mountain bighorn to complete that feat.

In 2005 a contact of Tracy's presented him with an opportunity to hunt dall sheep in the Chugath Range of southwestern Alaska. Since there were two spots available, Tracy invited me to come along as a second hunter. Though I've since assisted with one successful desert bighorn hunt, this was to be my first experience with hunting any of North America's sheep.

Tracy and I traveled to Anchorage around the August 20th season opener. Our understanding of the plan, as explained by the broker, was for each of us to be hunting with separate guides in different areas, one of whom was the bush plane pilot. Unfortunately, we quickly realized that the main outfitter and pilot was much more interested in flying the plane around, looking at game and getting home to hang out in the evenings with his truck driving girlfriend, destructive dogs and hairless ferret than getting dirty hunting sheep.

The pilot's lack of enthusiam was initially irrelevant, because the weather was not cooperating - the low hanging clouds and drizzle were keeping us out of the super cub bush plane. Those conditions always make bush flying infeasible and prohibitively dangerous. Good bush pilots universally refuse to fly in those conditions regardless of the effect on potential success of the hunt. Because the only viable method of accessing most prime hunting areas is via bush plane, weather watching is an integral part of Alaskan hunting.
We ended up spending one night on the barren floor of Rich Moran's (the quide) new apartment. Dee (the pilot and would be hunting guide) was able to get Rich and I out on the third day from the Palmer, Alaska airport about 35 miles into the Chugath Range. Actually, he got Rich into a small line cabin about 10 miles below a rock bowl where Rich and Dee had seen a dall ram from the air several days before. By the time Dee got back to Palmer to pick me up and fly me in to meet Rich, the weather was socking in again. It was touch and go whether or not we would be able to land on the tundra next to the line shack. In fact, Dee and I circled blindly for several minutes over the area where Dee knew the line shack was, while Rich called on the radio from the ground trying to convince Dee that it was safe to bust blindly through the clouds and land under the 200 foot ceiling. Dee seriously contemplated aborting the attempt and returning to Palmer for the night, but we found a hole in the clouds and were able to snake through for a landing.

Rich and I stayed the night in a community line shack which had long ago been pulled into the area during the winter with a snow cat. Over the years scores of hunters had bivouaced at the shack and when passing through had left a veritable smorgasbord of preserved food stuffs and reading materials. I commandeered a Louis L'Amour for the trip and grabbed a package of albacore tuna on the trip out to supplement the Mountain House freeze dried I had been eating for several days.

The next morning Rich and I shouldered our packs, which contained sufficient supplies for 5 days afield, and headed up the drainage. The tussock we pretty bad, but the trip in was manageable. We were in to a camping area in about 5 hours and we were barely able to get camp set up before the impending rain started in. The weather didn't let up all afternoon or through the night. I was glad to have my ill-gotten Louis L'Amour so that lying side-by-side in a small pup tent for 24 hours was bearable. It was midday the following when we finally were able to head up the far side of the drainage for a vantage point to glass back over to where the sheep had been spotted. Once up, we spotted the sheep right where we expected it to be. With the long Alaskan days, we had enough daylight left to tackle an attempt to head through the valley and up the far slope for a closer look. The climbing on the sheep side of the valley was much more challenging than the side from which we had glassed. It was primarily rocky cliffs with loose shale and deep stream gorges.

We were able to get within 200 yards of the sheep and spent nearly two hours glassing the him while he alternated between lying in the rocks and feeding on the sparse grass shoots which protrude sporadically from the scree. Neither of us could decide whether the ram was a shooter or not, he'd turn one way and it would appear his horn dropped low (meaning a larger ram) and another way, it would appear he did not have the length. Since it was early in the hunt, we decided to leave him and look for something that was more obviously a keeper.

Sheep was between the thin snow line and snow covered mountain

The next morning we headed up an adjacent drainage and over a saddle to the next valley. One thing a new Alaskan hunter quickly learns is that distance is relative. Typically, what looks to be a mile is five. We spent all day getting onto this saddle and glassing the opposite valley. There were several small caribou and one lone dall ewe on the far side of the valley (about 8 miles), but nothing else. We were unable to locate anything either in that valley or in the one in which we were camped.

A couple of satellite calls to Tracy's cell revealed not only that Tracy was still in Anchorage staying miserably with hairless ferret and truck driving girlfriend, but also made it painfully obvious that Dee had no intention of going hunting. Until I was done and Rich available to hunt with Tracy, Tracy would not be able to step foot in sheep habitat in a trip he had arranged. He was getting a bunch of time in the super cub (which is an incredible experience in itself), but had yet to go hunting. He was definitely going stir-crazy. These factors, along with the paucity of sheep, made my decision to go after the initial ram fairly easy.

Rich and I hotfooted it (to the extent one can in this terrain) down the drainage, past the tent and up the far cliff and scree fields. With the use of spotting scope, we were able to confirm from the far drainage, many miles away, that the sheep was still there. He was feeding in the scree fields in a series of small 40 foot hills set close together like the ridges on a giant potato chip. The ridges are made through the decades by the progression and retreat of the ice glacier, which pushes loose rock in front of it and deposits it in long, cigar-shaped hills as it warms and retreats. These structures are call "glacial drumlins."

We knew the sheep was in these drumlins, but had no idea which one he was in. Consequently, we would move cautiously to the top of each one and peer over slowly. We'd done this several times before Rich finally peeked his head over one, and could see him two over. He was about 60 yards, and Rich told me initially to peek over and shoot him. Then, on second thought, he asked whether I wanted to get into bow shooting range. We decided to give our advance one more ridge. When we peeked over that one we were 18 yards. Rich said, "hold up let me look at him again." As Rich took that last look the sheep saw him and took off on a dead run, I shot him on the run at about 60 yards.

By the time we were done with pictures, skinning, boning and packing the meat, the rain was coming down and it was getting dark. We were about a mile and a half from the tent and uphill in the scree. It was a miserable walk down with a pack full of meat. Rich had the hide, cape and a little meat. I had the remaining meat and my hunting gear.

We ate a quick dinner at the tent and crawled into our bags. We both slept hard, and the morning dawned clear and sunny. There were the old tracks of a super cub landing right by the tent in some year prior, so we called Dee and asked him to attempt a similar maneuver. We didn't relish the thought of the 10 mile hump back to the shack with the added load of sheep. Try as we might, Dee was not willing to attempt a landing there. We ended up spending most of the day trudging back to the line shack. Dee picked us up there in the late afternoon.

I grabbed some silver fishing before leaving for home

Tracy was finally able to get out with Rich, not Dee, the next day. It was my turn to spend time in the messy duplex with the truck driver and ferret. I only made it two days, and as soon as I got my sheep checked in with Alaska Game and Fish, I had Dee take me to Anchorage International for an early trip home.

Before I left Dee and I flew over the area Tracy and Rich were hunting. As we flew over Rich came on the radio telling us to bug out. It was obvious they were eyeing a sheep. It turns out Tracy's perseverance was rewarded with a very old and large ram. I didn't hear about it until I was home.

In any event, I'm a true 1/4 slammer now. Not much to be proud of, but three more and I'll join at least one elite club.

Blue Bag

Safari Club International has a humanitarian program called "SCI Blue Bag." The general idea behind the program is that individual hunters destined for third world countries can take basic medical or other necessities into the country for the natives as checked on baggage. The program derives its name from the over sized blue duffel bags that are used by the hunters for transport of the supplies.

Vomba Clinic

Children at the Clinic
Our local SCI Chapter, The Nevada Desert Chapter, obtained a set of the large duffels and in 2006 I was the first member to take one of the blue bags out of the country. As far as Zimbabwe is concerned, the program is much more suited to communal hunting areas than National Parks areas. The Gokwe area that I hunted in 2006 is one of those communal areas. Communal areas are essentially owned by the local tribes. The local community manages the game within the guidelines and restrictions set by National Parks. Trophy fees and meat from the game shot in those areas belongs to the tribe. Conversely, National Parks areas are directly managed by the Zimbabwean government. Generally, when hunting in a communal area, a hunter will be in and out of small villages and farms daily. As a result, delivery of the Blue Bag humanitarian supplies is easy. While in Zimbabwe in 2008, we hunted the Dande North area which is mainly National Parks with only a bit of Communal land.

Vomba residents posing at Clinic with Blue Bag

Clinic Director explaining the gift to the residents (there was a roaring applause)

Dave Small, our local SCI president was excited to get one of our bags into circulation. He volunteered to shop for and purchase a tremendous amount of over-the-counter medications, first aid supplies, soaps and school supplies. I talked the doctor into giving me prescriptions for huge antibiotics orders, which I filled along with my malaria prophylactic. In total, our bag was completely stuffed and included about 2500 doses of antibiotics. I paid the Delta's extra charge for a third checked bag to get the stuff from Vegas to Africa.


Before I arrived Zim, an apprentice PH had been sent to an area to scout for elephant near a village called Vomba. He and the trackers had located several good bulls there, and so we hunted it (unsuccessfully) three days. In that village there were the remnants of a clinic which, in the absence of any medical supplies, had been transformed into a makeshift community center. Kirk targeted the place immediately when he discovered I had the blue bag to deliver.

Huts in the Vomba village

We finally stopped there on the third trip through and sent the head tracker to look for the "director" of the clinic. The clinic was literally packed with a people from the community who were simply "hanging out," since they had nothing better to do. There were very excited to have the supplies delivered, as it had been quite some time since they had had any medical supplies at all in the clinic. We discovered that the sum total of the prior medical supplies in the clinic amounted to 6 condoms! (to the extent those can be considered medical supplies)

Hanging out at the Clinic

It certainly was a highlight of the trip. There is simply no medical treatment for the rural residents of Zimbabwe, which I suppose accounts for the average life expectancy being 35 years. I'll never know, but I hope our gift made some difference, if only temporary, in the depressed Zimbabwean village.