Problem Children
by Todd Williams | June 2007

July 2006 found me finally living my life-long dream of hunting Africa. I booked a 10-day trip with Dr. Peter Harris of Ntshonalanga Safaris with a list of five animals that I considered as “must have.” I suspect like most first-time hunters to Africa, my list was a bit unrealistic. In my case, the term unrealistic is a bit misleading. In fact, considering my budget, I am confident that any apprentice attorney could successfully argue a case of “temporary insanity” considering my final collection of trophies.

The root cause of my “insanity” is what Peter called “problem animals.” I agree that each of these animals were problems. The trouble is we have different ideas of what constitutes a problem. For Peter and Robbie, the Parks Board Official that notified us of the situations, “problem” meant an escaped Hippo from Kruger National Park, a “Non-Clean” buffalo bull on a “Clean Buffalo” ranch, or something to that effect. To me, “problem” meant that I could not say “No” to the half-price trophy fees offered in exchange for ridding the interested party of their conflict.

In this particular case, it was a two-for-one trophy fee special offered on the above mentioned Hippo and Buff. The offer came after a long charter flight back to Pretoria from the Kalahari region where I had collected a “problem” male Lion the day prior. At the time, I really didn’t have much interest in collecting a Hippo. After all, what would I do with him? I had watched enough “Mark Sullivan” videos to know the excitement potential of hunting the “river cow” and combined with every first-time African hunter’s desire to take a Cape Buffalo was enough to make me say “let’s go.”

With that, my wife Donna and I, packed our gear again and set out on the drive to Neilspruit, located in the Mpumalanga region, just south of Mozambique. We were accompanied by our outstanding PH, Wesley van den Veen. We met Robbie at about 8:00 p.m. at a local restaurant. After dinner, Robbie escorted us to our new lodge. There, we would stay the next four days. It was a charming little place. A log cabin for Donna and I, located on one of the many game ranches in the area surrounding Kruger Park. Wesley stayed in the main lodge. As usual, meals and laundry service were provided each day. Tomorrow, we would go after the Buff, but tonight, the Hippo.

We finished dinner around 9:30 p.m., got situated in the cabin around 10:30, and headed out to find our Hippo at around 11:30 that night. We drove a good hour or so to where the Kruger escapee was accused of wreaking havoc on a local farmer’s sweet potato and carrot fields. So began our Hippo adventure in the early morning hours on Day 6 of the Safari. To get a true appreciation for the hunt, you must remember that we started the day at 6:00 a.m. in the Kalahari. We flew for 3.5 hours, drove to the main lodge, repacked, drove 4 hours to this new concession, ate dinner, drove a hour or so to the new lodge, then another hour or so of driving to the farmer’s fields. And now at this late hour, we began hunting the animal responsible for killing more people each year than all the Big 5 combined. Did I mention that we were hunting in the middle of the night, by moonlight, and we were dead tired? I warned you, this is a tale of insanity!

We established a makeshift camp alongside the main road into the area. There was a small bridge creating a tunnel to the far side of the road where the crop fields were located. We built a large camp fire to offset the mid-30-degree temperatures and provide the primordial entertainment of staring into the flames. The fire light was shielded from the fields by the elevated road. Every hour or so, we would load the rifles and walk through the tunnel toward the fields in search of the Hippo using only the moonlight to navigate by. If there were no Hippo, we would return to the camp to warm our bones and maybe catch a combat nap. The road was surrounded by heavy timber and underbrush. About 200 yards from the tunnel, the road forked. The left fork led to the cultivated carrot field and the right to the sweet potato field. The two fields were split diagonally by the Crocodile River. The game plan was to reach the edge of the fields and scan for Hippo using the light gathering capabilities of our binoculars under the full moon.

Our hunting party consisted of Robbie the “game warden,” our PH Wesley, the land owner, Donna, and myself. The right fork in the road required us to cross the Crocodile River by way of a low bridge. The bridge was about 70 yards across and maybe 2 feet above the current river level. It struck me on the first pass that the little bridge would provide absolutely no protection whatsoever from an angry Hippo lying in wait as we crossed. Needless to say, each crossing provided a heightened state of awareness of all things around us as we moved through the darkness. I couldn’t help but imagine a flash of tusks rising from the water or surrounding brush with each step we took in the moonlight.

On the third trip across the little bridge to the right, we noticed a dark object a little less than half way to the other side. We stopped. All of a sudden, the object began moving toward us, FAST! It veered from side to side as if not totally committed to its direction of travel. We were frozen. Then it decided to come straight for us. Robbie raised his .375. Wesley raised his .500 Jeffrey’s. I tried to raise my .416 Rigby. I quickly found the reason why my rifle didn’t rise with the Professional Hunters’. Donna, in an attempt to climb on my shoulders, had me in the tightest bear hug from behind I’ve ever experienced. Instinctively, I shrugged her off, raised my rifle, and heard her land squarely on her butt just as the animal turned 90 degrees and disappeared into the underbrush at a range of maybe 10 feet. Throughout, the animal made no sound. None! We all looked at each other as if we had just seen a ghost in the moonlight. Was it real? It had to be. We all saw it. Just then Robbie and Wesley turned to me and said in unison, “Leopard!” Considering the lightning speed of the big cat, I doubt very seriously any of us could have hit him prior to human contact if he chose to press the attack to its conclusion.

With that, we decided to call it a night. The problem Hippo would have to wait until later. We had been awake for almost 24 hours at this point and were facing a two-hour car ride back to the lodge. The walk back to the trucks had an added dimension of excitement now. Instead of just scanning the river banks for an ill-tempered Hippo, now we scanned the trees in the moonlight for anything that looked out of place prior to walking under it. As you know, Leopards love trees.

We bid goodnight to Robbie and headed back to the lodge. We arrived there just before daylight. We agreed to set the alarm for 3 hours’ sleep. After all, a new day was dawning. And today, we hunt Buffalo!

The alarm went off way too early. We were still exhausted from the night before. There is something about hunting the Big 5 that makes you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. So with minimal sleep, we prepared for the day ahead. Because we arrived after dark the night before, I didn’t get an appreciation for the countryside we were now hunting. This area is completely different from the Kalahari with its’ red sand, scrub brush, and wait-a-bits. This area was more like Hawaii, complete with steep little mountains and jungle so thick you could just imagine Johnny Weissmuller swinging from tree to tree. It is a beautiful place the locals refer to as the “Low Veldt.” Upon entering the ranch, we were greeted by several Roan Antelope who call the common grounds home. The ranch is trying to establish itself as a “Clean Ranch” meaning that all the Buffalo on the grounds are certified as being free of Hoof and Mouth Disease. There is a herd of Buffs, in a designated area, that need to be removed in order to complete that process. We are here today to help the rancher in his endeavor.

I must admit some apprehension concerning hunting this bull on a fenced ranch and whether or not the hunt would be fair chase. The rancher had been trying to remove this bull for several months now with no luck to date. Peter Harris had personally guided a client several weeks prior, in an attempt to take the old Dugga Boy. Even as we pulled into the concession, I had second thoughts about it. After all, how difficult could this be? Sure the ranch was 12,000 acres or so, but a Buff is a big animal and we had our tracker, James, who knows the ranch like the back of his hand to help. I thought surely this would be over and done within a matter of hours, at best!

We entered the ranch and pulled over to sort out the guns, ammo, and equipment. Wesley and James established Zulu as the language they would converse in as James spoke no English and very little Afrikaans. James was dressed in an olive green uniform complete with shined combat boots, into which his pant legs were tucked, and a cap that reminded me of the type Fidel Castro wore with the flat top and square brim. James picked up a machete and took off on foot as we followed in the truck. It wasn’t long before James motioned us to leave the truck and join him. He had spotted the herd. Again, I thought about the sport value in this hunt. Donna stayed in the truck as we began the stalk. James pointed into the brush about 50 yards away. I soon realized how easy a 2,000-pound animal could disappear in the vegetation. The solid black color of the beast is a perfect camouflage against the black voids in the brush cast by the day’s shadows. We never determined how many Buffalo were in the herd as we only saw flashes of horn, flicks of an ear or tail, or black patches of hide from time to time. These animals were WILD! It became evident very quickly that this hunt would not be easy as the many ears, eyes, and noses sensed our approach and all hell broke loose. There were thunderous crashes going every direction in the brush as the Buff’s tore out of there. Visibility was maybe 20 yards. Wesley and I raised our rifles out of instinct but neither of us could see anything. Then all of a sudden, silence. The herd was gone.

We walked back to the truck and found that Donna was not happy about us leaving her alone in Buffalo country. Wesley and I decided we were in for a real hunt after all. From that point on, Donna followed us with the video camera. She did the same on the Lion hunt and for some reason, I didn’t worry too much. We had three PH’s and I with large caliber rifles, and I assumed that between the four of us we could stop a charge. If contact was made, someone could shoot the lion off the unfortunate soul before much damage could be done. Lions die easily. Buffalo don’t. I found myself constantly worrying about Donna’s position in relation to us and where we were stalking. The best chance to stop a charging Buff is head on. If she got out to the side of us and a Buff charged her, I was concerned with our ability to stop a charge from an angle. Also, there was only Wesley and I now, not four rifles as before.

The cat and mouse game went on for hours. We would find a member of the herd, many times only seeing the animal at the last second before it burst into the brush at a range of several feet. Finally, about 1 hour before dark, James located the Bull. He was moving down a river bed and would cross the road about 100 yards ahead of us if he stayed the course. We crept into position. Two cows crossed. “The bull’s next, shoot him when he crosses,” Wesley said. The bull stepped into the road. I pulled the trigger, NOTHING. I pulled it again, NOTHING. The bull vanished. I knew something was wrong with my gun but the bull was about to cross again and Wesley, still not realizing what had happened, said “come on.” We ran to the spot where we expected him to cross. As he stepped into the road once again, I pulled the trigger, again nothing. He was gone for good this time. Wesley was put out with me until I unloaded the gun and showed him that the trigger had become disconnected somehow. James looked at me with an expression that said “This Bwana is cursed.” Staring down the barrel of your gun while pointed at a Cape buffalo is definitely the wrong time to realize your trigger is broken. A thousand things flashed through my mind. What if it had broken on the lion hunt? What about the night before with the Leopard charge? What if we had encountered a Hippo crossing the bridge? What about the black object at 10 feet that caused Wesley to crank home the bolt of his gun expecting a short-range charge about an hour earlier? I don’t know if I was lucky or unlucky at that moment. I felt like I’d been hit. In 36 years of constant hunting, I have never had a mechanical failure like this. I once had a scope fog up on the inside and once had a failed case extraction at the range, but never a disconnected trigger.

The next morning, we went into town in search of a gunsmith. We dropped off the rifle and grabbed a bite of breakfast. I worried that the little gun shop would not have the necessary parts to fix my rifle. Africa, for all its hunting heritage and romance, is a virtual wasteland when it comes to guns due to stringent gun control laws. Nevertheless, we received a call about two hours later telling Wesley my rifle was fixed. It turned out the problem was a set screw that backed out. Prior to making this trip, I had the rifle, a CZ-550 Safari Magnum, modified by a “highly respected and nationally known” gunsmith. The barrel was cut from 25 inches to 23, the action was slicked up, a barrel band sling swivel sweated on, and the “fence post” quality stock was replaced with a synthetic version. All in all, the work removed 2 pounds off the .416 Rigby, and I was very pleased with the final result. That is until the trigger malfunctioned. I got the gun back late in the season and had limited time to work with it at the range before departing for Africa. I had used it previously in Russia on a Brown Bear and it worked flawlessly. It was a simple fix but one that could have been very costly. Lesson learned!

We returned to the Buffalo hunt shortly after noon. James did not hunt with us now. I guess the previous day’s events with the rifle spooked him. We had a new guy today. He is dressed in the same uniform that James sported earlier. I never learned his name. Wesley spoke to him in Zulu and seemed to be agitated with him often. Wesley said “call him Genius” sarcastically. I don’t know if it was Genius’s luck or mine, but we hunted hard until dark and never once saw a buffalo nor any fresh sign. They completely vanished. We climbed high atop one of the little mountains to glass down into the jungle below. We saw a Red Duiker, then a Bushbuck, but no Buffalo. Wesley, Donna, Genius, and I crawled through the riverbed underbrush. I could smell stew being prepared in the village near the ranch. The same breeze that carried the village odors, made me realize my shirt was soaked in sweat from the adrenaline of inching along the riverbed in search of buffalo, never being able to see more than 20 yards or so at a time. I remember thinking right then and there, I will never forget this moment. Sure, it’s not the same as chasing a huge herd of Buffs into the Okavango Delta of Botswana, which by the way I want to do next time, but as a former Navy fighter pilot who flew combat missions in Desert Storm, I am acquainted with excitement and adventure. And buddy, I’m here to tell you, this was exciting!

We departed the buffalo ranch around dark, had a quick dinner back at the lodge, and then headed out to meet up with Robbie to continue the Hippo saga. Robbie had his two bosses with him tonight. It seems that two more Hippo escaped Kruger and were tearing up a local farmer’s sugar cane fields. We met the farmer and his family and talked about the usual things hunters talk about. “What gun are you using?” “What bullets do you like?” By the way, Barnes X seems to be the new favorite of 90% of the PH’s and Game Wardens we spoke to. The other 10% use the “Rhino” bullet which is a South African version of the “X.” The farmer carried a .458 Winchester loaded with .500-grain X’s and told me of constantly having to shoot Elephants out of his fields. His ranch is literally separated from the Kruger Park by the park’s game fence. Like the Hippos, the park is overpopulated by Elephants and once they get out, the Park’s Board classifies them as problem animals and culling ensues. “I’ve never had a desire to be a farmer until just now,” I told Donna. “Don’t even think about it,” she replied.

We drove the farm roads in search of Hippos with the three Game Wardens using spot lights. This was more of a problem animal control mission than hunting, but was nevertheless fun. It reminded me of hunting Armadillos as a kid on my father’s place. The difference being that we were hunting two-ton “Dillers” with really big guns. We eventually found the two Hippos. I took one and then Robbie’s boss took the other. The action was fast and furious, and I want you to know, Hippos can take a pounding. Mine took four well-placed shots from my .416. Instead of reloading, Wesley handed me his .500 Jeffrey’s. I put two more shots into him before Wesley instructed me to “brain him.” The last one did the trick. I had the tusks mounted on a plaque and the skin tanned to leather. It came out nice and now adorns the bar in my trophy room. Hippos are huge beasts. The skin alone weighed nearly 600 pounds.

After a good night’s sleep, we again headed for the Buffalo concession for Day 3 of what I initially thought would be over in a matter of hours at best. I told Wesley that since the night hunting was over, I really wanted to try for the Buff with iron sights. He agreed and I slipped the scope off the Rigby. The day started off much the same as the previous day. We hunted for perhaps two hours and had seen absolutely nothing of the herd. We decided once again to climb the mountain. Glassing was uneventful. The morning started out in the 30’s and as such I had on a heavy wool jacket. Now, after climbing the mountain and the sun beginning to warm things up a bit, I was overheating. I had the jacket about half way off when Genius, pointing further up the mountain, said something to me in Zulu. It was the herd. I snatched the jacket back on and got Wesley’s attention. The herd was moving across the face of the mountain about 50 yards above us. We froze and watched until they stopped. Wesley and I left Donna and Genius on the road and stalked up the hill about 30 yards. Wesley stopped me and said “shhhh.” He pointed above us, but I couldn’t see anything except jungle. After about 20 minutes of glassing, he whispered “There is a cow next to that tree.” Another 10 minutes went by before he said, “There’s another cow next to that one, behind the tree. Do you see them?” “Yes,” I said. I could make out a couple of black patches in the thick brush. They were about 20 yards away and nearly invisible. We stood motionless for at least another half hour, glassing the area. I was pouring sweat now in the midday heat with the heavy wool jacket still on. We were too close to the herd to move, forget about taking off the coat. “There’s the Bull!” Wesley whispered. For the life of me, I couldn’t make him out. He pointed to a small tree and another that lay across it forming a small triangle. “In that triangle is a black shiny object. Do you see it?” “No,” I said. After a bit of coaching, I finally made out what he was talking about. I thought it was nothing, then it moved and I could clearly see the bull’s left horn. “Do you see that little brown leaf about 20 feet in front of us, just below that limb?” Wesley asked. “That leaf is covering his left shoulder angling back. Shoot That Leaf, NOW!” W esley said. The morning silence was interrupted by the big Rigby. The herd crashed off in the direction they came from. Donna and Genius joined us. We immediately heard “Arrrgh, Arrrgh, Arrrgh” from the mountain above. “You got him. That’s the death moan,” Wesley said. We reached the spot where the Buff had been standing. There was good spoor everywhere. “Let’s go see him,” Wesley said. Genius, who was now standing on top of a termite mound, shook his head “no.” I climbed the mound as well and was astonished to see my Buff standing, facing away from us, maybe 40 yards down the trail. I will never forget what Wesley said to me. “Okay, Mister Fighter Pilot, you came here for excitement. Let’s Go Get Some!” Now I can tell you that all hunters who pursue dangerous game will tell you that at some point they want to be successful in stopping a charge. I will tell you the same. I can honestly tell you that right there on that mountain side, at that time, my courage to face a charge was definitely less than it is sitting here writing this now. All I reluctantly could say was “Okay!” “Reload with all solids,” instructed Wesley. We slipped to within 20 yards of the standing bull, always staying uphill in case he charged. “Hammer him into the offside shoulder,” he said. I hit him perfectly. He turns his head without making a sound and looked at me like “Is that all you got?” I hit him again in the same place. He growled and ran off looking no worse for the wear. Again we slipped to within 20 yards, uphill of him. “Bust him,” Wesley ordered. I launched another 400-grain solid into his chest. Again he growled and ran off. He now had four, 400-grain bullets placed forward of the diaphragm at close range, and he was not showing any signs of ailment. When we found him again, he was facing down hill. This time we stalked up on his right side and busted him for the fifth time. He stumbled and lost his footing never to regain it. “The dead one’s are the one’s that kill you,” Wesley said. With that we waited. Eventually we approached the old boy. Wesley instructed me to aim at the back of the bull’s head with the safety off as he approached from the rear. “Shoot him if he moves and keep shooting until he stops,” instructed Wesley. A couple of pokes from the barrel of the Jeffrey and it was confirmed. I had my Buff and I could finally take the jacket off. I will return to Africa one day, hopefully soon, to chase the wild herds across Tanzania. This South Africa ranch hunt that I originally had so many reservations about turned out to be the most exciting thing I can ever remember doing! African hunting is truly an adventure in the purest sense of the word. You start out expecting one thing and end up with something completely different. It is an experience all hunters should have. Donna, Wesley, Robbie, and I headed back to the little log cabin for one last night of celebration before returning to Pretoria and the main lodge. After dinner, Peter called to congratulate Wesley and me for finally bagging Mbogo. Prior to hanging up, Peter informed Wesley of a “Problem Rhino” that he needs a client on tomorrow. Another problem animal, oh well, so much for a late night of celebration.