Page 29 - May2011-Finall

We squatted in the sand and waited for the kudu to move. And waited. And waited. Joofie radioed the trackers to move the vehicle up and down the road behind us hoping to disturb the kudu into moving. The kudu would swing his head a little to watch the vehicle, but he would not give up his shady spot. After three passes with the Toyota it was obvious we were going to have to get closer and find a shooting lane.

The time was now past noon and the heat was getting unbearable. We were normally back in camp at noon having lunch in the shade and enjoying a cool beverage. The light breeze was blowing fine grit and sand constantly. As we were sitting on the ground we were getting the full blast of abrasives including the heaviest particles. My contact lenses were becoming intolerable. No relief in sight on this problem. You can’t give up your vision on a stalk. I sat with tears streaming down my face, blinking constantly and thinking positive thoughts about the shot to come.

Around 1:00 PM after the vehicle distraction trick has failed numerous times Joofie advises we have to make a move. So, we start crawling on our hands and knees, occasionally duck walking, and inching closer to the thicket of thorn trees holding our prize. We creep to within 50 yards without alerting the kudu. I am amazed we have not spooked him. A tiny shooting lane appears where I can see the left front shoulder of the kudu. He is standing frozen, almost straight on, facing slightly toward our left.

OK, this is it, pull yourself together, sight picture, breath control, squeeze. I coach my self through the drill I have practiced a thousand times. Joofie crouches in front of me with his butt in the sand indicating I am to shoot off his right shoulder. He plugs his ears with his fingers and freezes into a solid rest. OK, show time. I peer through the Kahles 8 power scope and settle the cross hairs low on the shoulder of the kudu. Don’t look at the horns, just focus on the shot I remind myself. As I squeeze the 8mm Magnum barks out its report. No felt recoil as always on big game. I see the bull fall as the sight picture is blurred by the gun slamming my shoulder.

Joofie is up like a rabbit out of a brush pile and bounding toward the fallen kudu. I relax on the ground, resuming my breathing and letting the tension fade out of my body. I have no concern about the shot being fatal.

The kudu is magnificent. He is an old bull; teeth worn almost to the gums and his withers are starting to deteriorate and along his spine past the rib cage he is starting to sink in. This would have been his last winter. I never am compelled to justify hunting, but I silently say to myself, “this death is better than the hyenas”.