Before my eyes could even discern an animal, amidst the low scrub vegetated landscape, Armin and the tracker had already determined that the animal was trophy-worthy.
"A kudu, a big one" young Sven informed me.
I looked at Armin. He and the tracker had already dismounted from the truck. "Take your .338, put one in the chamber and put it on safe", he told me.
Stepping into the brush, the tracker with the shooting sticks first, Armin next, me following. The three of us moving quickly, as quietly as possible, taking a track that kept us hidden from the kudu's direct view. It was about 250 yards away, they said, standing in a clearing, grazing, with its back to us. Moving as one, avoiding the thorny wait-a-minute acacias, stopping now and again to re-orient ourselves, Armin kicked at the dust to determine wind direction, going quietly, stopping to glass to confirm the kudu's horn size, we closed to about 80 yards of the animal. The tracker crept to a better viewing position, Armin also through binoculars confirmed that this will be my bull to shoot. Too close to set the sticks else the kudu detect our presence, they whispered in Afrikaans to best way to set me up for the shot.
"I will lay down and you will shoot this way", telling me that I should use his body as a shooting bench rest, he began to move into position, to lay down in front of me, to provide me a steady platform to shoot from. I wasn't completely comfortable with that provision but was going to do it anyway but the tracker suddenly signalled us to immediately cease all movement lest the kudu become aware of our presence. Again a hushed exchange in Afrikaans. I had not yet seen the animal.
"The kudu has his back us us. He is very close."
I crept out in front of the professional hunter for the first time and and for the first time I saw the kudu. He was a magnificent animal. Just seeing him so close made me stare in near disbelief that I was really so close to an animal I had only seen in photographs and television documentaries.
Armin started to move to put his body in front to be my bench rest but I motioned him back.
"Can you do it?" I nodded that I can. Slowly, quietly, I assumed a sitting position, one that I had learned during my marksmanship training as a U.S. Marine forty-six years ago. Rifle to my shoulder, safety off, I held the crosshairs centered high on his backside, ready to swing it right or left when he moves his body to present a good killing target. Still he grazed, now and then raising his head to check his surroundings, still unaware of my still form blended into the scrubs and ground, looking at him, his life centered in my scope. He seemed to be in no hurry, nor I as I took up the trigger slack. Breathing normally, I thought how calm I was.
Then his head began to move to the left followed by his massive neck. He stopped, his eyes now caught my dark form, he now is focused on me, he could tell something was different from before. I knew this was it. I knew that the moment must come. Smoothly I swung the rifle to match his movement, crosshairs high upper third of his muscular shoulder, leading slightly in front of the upper leg bone, more quickly now he moves, one step, his body now almost perpendicular to my line of sight. I knew that with the next spring-coiled step he could be gone. This was the moment, his and mine, and we would meet where the crosshairs intersect. Deliberately smooth I squeezed the trigger. The shot. Even before I recovered from the recoil, even before I could see the shot's result, I knew I had fired a killing shot. As I rocked back from the recoil, through the scope, I saw him, down at the very spot he had just a second ago been peacefully grazing.
"He's down!" the tracker shouted.
"He's dead!" Armin seconded. There was no doubt, no need for an anchoring shot. We knew he would never rise again.
|
