Bertie Lombard’s Chiredzi Buffalo

At the edge of the mopane forest, a very large, healthy Cape buffalo was looking at us in the way that only buffalo can – that doe-eyed, yet somehow malicious look for which they are renowned.

Hippo Valley Estates lies just outside the picturesque village of Chiredzi, a short distance from Buffalo Range. I booked my buffalo safari with estate manager and PH Gary Baldwin for the hot, stifling months of October.

My wife, Liesa, and I drove to Beit Bridge late on a Saturday, hoping to miss the unbearable chaos of the border post, which, surprisingly, went off with little aggravation and fuss. We spent the night in town, arriving the following afternoon at the rustic but comfortable hunting camp perched under magnificent trees on the banks of the Chiredzi River, in time to sight in rifles. As I was then wrestling with officialdom to secure a new licence for my 1952 .425 Westley Richards, I had to resort to my modern .375 H&H, and printed a reasonable, buffalo-stopping group that satisfied the PH at 75 yards. Confident? Read on...

Then we drove through part of the 200,000-hectare concession, familiarizing ourselves with the bush. We found three dagga boys, all good, shootable mature bulls, including one with that classical 'drop' in its shiny, mahogany black horns. He glanced at us and lumbered off into the bush. Gary looked at me, and I knew that to follow this trio now, so early in our first buffalo hunt, would not be the wise thing to do. 

It was hot. Unbelievably hot. The kind of heat that consumes you and lets you know who’s boss in these parts. The next day, after a restless sleep where it was just too hot to get comfortable, we left the camp to start searching for buffalo tracks. Not just any buffalo tracks. My buffalo tracks that had been imprinted in my dreams and fantasies.

The morning was equally stifling, and we drove off in the Land Cruiser with the superheated October air in our faces, through fantastic country with mopane, riverine thickets and acacia.  Two hours later we decided to examine one of the waterholes that dot the concession. A fresh road had been excavated some weeks back, and soon we were peering at the tracks of a group of five buffalo that had crossed earlier, including one with soup-plate-sized spoor. "Follow!" was the decision.

We had not gone far when the excited hiss of nyati came from John, the old tracker with cataracts in his eyes, but with that uncanny bush sense that astonishes foreigners to the African bush. Resting in the shade was our animal. In slow unison we sank to our knees to start the stalk of my first buffalo. Though not long, the stalk was incredibly intense as we cautiously positioned ourselves for the shot. Gary’s guidance gave me confidence as I lay flat and slid my rifle onto the short shooting sticks and took aim at the broad chest of the immense black form that filled my scope.

Panic-induced thoughts started roller coasting through my brain... Had he seen us? Do I aim inside the leg, or on the leg for the chest? Do I shoot him facing us? Do I wait for him to turn broadside? Will he run now? “Shoot!”  The distant boom of the .375, and the sight image of the big black shape rocking back on its haunches filled me with disbelieving confidence as the dust rose from the departing buffaloes, including mine. We waited quietly for 15 minutes before taking up the pursuit.

The tracks led us to the first blood spoor.  John smiled encouragingly at the mzungu after his first nyati.  We found more blood, with bubbles and a brightness that made us think it was lung blood. Our spirits were high and I imagined seeing the black form lying dead under the next tree. As we walked on and on, following what became a diminishing trail of blood, my hopes sank with every kilometre in that hot, dry place where the suicide wind starting to swirl would give us away.

We sighted the beasts from afar, but once they saw us, with that characteristic swish of the tail and sweep of their horns, they lumbered off farther and farther until the sun dipped.  We turned back and made our way to the Cruiser. My head was low as I followed on the heels of the PH, trudging back through the heat and stillness of the bush, my wife behind me. What a let down! All the signs predicted success: A good shot, I thought. Blood trail of the right consistency. Experienced professionals. What could have gone wrong? At that moment there was an explosion as two bushpigs pushed their way through the dead fronds of a large palm tree and headed off into the evening light.

Next morning, oven-hot again as we trundled out of camp. I knew we had to finish this. At the same place we checked for tracks. Sure enough, the same five sets of tracks with the unmistakable spoor of ‘my’ bull. Given that my bull was still with the group, we questioned how wounded he really was. Could we have been duped by his reaction to that shot? Maybe he was only slightly hurt, but until we had him dead on the ground...

The tracking started, and hot hours later we came onto the group that had since teamed up with a herd of zebra. Our job had just gotten more complicated. Zebra are alert and wary. Cover was poor, and we all crawled and shuffled across the hot sand and thorn-bedecked Chiredzi landscape. Across a small depression, about 75 yards separated us from my buffalo. The mixed group appeared relaxed in the midday sun as I again slid my .375 onto the sticks. “Don't stuff this up,” went though my head as I sighted on the group.

I asked Gary how we would distinguish the wounded bull, as many were lying down or shielded by bush and trees. “We should shoot all the bulls and then we would be certain of finding the wounded one!” At that point I failed to see the humour, but was reassured that he was confident my bull was not mortally wounded and would live to fight another day. I placed my trust in his 40 years of experience, impeccable credentials, and his insistence that any decision to take an additional bull would be his prerogative.

The departing whine of the shot confirmed that I completely missed the target, and the group stampeded away en masse as I watched the now familiar sight of black rumps with swishing tails disappear into the bush.

My wife insisted that I put the rifle back onto the range to check out the problem. At 50 yards, the point of impact of the 300-grain solid was printing 4 inches high; farther out, this diversion was greater. Somehow, the scope had shifted, maybe from the car’s jolting across the bush or an unnoticed knock. We set the scope back and ensured that it was shooting to point of aim.

We retired from the bush early that second day, and relaxed at camp with cold beers and G&Ts at the lookout point above the dry riverbed. 

We awoke the third morning to a completely changed Chiredzi bush - overcast, with guti  (drizzle). My spirits lifted. Perhaps today was the day. We returned to our original spot and started the search for tracks. The going was slow as we all four checked intently for spoor. Then Gary stopped short and lowered his lanky frame. “There’s not much,” he whispered, “except a large old buffalo lying under a tree!”

Adrenalin surged. Again we started the Chiredzi shuffle, shifting inch by inch across the dirt on our backsides, then to hands and knees, and finally onto our bellies as we drew closer to this, for me, the yet unseen quarry. Cover ran out at about 60 yards as we peered into the cool, grey of the bush. The first thing I saw was the black and white of zebra.  Gary manoeuvred me into position. Once again I readied the .375 and sighted the relaxed, browsing zebra. 

Then I saw the horn tips of a prone buffalo, and knew the proverbial hunt was on. It felt like an age as we sat in the damp grass watching and waiting. Zebra curiosity gave us away when I moved unwittingly to dispatch a crawly thing up my pants leg, their alerted snort unsettling the buffalo. I got down onto the stock of my rifle and focused through the 4x scope.  At this distance it was completely covered in black as the bull stood broadside to me. A strange calm held me. I sighted deliberately on the shoulder of the beast, aiming inside the leg, looking intently for the magic 'vital triangle' that would direct the shot. The bull hunched at the shot. I was confident this was MY buffalo. But confidence again disappeared with the bull as he turned tail and shuffled off into the bush.

I turned questioningly to Gary who shrugged. His look said, “We'll know how good the shot is once we’re standing over the dead animal.” We positioned Liesa next to a climbable tree in preparation for the follow up.  Then the PH, tracker, and I started the tramp after what, I hoped, was a very dead buffalo. 

We walked into a broad plain of knee-high grass framed by mopane trees. At the edge of the forest, a very big, healthy buffalo was looking at us with that doe-eyed, yet somehow malicious look that only Cape buffalo have. My thoughts flicked to Diana, the hunting goddess.

Just barely visible through the short grass some 20 yards away, an unusual shape caught my attention. As my eyes refocused from the bull at the forest’s edge to the unmistakable horn tip of a prone buffalo, I urgently tapped Gary's shoulder and pointed. Judging from the smiles from the grizzled master and the tracker, I knew this was it.

He was truly magnificent! Larger than I’d ever imagined. Bigger than the sight picture I’d come to experience over the last few days.  I called my wife over from the safety of her tree. The feelings of elation, relief, and absolute completeness are very difficult to describe. This was my buffalo hunt! 

This story was inspired by Major Ian Tippetts-Aylmer (Ret) 15th Punjab Regiment
India.

A banker by profession, Bertie Lombard developed a passion for the bush and hunting after marrying Liesa some 21 years ago. He is now a dedicated trophy hunter and hunts as often as time allows. While writing this story, he moved to Saudi Arabia to live and work for three years.