The countryside was mostly flat as it spread away from a rocky hill known locally as Kudu Mountain, and it was a mixture of acacia, thorn, and red dirt. Standing in the shadow of a large acacia, I watched Egyptian gees muddle in a waterhole two football fields long and half as wide. I knew a duiker with magnificent horns lived along the damn, and that warthogs polluted the area, often grunting and wallowing in the goo surrounding one of the few oases this side of the Orange River. Kudu tracks were everywhere, but it was early. They mostly showed during that last hour of daylight. If I’d been more content, I’d have been under the influence of some controlled substance.
A rustle in the brush behind me got my attention but a long look turned up nothing. After a half hour of motionless gawking I decided to head to the mountain to gain an advantage on the landscape, and maybe kick a warthog out of a ditch along the way. I took one step and discovered the nothing noise behind me was a kudu bull. He burst from cover 70 yards out, big, grey, and beautiful, with horns pointing toward the heavens. The lever gun was on my shoulder instantly and the sights found the bull just as fast. But I never found the confidence to press the trigger. You don’t sling lead at kudu. The bull sashayed away, disappearing into the thick, green thorn, and all I could think was that kudu and whitetail deer must go to the same finishing school.
I contemplated a stalk, but the wind was wrong – the wind is always wrong in Africa – and it was a wide circle to circumvent the bull without possible detection. Even then, shooting into thick cover, at distance, with open sights, was not advisable, and I didn’t want to risk another shot on the move, given I’d not found the sureness to take the one I’d just declined. But when you come across a nice free-range kudu bull in this country you don’t just give up. I got on the radio and called Fort Richmond Safaris’ proprietor and professional hunter Geoffrey Wayland.
My unconventional kudu rifle: An elegant Marlin Model 336, 30-30 Winchester from the now bankrupted custom shop.
“I’ve found a nice kudu for Big Jim. Meet me at the base of the mountain, just southwest of the pond.” Geoffrey acknowledged, so I weaved my way through the bush in that direction and Geoffrey’s Land Cruiser arrived shortly after I did.
“Well, where’s he at?” Geoffrey asked, like I might’ve had the bull hobbled or tied to a tree somewhere.
I explained the situation and we headed toward where I’d last seen the bull, being careful to stay downwind. But before we left, Big Jim said, “I want my son to try for this bull.
This was Jim’s and his son’s second safari. On their first, Jim tried to step back and let his boy do all the shooting. It was a noble, fatherly gesture, and I tried to explain to the old man that his son wanted to share the safari with his father, as a hunter not as an observer. Big Jim shot a few animals during that safari, but mostly stayed off the trigger. I thought for this adventure he’d realized I’d been right, but he still declined to go after this bull, no matter how far I pushed my hands above my head to simulate spiraling, ivory tipped horns.
About a quarter mile from where the bull had taken refuge, and after what was almost the rest of the day spent looking, Geoffrey finally announced, “I see his leg, right there, in that depression in the trees. It’s shining in the sun.”
I’d looked at that same small acacia tree trunk several times and I told Geoffrey that just because he always saw the kudu before I did, did not mean he could conjure them out of thin air, or turn a skinny tree trunk into a kudu bull’s leg at 400 yards. “You’re looking at tree truck you fool. I’ve seen and killed enough kudu to know a kudu’s leg when I see one.”
“Richard, you have killed a lot of kudu, but you’ve not looked at enough. That’s a kudu bull’s front leg. Can’t you see that spot of tan at the knee?” Then Geoffrey laughed. Geoffrey likes laughing at me, so much so I’m convinced it’s some sort of fetish for him. He then turned to young James. “We either go get him now, or wait here and see if he decides to come out before dark, but I don’t think he will.” James gave a nonchalant thumbs up. I think he mostly agreed with me.
I climbed up on a big and hard African rock with the sun to my back where I could watch the show, and watch to see if the bull decided to sneak out the back. Geoffrey and young James moved off and I told myself the bull had probably slipped away when I went to meet the Land Cruiser. Kudu bulls always slip away, especially if you have to pee, turn your head, or sometimes just blink. Binoculars to my eyes, I nestled into my hard seat and the two hunters stealthily used what little cover was available to close the distance.
When they were about a seven iron shot from Geoffrey’s imaginary kudu leg, young James dropped to a seated shooting position. The sun, mostly done with the day and us, had hidden itself behind the mountain and the brilliant greens and reds of the African landscape had become muted like an old photograph. The shadows had changed, and Geoffrey and his hunter now had a different look at the tree/leg. I didn’t know this, was startled at the bark of the rifle, and for an instant thought young James had experienced a negligent discharge. The wallop of the bullet proved otherwise.
“Damnit. Geoffrey was right. Again. Like always. That was the bull’s front leg.” I’d said it out loud, but at least Geoffrey couldn’t hear me.
The kudu broke cover, head held high, majestic, and with his long horns sweeping over his back as he ran. There were several more shots, and with the last one there was another wallop. Now, hit twice, the bull hurriedly limped behind another dense copes of acacia and out of my sight. I climbed down from my rocky perch, grabbed my rifle, and headed that way, wondering, just exactly how many kudu you must kill and see in order to know what the bottom 16 inches of a kudu bull’s front leg looks like.
Like Ruark said, a kudu is never definite until it’s dead, and this one was as dead as the darkness that was enveloping us all. Big Jim and young James were standing over the bull as the sunless sky bathed them in an orangish-blue hue, and James had that embarrassed grin hunters get when trying to decide how to act after killing something so splendid. Big Jim’s pride was visibly leaking out and being sponged up by the red dirt. That’s what happens to self pride in Africa, no matter how much you try to carry it around in your pocket.
Geoffrey passed out a few piss-warm Castle beers, which taste just as bad when they’re cold, and we toasted as the darkness finally found the veld. I grudginly conceded to Geoffrey that he was a much better kudu seer than me, shook young James hand, and told Big Jim I was not sure I could find him another bull as nice as this one. And that if I did, I might shoot it for myself. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact, at that moment there was only one kudu on Big Jim’s mind. And…I get it. Four years prior, under shadow of the same mountain, I’d watched Geoffrey guide my 14 year old son to another nice kudu bull.
I guess, fathers know best.
EPILOGUE: Big Jim eventually got his kudu. It was not a bull I helped him find but I did play a small role. Many years ago Jim had purchased a Scout Rifle from the smithy at Gunsite, back when the smithy at Gunsite made Scout Rifles. It’s about the only rifle Jim hunts with, but he was smitten with my scout that was built by the Remington Custom Shop just before Remington was run into the ground. I let Jim borrow my rifle, and that’s the rifle he used to take his kudu. They sent me a grainy photo from Big Jim’s antiquated smart phone. I look at it often, to remind me of the man - the good father. Young James was with his dad when it happened, and that's the best part. I guarantee someday he’ll remember that kudu better than his. Big Jim and young James just might have managed to sneak a little pride home from that safari after all. Africa’s red dirt is powerful — it can steal your soul — but shared pride is a powerful thing too, and the red dirt just doesn’t absorb it as well. If you don’t believe me, ask my son.
Damn! That’s a good story! 2018 was a good year for kudu hunting.