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Published in BGA BOWHUNTER • SUMMER 2004
Author: RAYMOND OELRICH Date: 12/24/2006
“I don’t think he’s in range yet; wait a bit more,” my guide Vossie whispered. He and I, along with a cameraman, were watching two gemsbok feeding through a maze of thorns. They were stopped at about 50 yards. Enjoying the warmth of the of South African sun, I sat back on my haunches and reflected on why I loved to bowhunt so much. I don’t like sitting in a blind, which is the most common method of bow hunting, especially in Africa. I preferred “spotting and stalking” above all else. I love the wind as it rises from distant valleys. I sometimes close my eyes and drink in the smells and sounds of the woods. If bowhunting is close to Heaven, then Africa is the gate. When the two bulls crossed a small opening at 35 yards, I stood and took a shot at the lead bull. The trajectory was excellent for the first 30 yards, but unfortunately I held a bit higher than needed and the arrow JUST missed its mark, slipping only a few inches over the bull’s shoulders. A few inches lower and I would have hit the spine, to the left a bit would have reached high in the lungs, and six inches lower, a classic double lung shot. Regardless, I missed the big bull! “Great shooting, man!” Vossie exclaimed. “If he was 10 yards further away you would have gotten him!” South African guides have a “special,” sense of humour. Under my breath, I made a mental note to sit in a blind next time, and to do it ALONE ! “Good shot, Raymond,” the cameraman consoled. “You can’t help it if he was a bit too close.” I felt like crawling in a hole. How can you miss on video and hit when you hunt by yourself ? It just isn’t fair! Oh well, off for another stalk. We tried to circle around the bulls, but they were quickly departing, thanks to the commotion of my errant arrow. Last I saw of them, they were weaving down the steep slope toward the safety of a distant water bank across a dried riverbed. “I would rather miss one stalking like this, than shoot a hundred over a waterhole!” I countered, trying to make the guide and cameraman understand the challenge of stalking game. I had nothing against guys that bowhunt over waterholes, but it’s just different, that’s all. As we walked single file toward the waiting Toyota, I fell into a rhythm of strides and thoughts that carried me for nearly a mile, lost in my own remorse for missing the shot. “One of my hunting friends can hit a two-inch Post-It note at 40 yards every time with his compound!” Jack King teased me later that night over dinner. Jack had come with me on just about every trip I had been on during the last three years, and he always had a way of cheering me up. He had been with me in the Northwest Territories when I had taken my first animal, a caribou, with my longbow, and he was no more tactful now than he was then. “No one likes a bowhunter, Ray, especially one that can’t hit game,” he teased, as we wrestled over the last piece of eland tenderloin. “Remind me to send you my compound bow when I get home, so you can finally GET something if you insist hunting with a bow, alright?” Gosh, it sure is good to have a close friend along when you bow hunt. Made me wish I had one. “You guys don’t understand,” I said. “It’s not about always killing an animal each time I hunt. If it were, I would just use hand grenades or landmines. It’s the challenge that makes the hunt for me.” They smiled and laughed while we washed down the dessert with hot coffee at the end of our fine South African meal. As I strolled down the walkway to our chalet, I paused to look into the darkened sky. The ranch I was on was in the center of South Africa, three hours south of Johannesburg and it had wonderful, private stucco chalets with a warm fire each night, and staff that brought freshly brewed coffee to greet you each morning. At daybreak, I could open the curtains and see zebra, gemsbok, eland and often blesbok, grazing on the hillsides right above the chalet. One night a whole herd of zebra tore up the lawn right outside my porch. A one horned duiker was the ranch’s pet, and stayed near our chalet each night, trusting we would only shoot him with our cameras. The following evening, just at dusk I was helping my father-in-law Boyd take photos of his gemsbok when a huge Common reedbuck sauntered by. There we were, snapping a few pics of Boyd’s trophy, when out of nowhere this reedbuck just walks by, stopping to feed just 20 yards of where we stood! While everyone else just stood there with eyes bugging, I calmly sighted the bull and slipped an arrow into his shoulder. He thundered off. As he ran for a distant pond I snuck down to the edge where he was last seen, stepping as quietly as I could. All of a sudden, this ear-piercing scream shattered the evening silence! I jumped 10 feet into the air! Hiding a few feet from me in the tall grass was the ram. He had chosen that exact second to let out his death bellow, which sounded more like a dying rabbit than a big game animal. My tracker, William flashed a quick grin. Only his pearly white teeth were visible in the darkness. The sight of him grinning coupled with the sound of the reedbuck’s wail, cast an eerie glow over the evening reflections in the pond. “They scream when they die,” William said in broken English. “Yeah, Duh. No lie,” was all I could muster. We dragged the reedbuck up to Boyd’s gemsbok and laid him out. We then took one of our most treasured photos: two wonderful trophies lying side by side. “Even a blind hog can find an acorn once in a while,” Jack said with a laugh as he took the photos. The next morning I managed to drive a heavy arrow into a trotting eland at 15 yards, but the arrow was a bit far back, even for an animal the size of a Volkswagen. Rather than track it into Mozambique, I asked Boyd to shoot him with his .300 Weatherby, which he did, dropping it immediately. It was most fitting, since Boyd and I wanted an eland in the worst way—and now we did! ( Jack had a field day with that one, believe me!) It is always controversial whenever a bow shot animal has to be finished off with a rifle, but it is far better to do so rather than risk losing a fine trophy or let an animal suffer. Not everyone agrees, but that is my stance. Later that afternoon, we spotted one very large, dark blesbok bedding down out in the open quite a ways off. “No one could possibly stalk him and get close enough for a shot,” was all the other hunters could say over lunch. “Shoot. I could get him with my bow!” I countered, with the confidence that usually accompanies ignorance. I was met with looks of amused disbelief. And with that, the challenge was laid upon me. It was wagered (and not the least in my favor), that I wouldn’t be able to get within 100 yards of the beast, let alone bring him home. Having made my bed, I set off for one of the most difficult stalks of my life. I crawled half a mile in a downwind stalk. I covered the distance, at a snail’s crawl, mostly flat on my stomach over windy ground until I was barely 50 yards away. I sat up to shoot when I got within 35 yards. Somehow God saw fit to give that blesbok one eye in the back of his head! That’s the only way he could have seen me, I swear! Before I could release, he was gone, his stilted gait eating up ground faster than you can imagine. “You sit in that swamp and I will drive them past you,” Vossie offered. Obsession can drive otherwise sane men to desperate measures. I was driven to have that blesbok. So I accepted his offer to sit in the swamp for the next hour or so. As I sat there, I imagined the others sitting back at the lodge, having a snack and chuckling at my predicament. I was never going to hear the end of it! All of a sudden, three blesbok fired over the horizon, on a beeline for the trail which I was quietly hiding near. Unfortunately, they were going the wrong way— downwind! I had full Scent-Lock camo on, and I prayed they would not see or wind me. Thankfully they showed no signs of detecting me. When people talk about shooting an arrow, they say that the game seems to drift into slow motion when the shot is taken. I will always remember the faint sounds of their hooves hitting the hard dry dirt, as the trio clamored down the hillside. I saw their muscles ripple under shiny coats, their nostrils gulping air. I will always remember the sheen of their coats, glistening and changing color in the afternoon sun as they ran, dodging and weaving toward me, heading for their destiny. Only two would be leaving the swamp today if I shot well. As they closed the distance to something inside 30 yards my mind began to inherently calculate speed, wind, distance, time, shooting lanes, weeds, cattails, animal trails and the velocity of my arrow. How all of this gets assimilated into judging lead is beyond me, but I found myself drawing my bow, pulling all 72 pounds with no let off. The animal’s nose hit the precise spot I had pre-selected as my release point. I swung ahead and let the arrow slide from my finger tab and on its way toward the animal’s lungs. I had judged about a four-foot lead on the running animal, and the arrow hit with a solid “chunk”, slipping half way through the blesbuck’s chest. He just shifted into another gear! The arrow hit about three inches higher than I wanted. After a quick run of a hundred yards, the Blesbok ran directly toward the waterhole, and into the arms of a waiting tracker! It was a bizarre sight, seeing my Blesbok trying vainly to make it to the water with his dying breathe, while a tracker reached down and grabbed him to keep him from water’s edge! In all my life I had never seen such a thing! “Let him go!” I yelled. Wanting to make sure he died quickly, I ran over and drove a finishing arrow into his heart. For me, the finishing shot from a bow that is often the hardest one to take. Unlike the choice I had with the eland, where his rifle was faster and probably more humane I finished him off myself. For that embarrassing moment I stood, watching the blesbok. William looked into my eyes, and somehow understood my pain and hurt as I stood over the dying animal. Even though the meat would feed him and his family, none of that seemed to matter now. “It was a good shot, and a clean kill Raymond,” William said, but his words rang like a hollow bell over an empty schoolyard. The horns were thick and felt good in my hands as I ran my fingers along the weathered bases, and out to the dagger sharp tips. I didn’t bother with any measurements; none were needed. Many people look down on the lowly blesbok as a “fill-in” trophy, when more glamorous trophies cannot be hunted. But believe me, taking one in full stride at 20 yards with a recurve, is one of the most genuine hunting moments I ever remember. “This guy is the one that has always bedded in the clearing on the hillside over there, year after year,” William whispered. “He is a fine animal, and you are a very good shot to have taken him on the run”. With my tracker’s admiration and my bow hunting diploma intact I pulled the blesbok up the slight hill and helped load him into the back of the Toyota and rode in satisfied silence to the skinning shed. While the skinners worked on the hide, I sat next to the animal and gave thanks for the memorable day, thinking about the stalk over and over. I thought of all the bow hunters that only know how to sit by a waterhole, or bear hunt over a 55-gallon barrel full of fish scraps, letting their prey come to them. I felt they missing the “other half ” of bow hunting. I wished that somehow all bow hunters would take at least one animal this way. It’s a totally different experience. On the flight home, I thought back on my three weeks at the at Kukuzans’ ranch. They had remarkable food, good animals and fine staff. I had a kaleidoscope of memories to sift through, and they played on the video player in my mind for hours on end. But the one that kept drifting back to me was of Boyd as he sat admiring his monarch gemsbok. With heartfelt tears, he hugged me as we sat next to our two trophies, lying side by side. The night had fallen and we had to take photos by headlight of the Toyota, but it didn’t matter. He and I had hunted for over 30 years, together and we were just grateful to have been able to do it again. I reached over to Boyd in the window seat next to me, and patted him on his knee and gripped his weathered hand. He whispered “Thanks,” and with a faint smile and a twinkle in his eye, he nodded and gazed out the window at the clouds, drifting over the featureless landscape far below. Africa had tightened its grip on us both, and we knew we would be back as soon as we could.

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