F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Caleb McClain
The PH whistled and tapped the cruiser, motioning to the tracker to slow down. He scanned a clearing in the bush, then motioned for the truck to slowly move ahead and stop.
“There’s a good blue wildebeest in there,” he whispered. “Let’s get him.”
We stealthily moved down a trail, eventually intersecting another that would lead us to the herd. It was my first morning in Africa, and, if the fates allowed, this would be my first African animal. I made sure to take in everything: the hornbills that sang in the trees, the heart palpitations as we encountered a bachelor group of three old dugga boys in a prime hunting age, the duiker that sprung off into the brush as we passed him.
We were now in sight of the herd, and by alternating between crawling and walking, we were 100 yards away. The PH murmured for me to shoot the one on the left as he slid a tripod in front of me. I placed the rifle on it, found the shoulder of the bull, and began to squeeze. It was at exactly this moment that a loose rock under the front leg rolled. The rifle exploded as the leg slid forward. The PH insisted that a bullet struck the animal, but it was above the vital zone, although I fully doubted I ever hit him.
Despite days of searching, not a drop of blood was recovered.
I was quite upset. I always prided myself in my shooting, having only lost one deer in my entire hunting career, with most animals dying within eyesight. But such is hunting.
Fast forward nine months, where I was back in the bush with a different outfit. The borrowed Mauser I was using performed like a champ, bringing down every animal within 30 yards of impact. As we crested a hill, a herd of 50 wildebeest came into sight.
“Perfect. We’ll make up for your last one,” the PH said.
The stalk was easy, and if I felt more than confident at 200 yards, I was absolutely sure at only 125. The beast’s shoulder was in my sight, and I eased the trigger. It bucked at the impact before the herd knotted up and stampeded for 200 yards.
“Good shot! She’s dead!” He said, expecting the animal to drop at any point.
Still, nothing happened.
We scanned the herd, not seeing any definite sign of a wounded animal.
“Let’s get a little closer. There are a few bunched up we can’t see from here.”
As we stalked forward, they broke apart into five separate herds, running in all directions. One wildebeest slightly lagged behind a herd charging full-speed downhill, limping ever-so-slightly.
“There it is! Try to shoot it again!”
I aimed, unfortunately overcompensating for the wind and speed of the animal. A clean miss by an inch.
Despite our best attempt to track through the mangled mess of hoofprints on the plains, we never saw it again. Why the bullet that clearly struck the shoulder did not do its job, I will never know.
“That’s it! I’m not shooting at another wildebeest unless I have a .375 H&H or bigger. I’m cursed with these things!” I swore.
I broke my promise that very night.
As the sun was near setting, I had already taken two more animals, and we were heading back when a herd of blue wildebeest appeared ahead.
“Let’s go,” my PH instructed. “We’ll get it this time.”
“I told you that I’m shooting without a .375 or bigger next time,” I objected.
“Let’s just go see. If you don’t want to shoot, then don’t.”
The logic was reasonable enough, and we went. Pretty soon, I had my crosshairs on the nicest in the herd. With it steeply quartering away, I lined up my crosshairs with its opposite leg. Second-guessing my shot placement, reaffirmed it with my PH who later confirmed that he did not know what I was asking, then fired. It bucked then limped away, fatally hit but not ready to go down yet. As it crossed us, I drew the exact same line to the shoulder from the opposite side and fired again. It turned, limping directly away from us. With a Texas heart shot, it dropped, only to stand back up.
“Good God! Shoot again!”
Another in the neck dropped it.
As we approached, it tried to rise. I shot it again with a 9mm at the base of the skull. That shot seemed to only piss it off. Finally, I hit it between the eyes, where it kicked no more.
I beheld the trophy, now resembling a block of Swiss cheese, permanently avowing that I would never again pursue the gnu without at least a .375 and a full box of bullets.
The post Nine Bullets, One Wildebeest appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
The PH whistled and tapped the cruiser, motioning to the tracker to slow down. He scanned a clearing in the bush, then motioned for the truck to slowly move ahead and stop.
“There’s a good blue wildebeest in there,” he whispered. “Let’s get him.”
We stealthily moved down a trail, eventually intersecting another that would lead us to the herd. It was my first morning in Africa, and, if the fates allowed, this would be my first African animal. I made sure to take in everything: the hornbills that sang in the trees, the heart palpitations as we encountered a bachelor group of three old dugga boys in a prime hunting age, the duiker that sprung off into the brush as we passed him.
We were now in sight of the herd, and by alternating between crawling and walking, we were 100 yards away. The PH murmured for me to shoot the one on the left as he slid a tripod in front of me. I placed the rifle on it, found the shoulder of the bull, and began to squeeze. It was at exactly this moment that a loose rock under the front leg rolled. The rifle exploded as the leg slid forward. The PH insisted that a bullet struck the animal, but it was above the vital zone, although I fully doubted I ever hit him.
Despite days of searching, not a drop of blood was recovered.
I was quite upset. I always prided myself in my shooting, having only lost one deer in my entire hunting career, with most animals dying within eyesight. But such is hunting.
Déjà Vu All Over Again
Fast forward nine months, where I was back in the bush with a different outfit. The borrowed Mauser I was using performed like a champ, bringing down every animal within 30 yards of impact. As we crested a hill, a herd of 50 wildebeest came into sight.
“Perfect. We’ll make up for your last one,” the PH said.
The stalk was easy, and if I felt more than confident at 200 yards, I was absolutely sure at only 125. The beast’s shoulder was in my sight, and I eased the trigger. It bucked at the impact before the herd knotted up and stampeded for 200 yards.
“Good shot! She’s dead!” He said, expecting the animal to drop at any point.
Still, nothing happened.
We scanned the herd, not seeing any definite sign of a wounded animal.
“Let’s get a little closer. There are a few bunched up we can’t see from here.”
As we stalked forward, they broke apart into five separate herds, running in all directions. One wildebeest slightly lagged behind a herd charging full-speed downhill, limping ever-so-slightly.
“There it is! Try to shoot it again!”
I aimed, unfortunately overcompensating for the wind and speed of the animal. A clean miss by an inch.
Despite our best attempt to track through the mangled mess of hoofprints on the plains, we never saw it again. Why the bullet that clearly struck the shoulder did not do its job, I will never know.
“That’s it! I’m not shooting at another wildebeest unless I have a .375 H&H or bigger. I’m cursed with these things!” I swore.
I broke my promise that very night.
One Wild Beast
As the sun was near setting, I had already taken two more animals, and we were heading back when a herd of blue wildebeest appeared ahead.
“Let’s go,” my PH instructed. “We’ll get it this time.”
“I told you that I’m shooting without a .375 or bigger next time,” I objected.
“Let’s just go see. If you don’t want to shoot, then don’t.”
The logic was reasonable enough, and we went. Pretty soon, I had my crosshairs on the nicest in the herd. With it steeply quartering away, I lined up my crosshairs with its opposite leg. Second-guessing my shot placement, reaffirmed it with my PH who later confirmed that he did not know what I was asking, then fired. It bucked then limped away, fatally hit but not ready to go down yet. As it crossed us, I drew the exact same line to the shoulder from the opposite side and fired again. It turned, limping directly away from us. With a Texas heart shot, it dropped, only to stand back up.
“Good God! Shoot again!”
Another in the neck dropped it.
As we approached, it tried to rise. I shot it again with a 9mm at the base of the skull. That shot seemed to only piss it off. Finally, I hit it between the eyes, where it kicked no more.
I beheld the trophy, now resembling a block of Swiss cheese, permanently avowing that I would never again pursue the gnu without at least a .375 and a full box of bullets.
The post Nine Bullets, One Wildebeest appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
