Chasing death by Levi Hill

There isn’t much one can say about cape buffalo that hasn’t already been said by writers far more eloquent than myself. What you need to know about Syncerus caffer, as he is known to science, or mbogo, nyati or any one of his more than a dozen native names, is that sports hunters know him simply as “black death.”

In 2019, when I made my first hop across “the pond” to South Africa, Ron, my PH (professional hunter, aka guide), said he had already heard of five other guides that had been killed or wounded by cape buffalo that year alone.

In 2021, my PH, Bossie, bore a nasty scar that run up his leg from the calf to his belly button, a memento from a very unhappy cape buffalo a client had wounded the season before. He spent four months in the hospital recovering.

After reading half a dozen books on the subject of buffalo hunting, I was what you might call giddy about the whole affair, a mix of unadulterated excitement and unfettered terror.Not some three months before my trip I dreamed I was in Africa chasing buffalo and I took a horn in the lung from a wounded buff that ambushed us from behind… something they are definitely known for.

By nature the cape buffalo is not necessarily aggressive. They prefer to be left to their own devices to graze casually in the grass and wallow happily in the mud. They are, however, extremely vindictive and failure to kill one cleanly on the first shot invites the very real possibility they will try to kill you back.

So that morning as we set out to find my very own buffalo, it was with no small amount of trepidation I laced up my boots and slung my heavy bore .375 Ruger rifle over my shoulder.My first live glimpse of Mr. Mbogo came from several hundred yards as we found a herd grazing under the mopane trees in the early morning sun. Even at that distance the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. You could literally feel 50 sets of eyes giving you the “you owe him money” look, as famous outdoors writer Robert Ruark once penned.

It took us about an hour to come up with a game plan for approach and it eventually came down to simply sneaking along tree-to-tree to get close enough to find an old bull worthy of shooting.Sneak as you might, however, it isn’t easy to creep up on buffalo in a herd and they spotted us long before we could get a good look at a bull. Finally, with no other option my PH stepped out into the open and beckoned me alongside him. Almost immediately 50 buffalo formed up like 2,000-pound linemen and advanced on us in a group.

We stood there facing them for probably 20 minutes, close enough to smell their breath, the younger bulls in the front making periodic “false charges” at us.I finally leaned over and whispered to my PH, “How far away are they?”“That young bull in the front that keeps making runs at us, he’s 43 yards,” came the reply.The sweat was rolling down my face and it wasn’t from the morning sun. Face-to-face with 50 or so buffalo at 40 yards with nothing between you but a bullet is a nerve-racking experience.Finally, an old bull that had been hiding in the back stepped out into an ally opened up by those crowding the front.

“If you’re happy with him, take him,” Ron whispered.I’d read the books and knew where to place the shot, right through the broadside shoulder one-third of the way up the body, but the grass was over waist high and I couldn’t see the shoulder or the bottom of the body.

“I can’t see where to shoot,” I whispered. “Where do I shoot in relation to his left horn?”He was standing broadside, offering up his left side, head turned 90 degrees to peer at us.“Shoot right down the side of the horn two-thirds of the way down from top,” came the reply.I lined up the vertical crosshair along the horn and guessed what two-thirds of his body would be and squeezed off a round.

What happened next was pure chaos. Buffalo were darting everywhere and a few of the young bulls made a short run at us and for a moment nothing made sense. Presently, the herd gathered up and turned and ran away from us, leaving behind the bull I’d just shot as he’d only managed to go about 20 yards and was down trying to rise.

You never approach a wounded buffalo from the front and so we cut a half circle trying to get around behind him. I had my gun trained on him, sweat rolling off my forehead like Niagara Falls. We were almost in position for me to shoot a follow-up shot through his spine when Ron, Tyrone, the other PH who had tagged along and the ranch manager, who was also with us, turned and ran.

“Run,” Ron yelled going past me.

I couldn’t figure out what the deal was. The bull was down. He’d stopped moving. Why am I running?

Looking up into the faces of some 50-minus-one buffalo all headed my way at a trot was all it took to put my feet into motion. I turned and bolted through the mopane trees hot on Ron’s heals.We’d cut a trail probably 100 yards through the trees before Ron and the others turned and went directly perpendicular to the direction we’d been going, hoping, I suppose, to get out of the way of the buffalo so maybe they’d break off. They didn’t.

Another 50 or 60 yards and Ron and Tyrone both stopped, turning to face the buffalo and racking rounds into the rifles they carried.“Keep going,” Ron yelled. “Where,” I thought. I can’t outrun a buffalo and I darn sure can’t climb these six-inch trunked trees.

For a moment I wanted to turn and face the herd with Ron and Tyrone. I figured in that split second it was my best bet at survival, but my feet had different plans and I found myself another 50 yards on before I knew what was happening. I don’t know how close Ron and Tyrone came to pulling those triggers, but suddenly the white Land Rover we’d came to the area in was bouncing its way through the trees.

I hadn’t even noticed that our tracker, Owen, had turned and ran for the truck the moment I’d shot. How he covered the intervening mile so fast I’ll never know but I was sure thankful to see that truck, although it offered scant safety against 50 irate buffalo. I turned to look back and the buffalo were veering off, cutting a path far around us. Rejoining Ron and Tyrone, we headed back to my buffalo while the truck continued to pick a way through the trees and fallen debris.I stood there in for several moments marveling at the massive bull I’d just shot. He was the largest animal I’d ever taken on a hunt.

“Well, what do you think,” Ron asked.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go throw up,” I said, lying my gun down across the buffalo. Turning from the perplexed look on their faces I suddenly found my legs were the consistency of gelatine and wobbled over behind a mopane where my empty stomach tried to heave out my toenails.

A noise caught my attention and looking up my father and brother, riding in the back of the Land Rover, were looking at me in shock. “What’s he doing,” my brother asked. “I think he’s throwing up,” dad said.

“Why?”

“You go through what we just went through and try not to throw up,” I yelled.Standing up, I found the shaking in my legs had moved up to my hands. I could have quick-stirred a cake batter in 10 seconds. Turning back to Ron and Tyrone, their faces a mask of disbelief, I smiled. “I’ll hunt buffalo until I die,” I proclaimed.

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