I zipped my brown Dickies coat, grabbed my rifle and headed to the sliding door of my new digs. Outside, the chill of sub-equatorial winter stung my summer-seasoned face as I briskly made my way to the smell of fresh coffee in the dining quarters. A hot mug and rusks (common hard biscuit treats for dipping) replaced my rifle. A more substantial breakfast was available, but I was too keyed up to eat a full meal. It was day one of my 10-day "virgin" safari in Namibia. Over rusks with Johan Koetze, our PH (professional hunter and partner in Kalahari Hunting Safaris of Namibia), I probed for a hunting strategy. Johan was cheerfully optimistic. "Let's go see what we can find for you!" he said, smiling knowingly as my confidence rose. By day's end, I would sense what it's like to live, rove and even to perish in the Kalahari Desert's rusty red sand.
***
I was accompanied on my nine-animal safari by friend and business associate Mark Chesnut, editor of NRA's America's 1st Freedom. We loaded into the Land Rover and rushed to a crude firing range to be certain our rifles were still zeroed following our 8,000-plus-mile airline trip from the United States. Our scopes were surprisingly on target, a testament to today's quality gun cases. We hurried back to the ranch house to pick up Sakmin, our keen-eyed tracker, and a three-legged dog named Junti, then we headed for the dunes.
On the way out, Mark and I flipped a coin for the first shot. I lost. I'm not sure how many kilometers we traveled before the Land Rover halted abruptly. Johan grabbed Mark and they disappeared over a dune. As a shot whizzed across the vast valley of sand, I thought, It can't be this easy, can it? They scurried back, jumped in and Johan asked if my camera equipment was ready as he shifted gears. I frantically began loading batteries and formatting memory cards. Mark had shot a springbok, and it was imperative we get to it immediately for a trophy shot because, as Johan explained, the pronounced white hair on its rump pricks up for only a few minutes after expiration. Johan's not only a master hunter, but he's also a heck of a cinematic director. Always with clients in mind, he considers lasting photographs just as important as horns.
Soon we were back on the dusty trail, and it was my turn. My hunt would last a little longer than Mark's, a recurring theme throughout the trip. We had a rule: The hunter and gun would always ride in the back. It seemed I spent more time bouncing around the exposed back of the Rover clutching my rifle waiting to bail out in pursuit of something, while Mark reclined comfortably up front.
As we topped the road, a large herd of gemsbok had just crested over the farthest dune. We made our way quickly up another dune to glass them and look for a mature bull. I was in awe of the tall javelin-horned beasts as they kicked dust across the desert plains. "Al die koei," Sakmin said. This was the first Afrikaans phrase I would learn, and at times it made me sigh. Loosely translated it means "they all cows." Regardless of the species, we were shooting only bulls, rams or stallions.
The engine started and off we went. For some 30 minutes we traveled over dune after dune, then stopped in the middle of the road as Johan and Sakmin chatted in Afrikaans. Translation: "fresh gemsbok spoor." We turned off the "main" road, got out and crept across a secondary road of sand to another dune. As I followed Johan to the top, Sakmin whispered, "Bull." Now, I'd never hunted gemsbok, and after being in country only 24 hours I was suddenly acting like I knew the program. "Which one is the shooter?" I asked, considering all gemsbok, male or female, had horns and looked alike to me. "Eighth from the right," Johan said, and if that was not enough clarification, he added, "Wait till he turns backside, then you'll know for sure."
More discussion between Sakmin and Johan ensued. "Okay, Pete, let me get a distance for you ... um, 329 yards." Johan advised. "He's now broadside, shoulder high, when you're ready." Aiming my trusty T/C Pro Hunter in .30-06, I fired my first shot in Africa.
The bullet hit slightly far back but still punctured the lungs. The bull crashed in the sand and I was thrilled—until it stood and bolted over the dune. We quickly followed over another dune until we saw him in an open area. "Hit him again!" Johan ordered.
Thwack! He was down for good.
As I stood admiring the splendid animal, I understood what I'd heard from colleagues all these years: There is nothing like hunting in Africa. By the end of our first day, Mark had taken a gemsbok, a record-book red hartebeest and a springbok, and I had my first taste of Africa with a mature gemsbok.
***
The next day, I shot my second gemsbok at 200 yards with the new .375 Ruger. Mark shot a monster 40-inch gemsbok, which seems to be the magic number for trophy enthusiasts. Neither of us knew SCI (Safari Club International) scoring methods at the time. Every creature was a trophy to us.
The next morning was brisk and breezy, making shooting challenging. My face was chapped from the abrasive desert air. I shot a springbok and spent the rest of the day in pursuit of a red hartebeest. Finally, we had him pegged, or so we thought. I jumped out of the truck and asked Mark to carry the sandbag rest for me. Here we were in a desert, surrounded by sand, yet we needed to haul 20 pounds of sand. The hartebeest gave us the slip so I ended up shooting another springbok. While we each had two "trophy" springboks in our hunt package, this one was for the kitchen. The backstraps were so tasty that staff had asked us to shoot a few extra rams. We caught up with the hartebeest later as day three came to a successful end.
***
The following morning I stepped outside looking like one of the Dalton gang. To combat the wind, I'd cut a makeshift bandana from one of my military surplus T-shirts. Johan and Mark noted I was dressed more for a hold-up than a hunt.
