The next day was no different. A typical summer lowveld day, when not a leaf rustled and midday temperatures hovered around 40 degrees in the shade. Besides the mournful hooting of emerald-spotted wood doves, the still air was punctuated only by the shrill, ear-piercing staccato of cicadas. The only sensible thing to do was to chill out, take it easy and stay as cool as possible. But out there somewhere was an animal that was suffering, while I lay sprawled on my comfortable couch in an air-conditioned house watching Schumacher practising to bring Ferrari home to victory yet again. It just didn’t feel right.
Unable to relax I filled a five-litre container with ice-cold water and placed it in my back pack. I tied a bandana around my head under my bush hat to stop the sweat from running into my eyes, picked up my rifle and binoculars and drove to the last set of tracks near our northern boundary. It was a Saturday afternoon and my game guards and trackers were off duty. They were doing the only sensible thing under these conditions, taking a siesta. I didn’t expect them to jump at the opportunity to track for me, and so I didn’t ask.
Once I’d made up my mind, there was no stopping me. I would find the buffalo myself and put an end to this matter.
My mind would not contemplate procrastination, so neither the intervention of logic nor the consideration of reasons for delay would be tolerated. I’ll never know why I had such a bee in my bonnet. I had horribly underestimated the effect of walking in this kind of heat and so it wasn’t long before I was forced to take a break that I didn’t want to take. The midday sun, shining directly into the spoor, didn’t throw much of a shadow, which made the tracks difficult to discern, and so I needed to concentrate that much harder. This proved to be both tiring and thirsty work, so I stopped again. Leaning my rifle against a small raisin bush in front of me, I unshouldered my backpack. Taking the water out, I noisily gulped down what must have been at least a litre!
Something I did or a subtle shift in the wind must have alerted the buffalo, because when I took the water container away from my mouth, he was standing broadside on to me about 50 metres upstream of the small gully in which I was standing. His nose was in the air testing the wind and he then swivelled to face me. I could see him favouring his left foreleg as he did so. In any other situation it could have been mistaken for a little stumble, but in this case it was precisely what I was looking for. I grabbed the rifle and took aim, whereupon he snorted and ran. Quickly reaching the spot where he had been standing, I could see from the spoor he was definitely favouring his left front leg. This was the injured buffalo we’d been looking for.
Tracking a wounded buffalo while keeping a look-out for potential cover where it could seek refuge or from which it could charge is not very practical. I was straining my ears listening for red-billed oxpeckers, as these little birds are in constant attendance, gleaning parasites from a host of large game. Although excellent early warning systems for a buffalo, their shrill chirping often gives away its whereabouts. The stark reality of being on my own in a precarious situation then hit home. I would need every bit of help I could get.
It started to cool down, not dramatically but perceptibly. I didn’t need the bandana anymore and my sweat-soaked clothes started to work like a cooling radiator.
I knew I should ignore these comforts and stay focused. I proceeded cautiously, taking time to scour the bush in front of me, bending down every now and again to look below the browse line for the buffalo’s legs. Basically, I was hoping to see him before he saw me. The area through which we were moving is known as ‘Klipheuwel’ (Stone hill), and I thought how aptly named it was. At times the terrain was so rocky there was no visible spoor to follow. In these instances I relied on instinct, experience and a dash of luck, and made a calculated guess as to which route he had taken. Looking for tracks in the soil between the stones, I carefully placed my feet on the larger rocks to deaden my approach. This tactic worked, and as I rounded a small stony kopje something made me look up.
Looking straight at me, not more than five metres away, was the buffalo! Again he snorted and turned to run, but this time I’d anticipated his move …
The sun was sinking low and I had only a vague idea of where I was. Climbing to the top of the little kopje, I made out the single power lines in the distance. The thick bush and fading light were of some concern to me as the carcass needed to be loaded before predators found it. At the same time, I wasn’t sure that in the dark, I’d find the spot where the buffalo lay. I needed something to mark the way and the only material light enough in colour to use was my underpants. Off they came, and I cut them into strips. These were tied to prominent trees and bushes until I reached the single power line road so I would be able to use them to guide me back in on my return. Tightening my shoelaces and placing my backpack against the pylon, I began the slow jog home.
In less than half an hour, we were on our way back to collect the buffalo. Bringing the vehicle in wasn’t easy and it was almost dark. But, as I had the game scouts with me, I felt more confident. It took all of 15 minutes to slowly pick our way through the bush, guided by the occasional strip of my underpants, and we found the buffalo easily enough. Everybody wanted to have a look as natural curiosity takes over when you’re able to touch and feel such an awesome animal. We were just getting the vehicle into position to load, when I saw one of my trusty trackers, Jabulaan, shake his head and smile.
‘Come and look here, Zutini,’ he said, using my Shangaan name. He was standing about 15 metres down the slope from where the buffalo lay and was pointing to a road. Even though the ‘road’ was more of a track than a real road, it was perfectly serviceable, and I felt foolish for having led them through a gauntlet of thick bush, following pieces of my underpants. Had I known exactly where I was, I would have been able to take us straight to the carcass, but I had concentrated so hard on tracking the buffalo, hoping to see him before he saw me, that nothing else mattered.
Later, back at camp, while butchering the buffalo, an autopsy revealed that the poor animal had a broken shoulder, bruised spleen and a haemorrhage on the left lung, hence he couldn’t lie down comfortably to rest and chew the cud – it was no wonder he had lost condition so rapidly and had been reported acting in ways atypical for a buffalo.
Although the events of this story culminated in a fortunate outcome, both in terms of the suffering of an animal being brought to an end, and my walking away with only the loss of my underwear, it could so easily have gone the other way, and sometimes it really does do just that, go the other way.
This all happened a while ago and until now I have not discussed it much, let alone put it in a newsletter. However, something I read recently changed my mind and prompted me to share this with you.
Ask anyone who knows and they’ll tell you that taking on a dangerous animal, particularly a Cape buffalo, alone and without consideration of the consequences, is extremely dangerous. Taking on an injured or wounded buffalo alone is total madness. This revealed a side of me of which I was ashamed, and upon which I have subsequently reflected occasionally and uncomfortably.
Given my experience, I should have known better. It is difficult to understand what makes rational people act irrationally and impulsively, doing things that in the light of coldly analytical hindsight seem so careless and irresponsible.
This frame of mind remained until I read Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. It’s a factual account of an intelligent young man, Chris McCandless, who is so driven by his love of remote places, particularly Alaska, that his single-minded passion culminates in an emotional state that clouds all rational thought. As a result, he carelessly fails to prepare properly, and neglects to take the necessary precautions.
Some say this showed that he lacked the necessary respect for the Wilderness. Although nobody will ever really know, I suspect I gained a deeper insight into Chris McCandless’ psyche than many may have; I think I understand the way he felt and why he did what he did. I pretty much did the same. The only difference is that I didn’t pay f
or my actions with my life. Tragically, he did.
The Olifants Annual Game Census …
Is it Necessary?
October 2003
The cost of a helicopter game census seems prohibitive. There have been times when the necessity of doing an annual game count using this method – in comparison with, say, the fixed wing option – has been questioned. Dr Petri Viljoen, a wildlife ecologist who specialises in census methods and models throughout Africa, was consulted for his expert opinion. His recommendation was that a helicopter grid count be conducted in reserves of 50 000 hectares or less. He told me that this was particularly important in the thick bushveld and topography that is so typical of lowveld reserves.
As a warden tasked with the efficient running of a game reserve, I am often asked if this cost is justified, and my answer is the same as always. ‘Is taking a monthly stocktake in a retail business necessary, or, is the Pope a Catholic?’ The answer is, of course, yes, it’s necessary! The fact of the matter is that, on average, the costs incurred equate to less than 0.00017 per cent of the total market value of the property, and less than 0.0003 per cent of the value of the game being counted. Meaningless figures perhaps, but it does put things in perspective in terms of the cost-to-value ratios.
In order to keep a handle on the real state of affairs on Olifants, to implement appropriate conservation management techniques, and to help make informed decisions on how best to manage our game populations, we need accurate and reliable data. Without the knowledge of what is on the land, it’s down to guesswork, and this can be a big problem in a relatively small reserve. As it happens, our annual game census, our ‘audit’, is no longer an option as it is now required by law as part of a management plan. This plan has to be complied with and submitted to the authorities before any permits are issued or the removal or hunting of game can take place.
The logic is simple. If you have no evidence of ‘stock’ how can you possibly know how much to market in the hunting sense, or if there is no proof of abundance or overpopulation, how can you expect to obtain a permit for capture and removal of surplus stock. Most importantly, this formality encourages landowners to actively move closer to the holistic approach and further away from the ecologically terminal ‘Myne syndrome’ and manage their properties in a cohesive and responsible manner by replacing thumb-sucking with science.
Two sets of numbers sit at the heart of the required data. There are the game count figures, which indicate larger herbivore biomass, and then there is the analysis of the vegetation monitoring plot data, conducted by members of the same team, which determines vegetative biomass. This is the crux of the statistical base of our management. The data are definitive. They give you a very good idea of what your veld is carrying in terms of animal biomass, and what you should be carrying, relative to what there is available for that biomass to consume.
Of paramount importance and key to reliable data is consistency. Consistent light conditions, veld conditions, counting apparatus and personnel are essential. This year’s census was delayed by a few weeks in order to allow the vegetation to dry and thin out more, thereby approximately replicating last year’s conditions when the count was done. This variable is unpredictable and the most difficult to control, but with the identical counting apparatus and the same professional team that have been doing our counts for the last 16 years, we were at least assured of excellent control in this regard.
Nonetheless, you cannot expect to count every animal on the reserve; the best we can hope to achieve is a pattern of trends, which is reliant on being as consistent as possible. The most uncontrollable variable in the equation, besides the weather, is the human factor. Even a consistently average-to-poor spotter is better than someone who has good days and bad days. Worse still, if counters change frequently, your results may not be an accurate indication of what is happening on the reserve.
I’ll stick my neck out and say for the last 16 years, Olifants has probably compiled some of the best and the most consistent game census data in the lowveld, largely due to the consistency of our team.
Mike Peel, with his recently obtained doctorate behind him, heads up the team and has done so since the beginning. His brother, John, and colleague, André Jacobs, are the counters. Mike Pingo, the pilot, is so familiar with the area that he even remembered the tree in which they had spotted a leopard last year that had now been flattened by elephant. I don’t think there’s been another pilot ever to have flown this team on our reserve. You cannot beat this for continuity.
The jump-seat in the rear of the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter is usually reserved for the game warden or ranger of the reserve or region being counted. There are times, however, when this privilege is given up to allow an enthusiast the opportunity to ‘help’ with the count. This generous offer can also be a discreet way out of a rather embarrassing affliction suffered by some of the most rugged and burly of rangers. These individuals, despite trying really hard to hide their weakness, can be identified by the slight bulge in their top shirt pocket. Invariably, this contains a sturdy zip-lock plastic bag which is reserved for later use during the flight. Almost always near the end of a counting session as the chopper settles on the ground, the bag is rapidly deployed to receive that morning’s breakfast. It always fascinates me to see how many rangers eat diced carrots for breakfast. Maybe Jiffy could manufacture ‘game ranger sick-bags’ that aren’t see-through, perhaps in khaki or camouflage … and, of course, they would have to be biodegradable.
Riding in the jump-seat of the chopper and low flying for hours with the doors removed is for most a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Choosing who gets to ride is difficult, as there have been times when the occupant of this seat has had a noticeable effect on the outcome of the count. On one such occasion there was an inexplicable blip in the data, an unaccountable buck in the trend (no pun intended). It was the year that a rather attractive young woman occupied the jump-seat between John and André. After a post mortem of that day’s data we learned their focus was not where it should have been. Given the Freudian fact that men cannot concentrate on two subjects at once, this statistical hiccough was sympathetically put down to human error.
Easter is the Best Time
Every year!
We are fast approaching what is arguably the most beautiful time of the year in the South African lowveld. The autumn months of April and May produce a climate that is hard to beat anywhere in the country, in Africa, in the world. In our neck of the woods, this usually translates into pleasant and comfortable weather conditions in which to view game and enjoy the bush. The days are clear and sunny, and are pleasantly warm as opposed to hot. Midday temperatures gently taper off as you approach sundowner time, cooling suddenly as the sun sets; yet, you won’t find it cold enough to need more than a windbreaker to stay comfortable. When evening sets in, the fire in the boma becomes the focus of warmth and sustenance, and soon the soles of your boots get really warm as the flaming hardwood turns to glowing hot coal. Then it’s time to sit back with a glass of your favoured tipple in hand, and take it all in.
Insect numbers start to dwindle. There’s no more moth with your mouthful of merlot, and no supplementary squadrons of stinkbugs spicing up your starters. The boomslangs have beaten it back into the bush, bloated with a bellyful of bats that they slithered into your roof to get. There are fewer red veld rats to rasp through your vehicle’s wiring harnesses. The Mozambique spitting cobra which these rodents attracted has now done its pest control job and is curled up out of harm’s way at the bottom of the woodpile. Mambas are less active, and unless you have a late brood of squirrels in your roof, you’re unlikely to see one until next season.
Oh yes, I’d say it’s a good time to visit the bush.
Woken by the first francolin’s harsh cackle, invariably the raucous Natal spurfowl, you don’t mind, because the crisp fresh mornings fill you with eager anticipation. There’s something to get up for, and for once, it’s not to try and beat the traffic to work
. You feel an urgency to get out early, before the game quench their thirst and seek shade.
As you head out, you cannot help but notice the myriad animal tracks, scuff marks and tell-tale signs in the soft sand on the roads. The detail is sharp, because there’s not much wind to round off the edges at this time of the year. There is no dearth of information out there, and if you take the time to learn the language, it can be read like an early morning edition of ‘Bush News’. Not only are the happenings and drama of the night before revealed, but important clues as to where to concentrate your search for big game can also be gleaned from this evidence.
The characteristically undulating topography of our reserve allows for some commanding views from which to survey the bush. Sitting quietly on one of the designated vantage points, or on a personal favourite, you watch as the pink haze of dawn gets brighter, the sun rises and the day begins. Sipping a mug of hot coffee and dunking a rusk, you plan your game drive route, the strategy of which may or may not be influenced by the lions you can hear roaring in the distance.
Only the wiliest of last season’s youngsters have come through the lambing and calving season. Having survived the relentless attention of predators, they are beginning to hint at the promise of maturity. Wildebeest calves have begun to change colour, going from juvenile fawn to the darker grey-brown of the adult, and are now beyond their most vulnerable age. The longer they live, the wiser they get, which improves their chances of survival exponentially.
Impala youngsters have now grown by more than five times their birth weight in less than three months, and have all but lost their gangly-legged cuteness. The adult bulls and rams prepare for the coming rut, which peaks in May or thereabouts, and will spend most of the day eating, rapidly putting on condition now, because later there’s going to be no time for eating when the serious stuff starts. The grass begins turning the colour of ripe wheat, reaching maximum protein content, which provides the nutrition necessary to help hedge against the lean winter months that are just around the corner.
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