Elephant and the Rhino, The

A veteran PH remembers his final hunt for black rhino in Zambia.

Holding up an old tobacco pouch filled with white ash from last night's fire, Jackson, the tracker, gave it a brief shake and we all watched as the fine powder drifted straight toward the elephant. It was midday and the sun was on our shoulders in the dense undergrowth of the leafless thicket. A sudden, welcome breeze had sprung up, cooling our sweat-soaked shirts, which had attracted clouds of moisture-seeking mopane flies. I glanced around at the exhausted faces of my client and the two trackers and knew that this was going to be our last chance at getting the bull elephant. A few moments before, we had heard a low rumble from deep within its chest; now the wind, I was sure, would give us away. If the bull ran again we would not be able to follow, as the Mupamadzi River, some three hundred yards distant, formed the boundary of the national park. If the elephant crossed it, we would lose this big tusker that we had been tracking since sunrise.

It was 1974, and George D'Aoust, a lumberman from Canada, had booked a twenty-one-day hunt with Zambia Safaris, his priority trophies being the Big Five. Professional hunter and ex-elephant culler Ian Manning had built Nyampala camp in Zambia's Luangwa Valley prior to my arrival. It consisted of a cluster of grass huts nestled on the banks of a lily-covered lagoon; the huts seemed to have grown out of the ground by themselves to blend into the natural surroundings. In the cool shade of the trophy shed, on a bed of grass, lay our two salted cat skins, one much bigger than the other. Close by, in a fire-blackened drum filled with water, boiled the skull of a huge buffalo, its menacing horns protruding above the steaming foam and stretching wider than the drum itself. Our safari, it seemed, was on track to success-an elephant and a rhino would complete our hunt.

A tearing sound came from directly in front of us as the bull tore a strip of bark from a tree. Luck was on our side-the elephant hadn't scented us, but we could not see it. Once more Jackson shook the bag, the powder slowly sinking straight down to the ground. All was silent around us; no birds sang. The thicket, it seemed, was listening. The only sound was the occasional scuffing of our feet as we slowly moved forward in single file, Jackson leading the way. I carried my .375 H&H. George was armed with his .458, both bolt actions loaded with solids.

After a moment Jackson came to a sudden halt at the sound of a branch snapping and pointed to the top of a mopane tree that protruded above the thicket top some thirty yards ahead. It swayed back and forth. Dung lay scattered about and strips of bark littered the ground. The fresh, acid scent of the bull's huge droppings hung in the air. There was a loud whoosh, followed by the crash of breaking branches, as the tree crashed to earth. Jackson motioned in the direction of the noise and waved us past him, falling in line behind us, as we stalked toward the feeding elephant.

In the winter months of July, the thickets are leafless gray, the same color as elephant and rhino, which makes the animals difficult to see. Cautiously we moved forward until a flock of red-billed oxpeckers rose, churring in alarm, from the bull's back; we were close, very close. Once more we held our ground, waiting, listening, straining our eyes to catch any movement. My heart was pounding and I could hear George's heavy breathing behind me. It was said that there were a hundred thousand elephant in the valley at that time, yet somehow we could not find or see the massive animal that was right in front of us.

An uneasy calm prevailed; possibly the flight of the birds had carried a warning. Then we heard the slow shuffle of massive feet on dead leaves and a soft stomach rumble, but still none of us could see the bull. A slight, steady breeze blew into our faces. My mouth was dry and I nodded my head in acknowledgement as Jackson gently touched my arm and pointed again. In a silence that was eerie, the tusker moved slowly out of the thicket into a small opening no more than twenty-five yards away and stopped, facing us. Its dark ears, like wings, flared, filling the sky. With its massive head held high, it lifted its trunk, testing the wind, obviously aware of our presence but not our exact whereabouts.

All the instructions that I had given George during the past few days must have come flooding back as he calmly raised his rifle, aiming at the invisible rod pushed through the ear canals, and squeezed off a brain shot. A puff of dust exploded on the bull's head as it rocked back from the impact of his bullet. With my own rifle held at the ready, I froze as the animal's hind legs, seemingly in slow motion, folded beneath it as it sat down, then rolled over onto its side, its back toward us.

It took me a few moments after the bull was down to come to my senses and shout at George to shoot again. Reloading, he quickly fired a shot at point-blank range into the spine close to the neck as per my instructions and then stepped back a few paces. All was quiet as we watched the bull's legs tremble, then go still. For a few moments we all stood frozen to the spot, then approached slowly, carefully, still not sure. But the bull was dead and we saw that blood was starting to form a pool at the end of its trunk.

A magnificent animal had fallen. We felt saddened by its death and a little awed, and we spoke quietly as if not to disturb the animal as it lay asleep. Photos were taken and Jackson, in the age-old tradition, ceremoniously cut off the tail and presented it to George. The tusks weighed 80 and 75 pounds per side.

The Charge

It was late afternoon as we set off to where we had left the car some distance away. Our canvas water bags were empty and our mouths were dry, but we were in high spirits, and Jackson set a stiff pace, leading the way on a well-worn elephant trail. Our group cleared the thicket and moved into chest-high mopane scrub. We had just begun to weave our way through it when suddenly there was a savage snort and a cry of fear as somebody shouted, "Chipbembere (rhino)!"

Then we all heard it at the same time-the pounding of heavy, short feet on the ground and a locomotive-like chuff-chuffing sound thirty yards away. A hollow feeling ran through my gut-my experience with black rhino at that time was limited to one kill and numerous incidents of being chased up trees by these bad-tempered brutes. From the sound, this one was coming straight toward us very fast; the tops of the mopane scrub were waving wildly, clattering together. All we could see, though, was a glimpse of a gray back plowing through the cover as it charged.

The unarmed trackers and bearers scrambled up the closest trees, aided no doubt by the power of fear. The rhino erupted out of the brush in front of me and stopped in a cloud of dust, snorting and foaming, standing broadside at no more than twenty yards, its head held high, snuffing for our scent. Fear washed over me as I realized that I didn't know where George was. The term "unpredictable" applies to most of Africa's dangerous game, and the black rhino demonstrates this to an even greater degree than the others-and I was responsible for my client's well being. Frozen in my shoes, tense with fear, I dared not move or look around as any slight sound or movement at this distance-even the click of a rifle safety-could launch the rhino into a full charge.

The rest happened in milliseconds, but it will remain with me for a lifetime. The bull turned its head away and fixed its piggy eyes on a warthog that had suddenly appeared close by. Then, with a powerful kick of its hind legs, it heaved its body round, and, with incredible ease and grace for an animal that might weigh two tons, it trotted off and disappeared into the scrub.

George had stood his ground in the face of the charging rhino, armed only with courage; his rifle was with one of the bearers. My own rifle, which had been gripped, forgotten, in my sweaty palm, had a full magazine and an empty chamber. In the tense atmosphere we shouted for the rest of our party and were glad when a chorus of voices nervously answered from the treetops. Once we had regrouped, a sense of relief prevailed, and soon we were all laughing at Jackson, who skillfully reenacted the charge and our reactions to it.

Back in camp, the eventful day reached its conclusion around the fire as we sipped ice-cold whiskey in an ambience of quiet satisfaction. Later, we dined on filet of impala with fresh vegetables, followed by tinned peaches and cream. But our appetites were not quite sated, for there was still a rhino on the menu.

Tracking the Rhino

The following morning, as every morning, we left camp at dawn. It was cold and we could see our breath. Huddled in the back of the Toyota, wearing army overcoats, Jackson; White, the camp skinner; and his helper held onto the truck's pipework. Up front, George sat beside me as I drove. The car ground and bounced its way over potholes made during the rains by the tracks of hundreds of elephant and buffalo. For some time we traveled in silence as I concentrated on the road ahead, and in time the track got fainter as we headed toward yesterday's elephant.

Our route to the carcass cut across a deep carongo (ravine) that brought the car to a halt. As we climbed out, we heard the melodious call of a Heuglins robin and there was just enough light to see its rufous plumage. White, a goodhumored man of considerable experience and talent, went with his assistant to remove the elephant's tusks.

Jackson, George, and I headed for the scene of the rhino charge, and with Jackson taking the point we set off. Within an hour we found the blaze we'd marked on a mopane tree, and below it the tracks. A flock of guinea fowl scurried across our path, stopped, and watched, their reedy, rattling alarm-call vibrating around us. It was starting to get hot and the bush was coming alive; sparrow weavers and turtledoves were calling. When Jackson looked at any spoor his powers of observation were so acute that once he had the details locked in his mind, no mark, scuff, or chip in the tracks went unnoticed. I hefted my .375 and the shooting sticks, George chambered a round in his .458 and thumbed the safety on, and we fell into step behind. Carefully and painstakingly Jackson tracked, his eagle eyes picking up every clue; as we went he pointed to the tracks in chewa style with a long blade of elephant grass. After a while the sun was beginning to burn and our thirsts started. George took a long swallow from the water bag, which Jackson carried; it was cool and tasted of canvas, but it quenched his craving. My pride forbade me to drink until later.

Our tracker moved stealthily through the mopane scrub, casting around for fresh spoor. Rhino are territorial, and I knew that this one would not have gone too far. We came across a waist-high termite mound that had been used as a rubbing post. The bloody remains of ticks smeared to its side had attracted flies, and there was a strong smell of rhino. Climbing away from the river, the tracks led off in another direction around the side of a hill. A little wind had started but it was in our favor; it was a relief to feel it on our faces and cooling our sweaty shirts.

As we continued, the bush became thicker. Many of the smaller trees had been broken and we saw where the rhino had fed. In one place Jackson dropped to his knees and peered through the tangled brush. A duiker suddenly jumped up in front of us. George had his gun leveled in an instant, and when we saw what it was we all laughed, breaking the tension. Once again we checked the rifles and continued on the tracks until a low hiss from Jackson brought us to a stop.

With his outstretched arm he pointed to a dark form beneath the shadows of a twisted mopane tree that had been pushed over by an elephant in its youth and now lay at an angle of forty-five degrees. The rhino was broadside to us, standing dead-still. The tracker moved back and sank down on his haunches. I motioned to George to follow and we stalked to within twenty-five yards before I was satisfied that George knew exactly what he was looking at. Rhino have notoriously poor eyesight, but it's not so poor that they can't make out intruders at close range. So we moved only when the bull turned its head away from us, and very slowly I set up the shooting sticks.

"Take him with a heart shot," I whispered, and moved away to allow him to take his rest on the sticks. My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard, hearing George's heavy breathing. At the click of the safety, which sounded far too loud, the rhino's ears flicked forward, then back, scanning the surroundings for any further sound. I waited tensely for the shot. The boom of the rifle carried over the hills as the bullet found its mark. The rhino drove straight through the scrub in a panic-stricken dash, breaking branches as it went. A thud and a squeal from forty yards away told us it was down. George reloaded, and we carefully followed the trail.

Blood had sprayed onto the lower leaves and it rubbed off onto our bare legs and clothes as we approached the dead rhino. We all tried to be casual and not show too much emotion as George admired his trophy, the completion of his Big Five. It was a moment-and a hunt-to remember.

Copyright Sports Afield, Inc. Dec 2004
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