With A Double
The choice soon becomes obvious.
and lioness. The client’s shot was fired at an angle from the left rear and, had the
bullet not come apart and failed, would have most likely dropped the cat in its tracks.
We had worked this pride for several days, and had sat on the bait for three evenings with nothing to show for our efforts. We had tried to stalk the pride on foot each morning, but my client was simply not skilled enough to slip up on a pride of 15 lions at close range and make a steely-eyed, off-hand shot at one of the most dangerous animals in the world. In fact, each time we had put the cats up and maneuvered for a shot at one of the two nice males, I continually found myself pulling Manolo along with one hand with my Rigby in the other, trying to position him for a shot. Simply put, he was bleepin’ scared! Not that I blame him. Lions can be very intimidating, particularly when you are on foot with them, without the customary ditches and high fences one associates with lions viewed at the zoo. Manolo had simply never experienced anything like this before and nobody ever knows for sure how he will react under similar circumstances.
The pride was slightly larger than most in the area, with a total head count of 15 males, females and youngsters from three distinct age groups, ranging from small cubs to near adults. This particular bait tree was an excellent location we had used before. It was fairly close to camp and sat just off a dry creek bed that still retained several small pools of water close by, one large enough to accommodate a lone hippo bull (more about him later). Two dirt tracks and several game trails converged close by, which made dragging the buffalo gut pile to leave a scent trail that much easier to accomplish.
When you hang a lion bait, you want to pull the bait up high enough off the ground to ensure that the lions can only manage to reach and feed off of the lower half of the carcass. They simply can’t resist a free meal. The trick is, the bait has to be high enough to allow the cats to eat the bottom most portion without finishing the entire bait. It’s that section of uneaten meat up top they can’t reach that keeps them coming back to the bait. Once the cats strike a bait, you must freshen it quickly with additional meat or they may not return more than once to see if the uppermost meat is still there. To give you an idea just how large a big male can be, if you are 6' tall, stretch your arms as high as you can over your head while standing on your tiptoes. The highest point you can reach with your finger tips in this manner is as high as a big male can feed with his mouth while standing upright on his hind legs. This is the traditional method of determining how high up in the tree the bait should be placed.
hammerless boxlock double rifle produced in 1904. The .450 31⁄4" NE
round was a proprietary Rigby cartridge. The Joseph Manton & Co. .500 3"
Nitro-Express (bottom) is a top lever, exposed hammer, sidelock double rifle.
This Manton was originally built as a .470 in 1908.
We had recovered the mane hair of two nice males from the bait several mornings earlier in the hunt, after they first fed on the buffalo. When lions feed from a high-hanging bait, they will wrench and twist their mouths and teeth in the carcass, first to get leverage and then to tear off a five to 10-pound chunk of meat to consume while on all fours or lying down beneath the bait. In doing this, they shed small amounts of mane hair, which stick to the decaying raw meat. When you get a strike on the bait, these hairs can be examined to determine the length and color of the manes of the lions feeding. In this particular pride, there were two respectable males, one blonde and the other a tawny brown, both with 8" to 10" mane hair.
After several days of cat and mouse, we were running out of time. My client simply was not up to stalking the lions in the morning on foot and they were coming to the bait well after dark. While I generally don’t like to alter the area around a bait after cats are already feeding, in this instance there was no choice. With two days left in the hunt, we decided to build a machan and spend the night in its relative safety in the hopes of getting Manolo a shot at first light. A machan is a raised platform blind, which was used extensively by the British in the old days for hunting lion in Africa and tiger in India. You can build freestanding machan’s, however, if the area permits, a large tree works best. We were in luck as there was a very nice tree approximately 25 yards downwind of the bait. We generally build ground blinds once we have a lion feeding, but — having already patterned the pride — we knew they would not come into the bait until well after dark. The thought of sitting on the ground, in the dark, with 15 lions wandering around was not a very appealing prospect.
The tree had two large branches splaying out almost at a right angle. All we needed to do was to bridge the two branches and add a third support leg and we were in business. The trackers cut a long, forked mopane pole and sunk it two feet into the ground, forming the third leg of a tripod. Two additional stout poles were cut and lashed in place between the two tree branches and the upright, forked mopane pole support. Then we laid a section of thinner poles across the structure to form the floor of the platform. Everything was then lashed tightly together with African duct tape. (For those of you who haven’t been to Africa yet, “African duct tape” is 1/4" thick bailing wire used for just about every purpose you can imagine and some that you can’t.) The height of this particular machan was dictated by the support branches of the tree, which in this case was approximately 12' off the ground. Our expert trackers, Clever and Nyawni, cut bundles of tall grass and used them to fashion a wall around the three sides of the machan nearest the bait. I cut two windows in the grass wall in the correct shooting positions and then wired together two grass plugs to fill the windows.
There are two different schools of thought regarding clients and lions. In my opinion, both are correct in their own right. The key is determining which category a particular client fits best. With some clients, the longer they watch the cats, the calmer they become. They settle down after prolonged exposure to the lions nearby. However, with the majority of clients, I have found just the opposite. The more time they have to look at the lions and think about the shot, the more likely they are to become overly excited. Having already watched Manolo’s response to the lions on foot, I judged him to fall in the latter category. Therefore, the plan was to keep his shooting port closed until the very last minute. The hope is, that by removing the grass plug at the last minute, identifying the correct male, followed by the order to shoot, the client will simply respond to the situation and get his shot off before he is emotionally overtaken by what he is about to do.
We finished the machan by laying three of the camp mattresses across the floor of the platform. This is important for several reasons, the first and foremost of which, is to eliminate any source of potential noise and movement when working this close to the cats. The more comfortable you are in the blind, the longer you are able to sit still. In addition, since we intended to sleep in the machan, rather than to attempt to approach it in the dark before first light, we wanted to be as comfortable as possible in the hopes that we would be able to sleep enough to be reasonably fresh in the morning. With the machan completed, we returned to camp to have lunch and get some rest before resuming the hunt.
As has always been my practice, after lunch I went through my kit to make certain that everything was ready for the afternoon hunt. I cleaned the lenses of my Swarovski 8x30mm binoculars. I wiped my Ruger SP101 5-shot .357 Magnum revolver clean and checked to make sure it was loaded. I ran a .410 shotgun bore swab through the barrels of my John Rigby, .450 3?" Nitro Express boxlock, to remove any dust that might have accumulated during the morning hunt and the building of the machan. I checked the cartridges in my vest to make certain that I had the right loads for lion, in this case, 500-grain Woodleigh softnose bullets sitting on top of 72 grains of IMR 3031, capped off with Federal 215 Magnum rifle primers. On top of the powder in the straight walled case, was a 1/4" cork disc. A 3-grain poly-fiber fill wad was placed between the bullet and the cork while the powder filled up the balance of the case. The poly-fiber fill wad and cork kept the powder pressed against the primer flash hole in the 3?"-long cartridge cases. The big 500-grain softnose bullets chronograph at 2,180 fps out of the 28" barrels of the Rigby.
We returned to the machan at 3:30 p.m. just in case the cats decided to come to the bait early. Don, one of our young staff PHs, joined Manolo and me in the machan. Don was a resident and an excellent hunter. Since we were spending the night in the machan, we decided it would be a good idea to have a second qualified PH present so that neither one of us would be forced to stay awake all night. We climbed into the machan from the back of the Land Cruiser, which then returned to camp a short distance away. My partner, Richard, our resident “old salt,” would bring the vehicle around immediately in the event a shot was fired.
cartridges slipped partially into the chambers.
The sun slowly disappeared into another beautiful African sunset as we settled in for the night. True to form, the pride suddenly appeared a good hour after legal shooting time. In a manner so typical of the big cats, they strolled in suddenly as if they owned the place. One minute there was nothing, the next minute there were 15 lions ranging in size from several tiny cubs up to and including the two large males we expected. I whispered to Manolo to relax and try and get some sleep as it was going to be a long night.
We had freshened the bait that afternoon by moving another bait not yet touched and the cats fed on what they could reach. I sat comfortably watching the lions from my vantage point. Some time around 11:00 p.m. the moon rose and the viewing improved tremendously. I studied the two males with my 8x30 Swarovskis, trying to determine which of the two cats had the better mane. It was about 1:00 a.m. when we received an unwelcome visitor. Don and Manolo were both asleep and I was still watching the lions in the clearing.
My first indication that something was amiss was provided by one of the lioness, who suddenly jumped up and stared off to the left of the tree towards the creek bed. I strained to see what the cat was looking at when I distinctly heard splashing. Another one of the females reacted to the noise and then the remaining members of the pride who were closest to the water suddenly moved towards the other side of the clearing. A dark mass appeared on the edge of the clearing. A quick look through my Swarovskis and the distinct outline of a large hippo came clearly into view. Now this will be interesting, I thought to myself. The hippo walked across the clearing and disappeared to the left of our machan. The lions relaxed and it appeared that the excitement was over. Wrong again. It couldn’t have been two minutes later when the machan began to violently shake. I slapped my hand over Manolo’s mouth in hopes of stifling any noise he might make as he was awakened by the sudden undulations of the blind. He looked startled, but was awake enough to realize where he was and that he shouldn’t make a sound. Just as suddenly as the shaking started, it stopped. I grabbed my double and holding on to one of the supporting tree branches, I leaned towards the rear of the machan floor and peeked over the edge. Six feet below me, directly under the machan, stood the hippo bull.
He had either bumped into our support pole, or worse still, had scratched himself up against it in an attempt to relieve an inopportune itch. I motioned to Don and Manolo to grab a hold of the tree. Visions of the machan crashing to the ground on top of an angry hippo in the midst of a pride of 15 lions suddenly flashed through my mind. It was not a pretty picture. The machan started to shake again and we held on for dear life. Then it stopped again. We held our breath collectively. Manolo’s eyes were the size of silver dollars and Don was mouthing the obvious question to me, “What the bleep was that?!” I held my finger to my lips calling for silence. Everything was quiet. We waited apprehensively for the next tremor, but nothing happened. I kept a firm grip on the tree branch and peeked over the back of the machan again. Nothing. Our earthquake-on-the-hoof had moved off behind the tree and was walking towards the bush on the other side of the dirt track. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked back out towards the bait. The pride had settled down and everything had returned to normal — if you consider sitting on a platform in the dark with 15 lions and one hippo normal.
We settled back in to wait for first light and legal shooting time. The adrenaline rush brought on by the hippo prevented Don and me from getting any shuteye. Surprisingly enough, Manolo drifted off to sleep again within the hour. Shortly after 5:00 a.m., the cats started to get restless. It was still more than 20 minutes to legal shooting time. Manolo was still asleep and Don and I were watching the pride. Two of the adult females began to pace back and forth. One of the males made a last attempt to try and reach the meat on the upper portion of the buffalo carcass — 15 minutes to go — then one of the pacing females began to circle the clearing. Twice she walked right underneath the machan. Each time when I lost sight of her out of my shooting window, I rolled over and faced the sloping trunk of the tree in the event that she was to suddenly decide to join us in the machan. Each time I wondered if she had picked up our scent. Five minutes to go. I covered Manolo’s mouth with my hand and gently shook him awake. I watched the female reappear in front of the machan as she rejoined the pride. One minute to go. I looked for the two males to see which one presented the best target. Both were on their feet now. I took one last look and quickly decided that the blonde-maned male was the better of the two lions. I leaned over and pulling the grass plug out of Manolo’s shooting port, whispered in his ear, “Tidar el leon en la lada izquierda. El es alli,” as I pointed at the blond maned lion.
of the original finish intact. Years of use and countless miles in Africa have
gradually worn away much of that finish. Unlike many other collectible rifles,
doubles, when properly refinished and restored by one of the original
English manufacturers, actually go up in value.
I turned to Manolo, “Tu tidar bueno?” His quick response, “Yo no say?” “Don, did he hit the cat?” “I don’t know,” came the response. “We were so close to the cat … if it was a hit, the sound of the shot drowned out the impact of the bullet.” In the distance, we heard the Land Cruiser start up. We stayed put until Richard arrived with the vehicle. We climbed down out of the machan onto the roof of the cab and into the bed of the cruiser and drove back to camp. It would be several hours before the light would be good enough for tracking. If the lion was hit, he wouldn’t go far and if he wasn’t dead, the additional time would allow him to stiffen up.
Two and a half hours and several pots of coffee later, we left camp in the Land Cruiser. Manolo and his wife waved goodbye from the comfort of the campfire. Richard was driving and Don and I were up top in the bed of the cruiser. We were accompanied by Daniel, a native African PH who worked for the Forestry Department, our tracker Clever, old Nyawni and Sabanda, a Govt. Game Scout with the Park service, who was along as an official observer. We drove to the bait site where Richard and I dismounted along with Clever and Nyawni. The rest of the hunting party got themselves organized in preparation for a classic follow up. Richard was carrying his .470 Manton double rifle, I was still carrying my Rigby .450 3?" and Don had my .500 3" Manton top-lever hammer gun. Daniel was carrying an old Forestry-issued Winchester Model 70 .375 H&H. We walked slowly to the edge of the creek bed where the pride had followed the blonde male. Richard and I scanned ahead and to the sides while Clever and Nyawni examined the spore.
We scanned the bush for movement as the trackers went to work. Nyawni broke the silence … “Gazz” … he pointed at a splash of blood on the ground … “Gazz” … again, farther down the game trail … “Manolo Chia induna” … Nyawni had picked up the trail. The lion was hit. We moved forward slowly, rifles shouldered, scanning from side to side. The spore was confusing due to the number of cats and the fact the lion was not bleeding out heavily. It took us 15 minutes to move 20 yards in the thickening bush as the trackers worked to unravel the spore. Don and Daniel came on line with Richard and me and the rest of the party followed behind. Thirty minutes later, Clever broke the silence, “Manolo chia Syliwan induna,” as he motioned with his finger to his stomach. We looked down to see a large pile of half digested meat mixed with blood and bile, with a few blonde mane hairs in the mix. The lion was gut shot. There was no indication that the cat was crippled in any way as the tracks appeared to indicate a normal gait.
applied engraving, giving them an elegance which only adds to their classic
appeal and mystique. Traditional doubles were always produced with the front trigger
firing the right barrel and the rear trigger firing the left barrel. As a result, many of the
surviving early doubles rifles will exhibit heavier wear in the right barrel than in the left.
As we heard the Land Cruiser disappear in the distance, we continued the advance. Twice more, we found blood mixed with meat and bile. The second pile, however, was different. There was a large bloodstain in the dirt to one side next to the partially digested meat. The male had laid up here for some time as the effects of the wound and vomiting sapped his strength. Suddenly, there was snarling directly ahead of us. We judged the distance to be approximately 75 yards. The trackers moved to the rear as from left to right, Don, Daniel and I moved slowly forward on line. We closed the distance slowly, rifles at the ready, straining for any movement or clue to the location of the cat. He snarled again … 50 yards? We moved forward, nerves on edge, trying to coordinate sound and sight to fix his location, closing the distance one step at a time. A roar of defiance rang out from a thicket 35 yards ahead of us. Everyone froze where they were, rifles at the ready, looking down the express sights. A sudden flurry of movement and the flash of tawny brown and blonde flew out of the back of the thicket, moving straight away from us. Nobody had a shot. Suddenly there was movement again as another cat disappeared following on the heels of the first one. “We have two cats here, everyone stay close”
I remember thinking to myself, “What in the hell am I doing here doing this?” I kept Daniel and Don in my peripheral vision as we started forward again. “Let’s not shoot the wrong cat by mistake.” We advanced another 50 yards when the next roar split the silence. It was quickly followed by another … then a third. The only problem was, the ear splitting sound came from three different locations. “I count three … Don … Daniel?” “It’s three alright.” came the reply. “Let’s back off and think about this one.” Without turning around, we backed away slowly, facing the snarling unseen menace in the thicket up ahead. “Nyawni … Clever … Syliwan Induna?” as I pointed my still shouldered Rigby double in the direction of the thicket. “One Induna … two zagauze” was the unanimous response. Two of the lioness had stayed back to protect what must have been the dominant male of the pride, while the rest of the group had cleared off to move the cubs to safety. I shouted, “Heah!” to try and draw a response. It was quick in coming. A roar followed by snarling split the air then movement as two forms slipped out of the back of the thicket, a third following quickly behind the first two. In the thick scrub, the three forms disappeared too fast to identify and locate the male.
We waited five minutes or more before resuming our advance. When we neared the recently abandoned thicket I moved forward slowly, rifle still shouldered, scanning from side to side, making damn certain that there was not a fourth member of the pride waiting in ambush. Flanked by two hunters I thoroughly trusted, I moved ever so slowly into the scrub. Just as quickly as I moved into the thicket, it opened on a small clearing. Blood was everywhere and there was another frothy pile of half digested buffalo meat. “He’s hit hard and definitely gut shot,” … “Just great!” came the snappy response, fueling a quick bout of nervous laughter. We proceeded through the thicket and the ground opened up slightly. Another 30 yards and we hit the gradual undulations of small run off channels, all of them headed for the dry creek bed up ahead. The bush opened up a bit as we approached the dry creek bed. Just short of the near bank, as well as on the opposite side, was a belt of tall grass flanking either side of the watercourse. The high-water mark during the rainy season had swept the channel clean, leaving two long expanses of grass to spring up on either side of the barren ground on each side of the creek bed. We moved slowly towards the near bank, rifles at the ready. The lion and lioness had grown quiet, which was all the more disturbing as we approached the edge of the grass.
Note how the wrist and locks smoothly flow from the massive barrels of the .500 Manton. The hammers are close enough together to be easily manipulated.
The near bank descended at a constant 30-degree slope towards the creek bed. At its lowest point, the drop was six or seven feet from the banks on either side. The bottom was reasonably level and approximately 11 yards across while the distance from where we stood to the wall of grass on the opposite side was close to 50'. I scanned the scene before us. The opposite bank rose gently to a crowning point surmounted by a continual wall of grass three to four feet high that ran the length of the water course. Just great. The closest of the felines snarled again. Which cat was which? How far into the grass on the opposite side were they waiting? Would they stand their ground or slip away again and repeat the deadly game of the hunter and the hunted? The question was: Who was hunting whom?
The snarling grew in intensity and transitioned into a crescendo of thunderous roaring. The third cat to our left joined the chorus, allowing us to pinpoint its location. The cat had evidently moved farther away. The nearest cat, as best we could tell, was 20 to 25 yards away, directly across the creek bed in the tall grass on the other side. The third animal was some distance beyond, perhaps 30 to 45 yards from where we stood.
“Clever!” “Yaybo Babba.” “Nyawni!” “Yaybo.” I motioned across the streambed with the barrels of the Rigby. “Induna?” They replied in unintended unison, “Induna Babba … yeaaah!”
Given a choice, whether they are hunting for food or settling the score with a pursuing hunter, lions like to lie in ambush on the edge of a clearing or an expanse of open ground. This allows them an excellent field of view as they wait to launch their attack as well as an open runway to rapidly build up speed. During a follow up on a wounded cat, one needs to pay particularly close attention when the blood spoor stretches across an open expanse of ground to a thicket or other form of cover on the opposite side. How far into the grass was the nearest cat?
“Don! Daniel! I’m going to cross the creek bed slowly and slip up the bank and check out that near cat. Cover me until I’m across and then come over on either side of me.” “Careful John!” I started down the near bank, slowly, one foot in front of the other, forcing myself to advance, rifle shouldered, scanning the wall of grass on the far side for movement. Three yards, four. In the middle of the creek bed now … five more yards to the bank … Rrrroooooaaaaarrrr! The bastard let out the loudest roar I have ever heard before or since. I jumped at least two feet in the air in a completely involuntary, reflexive response. I guess the Irish in me wanted my feet to dance a little jig and get the hell out of there. I was in complete shock at the response from my feet, as if they had a mind of their own, and were about to veto the instructions from my brain. The surprise was so complete, that in spite of the proximity of the cat, I stared down at my feet in total disbelief. Rrrroooooaaaaarrrr! I jumped again, only this time, a wee bit higher. It was — and still is — one of the strangest experiences in my life. I was actually watching my feet when my High Techs danced the second jig. It was so involuntary; it was as though a doctor was testing my reflexes. I think my feet were trying to remind me that they could resolve the problem by simply walking my ass right out of there
It took all the nerve I could muster to take those next 10 steps up to the edge of the grass on the crest of the bank. I focused on the task at hand, trying to put the little episode with my feet out of my mind. I stepped as lightly and as quietly as I could, trying not to make any noise as I came up the bank towards the wall of grass. The cat was silent after the second roar. I edged up to the grass, the Rigby’s express sights centered, both eyes open, pupils dilated from the adrenaline pumping through my system. With each step up, I was closer to being able to see over the chest-high grass. I placed my left foot right up within a few inches of the grass curtain, shifted my weight slowly onto my lead foot and raised myself fully upright. Ten yards away, directly in front of me in the tall grass, was the dark tuft of a lion’s tail. I trained my rifle on the grass below the stiffened, twitching tail, and strained to see if I could make out a mane. Was this the wounded male? Either way, 10 yards is an uncomfortably close distance to be from an angry cat. The tail was lashing back and forth from side to side, a characteristic indicator of a pending attack. As I stood there, riveted by the closeness of the cat, ready to shoot if need be, Don came up on my right. When I had started my ascent of the far bank, he had started across the creek bed to support me.
substantially less and still come in stopping calibers, too. This one, built by
John Rigby, Paso Robles, Calif., is chambered for the proprietary .416 Rigby.
Suddenly the face and head of a crouching lioness poked through the wall of grass, her chin a scant 6" off the ground straight down the creek bed where the channel took a right turn. She exploded out of the wall of grass, coming fast and low, down the center of the creek bed. Unless you have witnessed it for yourself, it is hard to imagine something that large, traveling that fast, can stay so low to the ground. The bead of Rigby settled on center mass, somewhere in the vicinity of her chin. At that instant, everything else in the world ceased to exist, save the bead of the front sight and the cat. Boom! The right barrel roared, sending a 500-grain Woodleigh soft nose on the way at 2,180 fps. The recoil brought the rifle up and to the left. I reached for the rear trigger as the rifle came down into battery. Boom! The left barrel discharged, sending the second bullet God only knows where.
I had done something I have never done before or since. My adrenaline got the best of me, and I had reached for the back trigger so fast that I touched off my second barrel before the rifle had come on target, sending my insurance shot somewhere off in the distance, well over the cat’s head. As the rifle recoiled upward and to the right, I lost sight of the lioness. I expected to hear the roar of my .500 double in Don’s hands, but it didn’t come. Instinctively, I snapped open the rifle, tipping the breech to the left, spilling out the two empty shell casings. The two rounds I was carrying between the fingers of my left hand found the chambers and slipped in, the rifle snapping shut in one fluid motion. The lioness was nowhere in sight. I advanced down the creek bed, scanning to the right and left of where the female had started her charge. “Did I hit her?” “I don’t know,” Don replied.
We advanced rapidly towards the wall of grass. “Look for blood.” I continued to search for the cat with rifle shouldered as Don quickly searched the ground. We came up on the spot. “There’s blood here.” I moved up the bank onto level ground and into the grass and caught movement ahead and to the left. The lioness was running again in a wide arc to the right, no doubt attempting to swing around into position to have another go at us. I ran forward five or six yards to get a clear shot. I raised my rifle, the sights tracking her progress as everything once again went into slow motion. As I tracked the lioness, looking for a shot, I noticed a small clearing directly in her path. There was my chance. She came into full view. I swung through her running form touching off the trigger as the front sight cleared her chest. The bullet slammed into her ribs and she nosed into the dirt, tumbling head over heels. No sooner was the lioness down than she sprang to her feet and scrambled into a nearby thicket.
I reloaded as Don and Daniel came up next to me. We walked slowly towards the thicket. We came upon the small clearing where I had knocked her down. There were two bright pink blood spray patterns splashed in either direction over the red soil. “What do you have?” The voice wasn’t Don’s. I turned to look as Richard walked up from behind us. “Yo, Rick, nice to see you. We have a wounded lioness, we have lung blood here; she’s hard hit.” “Where is she now?” “She rolled over, came up on her feet and ran into that thicket.” I pointed to the small thicket. We walked slowly towards the small stand of brush. We could see the lioness on her side, thrashing back and forth. She was hard hit, but still potentially very dangerous.
We closed to around 20 yards. “She’s finished, John.” I handed my rifle to Richard and drew my Ruger SP101 revolver. Using a two-handed push/pull grip, I cocked the hammer back, took a deep breath, let it half out, steadied the sights and squeezed the trigger. The 200-grain silhouette bullet slammed into her skull 1?" above her right eye, snapping her head back against the ground. She lay perfectly still. We approached slowly, rifles ready, observing the rules of the game when approaching a downed, dangerous, big-game animal. We circled slightly to our left so as to approach her lifeless form from behind. Her rib cage was still as I extended the barrels of the Rigby and gently touched her eye. No response. She was finished.
On a side note, you should always approach a downed dangerous-game animal from behind. It is a good idea to use the same procedure with any wounded big-game animal, whether it be a lion, bear, moose or deer. All are potentially dangerous when wounded. The logic behind this is sound and the procedure should never be ignored, regardless of how “dead” an animal appears to be. There are times when an animal may only be stunned by a shot that shocks the spine without hitting it, or perhaps the wounded animal simply has enough fight left in him to suddenly try and settle the score. If you approach the animal from behind, in the event that it does suddenly get to its feet, it has to swap ends to give you a go. The additional time this practice buys you might just be enough to save your life or the life of one of the other members in your party.
Bozeman, Montana. The firm brokers fine quality new and used turnbolts and doubles.
I rolled the lioness over to examine her wounds, determined to find out where I had hit her during the charge in the creek bed. I was shocked to see a large hole almost dead center in the middle of her chest. My first thought was that this must somehow be the exit wound from the running shot that dumped her in the clearing. Upon further examination, I found both an entrance and exit wound through the side of her ribs that had taken both lungs and rolled her in the dirt. How she had absorbed a 500-grain softnose bullet square in the chest and still attempted to mount a second charge was beyond comprehension. Had the bullet somehow managed to slip through her chest lengthwise, missing both of her lungs, her heart and all of the major arteries? I was determined to do a proper post mortem examination of the wound channel when we got back to camp. Subsequent events were to overshadow my curiosity and to this day, as I write this article, I am still amazed that the matter wasn’t settled with that first shot in the creek bed.
With the back slapping congratulations out of the way, and our lioness permit filled — whether we liked it or not — we still had a wounded male to deal with. Obviously, the lion had been the farther away of the two cats that had been across the creek bed. The lioness had hung back, stubbornly defending her mate to the death — hers rather than ours, thank God. At this point, my attention was drawn from the examination of the cat to a sudden argument that flared up between the government game scout, Nyawni and Clever. The gist of the exchange was based on the rather interesting conclusion reached by the game scout, who suddenly declared that we had killed our wounded lion and could now return to camp. Clever and Nyawni, along with everyone else present, knew full well that this was not the male that had been wounded earlier that morning. They chided the game scout, first about his running away and secondly over the fact, correctly stated, that he was too afraid to follow up the wounded lion. Truth was, after the experience with the lioness he had had as much excitement as he could stand for one day. I turned to my partner, Richard, “No way in hell is this the cat that Pedro shot this morning!” He nodded in agreement and in Ndebele, silenced the game scout, simply stating that we had work to do.
We backtracked to the creek bed where we had encountered the lioness. The trackers spread out, looking for spoor. The armed members of the group each paired up with a tracker to provide support if any one of them stumbled onto the cat as they cast for spoor. Clever picked up blood on the far side of the creek bed, beyond where the lioness had made her stand. We came on line with Richard and Don on the right. Daniel paired up with me on the left end of the line. Clever and Nyawni worked the spoor while we scanned the bush up ahead, watching for movement. It is important to note it is critical during a follow up that the entire hunting party never get caught up looking for spoor. That’s the job of the trackers. The armed members of the party should devote all of their concentration to the bush up ahead and likely ambush spots along the apparent route taken by the wounded animal. The last thing you want is to be charged while everyone is carefully studying the ground looking for spoor. In the event there is more than one armed member in the group, then occasional help can be given to the trackers, so long as at least one experienced hunter is detailed to cover the hunting party.
With fresh spoor located, we followed the small drops of dried blood past the creek bed and into another thicket where the cat had laid up for a while, vomiting up more meat and blood. Based on the location, this was most likely where the lion was when the lioness made her stand. He had stopped and she had kept herself between her mate and the hunting party. From there, the tracks wound back to the left, heading up a gradual slope stretched toward the nearest of the many plateaus making up the topography of Matetsi. We worked slowly forward, everyone already pumped from the encounter with the lioness. We had slowly covered an estimated 220 yards when we heard our first protest. “Uuaaaahhh.” A grunt erupted from a thicket 50 yards away in the direction of another group of runoff channels from the plateau. The rifles were shouldered in unison. The party slowed. “Be careful! Everyone stay on line!” ”OK down here Ricky!” Don chimed in, “Let’s do it.” We moved slowly forward, each of us flushed with another rush of adrenaline, each dealing with the pending confrontation in his own way. My thoughts flashed quickly on my two little girls, Lauren and Alison, and how much I loved them and wanted to see them again. I put the thought out of my mind as fast as it had appeared, concentrating on the task at hand. It’s strange how the brain works at times such as this. It’s as if the mind is seeking a momentary escape from the stress and anxiety created in a potential life or death situation. Under extreme duress, the most unusual things can pop in and out of your conscious thought.
holding the lion’s mouth open. The 500-grain Woodleigh softnose bullet
caught the lion squarely in the chest at 12 yards. Sheehan will never forget the
piercing yellow eyes and the flashing teeth of the charging lion as he bore down on him. Holding his fire until the last minute was the hardest conscious decision he ever made.
With this information we moved forward slowly, each of us staying on line while picking our own way in and around the broken ground and scrub that separated us from the vegetation that concealed the lion. I moved slightly to my left, hoping to gain a better vantage point on the gradual slope. I had moved approximately 10 yards to the left of Daniel when I came across a game trail that led in a near straight line directly into the lion’s location. The small, well-traveled path gave me a completely unobstructed view for the entire 25 yards separating us from the cat. I knelt down on my right knee in order to take advantage of the unobstructed view. The purpose of assuming a kneeling position is simple. When and if the circumstances allow, it is always better to take on a pending charge from a kneeling position. This allows you to shoot parallel to the ground, eliminating the potential to accidentally shoot in front of or behind the target in the event of a charge. Diverging angles can present a difficult shot, particularly when faced with an animal as fast as an adult lion.
Suddenly, the air was split with a series of grunts and snarls topped off with a bellowing roar. The only problem was that the source of the verbal tirade was directly to my left on a 90-degree angle from where we knew the male to be. Was this a third lioness, the second male from the pride or was the wounded lion’s companion trying to circle around behind me? Whatever the case, it was disconcerting at best. I was being stalked. Not good. “Richard! I’ve got a cat circling to my left!” “Stay where you are John. Daniel, swing around behind John and cover his flank.” As I scanned the bush to my left looking for any sign of movement, a single roar broke the silence followed by a shout, “Watch out! Here he comes!” I swung the Rigby back to the right, my eyes focused across the sights and down the game trail. The patch of grass shook violently and then parted as the blonde-maned lion exploded out of the hollow. He was coming straight at me. I will never forget the sight of that cat, mouth open wide, teeth flashing, crowned by the piercing stare of those huge yellow eyes. He came low to the ground, starting his charge from 25 yards away, intent on closing the distance and killing the source of his torment and anger.
One of the most remarkable phenomena of this experience was the fact there was no sensation of speed. Time slowed to a crawl, everything in slow motion, as is always the case with experiences of this intensity. But even then, it was as if the cat wasn’t moving at all, but simply growing larger and larger within my sight picture. (Richard and Don both told me later they were astonished by the speed of the cat as he bore down on me). This was due to the cat coming straight at me on reasonably level ground. It removed the sensation of speed altogether. Fearing a repeat of what had happened with the lioness 45 minutes earlier, I had already slipped my finger into the rear trigger, bound and determined not to lose my second shot to an overly eager trigger finger.
As the lion charged down the game trail, I made a mental note to let the cat get close enough I couldn’t possibly miss. The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was to consciously hold my fire, letting the lion close the distance. Twenty yards, 15 yards. Boom! A shot rang out to the right. Boom! A second shot. I picked a spot on a slight rise between the small fingers of runoff that made up the slight undulations in ground that separated me from the lion. With no sensation of speed, the lion simply grew exponentially larger in my sight picture. Those fierce yellow eyes, filled with rage, framed underneath by the gaping mouth, huge yellowish-white teeth glistening, crowned above by the blonde mane, waving in the wind and undulating with each movement of the cat’s shoulders and powerful hindquarters. Ten yards. The slight rise. The sear broke crisp and clean on the left barrel of the Rigby, the 500-grain Woodleigh softnose catching the lion square in the chest, right under the chin. Boom! Went Daniel’s .375, the sound of the two shots indistinguishable from each other.
“Rat-tat-tat-tat … rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat … rat-tat-tat! The sound of an AK-47 added to the chorus of snarling roars emitted by the lioness. I turned to see Richard standing next to Sabanda, the Parks Dept. Game Scout, who was firing bursts of 7.62x39mm into the ground on either side of the lioness. I looked back at the lion, his last breath ebbing away slowly, his chest finally falling motionless. “She’s clearing off. Keep an eye on her Daniel.” I reloaded the empty chamber of my left barrel and walked the few steps that separated me from the motionless lion, touched the muzzle of the Rigby to the cat’s eye, confirming he was dead. The first exuberant slap on the back came from Richard. ”Well done lad! Well done. You’ve earned your pay on this one!” Shaking hands, slapping backs, Clever, Nyawni and Sabanda broke into song, old Nyawni singing the lead, the others chanting the chorus in a ceremony that predates the coming of the Europeans to Africa, one of many age-old hunting traditions among these proud and fearless people.
I hugged Richard, Don and Daniel in quick succession, shook hands all around, received another round of hugs from each of the trackers and was paid the ultimate compliment in the form of a wink and a nod of approval, along with a heartfelt handshake, from old Francis Nyawni. I felt my stomach doing back handsprings, a predictable reaction to the massive injection of adrenaline followed by the sudden release that comes following a life-threatening event. A sudden wave of nausea came over me and then disappeared as rapidly as it had begun. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. My mouth was dry, my tongue sticking to my pallet. I had a heightened sense of awareness. The sky was bluer than it has ever been before or since, the trees greener; everything around me seemed somehow more beautiful than anything I could ever have imagined. My mind raced a million miles an hour, first to those two little smiling faces, Lauren and Alison, then back to the events of the past 24 hours, finally settling on those two big angry yellow eyes, set above the flashing yellow teeth. As I write this, sitting in a taxi during rush hour in Shanghai, I can close my eyes and still see those large piercing yellow orbs, bearing down on me in what was without question, a life-changing event.
Subsequent examination showed to everyone’s surprise, that Manolo’s shot had actually been quite good, quartering the lion from the left rear on a straight path towards the cat’s chest cavity. The RWS bullet had plowed into the tightly packed contents of the lion’s full stomach, where it had disintegrated and failed to reach any of the vital organs in the chest cavity. The bullet had failed completely. If it hadn’t, the lion would have most likely been DOA in the creek bed by the bait. My shot had caught the lion square in the chest, as had Daniel’s 300-grain softnose. Either shot should have done the trick, but we were just happy both of us connected. We arrived back in camp to the chanting and singing that always accompanies a lion kill. Manolo came out and hugged and thanked each of us, his beautiful wife, Marta, crying the whole time, happy that no one had been injured during the follow up. We informed Manolo that he had a lioness to pay for, which he happily agreed to. After myriad celebratory exchanges, the entire camp now singing and chanting with old Nyawni still taking the lead, I shouted loud and clear over the din, “Titus! Gin and tonic, please!” Minutes later, our trusty bar tender, Titus, handed me my first gin and tonic. The rattling ice-cubes were a clear indicator that my hands had still not quit shaking. I had not slept for more than 30 hours, had experienced at least a dozen separate rushes of adrenaline and had faced two determined charges — 45 minutes apart — from what is arguably one of the most dangerous animals in the world. All in a days work. Yeah, right!
Two hours of photos, a lot of sober reflection, another eight gin and tonics and we were all informed by Manolo and Marta that we were driving to Vic Falls to celebrate. What a night that was, but that’s another story all together.
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