havgunwilltravel
Active member
The sleek .375HnH shells stacked nicely in the magazine as I pressed the 3rd round down and closed the bolt on an empty chamber. Rifle was slung, gear gathered and we strung out across the plain. There were two trackers, Remi and Jonas, and four porters plus a camp cook. Each person was carrying gear, food or water. We had a decent distance to cover to set up our first camp and the heals soon kicked into gear.
My mind wandered back to the previous 110 hours that had passed since I had walked out my front door. I had been faced with a few delays in that long period of time, ten hours lying on an airport bench in Bangkok, an unexpected night stuck in Nairobi, long plane flights and even longer drives to get to the north of Cameroon passing through the poorest of villages and roads that were possibly in the worst condition I had ever travelled on. But it was all part of the adventure and that is exactly what I had come here to seek.
First night in the village was simple and basic.
Next morning I laid out my gear to select what I would take into the mountains.
There was a ceremony by the village chief to bring me luck that involved a sharp knife and a chicken who would be soon headless and a smattering of blood over the Weatherby. It’s all part of the culture and belief in the greater powers above. My diary reads the first day was hard work. The tracker had seen a herd of Lord Derby Eland tracks cross the valley a couple of days previous and had a hunch they could be in this part of the range. We got to our intended campsite to find some cattle herders had shifted cattle into the area and this annoyed Jonas. Apparently the giant Eland and cattle and people do not mix well and we scratched around for another campsite with decent water.
After camp was set up it was midday and the hottest part of the day so we rested a few hours then took off trying to pick up either eland or buffalo tracks. The views were awesome from some ledges and I spent much time glassing for not a lot of result.
We came to another waterhole that Jonas wanted to check for tracks and the boys found plenty of snares and ankle traps for game. They immediately destroyed all equipment used by the poachers.
Easing over rocky knolls and into valleys we searched hard for game, the terrain was easy enough to hunt through and the habitat varied depending on what aspect of the hill we were on and any recent burns.
Towards dark I got tangled up in a nice thorny plant, I wore shorts the entire time and it never bothered me, but I kept a sharp eye out for thorns for the rest of the trip. It really wasn’t too bad where we were and i have seen it much worse in places down south.
We tracked some smoking buff tracks in the last hour of light, but got beaten by the closing darkness and watched a small group of colobus monkeys in a tree calling out to each other as we made our way back to camp. They were making a drumming noise and Jonas said this was a sign of good luck. We had seen a couple of bushbuck during the day and one nice male, but he wasn’t old enough to tempt me and a couple of female grey duiker. Sleep came easy as I sat in the tent and looked at the stars drifting off, just happy to be finally in a place I had dreamt about hunting in for the last twenty years.
Come the first signs of daylight we were already loaded up and heading off the escarpment, we did a loop around to see if we could find those buffalo from the night before but no luck so we took a spur, descended and headed across the plain to the taller mountains on the other side.
I have to admit that part of the porters and trackers deal was to carry my pack, that is the way they do these hunts, and whilst I wasn’t complaining I have to admit it didn’t feel right to only have my rifle, camera and optics as weight to burden me. Mind you as the hunt progressed and we loaded up with extra weight from meat I made sure I took my share to help out. I had previously been training very hard on my cardio, and the running and cycling I had done certainly assisted my hunt.
Up ahead we caught sight of another person walking along the edge of the timber, he was close to the mountain we were about to climb and had a few dogs. The boys started whispering that he could be a poacher. The excitement level raised pretty quickly as we dropped into a dip then gained elevation. The guy ahead had streaked a few extra fast steps in and we realized he knew we were onto him. The lads dropped their packs and the poacher took off sprinting hard. I knew he was carrying something on his shoulders and had put the binos on him to make sure it wasn’t a rifle and only made out a couple of spears. Remi sprinted hard but Jonas was incredible running hard gaining on the poacher. But he wasn’t giving up easy and a kilometer he later was cornered up a tight gully by the guys. There was a lot of shouting going on and I could imagine the poacher wasn’t in a good position. I had seen pictures of previous poachers that had been caught and a fair bit of blood was normally lost before they were led to the police. This guy got visible scared when he seen me and we led him back to the packs. The guys were giving him a dressing down and said he could go, but Jonas had one little chore for him to do. And that was carry my pack up the mountain we were about to climb. He had no choice and buckled up the Eberlestock.
His dogs were not welcome and the guys tried their best to machete them without luck. It’s a brutal world in remote parts of Africa, and the poachers can and do wreck havoc on game herds in all regions. They are the number one reason for a decline in numbers for many species in many regions.
The climb was completed and we leveled out onto a plateau. Splitting up the trackers and I checked out a waterhole for tracks whilst the porters eased up to a saddle to wait for us. There were fresh buffalo tracks at the waterhole and as we were leaving a sharp whistle was heard from a porter. Immediately Jonas changed gears and knew what that meant. Game was ahead. We pushed quick through the scrub until we found the porter who had come back to get us and he was pointing up the ridge. There lay a buffalo, on his own and staring in our direction. We sat down and I glassed him at 70 metres. It was the first Western Savannah buff I had seen in the flesh and it was hard to judge him with his nose up looking at us. I wanted to make sure he was a mature bull with hard bosses or else I wouldn’t be shooting. I did not want to shoot a young bull just to say I have shot the buff up in Northern Cameroon. His horns looked decent, but they were dwarfed by his massive ears and I hesitated not sure if he was what I wanted. The two trackers said he was big, but I wanted to make sure he was old, not just a big pile of meat for them to smoke. I had previously tested them out on a bushbuck that was not quite old enough to be fully mature with horn growth and Remi said he was still young. The bull swiveled his head around and I got a glimpse of his bosses and thought he looked solid so it was time for action.
I leant the rifle against a tree and put the crosshairs on him, it was a tough angle, in through the hip or a neck shot as he was facing away. I didn’t like either but decided on a shot into his neck when the crosshairs steadied. The recoil of the .375 pushed into me as the bull rolled over kicking, but he was soon on his feet lumbering to the left. I knew I had missed bone and put the crosshairs on his chin and touched off another. The bullet hit him in his chest, but a touch high and spun him around so he stood there facing me at a quartering position. The third quickly followed into his front shoulder and he toppled over. We made our way over to him as he took his last breath and celebrated the harvest of an old bull.
My mind wandered back to the previous 110 hours that had passed since I had walked out my front door. I had been faced with a few delays in that long period of time, ten hours lying on an airport bench in Bangkok, an unexpected night stuck in Nairobi, long plane flights and even longer drives to get to the north of Cameroon passing through the poorest of villages and roads that were possibly in the worst condition I had ever travelled on. But it was all part of the adventure and that is exactly what I had come here to seek.
First night in the village was simple and basic.
Next morning I laid out my gear to select what I would take into the mountains.
There was a ceremony by the village chief to bring me luck that involved a sharp knife and a chicken who would be soon headless and a smattering of blood over the Weatherby. It’s all part of the culture and belief in the greater powers above. My diary reads the first day was hard work. The tracker had seen a herd of Lord Derby Eland tracks cross the valley a couple of days previous and had a hunch they could be in this part of the range. We got to our intended campsite to find some cattle herders had shifted cattle into the area and this annoyed Jonas. Apparently the giant Eland and cattle and people do not mix well and we scratched around for another campsite with decent water.
After camp was set up it was midday and the hottest part of the day so we rested a few hours then took off trying to pick up either eland or buffalo tracks. The views were awesome from some ledges and I spent much time glassing for not a lot of result.
We came to another waterhole that Jonas wanted to check for tracks and the boys found plenty of snares and ankle traps for game. They immediately destroyed all equipment used by the poachers.
Easing over rocky knolls and into valleys we searched hard for game, the terrain was easy enough to hunt through and the habitat varied depending on what aspect of the hill we were on and any recent burns.
Towards dark I got tangled up in a nice thorny plant, I wore shorts the entire time and it never bothered me, but I kept a sharp eye out for thorns for the rest of the trip. It really wasn’t too bad where we were and i have seen it much worse in places down south.
We tracked some smoking buff tracks in the last hour of light, but got beaten by the closing darkness and watched a small group of colobus monkeys in a tree calling out to each other as we made our way back to camp. They were making a drumming noise and Jonas said this was a sign of good luck. We had seen a couple of bushbuck during the day and one nice male, but he wasn’t old enough to tempt me and a couple of female grey duiker. Sleep came easy as I sat in the tent and looked at the stars drifting off, just happy to be finally in a place I had dreamt about hunting in for the last twenty years.
Come the first signs of daylight we were already loaded up and heading off the escarpment, we did a loop around to see if we could find those buffalo from the night before but no luck so we took a spur, descended and headed across the plain to the taller mountains on the other side.
I have to admit that part of the porters and trackers deal was to carry my pack, that is the way they do these hunts, and whilst I wasn’t complaining I have to admit it didn’t feel right to only have my rifle, camera and optics as weight to burden me. Mind you as the hunt progressed and we loaded up with extra weight from meat I made sure I took my share to help out. I had previously been training very hard on my cardio, and the running and cycling I had done certainly assisted my hunt.
Up ahead we caught sight of another person walking along the edge of the timber, he was close to the mountain we were about to climb and had a few dogs. The boys started whispering that he could be a poacher. The excitement level raised pretty quickly as we dropped into a dip then gained elevation. The guy ahead had streaked a few extra fast steps in and we realized he knew we were onto him. The lads dropped their packs and the poacher took off sprinting hard. I knew he was carrying something on his shoulders and had put the binos on him to make sure it wasn’t a rifle and only made out a couple of spears. Remi sprinted hard but Jonas was incredible running hard gaining on the poacher. But he wasn’t giving up easy and a kilometer he later was cornered up a tight gully by the guys. There was a lot of shouting going on and I could imagine the poacher wasn’t in a good position. I had seen pictures of previous poachers that had been caught and a fair bit of blood was normally lost before they were led to the police. This guy got visible scared when he seen me and we led him back to the packs. The guys were giving him a dressing down and said he could go, but Jonas had one little chore for him to do. And that was carry my pack up the mountain we were about to climb. He had no choice and buckled up the Eberlestock.
His dogs were not welcome and the guys tried their best to machete them without luck. It’s a brutal world in remote parts of Africa, and the poachers can and do wreck havoc on game herds in all regions. They are the number one reason for a decline in numbers for many species in many regions.
The climb was completed and we leveled out onto a plateau. Splitting up the trackers and I checked out a waterhole for tracks whilst the porters eased up to a saddle to wait for us. There were fresh buffalo tracks at the waterhole and as we were leaving a sharp whistle was heard from a porter. Immediately Jonas changed gears and knew what that meant. Game was ahead. We pushed quick through the scrub until we found the porter who had come back to get us and he was pointing up the ridge. There lay a buffalo, on his own and staring in our direction. We sat down and I glassed him at 70 metres. It was the first Western Savannah buff I had seen in the flesh and it was hard to judge him with his nose up looking at us. I wanted to make sure he was a mature bull with hard bosses or else I wouldn’t be shooting. I did not want to shoot a young bull just to say I have shot the buff up in Northern Cameroon. His horns looked decent, but they were dwarfed by his massive ears and I hesitated not sure if he was what I wanted. The two trackers said he was big, but I wanted to make sure he was old, not just a big pile of meat for them to smoke. I had previously tested them out on a bushbuck that was not quite old enough to be fully mature with horn growth and Remi said he was still young. The bull swiveled his head around and I got a glimpse of his bosses and thought he looked solid so it was time for action.
I leant the rifle against a tree and put the crosshairs on him, it was a tough angle, in through the hip or a neck shot as he was facing away. I didn’t like either but decided on a shot into his neck when the crosshairs steadied. The recoil of the .375 pushed into me as the bull rolled over kicking, but he was soon on his feet lumbering to the left. I knew I had missed bone and put the crosshairs on his chin and touched off another. The bullet hit him in his chest, but a touch high and spun him around so he stood there facing me at a quartering position. The third quickly followed into his front shoulder and he toppled over. We made our way over to him as he took his last breath and celebrated the harvest of an old bull.