JEWELS OF THE EASTERN CAPE
By Larry Weishuhn
“Don’t think it is going to happen this morning! A bit too warm and dry. Dogs can’t smell the cat’s scent.” Commented Wolma Kemp.
“All they’ve done is cold trail.” I replied unloading the Ruger Red Label 12-gauge shotgun and passing it back to Kempie. “With these dry conditions I’m surprised the hounds can smell a trail. I grew up hunting hounds with my Dad, mostly for ‘coon but also bobcats, then later bear. They’re trying, but with these conditions it’s tough!”
Kempie, Dustin Blankenship, my cameraman/field producer and I walked toward where we were to meet the dog handler if we did not tree a caracal. For the third morning we were headed back to camp without having treed a cat.
Years ago, while hunting with Fred Burchell, just south of Etosha in Namibia, I had shot a young caracal late one afternoon as we were returning to camp after a long, unsuccessful stalk for kudu. Unfortunately, the skin was lost in shipment back to the States. Now I was back for another one.
“Let’s go back camp, grab an early lunch, then get ready to hunt blue duiker later this afternoon. We have a blind set up where we can watch a small, remote waterhole in extremely dense thornbrush.” Suggested Kempie.
We had almost gotten into Port Alford when Kempie got a phone call from one of the other houndsmen in his hunting area. A huge smile came across his face. “One of the other dog handlers is on a hot track. We can be there in about twenty minutes. He’s on a pineapple farm I am familiar with. I suspect if the caracal trees it will be in the bottom of an extremely, steep deep, rugged and thorn bush covered creek that flows into the Indian Ocean.”
Minutes later we were on the cusp of a deep canyon. Far below I could faintly hear the hounds bark treed. “I’ll carry the gun,” said Kempie. “You’ll need both hands to negotiate your way to the bottom. Be careful! Lots of thorns and almost straight down.”
Pulling on leather gloves I started down the steep slope. I slid, clung to vines and thorn bushes, slid some more, half fell my way down to the bottom of the canyon. All the time I was thinking we are going to have to crawl out of this thing eventually. Hopefully, it will not be empty-handed!
As we waded the shallow creek, Kempie handed me the loaded shotgun. “Soon as you see the cat. Shoot him! Otherwise, he’s going to jump.”
I eased forward-looking into the canopy above where the Walker hounds were treeing.
There he was crouched on a limb about twenty feet above me. I shouldered the 12-gauge sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. The cat jumped out of the tree headed for the creek. The handler released the hounds. My caracal, mortally wounded, stopped to make a stand, made a swat at the closest hound and fell into knee deep water, dead.
I was thrilled. He was a big male, at least 30 pounds in weight, and was unquestionably, according to the dog handler, the one which had been killing the local farmer’s livestock.
The ascent out of the deep, steep canyon, with my cat in tow, was a whole lot easier than if he had gotten away. Back at the pineapple farm’s headquarters we skinned my caracal for a full-body mount, took care of the meat, which was wanted by one of the locals. He informed me the meat was reminiscent of warthog in flavour and texture.
Back in town over a quick lunch, “The farmer where we have the blind set up for blue duiker told me last night there are two duikers watering at the small waterhole. He thinks the male usually comes in about two to two-thirty in the afternoon. We’ll have to hurry to get there because it’s a thirty-minute drive.” As we were finishing a delicious meal, “We’ll slip in quietly, set your rifle on shooting sticks, pointed directly at the water. It’s going to be tight in the blind! We’ll be twelve yards from the water. There cannot be any movement or any talking. If the duiker comes in, I’ll give you a thumb up to shoot. Thumb down, do not shoot!” Kempie continued, “Larry I know you love your .375 Ruger. But remember, blue duikers are Africa’s smallest antelope. I suggest you load Hornady solids, one of their 300 grain DGS.” I nodded in agreement.
“When I was a youngster we hunted blue duiker with terriers and occasionally hounds, much the way you guys back in the States hunt rabbits with beagles. We shot them with shotguns as they ran from cover in front of the dogs. These days, we shoot them when they come to water. That way we can be a whole lot more selective.”
A half-hour later we were at the blue duiker hunting property. We walked quietly to the blind, crawled in, set my Ruger on shooting stick pointed at the water so there would be a minimum of movement if one came in. I bolted in a Hornady solid then sat back in my chair, fully expecting to be there all afternoon. And, most likely returning for several days before I took a duiker.
About twenty minutes later we spotted movement behind the little man-made water hole. Out stepped a small duiker, smaller than a Jack Russell terrier, but with two sharp horns about two-inch long. Soon as I spotted the duiker, I had gotten into shooting position and pushed the safety to fire. One eye looked through my scope and my other on Kempie’s hand to give me a thumbs up. I saw Kempie’s hand move slowly pointing his thumb up. I waited for the duiker to present the ideal angle. When he did I gently pulled the trigger. At the shot there was no doubt the duiker was down, and mine.
Kempie pounded my back congratulating me. Normally I quickly reload after my first shot,a second shot was not going to be needed.
My blue duiker was most interesting, even smaller than the Damaraland dik-dik I had taken year ago. No doubt I had taken my “smallest, big game animal, ever!”
According to Kempie my ram’s horns were long for the species. I appreciated that fact, but even more importantly I appreciated I had finally taken a blue duiker which had long been on my southern Africa wish list.
That night in camp, a most comfortable villa overlooking the Indian Ocean, as we toasted the past several days’ success Kempie said. “Now that we have both caracal and blue duiker in the salt, we can concentrate on vaal rhebok. Larry, I know this is one of the species you have long wanted to take. I will tell you, there is nothing easy about hunting vaal rhebok. They have unbelievably acute eyesight and live at the tops of open grassy mountains. Hunting them requires a lot of walking, usually up mountains, long periods of glassing and quite frequently long shots when they are finally spotted. We’ve got four days allocated for this species. We could get lucky the first day, but I am not going to count on that happening.” Kempie then handed me a publication in which was an article about hunting vaal rhebok. He suggested if I had not already read it, doing so would be a good idea as it also addressed estimating horn size.
I knew vaal rhebok had big eyes for their body and see extremely acutely. I had read males usually weighed about 40 to 50 pounds and stood about 28-inches high at their shoulder. I knew too, they are one of Africa’s only true mountain game animals. In the past I had spent time hunting the Eastern Cape but I had never before seen a live vaal rhebok. Although, I had seen shoulder mounts and one full-body mount.
That night, even after Kempie, told us we would be leaving four hours before first light to get to the mountains where we would find vaal rhebok, I still stayed up late reading. I learned vaal rhebok, often called “The Phantom of the Mountains”, are rated by African hunters as one of the the top animals in all of Africa. They are endemic to southern Africa and live in the higher, grassy mountains at elevations of 5,000 to 10,000 feet, but occasionally lower. They are found primarily in South Africa’s Eastern Cape, southwestern Cape, the eastern part of the Free State, Lesotho, the Waterberg Mountains in the Limpopo Province the Drakenberg Mountains of Natal, Mpumalanga and Swaziland.
According to what I read, vaal rhebok live in small family groups, usually from three to twelve. Most of the small herds hold one mature male, several females and their young. Occasionally solitary males can be seen roaming, looking to take over and join a new group of females. Their breeding season is usually from March to May.
I hunt for mature animals, rather than record book size heads. But I knew if I were so fortunate to take a vaal rhebok on this hunt, it would likely be the only one I would ever take. I hoped for a representative male if we could find one.
The article stated most males of the species have ears about seven inches long and measured about the same from the tip of their nose to where their straight horns start growing. Using those measurements, I knew I could identify a buck with horns seven inches long or longer. I learned too, the Rowland Ward record book minimum, a buck’s longest horn needed to measure a minimum of seven and one half inches. The longest horn in their record book is eleven and seven-eights inches long.
I dreamed that night of vaal rhebok running up and down high grassy slopes.
We arrived at the hunting property just as black morphed to gray. As we prepared to go to field, we were introduced to Stumpee, the local game scout. A short time later we headed toward the steep, grassy slopes of the high country. An hour into the hunt glassing distant mountainsides we spotted five vaal rhebok.
I had notice my breathing was a bit more difficult than it had been along the coast of the Indian Ocean. “We’re at about 7,200 feet.” Responded Kempie to my question about altitude, “Up where they are, it’s probably closer to 7,500. Are you in for a stalk?” I took a deep breath, and before I could answer, “They’ve seen us. We’ll have to try to go up to the ridge, where we should be out of their sight, then crawl our way around to the right into that rill, then go up on top and hopefully if they are still there, be on top of them for a shot.”
I took a deep breath, “Yes…”
We nearly made it to the ridge. There we set up a spotting scope to get one more look at the male. “Better take a look,” said Kempie as he moved aside. The ram appeared to have horns that almost were as tall as his ears.
“Youngster! Do you think we can find a bigger one?” I questioned.
“I do…. At least we saw he was young before we spent the day stalking and then passing him.” Responded Kempie. “Let’s get back to the vehicle and go to another area.” About twenty minutes later we were making our way farther south.”
One thing I noted about vaal rhebok, their grayish coloration blended in perfectly with their background. Driving toward a distant waterhole, we jumped a young ram. His horns were about the same length as the one we had just passed on. As he ran he held high his white tail reminding me of a spooked whitetail deer back home in Texas.
We set up to glass next to the waterhole. Immediately Kempie spotted a herd of seven, including a ram that looked like a shooter. They were about a mile away. “We can drop below the ridge they are on, skirt to the right staying out of sight and then come up just about on the same level they are on and get a shot. Let’s go!”
Away we went walking quickly at first, but soon the altitude caught up with me and I slowed my pace. Twenty minutes later we were just below a small rocky outcropping. “I’ll crawl up and have a peak. If they’re where you can get a shot, I’ll wave you up.”
I settled back, caught my breath and waited. A couple of minutes passed before Kempie motioned for me to join him. I crawled up beside him. “Small male. He’s with four mountain reedbuck. He’s not what we are looking for. But, if you will raise your binocular to the top of the farthermost ridge, you’ll see nine rhebok. One looks like a mature ram.” I did and there they were nearly two miles away. “I think we might get closer If we go back to the vehicle and drive part of the way, perhaps too, we will see another ram on our way.”
We backed out, left the animals below us undisturbed. “Before we drive away, I want to glass a series of ridges behind us. We could not earlier properly glass them.” Said Kempie as we loaded up.
We drove three hundred yards and started glassing, first the lower rock-studded ridges. “Rhebok, several in between the rocks, going up slope.” I quickly spotted them. “We’ll go on foot from here. We can drop into the rill to our right and move toward them. The male in the group is not huge, but I think he will measure at least seven and a half inches.”
Sounded good to me. I grabbed my .375 Ruger, my shooting sticks and my pack then followed Kempie into the shoulder deep ditch. We moved quickly. Initially they were about seven hundred yards away. In a few minutes we cut that distance in half. Kempie peaked over the edge. “They’re about three hundred fifty yards away on a brush studded ridge. You’ll have to shoot from here, no way to get closer. Crawl up so you don’t have any obstructions in front of the barrel. The ram is the second from the right!“
I nodded and crawled to a solid prone position, rested the Ruger on my pack, cranked the scope to full magnification, spotted the ram, and loaded a 300-grain Hornady DGX. The wind drift, based on the ten to twelve mile per hour crosswind, would be about eight inches. I knew my bullet would drop the way I was sighted in would about ten inches. I held appropriately for wind drift and drop, took a deep breath, let it all out then gently applied pressure to the trigger.
“He’s going down.” Said Kempie at the shot. I bolted in a fresh round and planted my crosshairs on the now downed ram. I was glad having spent time on the FTW Ranch’s S.A.A.M. Hunter Training ranges back in Texas learning from their instructors how to properly “read the wind”. Doing so had paid off handsomely.
At the rhebok’s side, I reached down to get a better look. “His horns will go about eight inches.” said Kempie. “Fabulous animals!” I could not have agreed more. Maybe I needed to re-evaluate my thoughts of only hunting vaal rhebok one time…