By Mike Handley
Photo: The author strikes a pose with his trophy impala, which covered about 30 yards before realizing it didn't have a heart. Photo by Jessie Jimenez
As I write this story, the trophies from my 2006 safari are still in South Africa — receiving the finishing touches, I hope, from Highveld Taxidermists’ Thomas Ochsenbein or his minions. So it might still be a few months before I can put a tape to my impala’s horns.
Not that it matters a whole lot. If I hadn’t wanted the ram I shot, I wouldn’t have shot it. Mainly I want to know because of an animal I did not shoot.
More precisely, I want to justify why I’ve been kicking myself in the butt nearly every day since I watched an incredible ram saunter out of my life — all because I didn’t want my hosts to think me greedy. I’d already arrowed two impala to that point. One was for chui bait (chui is Swahili for leopard); the other was an old herd ram with blondish horns and great mass.
The one I let pass, however, was much bigger. If someone shoots it this year, his or her name will no doubt earn a spot in the Rowland Ward record book, which recognizes only the length of the longest horn (as opposed to Safari Club International, whose method involves measuring both horn lengths as well as the circumferences at the bases).
Crooked Horn
I first spotted the exceptional ram while babysitting a water hole for waterbuck. It was one of eight males that spent an entire morning within sight of my blind. Six of them, by the way, would’ve merited the cost of a shoulder mount.
The half-dozen mature impalas were almost identically crowned, except for one I nicknamed “Crooked Horn.” While the tips of all the others’ horns were perfectly straight, this old warrior’s left beam bent slightly backward again, adding another 1 1/2 inches to overall length.
That’s an awful lot when judging an impala.
For three hours, they drank, ate, sparred and made deposits onto the communal dung area. I’d forgotten about that odd bit of trivia until I saw one of the circular latrines. For whatever reason, impala aren’t impulsive crappers. The entire group uses the same spot for both urinating and defecating. The rest of the antelope species — to my knowledge — pays no mind to such niceties.
I studied the group of bachelors through binoculars almost the entire time. I had not planned to shoot another impala, but I knew that Crooked Horn would be an outstanding trophy.
I was tempted once, when Crooked Horn stood for 30 minutes at 28 yards — the closest any animal had come to that blind. Had it not been for a Charlie Brown thorn tree directly in the line of fire, I would’ve nocked the arrow I was twirling in my free hand.
Any one of the six rams would’ve been my best to date. I hated to see them leave, but at least then I could get back to reading Peter Hathaway Capstick’s “Death in the Dark Continent,” one of life’s little pleasures when spending 10 hours in a little man-sized hut.
I actually let Crooked Horn walk away a second time, too, when I could’ve damn well shot him. That was the day I returned to his valley with a rifle, hoping to get a shot off at an unbelievably huge duiker (a story I recounted in the last issue of this magazine).
All’s just as well, though. I still left Africa with an outstanding ram and an even better tale.
Irish Wake
The one I shot, a cantankerous rascal, strolled in like it owned the place, snorting to let everyone know it had arrived. If you didn’t know what you were hearing, you’d swear such utterances belonged to the devil himself.
The deer-sized impala passed between a pair of 700-pound kudu bulls as if they were totally insignificant — Don Knotts sidling up to a bar between Jessie Ventura and Sylvester Stallone.
It weaved in and out of the thorn trees, ever vocal, as more ewes and lesser males seemed to spring up from the sand. This was to be the final show in a day filled with the “whitetails of Africa.”
The day’s opening act saw a bachelor group of maybe a dozen rams enter stage right. The top dog was a shooter, the kind of animal that leaves no doubt. You nock an arrow and plead with the gods that it’ll come within range.
Alas, it did not. It was the only ram amongst them that chose not to drink. And then the stage cleared.
Later, as the shadows lengthened, 15 to 20 impala filed lazily out of the bush, almost all of them mature ewes. From the grunting I heard well behind them, I knew there was a ram en route.
Sure enough, not one but two shooter rams were accompanying the orange ladies. The dominant male (the one belching out commands) was the largest in horn length, but the quiet one wasn’t far behind, and it carried much more mass.
I was able to draw on the presumably older ram twice. Both times, any thought of releasing was quickly thwarted by bush and other impala. I was crushed when they all left.
That’s when I began plotting to cut some limbs to try to force the animals to drink from the other side of the blasted tree that had shielded them from arrows many times. “I’ll fix that problem,” I vowed through clenched teeth.
Safari veterans say that most activity at a water hole will be between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., when the sun is high and the animals are parched. Such was not the case that day. Oh sure, the matinee was entertaining. It involved black-faced vervet monkeys (I kid you not: Their “boys” are blue!), a small herd of blesbok and frequent visits from go-away birds.
These crested, charcoal-colored birds can weave through the branches of a thorn tree like sauerkraut through one’s intestines. Their assured movements are almost serpentine and could well teach a squirrel a thing or two.
Just as entertaining were the yellowbilled hornbills. They’re certainly not as colorful nor as vocal as many other African birds, but the hornbill could well be the most comical. They feed on the ground, and when searching for food, they resemble circus performers in speckled vests, wearing puffy pantaloons, their wrists handcuffed at the back. They hop around as if they’re in some sort of sack race.
But I digress.
I was about to say that THE most activity occurred close to 5:00, the beginning of the final hour, when the shadows were long.
I’d already been treated to quite a show by the time Mr. Knotts approached Messrs. Ventura and Stallone at 5:45. In fact, the ram’s rude beer belching spooked the Italian stallion out of the middle of the shallow pond. I had been watching that enormous kudu, my mouth agape and spitless, for several minutes.
How often, I wondered, does a man get to count a kudu bull’s eyelashes from a mere 12 yards?
This boisterous impala ram never stopped walking. I knew that it wouldn’t pause until it reached the many ewes well out of range. They were clearly feeding and not taking the direct route to drink.
So as soon as the ram neared an opening at 25 yards, I drew — prepared to shoot at a sauntering target in the deep shade. When its shoulder passed through my peep, I released and was rewarded with the rib-slapping “thwack,” as the ram went airborne. Depending upon whom you ask, impala can leap up to 10 feet high and broad-jump 30 or 40. It’s a sight to behold.
Since I wasn’t really holding on a spot, I wasn’t positive where I’d hit the ram. It ran just out of sight, but I was sure it hadn’t left the province because not a single one of its girlfriends had moved.
The ladies were staring toward the last place I’d seen the ram. And what followed was somewhat sad.
I was suddenly surrounded by the urgent coughing of impala ewes and the loud angry snorts of rams. It was as if 30 or 40 impala were urging the one I’d shot to stand up again. The keening lasted for almost 15 minutes, until my good friend, Jessie Jimenez, arrived on foot, sending them fleeing back into the bush.
Except one.
Now that I think of it, I really don’t care what the old boy scores.
Editor’s Note: To experience the thrill of a South African safari, call Jessie Jimenez at (830) 866-3756.
–Mike Handley