Across the waterhole from me, 50 yards away, something rustled in the dry grass. After another rustle and a grunt, a nice warthog emerged from the bush. Close behind her, four half-grown youngsters followed.
The female warthog stood cautiously at the edge of the bush as the youngsters milled around behind her. To reach the water they would have to cross almost 20 yards of dry mud with no cover. They would be vulnerable to attack by any predator in the area, including me.
Finally she decided to drink. She came straight down in front of me to the edge of the water, passing only a couple of feet from the test arrow I had fired several hours earlier to see where I would hit using the 30-yard pin.
All five animals put their heads down, sucking greedily at the muddy water. On the bank across from them, I drew my bow. Mom either saw the movement or heard the arrow slide across the rest. She looked up at me and grunted once. Everyone--including me--tensed up.
I figured it was now or never, set the pin just behind her shoulder, and released the arrow. At the sound of the string, the mother warthog flinched and took a quick step backward. The arrow passed directly under her chin and hit the piglet which had been standing behind her.
It was a good hit. The arrow went in at the shoulder and back with the broadhead evidently lodging in the pig's hip on the other side. As all five pigs careened back up the bank, about a quarter of the arrow broke off and dropped onto the hard clay. I could see the bright fletching lying there and used it to line up where the pigs went back into the bush. I figured the warthog wouldn't go far; when someone came to pick me up in a little while, we'd find it on the far side of the hill.
Hunting the Transvaal
I was hunting on Caskett's Ranch on the northeastern Transvaal in South Africa. Caskett's is just outside Kruger National Park, and is one of a growing number of ranches which has turned from environmentally damaging cattle ranching to ecologically-compatible game ranching. At Caskett's, many of the area's native game species thrive on land which was previously overgrazed by hungry cattle in times of drought. Today, good populations of impala, warthog, zebra, giraffe, and other grazers and browsers share the ranch with a few, more dangerous species: Caskett's has an excellent crop of leopards and, occasionally, lions.
The night before I had been talking with ranch owner Rocco Gioia about bowhunting, and happened to mention I have two limitations where archery is concerned: I feel very insecure in a tree, and I simply will not take a shot of more than 30 yards. At the time it was just conversation: I didn't realize he had paid very close attention to what I had said.
That morning I had gone out as usual, to sit in a little hide of brush I had put together at the waterhole by the lodge. When I got back for breakfast, Rocco was waiting for me. He said that before lunch he was going to fix me a ground hide I'd really like, and that the lodge's Professional Hunter, Chris Steyn, would also organize me a good hunt at a nearby ranch which specializes in bowhunts.
Shortly before noon, Rocco came back and collected me, along with a cooler to hold my drinks and for me to sit on. He and two of his farm workers drove me out to one of the big waterholes on the ranch, and tucked me into a perfect hide of brush over the waterhole. I was sitting about 10 feet above the level of the water, 30 yards from the far side, 20 yards from the near side, hidden by a screen of branches. I decided I'd be perfectly happy hunting right here for days.
After the warthog went back up the bank, I sat still for a while, considering what to do next. I had checked my watch just after the shot; it was only 2:00 p.m. I hated to get down and walk around looking for the pig; something else was sure to come to the water and I wanted to see it.
I decided to sit out the afternoon. The sun would set about five, and Rocco would come to get me soon after. The air temperature was low enough that the pig would be all right until he arrived. I thought there would be a good enough blood trail for us to follow even in the dark.
More Visitors
A little later I heard what sounded like a huge belch a bit up the waterhole from me. I scrunched down and looked through the branches. Sixty yards or so away, I could see lots of legs. I laid down the bow, caught hold of a big branch over my head, and dangled out over the bank.
Four impala rams stood at the edge of the water, red-gold in the afternoon sunlight. Later I heard them behind me in the bush, sparring with one another and gargling their rutting challenge.
Still later, guinea fowl began filtering onto the banks of the waterhole. I tried to draw on them but they saw each little movement I made. They started fussing at me, and the fussing spread through all the birds around the waterhole. Pretty soon 150 guineas were looking at me and giving their harsh danger cry.
I gave up. I put down the bow, climbed out of the hide, and ran down the bank of the waterhole, shrieking "Shoo! Shoo!" The guineas scattered to the four winds.
I figured nothing would happen after that. But I climbed back into the hide anyway. I sure wouldn't see anything while I was standing out in the open.
Thirty minutes later, a female duiker appeared and eased down the bank on the other side of the waterhole. Behind her, I saw a movement in the bush. Between the bushes I could see some chocolate and white spotting. For a long, tense moment I thought it was a hyena. Then it moved again and I could see the head and horns of a huge bushbuck ram. A ewe ghosted into view beside him. I would have tried to take either one of them if they had come down to the water. But they vanished into the trees, never coming closer than 60 yards from where I was sitting.
Rocco arrived just before dark. We followed the warthogs' tracks up the bank and around a bush. But nowhere could we find any sign of a blood trail. He and I and the two farm workers circled and crisscrossed more than an acre of grass where I had seen them disappear, without success.
Nor did we fare any better the next morning. Chris Steyn and his tracker Rex and I searched for two hours and found no sign of anything.
Finally Chris said, "Well, everything must eat. This one belongs to the vultures. Let's move on."
Bowhunting Ranch
He took me around to the Blyolifont Ranch, one of the oldest ranches on the Transvaal. This ranch is the Cadillac of bowhunting ranches; or in the case of South Africa, I suppose, one should say the Mercedes.
At Caskett's, although there are plenty of animals, there is really too much water for good waterhole hunting. Between the river and all the waterholes, the animals have so many opportunities to drink that it's hard to get close to them.
But at Blyolifont, the land is dry and sere. There is little water here, and the ranch has taken advantage of that. Mud huts overlook small waterholes at close range. Getting a good shot requires patience but is not a difficult task.
Chris and Rex and I climbed into a hut built into a rocky hillside, overlooking a small waterhole a scant 10 yards away. Chris and Rex climbed up onto the rocks in the back of the hut and settled in. I couldn't get comfortable anywhere. I finally pulled off my boots and socks so I would be quiet on the sandy floor and stood up.
The sun came in warm and bright through the shooting ports, making dust motes look like bright stars dancing in the air. I heard deep breathing behind me and looked back over my shoulder. Chris had dozed off and was in imminent danger of sliding off the rocks onto the floor. Without a word of common language between us, Rex and I looked at each other and grinned.
A little while later, having successfully napped without tumbling from his perch, Chris woke and handed out cheese sandwiches. While we were eating, he looked out one of the shooting ports and whispered, "Impala. Forty yards."
I passed my sandwich to him, picked up the bow, and stood watching them. Three ewes and a little ram with five-inch horns ambled through the thornbush. We watched them for 15 minutes before they moved away, having never gotten any closer.
I laid down the bow and picked up my sandwich. Suddenly Chris grabbed my shoulders from behind. At the same moment, I saw an impala ram walk between the hide and the waterhole. He was only five yards from where I was standing.
I felt, rather than heard, that Chris had backed away from me to give me shooting room. I stuffed the last bite of sandwich into my mouth, picked up the bow, and nocked an arrow. Every sound seemed magnified by the quiet around us.
I came to full draw and looked out the shooting port. The ram was standing absolutely tail-end on to me. All I could do was wait.
After he had drunk for what seemed like two weeks, he raised his head, turned, and took one step. I released the arrow and saw the fletching disappear between his ribs.
We found him only a couple hundred yards away. Chris administered a mercy shot, and we were done bowhunting.
Sort of.
Lions
Early the next morning, Chris and I decided to go bird hunting. Rex went with us, taking his slingshot to make the birds flush.
Along the way, we met one of the farm workers. He got into a long discussion with Chris through the window of the bakkie. Most of the Afrikaans was too deep for me to follow, but I did catch one word: "leos." Lions!
The worker climbed on the back with Rex.
"We won't be doing any bird hunting," Chris told me. "Julius says there's a pride of eight wild lions--two maned lions, three females, three small cubs. There's also leopard spoor, so we need to go have a look. I have a leopard hunter coming in tomorrow."
"Uh, where are we going?" I asked him.
He grinned at me. "Right where you were hunting two days ago." And I had contemplated finding that warthog on my own? The memory made me shiver.
A few minutes later, Chris stopped the bakkie, got out, and walked around in front of it. He pointed out a drag mark across the road to all of us. Rex and Julius fell to muttering between themselves, pointing and arguing. Finally Julius pinched some hairs off a low-growing bush and handed them to Chris.
"It's your warthog," Chris told me. "The leopard took it." He picked up his 12-gauge from inside the bakkie, and handed me his .22 rifle. "Here we are, armed to the teeth with a shotgun and a point two-two. Let's see where the leopard has taken your warthog."
I wondered what I was supposed to do with the .22 if we met the lions and they charged us. Maybe just offer then salt and pepper with their meal?
We all started walking, following the drag mark across the thornveld. I could feel the hair on my arms and on the back of my neck standing up. I wasn't too worried about the leopard. Leopards are mostly nocturnal, and with four of us together and out in the open, the spotted cat was likely to slink off unseen.
No, what had me walking lightly through the dry grass was definitely those lions. Wild lions are unpredictable at any time, but toss a lioness with cubs into the mix and you have an animal which is likely to charge you on sight, and mean it.
The drag mark went down into the dry riverbed and disappeared into the reeds. Now, I really didn't fancy going down into that mess. Those reeds were a good eight or nine feet tall, and thick. It was a good place for a leopard to crouch, hidden, until one of us bumped into it. Leopards are not particularly discriminating in what they eat; if one of us found it under those circumstances, we would likely wind up sharing space with the warthog.
I waited nervously on the bank while Rex and Julius followed the drag mark down into the reeds and disappeared. All Chris and I could hear was the two of them rustling around; after a few minutes they emerged, shaking their heads. They had lost the trail.
We crossed the dry river on a concrete bridge and eggshell-walked along the bluff on the other side. I kept looking over my shoulder. Those lions had to be here somewhere, and I wanted to make sure I saw them before they saw me.
Finally Chris pointed to a set of cat tracks coming up out of the riverbed.
"The leopard came up here, without the warthog," he whispered. "That means he hid the warthog in the reeds and he's sleeping up here somewhere."
Oh boy.
We tiptoed back to the van, watching for lions all the way. I was glad to have solved the mystery of the missing warthog, and I really didn't mind sharing it with the leopard. The whole episode was a reminder to me of how quickly things can change in Africa, how fast the hunter can become the hunted.
Getting There
With the new political climate of South Africa, travel to the country is once again easy. South African Airways flies from either New York or Miami daily.
Round trip coach fares range from $1,400 to $1,800. But expect first-class treatment even in the coach section. In-flight movies, gourmet meals, and excellent South African wines help the 15-hour flight pass easily.
Taking guns into South Africa is not a problem. Officials are accustomed to having foreigners visit their country to hunt, and entry with firearms is simple and expedient.
For more information on booking an African hunt, contact B&B Adventures, Dept. AO, P. O. Box 808, Canon City, CO 81215; (719) 269-1434; (719) 269-1733 FAX.
Copyright (c) 1995 Carolee Boyles-Sprenkel. All rights reserved.
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