In Pursuit of Kalahari Giants

July 1, 2020 Hunting,SCA Articles

It had been the finest day of my hunting life and I didn’t want sleep to bring its end.

One errant cloud must have drifted in from the Atlantic and passed during the deepest part of the night. I didn’t hear the rain, even with the single-pane windows of the old block farmhouse standing wide in faint hope of bleeding away the searing desert heat.

All things rooted in the crimson sand took on the moisture and released a perfumed symphony of appreciation—sweet, delicate scents that poured through the windows to stand in vivid contrast against the brassy smell of lion blood rising from the boots and clothes heaped at the foot of my bed.

I couldn’t help but smile through the dark, first at the irony and then with the realization that these smells carried with them the primordial essence of the Kalahari. It had been the finest day of my hunting life and I didn’t want sleep to bring its end.

In truth, I had never pondered the aftermath of taking a lion, let alone a lion like the old black-maned monarch we had tracked some 20 miles across the dunes. Making such a hunt was a life-long dream, so we had allowed plenty of time. Thankfully, professional hunter Jamy Traut had the foresight to arrange for a gemsbok “just in case,” as well as an eland to be hunted by his 16-year-old son, Nicky.

The Kalahari Desert is home to the largest gemsbok in all of Africa. Elsewhere, one seldom passes a bull with 38-inch horns and virtually no one will turn down a 40-incher. Gemsbok cows are held in equal regard should they stretch another inch or two. In the Kalahari, however, one can genuinely hold out for something well into the 40s.

Huddled around the campfire, it was decided we would search for both gemsbok and eland at the same time, come what may, and as the sun broke the horizon, we were glassing from the top of a tall dune. I was hoping for an eland, of course, as I wanted Nicky to take the lead this time, but it was a herd of gemsbok that Jamy spotted far in the distance.

Off we went, carefully keeping cover and more than a little mindful of the fresh lion tracks meandering across our path with alarming regularity. An hour later we were within something that approximated shooting distance, but careful inspection didn’t turn up the one we wanted. That said, I would have taken any one of a half-dozen gemsbok in that group had we been anywhere else.

We stalked in on two other herds and looked over some additional singles that morning, then even more when the afternoon cooled enough to hunt again. Nothing caught my eye and no eland were to be found.

The next morning started the same way, with a long approach on a big herd. One old bull was close, but not quite. About the time we had convinced ourselves that it was time to back out, more gemsbok appeared in the distance. Glassing directly into the sun, I couldn’t make out anything. Jamy had better luck and thought at least one bull showed great promise.

It took an hour to get into something that resembled position, as the herd was feeding and alert. They were also scattered along the side of a huge dune, forcing us to crawl slowly though cover and evaluate each one whenever the topography allowed it to appear.

Jamy’s focus was one of the bulls on the far side, and as I tried to glass it I heard him say, “Take that cow. Now!”

After glancing over to see where he was looking, I brought up the rifle to general alignment and let him walk me in. The big cow was on the far side of the herd, of course, and mixed in with some others. Jamy read the range and the shot broke when she cleared. The Savage .300 Winchester Magnum did its job and she dropped in her tracks.

“I think she’ll go 42 inches,” Jamy said as we approached. His estimate turned out to be short by just less than an inch.

I switched back to my .375 H&H Magnum later that morning in case we tripped over a lion and Nicky charged the magazine of his father’s custom Mauser 98 9.3×62 with purpose for the first time. It was impossible to determine which of the Trauts was more excited.

It was just after noon when we began to look for eland, or more correctly, for eland tracks near waterholes that we could check again at first light. We took our time, enjoying the day and even stopped to photograph a pride of lions that had just finished off a gemsbok kill. Knowing they had drank that morning at a nearby waterhole, we didn’t expect much but decided to check it anyway. I don’t remember if it was Nicky or Jamy who saw the great eland bull first.

Standing in a deep shadow, his battleship-gray coat looked flat black. His massive dewlap hung from his neck like a draped blanket and reached almost to his knees. Having sensed us, his head was thrown back, so it wasn’t until he turned to run that any of us could see just how grand a trophy we had stumbled upon.

Mindful of the lions, we followed the eland’s scuffed tracks for a mile or so before they showed the bull had settled into a fast walk. Jamy and Nicky were leading, of course, and slowly outdistanced the rest of us. We lagged farther and farther behind, and eventually spotted Jamy standing alone near the top of a distant dune. Then a single shot rolled and Jamy walked over the dune and out of sight.

It seemed like a very long time before we found Jamy and Nicky standing over the great eland bull. Nicky is every bit as polite as his father, so I had to prompt him for the story.

What essentially happened was that the two of them had followed the tracks until they spotted the bull far ahead and determined which way it seemed to be going. Nicky then ran it down, absent even slight concern for the desert heat and lions. He took the shot at just 30 yards. Oh, to be young again.

I take great comfort knowing that Nicky Traut has sincere intent to join his father’s business one day as a professional hunter. Having been acquainted with this young man since he was but a few months old, I have little doubt he will do just that as soon as he completes a university education. While Nicky is all for altering the timeline, his parents, as well as Uncle Dwight, are most insistent this chronology be maintained. After that, I have every intention of being his first client. Until then, poor Jamy is stuck with me.