Valley hunter shares tale of African safari

I had been warned to prepare for the worst-case scenario, and I had. Physically I was prepared -- but it was psychologically that I wasn't quite sure about. I attempted to muster up what little courage I had remaining with my typical witty quips and false bravado. Nardus, my Professional Hunter, had made a sardonic inquiry as we quickly drove over the dusty road heading to the Limpopo River, "Are you sure you want to be drinking all of that water?"

I knew his point -- there was a strong possibility that within the next hour all of the water I had consumed would be saturating my khaki shorts and leaving a most embarrassing wet spot. "Teena duze ena heenya." Translated from tribal language it means -- "We came close to sh—ting in fear"… an expression ordinarily expounded after the hunt of dangerous game and uttered with laughter and relief at the fact that one is still alive. But the conclusion to the conflict had not yet been resolved, a fact that weighed heavily on my mind. The anticipation of the moment is as much a part of the danger and thrill as the actual hunt. In many instances, it can be the most significant as the apprehension of the unknown plays on your anxiety level raising it to levels that are blown totally out of proportion to the actual event. Think of it like the structure of a novel -- it is the rising action, the moments in which the protagonist prepares for the final conflict. It is a moment of inward reflection and a myriad of emotions and thoughts. Believe me -- I was thinking! I was thinking about how I was going to get out of this situation. I was thinking of the shot -- the hit -- the charge. I was thinking of how to contain that liter of water I had just consumed.

We had received the call only about 30 minutes prior. We were headed to the Limpopo River which serves as the border between South Africa and neighboring Botswana to recon a herd of "problem" hippo that presently were at the site of a farm where they had been causing extensive damage to the crops. Hippo are protected in South Africa and can only be harvested by special permit from the conservation department when they are doing extensive damage or killing people along the river. They move constantly up and down the river in herds, and the harvest can only take place when they are on the site where the death or damage has occurred. We had checked earlier in the day and no miscreant hippos were frequenting the scene of the crime so we had intended on relaxing the remainder of the day and maybe going down to the river later just to look over the situation. Now -- we found ourselves rushing to make it to the river before the animals moved on. Because of their constant movement, hippo hunting -- even if a permit is obtained -- is never a sure thing.

Most people think of the hippo as a rather unassuming animal, fat, slow, leisurely basking away its peaceful existence in the warm sand on the banks of the river. But there is another side to the hippo that in America we don't frequently hear about. The hippo kills more people in Africa than any other animal. It is territorial, runs on land at over twenty miles per hour and weighs upwards of three tons. If that isn't enough it is endowed with razor sharp tusks, jagged teeth and an overall nasty disposition. The shot placement on the hippo is relatively small for the size of the animal and on an average as many as ten shots may be needed to bring the animal down. Not only is the hippo able to absorb large caliber bullets like a sponge - but the shots work them into a savage frenzy that makes them attack with lightening speed and deadly malice. Nardus was talking as we drove; "You won't believe it Frederic. When he is hit he will go crazy. You have never seen anything like it! He will actually go crazy!" As if that didn't encourage me enough, Christo Kaiser had related a brief anecdote about the previous hippo hunt. It had taken place in the dark with a barrage of gunfire and people running in all directions to escape only to find clothing ripped off in the brush and getting stuck in thorn bushes and trees. And to top it off -- the hippo had gotten away -- another thing that was pointed out -- half of the time the hippo will be lost … I was warned to wear my running shoes!

I was lost in thought -- and mostly the thought of a couple of tons of pissed off fury chasing me around the banks of the river.

"Do you want back up shots?" Nardus inquired? "Yes." I responded without question or thought about it.

A professional hunter can only fire at the problem animal if the person holding the permit requests it. In a situation such as this where a charge may take place and lives be in danger the back up shooter is a necessary safety precaution. Nardus smiled at my reply and we pulled onto the land where the hippos were supposed to be creating all of the problems.

The landowner, Louis, discussed the situation with Nardus in Africaans and we drove as close as we could to the river and then parked the vehicle. Because of the danger involved, my wife Mary, and stepchildren Mandy and Ryan were told they would have to remain in the vehicle with a tracker and the three of us would stalk to the river and attempt to locate the herd. We all loaded our .375 H&H's with 300 grain solid ammunition and quietly crept through the thick riverine forest to a point where we could look out over the greasy waters of the Limpopo.

It was quiet along the river, and the near 100-degree weather caused rivulets of perspiration to run down my face. We located the herd immediately and began moving through the forest to get better looks at the animals. There were about twelve in all, spread over an area of a hundred yards. Mostly they basked in the sun, but a few were swimming in the water. The sun cast a fierce glare off the surface, and when the hippo raised and lowered their heads, sparkles of water cascaded from their massive heads. Back and forth we stalked to look over the whole herd, at one point crawling through thick thorns to get to a location where we could better see the animals. It was nearly an hour before we decided on which animal to take and move into a position for a good shot.

The hippo moved slowly in the water about 60 yards distant with two other smaller hippos to the left of it. It kept its head low in the water and was not presenting a good shot. Hippos have a concave indentation above and between their eyes that is directly over the brain - this is the only spot for a shot at a hippo while it is in the water. Through the dripping sweat, the intense beat and the pounding of my heart I kept the crosshairs trained on that area -- waiting to the hippo to present itself. Whether they caught wind of us or heard us I'm unsure which but with a startled expression the hippo rose from the water and dropped its head to look directly at us.

"Now!" Louis cried and as the crosshairs fell on the indentation the .375 responded, shattering the serenity of the river community. In a spray of water from exhalation, the head of the hippo snapped up and back to the left. As I recovered from the recoil and chambered another round, its eyes rolled back and it slipped silently below the water.

"Good shot!" Shouted Nardus. "I've never seen one taken with one shot." We watched the water intently as some of the hippo more reluctant to abandon the area swam around in defiance. Now began the waiting process. It takes nearly an hour for a dead hippos body to produce enough gases to Boat it to the surface. The time is critical as if it goes much beyond and hour -- it probably means the hippo was only wounded and escaped.

Mary and the kids came down to the river and all of us sat quietly scanning the river -- Nardus occasionally throwing a rock in the direction of any hippo that was getting too bold. Nervous, I moved away from the group to sit alone. It was almost an hour to the minute when the carcass bobbed to the surface like a buoy and floated black in the glare upon the water. Finally, relief flooded my body and the apprehension left me. Again we exchanged handshakes and departed the river to make preparations to recover the hippo.

While Nardus made calls for help we sat on the lawn in front of Louis's house eating fresh watermelon from the field and drinking cold beer. The sun set quickly and it was dark before help arrived and we proceeded to the river to watch the recovery operation. It was necessary to launch a boat to go out and drag the hippo to shore. The boat launch was a feat in itself due to the fact that there was no boat launch and the trailer wheels were up to their axles in the deep mud along the river. Through strength of native manpower the boat was muscled off the buried trailer and physically moved into the water. It then went to the hippo and tied a cable around the leg -- pulling it slowly back to shore. Once at shore, natives took the cable and waded into the water, pulling the hippo as close as possible to the bank. The cable was secured to a tractor and only after a few failed attempts was the hippo finally pulled from the water.

One can never imagine the massive size of these animals. This particular hippo was around two and a half tons and right at 10 feet in length! A flatbed truck backed down as close as possible and natives dug an area to place the back wheels in so the bed would be as close to ground level as possible. The cable was then readjusted over the flatbed so the tractor could pull the hippo, with the help of about 15 natives, onto the truck bed and secure it in place. The tractor then moved around and the cable was hooked up to the flatbed so the tractor could pull the flatbed out of the hole and up the small incline to more solid and level ground. The entire operation took nearly five hours!

Never have I witnessed such a labor-intensive operation to recover an animal. Upon return I was happy with the fact that the hippo had been taken with a single shot. I was relieved that there was no charge as I had experienced it enough in my mind prior to the actual hunt that I don't think I had any adrenaline left for it anyway. Although it has been days since it took place, I play the hunt over and over in my mind. Vividly I can see all the details, hear the sounds and smell the vegetation along the river. I can still feel the heat and the pounding of my heart as I work to control my fears. I can look over my pictures again and again -- still experiencing the excitement and apprehension that I felt that day. For as long as I five these memories will be with me, a reminder that it is the thrill derived from moments such as this that makes me continue to hunt. Reflecting back on those memories I think of what it must have been like for my ancestors, drawing their memories on the walls of caves, joyous with the realization that they had survived to hunt another day and immortalizing the wildlife that was both adversarial as well as integral to their very survival and reflecting again and again the thrill of the hunt There is an old African proverb, "What the eye has seen, the heart never forgets."

Valley resident Frederic Brown is a regular contributor to the Frontiersman Outdoors page.