From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

Hunting in Africa in the Latter Part of the Twentieth Century

by

Steve Christenson

Safari Press

FROM THE OKAVANGO TO THE PLAINS OF EAST AFRICA © 2012 by Steve Christenson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without permission from the publisher.

The trademark Safari Press ® is registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and with government trademark and patent offices in other countries.

Christenson, Steve

First edition

Safari Press

2012, Long Beach, California

ISBN 978-1-57157-387-2

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2010939010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in China

Readers wishing to receive the Safari Press catalog, featuring many fine books on big-game hunting, wingshooting, and sporting firearms, should write to Safari Press, P.O. Box 3095, Long Beach, CA 90803, USA. Tel: (714) 894-9080 or visit our Web site at www.safaripress.com

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Table of ContentsForeword ...................................................................................................................................................................viiIntroduction to Part I, Botswana ............................................................................................................................ ix

Part I Botswana Chapter 1 Genesis of the Dream ...................................................................................................................1 Chapter 2 Thamalakane Two-Step ................................................................................................................3 Chapter 3 Bush Lessons .................................................................................................................................5 Chapter 4 The Master Takes a Pupil ............................................................................................................9 Chapter 5 The Alpha Leopard .................................................................................................................... 12 Chapter 6 Pofu ...............................................................................................................................................18 Chapter 7 Masethleng Lion Country .........................................................................................................23 Chapter 8 Reflections on Lions ...................................................................................................................26 Chapter 9 The Curse Is Lifted .....................................................................................................................29 Chapter 10 Reloading in Masethleng ...........................................................................................................35 Chapter 11 The Land of Inkwe .........................................................................................................................40 Chapter 12 A Savage Fury .............................................................................................................................48 Chapter 13 Bush Therapy ..............................................................................................................................54 Chapter 14 Blood Sand ..................................................................................................................................58 Chapter 15 Sunset of Inkwe ..............................................................................................................................60 Chapter 16 An Okavango Prelude ................................................................................................................62 Chapter 17 The Best Laid Plans ...................................................................................................................66 Chapter 18 A Classic Sitatunga ....................................................................................................................68 Chapter 19 A Second Try for Sitatunga .......................................................................................................73 Chapter 20 Kgama’s Valuable Lessons .........................................................................................................75 Chapter 21 Coming of Age ............................................................................................................................77 Chapter 22 Kwai River Buffalo ......................................................................................................................82 Chapter 23 The Camp Jester .........................................................................................................................86 Chapter 24 Hunting Knows No Justice .......................................................................................................91 Chapter 25 The Linyanti Bull ........................................................................................................................96 Chapter 26 The Noble Warrior .....................................................................................................................99 Chapter 27 A Classic Adventure ................................................................................................................ 103 Chapter 28 Banished .................................................................................................................................... 111

Introduction to Part II, Tanzania ....................................................................................................................... 113

Part II Tanzania Chapter 29 Haunting Memories ................................................................................................................ 116 Chapter 30 Most Hated ............................................................................................................................... 121 Chapter 31 A Savage in Eden ...................................................................................................................... 130

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Chapter 32 Mbogo Kubwa Sana .................................................................................................................. 141 Chapter 33 Mbogo Babu ............................................................................................................................... 148 Chapter 34 Jumbo ......................................................................................................................................... 152 Chapter 35 Sovereign ................................................................................................................................... 156 Chapter 36 Titans of Lolkisale ................................................................................................................... 159 Chapter 37 More Than Horns ................................................................................................................... 164 Chapter 38 Extraordinaire .......................................................................................................................... 168 Chapter 39 Along the Kenya Border .......................................................................................................... 171 Chapter 40 Peerless Beauty .......................................................................................................................... 175 Chapter 41 In the Shadows of Kilimanjaro ............................................................................................... 180 Chapter 42 A Place of Respect ................................................................................................................... 187 Chapter 43 Meru’s Gem ............................................................................................................................... 191 Chapter 44 Mgambo Juju .............................................................................................................................. 194 Chapter 45 A Special Vantage ............................................................................................................................... 203 Chapter 46 Along the Grumeti ................................................................................................................... 213 Chapter 47 Last Chance ............................................................................................................................... 224 Chapter 48 Kuro ....................................................................................................................................................... 228 Chapter 49 An Issue of Respect ................................................................................................................. 234 Chapter 50 The Honey Guide .................................................................................................................... 236 Chapter 51 Mickey and Mallory ................................................................................................................ 239 Chapter 52 Kirk Sable ................................................................................................................................. 250 Chapter 53 Retracing History .................................................................................................................... 259 Chapter 54 Another Classic Adventure .................................................................................................... 262 Chapter 55 The Last Eden .......................................................................................................................... 268 Chapter 56 Vardon Antelope ..................................................................................................................... 270 Chapter 57 Some Mistakes Are Forever ................................................................................................... 274 Chapter 58 Deadly Warriors ...................................................................................................................... 280 Chapter 59 Citadel ....................................................................................................................................... 283 Chapter 60 Renewing an Old Quest ......................................................................................................... 288 Chapter 61 Natalie’s Simba ..............................................................................................................................293 Chapter 62 Relentless Passion .................................................................................................................... 297 Chapter 63 The Art of War ........................................................................................................................ 299 Chapter 64 Prelude ...................................................................................................................................... 308 Chapter 65 Rogues ....................................................................................................................................... 310 Chapter 66 A Question of Tactics ............................................................................................................. 312 Chapter 67 A Fierce Pride ........................................................................................................................... 315 Chapter 68 A Final Trophy ........................................................................................................................ 320

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Foreword“. . . one does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary,

one kills in order to have hunted.” José Ortega y Gasset

Meditations on Hunting

Sharing a safari with a dedicated trophy hunter, an enthusiastic adventurer, and an ethical sportsman, is the hope of every professional hunter. I speak

about special clients who shun the beaten paths, prefer to avoid lavish camps, and are willing to search long and hard for one animal, an exceptional trophy—more extraordinary than any taken.

By definition, the nature of the sport implies such trophies are rare, not the by-product of most safaris. Consequently, the experienced trophy hunter knows to temper expectations while tenaciously believing that within the untamed African wilderness lurks the possibility to fulfill his quest. Sportsmen such as this are optimists. They greet each sunrise believing this could be the day—behind the next bush, around a distant corner, or beyond a towering hill the extraordinary awaits.

Sweat and long hours of glassing, stalking, and hunting are required to be at the right place, at the right time for what may only be a fleeting glimpse of a coveted animal. The disciplined hunter must be willing to pass lesser trophies if he is to achieve the exceptional. How can a hunter expect to bag a fifty-inch Cape buffalo if he is unwilling to pass up a forty-five incher? Most would not. These distinctions separate the most accomplished hunters. Yes, luck contributes to the outcome of a hunt, but consistent achievement is attained through discipline and dedication. Most importantly, these sportsmen uphold a self-imposed code of ethical conduct when afield, sometimes to the detriment of their own quest.

The meaning of a safari is far more than shooting a black-mane lion or a sixty-inch kudu. It is a complex experience few people have the opportunity to experience. It is an adventure, unique in the world of big-game hunting. Its most time-honored traditions extend for over a century in East Africa. Hunters who embrace that history are also consumed by the beauty of the wilderness; the heritage of these people need not be common. I first met this kind of sportsman in 1986. We call him Mzee, out of respect, but his given name is Steve Christenson.

In many ways, Steve was my first client, or so it seemed as we trekked through the alpine forests of

Mount Meru. I was not a professional hunter at the time, being only sixteen years of age. My dad, George Angelides, sent me along to assist, as apprentices often do, the professional hunter and scouts. Despite my youth, Mzee treated me as an equal, an integral member of the team. The Meru hunt proved to be a defining experience. Steve’s enthusiasm and spirit were infectious. He loved just being in Tanzania and on the mountain. It was during those exciting days I committed to my future profession. The experience solidified my beliefs and amplified those aspects of hunting I held most dear.

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa is the amazing true story of a young man who first comes to Botswana during the Golden Age of the Safari pursuing excitement and adventure. He quickly discovers that fulfilling his lifelong dream requires dedication, perseverance, and skills that would require years to perfect. Steve was indeed fortunate to develop close relationships with Botswana hunting icons Wally Johnson and Willie Engelbrecht. These were his mentors, the professional hunters who taught him hunting and tracking, proficiency with firearms, and appreciation for classical African safaris.

As a lad I heard yarns of Wally Johnson hunting huge elephants just across the border in Mozambique with Harry Manners. And Willie Engelbrecht was always legendary, even in Arusha. Willie was a close friend of Dad’s and Gerard Miller’s. Gerard’s father had trained the three in the 1960s. I never met Willie Engelbrecht or Wally Johnson, but after reading From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa I feel that I met each and would love sharing campfires with them.

Botswana in the 1970s was an extension of the great East African safaris of yore. Mzee describes it as the Wild West, and what else would you expect? Many of the greatest professional hunters of the last fifty years moved from East Africa to Botswana to ply their trade. Men like Harry Selby, John Kingsley-Heath, Lionel Palmer, John Lawrence, Tony Henley, Dougie Wright, and Soren Lindstrom ensured the standards established in Kenya and Tanzania would endure until the ten-year hunting ban imposed in Tanzania was lifted.

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As years passed, it was clear to me why Mzee and my dad became close friends and kindred hunting partners. I often laugh at how I hated to follow Dad into a hunting area. There was rarely a well-used road, not because he did not hunt hard and afar, but because no road existed in the proper direction. “Any fool can drive along a road and spot animals,” he said. Even today, I believe there are valleys not hunted since George Angelides and Steve Christenson decided, “Let’s take a look over there.”

For the past century-and-a-half publishers have printed books depicting Africa, and hunting has been a popular topic. It is not by chance the backdrop for many of the most colorful and finely articulated has been East Africa, specifically, Tanzania. While I am biased to favor my homeland, few would argue a more spectacular, game-rich country exists. Tanzania’s widespread and diverse game populations are legendary. Certainly, the country represents the most prolific bastion for the Big Four. Since reopening in 1982, the resurgence of big-game hunting has propelled Tanzania to the forefront of the industry. This is true for sportsmen seeking an extensive general bag with a license including all dangerous game. As I gaze upon my own library, I am struck by

a glaring absence. A book should be written focusing on the advent of big-game hunting in Tanzania since it reopened in 1982. The country is that important! From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa fills the historical void in great style.

Steve’s book is more than a collection of hunting stories. It is certainly that, but Steve Christenson has skillfully woven into each chapter artistic and tasteful descriptions of the land, the wildlife, its people, life on safari, and the emotions associated with hunting in the classical sense. Cast in the prose of a nonfiction novel, the book is highly entertaining, yet easy to read. It is the amazing true story of two friends who pioneered the reopening of the hunting industry in Tanzania. Along the way, they collected amazing trophies and created memorable adventures. The book is also a tribute to the heritage of East African big-game hunting and an account of how the landscape changed the past twenty-five years.

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa is a must read for any African big-game hunter, or for that matter, anyone planning a safari to the game fields of Africa, with or without a rifle. I am honored to introduce this book, as it is destined to be one of the modern classics of African hunting.

Michael AngelidesArusha, TanzaniaJanuary 2011

Michael Angelides, an accomplished professional hunter with Tanza-nia Big Game Safaris, poses with an extraordinary lion taken dur-ing 2010 in Maswa. He currently serves as secretary of the Tanzania Professional Hunters’ Association. Mike lives with his wife, Helene, and their young son, Jason, in Aru-sha. He was the recipient of the Big Six Award in 2004 presented by the African Professional Hunters’ Association. (Photo courtesy of Michael Angelides)

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The winds over Botswana prevail from the Atlantic Ocean. It is said they are dry and often cause sandstorms in the Kalahari. But

there was a period, far too brief in the continuum of time, when they blew with a mighty force from the Tana River, over the Steppes of Maasailand, and across the mighty Zambezi. These were winds of tradition and personal honor codified over decades by archetypical adventurers like Theodore Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway, and Robert Ruark.

These memoirs recount a time past, when the legacies of Frederick Selous, R. J. Cunninghame, Bror von Blixen-Finecke, Denys Finch Hatton, Philip Percival, and John Hunter were carried to a primeval paradise of wild game. The messiah of this movement was Africa’s most respected and accomplished professional hunter, Harry Selby. Best known as Robert Ruark’s PH and safari sidekick, Selby’s 1963 reconnaissance of the Bechuanaland Protectorate proved monumental. His extraordinary game survey and subsequent formation of Ker Downey & Selby Botswana would ultimately vault the tranquil and somewhat obscure country to the forefront of African hunting.

Selby was joined in Botswana by Kenya paragons Eric Rundgren, Lionel Palmer, Bill Siebert, and Ian Henderson. Outfitters quickly formed other Botswana-based safari companies, notably Hunters Africa and Safari South. The influx of safari professionals continued unabated as more East Africans, concerned about Kenya’s future, immigrated to apply their skills in Botswana. These men included Andrew Holmberg, Jackie Blacklaws, John Lawrence, John Kingsley-Heath, John Northcote, Tony Henley, and Soren Lindstrom. When Kenya banned hunting in 1977, newly independent Botswana emerged rich in professional hunting talent. Once a boutique safari country primarily renowned for black-mane lions and

sitatungas, Botswana arose as the preeminent African destination for big-game hunters.

Within a year of the ban, Roosevelt’s classic tented safari vanished from East Africa, only to be resurrected on a scale never before witnessed in the pristine Okavango River Delta and Kalahari Desert. The exodus from Kenya ensured the institution of penultimate operating standards in Botswana, perpetuating a code of ethical conduct forged over decades by the East African Professional Hunters’ Association. Botswana’s reign as undisputed safari paradigm would endure until 1982 when the East African nation of Tanzania reopened to international big-game hunters.

The period 1977 through 1982 was the Golden Era of Botswana’s safari industry. The sleepy nation dominated the landscape of African hunting. Safari South’s amalgamation with KDS Botswana created a staff of professional hunters arguably the finest ever assembled: Javier Alonso, Chris Collins, Joe Coogan, Daryl Dandridge, Colin Dandridge, John Dugmore, Willie Engelbrecht, Tom Friedkin, Tony Henley, Wally Johnson, Walter Johnson, Ronnie Kays, Don Lindsay, Soren Lindstrom, Steve Liversedge, Brian Marsh, Hugh McNeil, Lionel Palmer, Simon Paul, Harry Selby, Mark Selby, Charles Williams, and Dougie Wright. These men were the “Murderers’ Row” of African hunting.

Professional hunters descended on Botswana like circling vultures on a freshly skinned zebra carcass, followed by hordes of clients lusting for trophies. As the decade rolled over, skeptics realized Botswana’s hunting model was flawed. Too many hunters were converging on ecologically vulnerable concessions, and there simply were not enough mature male lions. There weren’t enough mature sable, or mature roan. . . .

By the mid-1980s the large safari operations began to break apart. The Botswana ecosystem couldn’t support 130 safaris per year, a demand generated by only one of the five operating companies.

“I speak of Africa and golden joys; the joy of wandering through lonely lands; the joy of hunting the mighty and terrible of the wilderness, the cunning, the wary, and the grim.”

Theodore RooseveltAfrican Game Trails

Introduction to Part I, Botswana

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“The hunter who wanders through these lands sees sights which ever afterward remain fixed in his mind. After years there shall come to him memories of the lion’s charge; of the gray bulk of the elephant, close at hand in the somber woodland; of the buffalo, his sullen eyes lowering from under his helmet of horn.”

Theodore RooseveltAfrican Game Trails

The setting was comfortably familiar: canvas safari chairs, a chilled Castle, and a fiery sun-set. Zebras barked in the distance, just as they

did at twilight in Kweenie and Pom Pom. Thirty years since first being welcomed to Botswana by Harry Selby, half my life had passed and much had changed. I found myself, once again, staring into an African campfire, searching for answers in glowing acacia embers.

I quit hunting in 1987 following a Heart of Darkness episode in Liberia. My passion for safari was extinguished in the steamy, West African rain forest while hunting the diminutive, nocturnal duikers. Every night I put it all on the line for a twenty-pound antelope—not for the elusive bongo and not for spectacular forest ivory, but for a duiker. I asked myself many questions during that safari and the same conclusion invariably came: The thrill was gone. It was a sad realization. My obsession with African hunting had become twisted, almost aberrant.

I would not return to the game fields of Africa until 1996 when I hunted in Tanzania for a third time, this time with my family in tow. The safari was a memorable experience for the kids, seven and ten years of age at the time. I took a big lion, leopard, buffalo, hippo, and roan, but there was no passion. I was sure the African chapter of my book was closed and it was time to move on.

Another decade passed, and I returned to South Africa for a month-long safari with my wife and children. It was the happiest of times, each of us recounting the day’s adventures around the evening fire. Everyone cheered the others on to the next trophy, caring more about the family’s triumph than fleeting individual aspirations. The experience met the basic criteria for any successful safari, in the memories we shared and the joy that bonded us.

This evening was particularly festive because my son finally connected with a nyala bull, completing our family’s quest in the tick-infested thickets of Mkuze. He exhibited the patience and restraint of an experienced hunter and was justly rewarded with an impressive trophy. I thought how proud Willie Engelbrecht, Michael’s African godfather, would be

of his growing hunting prowess. And then it hit me, like both barrels from a .500 Nitro Express. “No crap trophies hangin’ from my godson’s walls!” I could hear Willie, sitting among us at the fire, laughing and raising a glass to four great nyala bulls.

Mesmerizing, the embers throbbed and shone bright yellow, orange, and then deep scarlet. The color change drew me deeper into the flame as I began to recall the memories of a time when I first came to Africa as a young man. Having repressed them for so long, they seemed those of another man—a sensation bittersweet and slightly melancholic.

The first safaris were the most exciting, a time when dreams of adventure became indelible realities and emotions flowed deeply. Alas, I realized no amount of money could re-create those experiences. Not only had my youth slipped away, but the land and spirit of an era once possessing my soul was also gone forever! I remembered why I had buried those memories. Like those of a great lost love, they were too painful.

The powerfully hypnotic flames swept me back to Kweenie and the night Wally Johnson colorfully described his agonizing bite from a gaboon viper. Then I was carried to the deserts of Masethleng and Willie Engelbrecht was scratching the ears of his beloved dog Buster. My gunbearer Katula handed me my favorite .375 as we began a lion stalk. Pofu, the Bushman tracker pointed out a fresh leopard track in glistening red sand.

And then the faces of those I befriended flashed before me: Harry Selby, Simon Paul, Willie Phillips, Mark and Delia Owens, Steve Liversedge, Tim Liversedge, Tony Challis, Tony Henley, Lionel Palmer, Charles Williams, Tommy Friedkin, John Kingsley-Heath, Dougie Wright. My God, I was back, really back. The memories cascaded like the Zambezi crashing over Victoria Falls. I knew at that moment I needed to get as much on paper as possible. I hadn’t forgotten. I never would. These men were unique, never to be forgotten. Botswana in the late-1970s and early-1980s was too special. I lived part of that great adventure and those experiences profoundly impacted my life.

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I have tried to depict our adventures with clarity, brevity, and truthfulness. These stories have not been embellished as so often occurs when spinning African tales. Some may find the “colorful dialogue” to be offensive but I offer no apology for the emotions of the moment.

This is the story of a young man who dreamed of Africa from the age of twelve. It is a journal recounting memorable events from a grand safari that spanned 1977–1981. It is also a testament to his encounters with legendary professional hunters and amazingly

skilled indigenous people. It is a story of his maturity as a hunter and the development of an uncompromising code of ethical behavior. Most importantly, it is the story of a professional hunter who was dedicated to creating the ideal safari experience. Over the years Willie Engelbrecht and I became lifelong friends. Seven years my senior, he became the older brother I always wanted as well as my bush mentor. In 1987 I asked Willie to be my son’s African godfather. He accepted with great enthusiasm and never forgot his tie to our family.

Too Late by John Seerey-Lester

Genesis of the Dream

Chapter 1

My infatuation with the waters of the Nile began at a safari club meeting. The guest speaker was renowned

professional hunter, John Kingsley-Heath. He was charismatic and infectiously engaging as he vividly described hunting the great game animals of Africa. Kingsley-Heath addressed the group in his signature beret, a navy ascot tucked into a white-cotton shirt befitting his English accent, baggy khaki pants, and a blue blazer adorned with a gold-embroidered patch of the East African Professional Hunters’ Association. The audience was spellbound, hanging on every word.

Halfway through his presentation, Kingsley-Heath broke the most shocking news any group of safari enthusiasts could imagine. “Sadly, I must report to you that two hours before this meeting began, I was officially notified that sport hunting in Kenya has been closed.”

The room was stunned. A man at a far table recoiled in disbelief, “John, could you repeat what you just said? Did I hear you right?” He was a lawyer booked into Kenya for the 1977 season, an adventure that just evaporated!

As Kingsley-Heath reiterated the news, the implications of a major hunting ban struck deeper. Tanzania remained closed, Mozambique was embroiled in anarchy, and Uganda suffered under the despotic tyranny of Idi Amin. Kenya represented the final bastion of traditional East African safaris; now, the potential for adventures eloquently chronicled by Roosevelt, Hemingway, and Ruark was eliminated. Or was it?

The audience peppered John with a barrage of questions, which he patiently answered. However, the professional hunter politely asked if he could finish his prepared talk; he did have good news to report. Like a perfectly placed 7mm, Kingsley-Heath seized the undivided attention of his audience. Just as Moses brought the Ten Commandments down from Mount Sinai, Kingsley-Heath described how certain foresighted outfitters and professional

hunters had anticipated a closure in Kenya and had established new operations in another

country. This country was Botswana, formerly the Bechuanaland Protectorate, geographically located north of South Africa. My heart stopped. Botswana was my personal secret.

Kingsley-Heath explained he had established Safari South, the largest hunting operation in Botswana. He offered to accommodate club members who booked safaris into Kenya through his operations in Botswana. He said if members booked with reputable Kenya safari companies, their deposits would be returned. He would work with these sportsmen to apply their deposits to Botswana.

However, Kingsley-Heath neglected to mention he was in the final stage of selling Safari South to Tommy Friedkin. In fact, this transaction would be completed before the hunting season opened. Nevertheless, it was obvious the demand for safaris into Botswana and neighboring Zambia would skyrocket.

I was planning a safari to Botswana with booking agent Frank Green of Sporting International. In fact, Frank and the general manager of Safari South, Charles Williams, had flown to Dallas a few weeks earlier to finalize arrangements for our trip in June 1977. We chose Botswana over Kenya because of cost. At the time, Botswana was not well known and was less expensive. I knew that the hunting fields in Botswana had experienced less hunting pressure, so our chances for lion, leopard, and buffalo were better. Naturally, Green and Williams reinforced my conclusions.

During Charles Williams’s visit, he recommended professional hunters to each of us based on personal compatibility and trophy preferences. John Chilton requested his Kenya professional hunter, John Lawrence, but because of a scheduling conflict Lawrence was not available. They agreed Tony Challis would be a suitable alternative. The third

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

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member of our group was paired with Simon Paul, the laid-back godson of John Kingsley-Heath. Williams recommended I hunt with Willie Engelbrecht, considered one of the best lion hunters in the company. My priority was lion, so Engelbrecht seemed a logical choice. Then Frank Green spoke.

“Crazy Willie! Boy, will he keep you on your toes.”The remark caused everyone to stiffen in their

chairs, forcing Williams to mollify Frank’s comment. “Willie is . . . well . . . somewhat of a character. He’s got a bit of a temper. Hates tape measures. Sometimes his language is, well, very descriptive. Colorful, you might say.”

Frank sheepishly tried to recant and support Charles. “Willie’s great fun, Steve. You two are perfect for each other. Your only problem will be deciding which lion to shoot.”

Charles Williams was Safari South’s general manager. Always polite and well-mannered, he assigned the various hunting camps to arriving clients—a very powerful man! Charles flew to Dallas with Frank Green to sell the author his first safari to Botswana.

Charles continued in his polite Rhodesian accent. “I just feel your personalities mesh perfectly. Willie’s very strict in the bush, but I’m positive you’ll learn from the experience. You should have no trouble finding a nice lion.”

I accepted Charles’s recommendation, after sifting through piles of trophy photos depicting Engelbrecht’s grinning clients with black-mane lions, greater kudu, buffalo, and sable. We booked a twenty-two-day, mixed-bag safari that included all charter flights to the Okavango and Kalahari—total cost $7,700 each. Deposits paid, we were booked firm with Safari South for June.

I stood at the precipice of a tidal change in the safari industry. The Nile beckoned, and my life was about to change forever.

Thamalakane Two-Step

Chapter �

The trip to Botswana can only be described as long. We flew from Dallas to New York and then connected on

South African Airways for a seventeen-hour flight to Johannesburg. After spending a night in the beautiful Carlton Hotel, we drove to Lanseria Airport to board a charter flight to Maun, Botswana. Our pilot was Walter Johnson Jr.

I’ll never forget the exciting evening we touched down in Maun. Stepping from the twin-engine Piper Chieftain, I was struck by an exotic odor. It was wild sage and particularly pungent as the sun set. A distinguished looking man with dark hair, fully kitted in khaki shorts and shirt, walked toward me.

“Are you Steve Christenson?” he asked.“Yes, I am.” He offered his hand and smiled. “Welcome to

Botswana. I’m Harry Selby.”“Yes. Yes, Mr. Selby. I’m glad, really glad to meet you.”Selby laughed as I stammered through a disjointed,

schoolboy-response. He quickly put me at ease. “Steve, please, just call me Harry.”

I was thunderstruck. My gawd, I thought. Harry Selby. The Harry Selby, doyen of professional hunters.

I was in awe, having read about the legend for years. Robert Ruark had immortalized him in The Horn of the Hunter and Something of Value. Synonymous with East African hunting, Harry was a named-partner in the most highly respected African outfitter, Ker Downey & Selby Safaris. Harry Selby certainly was an impressive one-man greeting committee; the first person I met during my first safari.

Safari South really knew how to make their clients feel welcome. Still in awe, I made a clumsy attempt at conversation. “So, Harry, how’s Willie? Is he in Maun or at camp?”

“Well, Steve, there’s been a minor problem,” Harry responded.

My heart sank as Selby put his arm around my shoulder for a real heart-to-heart, manly talk. “You see, Willie has some pressing personal

business. He’s forced to miss the first week of your safari. It’s just seven or eight days, tops.”

Harry waited for me to respond but I was confused. Like everyone, I hated bad surprises.

“Don’t worry, Steve. Charles has booked you with Wally Johnson, until Willie returns. Wally will be your PH while you’re in Kweenie. Hell, you’ll probably take a black-mane lion with Ole Man Wally. That’s his nickname around here. He’s one of the old timers, but a very good hunter. Wally was one of Bob Ruark’s favorite professionals. He’s a buddy of Harry Manners, you know, Kambaku from Mozambique. He and Wally go way back to the days when they were chasing elephant together. One thing for sure, you won’t be bored with Wally.”

Selby could sense I was mildly shaken, concerned the safari was beginning with a glitch. “Steve, believe me, it’s an honor to share a safari with Wally

PH Simon Paul is the godson of John Kingsley-Heath, cofounder of Safari South. Simon was affable and extremely competent as a professional hunter, a pleasure to share my first safari. He soon retired from professional hunting to develop his dairy farm outside of Maun.

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

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The Thamalakane River runs through Maun, the village that earned the reputation for being the Wild West in the 1970s. Virtually all residents were either associated with the safari industry or were developing remote ranches. Land Cruisers filled with guns dominated the sand tracks, which led to exotic places like Safari South, Island Safari Lodge, Croc Camp, and the infamous Riley’s Hotel.

Johnson. You’ll not be disappointed. Now, let’s get the guns cleared and you guys off to a hot meal and comfortable bed. You’ll be staying at Island Safari, just outside of town.”

After clearing the rifles and ammunition, a Safari South employee transported the weapons to the safe-room in their headquarters. We boarded Land Cruisers and sped off into the twilight, down a sand track to Island Safari. I rode with Harry, and he continued to canonize Wally Johnson and recount safaris the two shared.

Upon arrival, Harry ordered the lodge staff to stow our bags in each person’s room. Simon Paul emerged from the lodge and Harry made the appropriate introductions. With Simon now in control, Selby drove away in his Land Cruiser. I wouldn’t see Harry again until the following year.

Built like an English rugby player, Simon Paul had a pleasing face and engaging smile. He was intelligent, well educated, and articulate, and he spoke in a pronounced English accent. Simon was sociable and

possessed the perfect demeanor for a meet-and-greet representative.

Simon Paul reiterated Willie’s apology for missing the first week of the safari. Like Harry, Simon was prepped to reinforce the honor, bestowed upon few, to hunt with a man as renowned as Wally Johnson. “Wally’s flown ahead of us to Kweenie. He’ll make sure everything’s in order for our arrival. You’ll love hunting with Wally.”

Simon said he would concentrate on elephant while Wally and I chased lion. I noted Simon was cautious not to raise expectations, a reversal in litany from Frank Green and Charles Williams.

Following dinner in the open-air rondavel overlooking the Thamalakane River, Simon excused himself. “We’ll have an early morning.” He explained we would fly out at first light and be hunting by the afternoon. My excitement escalated knowing in a few hours I would be hunting with one of Africa’s greatest legends. The safari was beginning beyond expectations, and my love affair with Botswana was about to start.

Bush Lessons

Chapter 3

The following morning we checked into Safari South headquarters, picked up our rifles, and proceeded to the airstrip. It was a

thrilling, low-level flight into Kweenie. After touching down on the tiny bush strip, I was warmly greeted by professional hunter Walter Johnson Sr.

“Welcome to Botswana, Mr. Christenson. You mind if I call you Chris? Just call me, Wally.”

The staff in Kweenie camp was equally friendly and eager to please. The entire setting was a page out of Horn of the Hunter, a traditional East African safari camp at its finest.

After a quick coffee, Wally suggested I check the zero of my rifles. He instructed a tracker to cut a blaze on a tree near the boundary of camp. I was so excited I dropped into a prone position, and after getting the “all clear” from Wally, began firing my .375 H&H. It hit perfectly, and I was thrilled. Great shooting in front of Wally, I thought.

I switched to the .458 Winchester Magnum. I never felt the recoil, even after one soft and two solids. I later heard that firing cannons like a .458 in prone could cause a broken shoulder or collarbone. The body cannot roll with the energy of the recoil. It’s absorbed around the shoulder and slams straight back at two-and-a-half tons of kinetic energy! Naturally, I hoped Wally was impressed.

Satisfied the guns were on, Wally suggested we take a ride. The moment finally arrived, after a year of anxious waiting, a hundred hours of shooting practice, and after traveling halfway around the world. I was off on the greatest adventure of my life. I’ll never forget pulling out from the Kweenie shade trees into the gleaming, golden grass of the Okavango. The sky was dark blue and palm trees waved above crystalline delta pools. It was a spectacular moment.

Wally drove a highly modified, diesel Land Cruiser. He was the first Botswana PH to create a snorkel exhaust system protruding through the hood; this

allowed him to navigate through water so deep it sometimes flowed into the cab. It seemed we

could go anywhere in the flooded delta. I sat between the trackers on the back of the hunting car. The sense of unbridled freedom, like nothing I had ever experienced, was exhilarating.

I was living a fantasy. As a lad of twelve, my father said to me, “One day when you have your own money, maybe you’ll go to Africa to hunt a lion.” I never forgot his words; I considered them prophetic.

It wasn’t long before we came upon a herd of wildebeests resting in the shadows of a wait-a-bit thicket.

“Hey Wally, there’s wildebeest by those trees.”“Yeah, I know.”“Shouldn’t we take one?”“Nah. Not yet. Don’t need one, yet.”Not yet, what did he mean, I wondered? I had no

clue. But it wouldn’t be long before certain procedures and expected protocols would be dramatically etched into my young psyche.

Farther down the winding, sand track we came upon two hunters armed with a tattered .303 Enfield. The men weren’t poachers, but legally sanctioned. They were hunting meat for their village and killed a buffalo. The hunters were hanging butchered sections and assorted organs in a tree, under the cooling shade of a large canopy.

The men were extremely animated as they described a lion pride circling them as they went about their chore of butchering the buff. The hunters were positive one of the lions was a male, accompanied by two or three companions. In fact, the men described how the lions disappeared into the long grass as our Land Cruiser approached. They were happy to see our well-armed group and elated we were hunting the great cats.

Wally joined our trackers as they sorted out the lion spoor. Each nodded in agreement while pointing to the tracks. After a few moments, Wally walked to where I was standing with the indigenous hunters.

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

≈ � ≈

“OK, Chris, it’s a very big track. They could still be close, so try not to make any noise. Why don’t you get your .375? It ought to be just perfect. Be sure it’s loaded with softpoints, and turn your scope all the way down; it could be close in this heavy grass.”

Wally removed his cap, ran his hand over his semibalding head, and grinned from ear to ear. Clearly, it was game time.

A million thoughts spun through my mind. I’m glad Wally’s so damn happy, but a lion! Is this for real? Lion! How ’bout an impala or a zebra? The wildebeest? I’ve never killed anything with this rifle. Lion, on my first day! Am I ready for this? An Okavango, buffalo-killing, monster carnivore! What have I gotten myself into?

Wally instructed our head tracker to restart the Toyota and drive it back the same route we followed to the buffalo kill. “Lions are smart, Chris. They may let their guard down if they see the car leave. Right now they know we’re around the kill. Makes ’em angry. We’ll try to put ’em more at ease.”

We took up the lions’ spoor, which I found easy to follow in the grayish-white Okavango sand. The tracking was intense from the moment we left the buffalo kill, for it immediately led into waist-high grass. The lions were probably close, maybe a few

hundred feet ahead, but we couldn’t see them in the long grass. They had not abandoned the buffalo and were making a wide circle at the kill site, probably nervous but still confident. As Wally said, “Very cheeky, these lions.”

We crossed several rivulets around small islands as the lions continued to circle the buffalo hunters and the slaughtered carcass. After an hour of cat-and-mouse, the lions broke the pattern and headed across a huge plain. At the end of the vlei was a large, sand hill covered in wait-a-bit thorns. As we climbed the hill, our lead tracker froze midstride. Wally seized my shoulder, grabbed the .375 and opened the breech to confirm it was cocked and loaded. He never said a word but motioned for me to ease up to the tracker.

After reaching the tracker, he nodded for me to stalk toward a tangled thicket. Softly, quietly, without breathing, I stepped toward the intertwined branches with my rifle in the fire position. As hard as I tried, I could not see anything. Without warning, the tracker grabbed my right bicep with a viselike grip. He pointed through a tangle of twisted limbs and leaves to an apparition. Something as big as a horse was sauntering in front of me, no more than fifteen feet away. But it wasn’t a horse; it was a male lion. It was a creature so

Wally Johnson and his tracker analyze the spoor left by the prowling lions that were stalking the indigenous hunters and their buffalo carcass. Everyone agreed, the lions were still very close, so it was a great opportunity to make a dramatic stalk on the first day of the safari.

Bush Lessons

≈ � ≈

enormous my brain could not process and interpret the image. It was like nothing I had ever seen.

As the lion crossed in front of me, he walked slowly behind a large bush. I crept to an opening in the thicket and waited for the lion to emerge, now only twenty feet away. But the lion never materialized in the opening. I needed only five more feet! He must have seen me or otherwise sensed my presence.

Without prompting from the wide-eyed tracker, I moved quickly to the bush, just in time to see the lion and a lioness being swallowed up in the tall grass atop the plateau.

I shouldered the .375 for a quick shot, but I was a couple of seconds too late. All I picked up in the scope was the tail of the breathtaking behemoth. And then, they were gone. This happened over thirty years ago, but the image remains vivid, just as though it occurred yesterday.

When I looked down the sand hill, I could tell Wally was upset. As it turned out, he knew blowing a gift lion would mean far more work and probable disappointments for him and his hunt team. Wally Johnson also knew I might return to America without a lion.

What the hell happened, man?”“I couldn’t get a shot, Wally.”“What’d you mean? He was right there. Right

bloody well in front of you. You had a shot!”“No, Wally, the branches were in the way.”

“Branches? Bugger the branches. That’s why you’ve got a bloody .375. Man, you get very few chances like that one. You’ve gotta take a shot when offered.”

“This is Botswana, man. You put lead in ’em. We’ll find ’em. We can track anything in this sand. Next time we’re on a lion, you shoot the bastard. Anywhere. Up the backside is fine, too. Just shoot it! We’ll find it!”

Wally just meted out Safariology 101 to his pupil, and he did it in front of the trackers, gunbearers, and the Good Lord, Himself. He held nothing back, and he did it with no diplomacy. It was clear the hunt team shared his frustration.

“These lions may stick around. We need to get a bait up before we lose the light. Now we hunt your zebra and wildebeest,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. With Wally’s order, we remounted our assigned positions in the hunting car and sped off.

Within minutes we found a small herd of zebras grazing in the short grass of a recent burn. Wally pointed out the stallion, and he fell instantly at the thump of a 300-grain Nosler crashing through his shoulder. I thanked God I didn’t botch that shot

Willie Engelbrecht guided the author on three Botswana safaris: 1977, 1978, and 1981. Wally Johnson and Willie did a commendable job of mentoring the author when he first came to Africa. Both gentlemen were highly respected by their peers.

Walter Johnson Sr., affectionately known as Ole Man Wally, was the author’s first Botswana professional hunter in 1977.

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

≈ � ≈

as well! The trackers unceremoniously skinned the zebra, and then we loaded the carcass in the back of the Land Cruiser and returned to the scene of the lion stalk. The zebra was off-loaded, the stomach was cut open, and the carcass dragged behind the Cruiser in a wide circle. As the sun set, we hung the bait in a tree and covered it in thorn branches to protect it against vultures.

A fiery sun washed the horizon in crimson as we headed to camp. The hunt was over but the events of the day were not. After we arrived in camp, I rushed to my tent, stowed the rifles, and called for a hot shower. The clean clothes and wool sweater were comforting as I moved to the campfire. Grabbing a Castle Lager from a large ice bucket, I looked to the pulsating embers for solace. Alas, the fire provided no compassion.

I couldn’t rid the lion image from my mind. He was huge, and close. I had no idea a lion could be so big; he was simply enormous. I guessed no one could appreciate the size of such a magnificent creature unless he was on the ground and close. After all, there was nothing between us but a few scraggly branches.

Mentally, I was a train wreck. After declining the seventy-five-yard, Texas-heart shot, I was proud for exercising restraint and self-control. I hadn’t taken the risk of wounding an incredibly dangerous animal that could have resulted in a deadly confrontation. The irony was my decision was contrary to Wally’s expectation. Clearly, my performance was an abject failure. I realized there was much to learn.

The Ole Man joined me at the fire. He was already savoring his second whiskey as he lit his pipe. Wally could tell I was slipping into bush depression.

“Don’t worry, Chris, we’ll find the bugger. He’s probably on our zebra, right now.”

“Yeah, I hope so, Wally,” I responded purely as a social grace. I was consumed by a sickening feeling. I realized the brief lion encounter, albeit a few seconds, could be an ominous harbinger.

As Wally tried unsuccessfully to rejuvenate my spirits, I sat transfixed on the glowing embers, too embarrassed to look at him across the campfire. He began telling stories of previous lion hunts. After a while, Wally poured another Scotch and leaned forward in his chair.

“The truth, Chris, that is one of the biggest, heavy mane lions I’ve ever seen.”

That was quite a statement from someone with Wally’s credentials. But his take on the situation got worse.

“You know, those opportunities sometimes only come along once in a lifetime. I’m afraid you may be in for a long hunt before you ever find another. That’s why we’re not giving up. We’re going to do everything we can to get you another shot. Now you’re ready. Don’t worry; you won’t miss. Besides, if I don’t find this bugger, you can bet Willie will get you a great trophy. Hell, he’s a much better hunter than I am.”

Wally Johnson was remarkably prophetic. My quest for an African lion would consume fifty-two more days of hunting in Botswana before I would connect with a similar lion, and I would travel hundreds of miles from the Okavango, along the Masethleng Pan in the Kalahari Desert, to find him. The final conquest would require three long safaris fraught with repeated disappointments. However, those adventures through Botswana were the most thrilling of my life. When I finally did claim the charging Masethleng lion, I experienced an overwhelming sense of pride, knowing I never settled for a lesser trophy. Avenging the Kweenie lion became a personal crusade.

The Master Takes a Pupil

Chapter �

My lion hunt with Wally Johnson was over. The spectacular male never returned. Nevertheless, the ensuing week

was the most stimulating and informative seven days of hunting I have ever experienced. Wally also sensed the lion hunt was finished, but he continued hanging baits and searching for fresh tracks, following the expected regimen of a true professional hunter. In retrospect, I believe Wally realized what an inexperienced greenhorn he was saddled with and took pity. His focus shifted to teaching me safari etiquette, African bush lore, tracking, and elevating my woefully inadequate shooting skills.

Wally was particularly fond of my medium rifle. “A .375 is all the gun anyone could ever need,” he professed.

His comment was quite a testament from a man who had personally killed thirteen hundred elephants. Contrary to every PH and guide I would hunt with afterward, Wally’s shooting lessons focused on running shots.

“Anyone can knock over a tsessebe standing on an anthill, Chris. You need to shoot quicker and you need to know when to take the split-second shot on a tough trophy. It’s all about confidence; it’s a big difference maker.”

We began with wildebeest, running wildebeest, that is. The first herd we came upon bolted in that lunatic, wildebeest-way, twisting their bodies and necks, flailing in all directions, practically running sideways. Then Wally gunned the Land Cruiser straight at the herd. They exploded in earnest, no comedic antics, just all-out speed, and could they fly. On Wally’s command, I jumped from the truck and

fired at the lead bull. The professor and his apostles burst into laughter each time an empty

.375 case hit the ground. “Hell, man, you’re ten feet behind the bull.

More lead.” Four quick shots, and I was never close. “Chris, get in and reload. We’ll catch ’em farther

up the spillway.” I can tell you missing a wildebeest is forgivable—

unlike missing a lion, which is already documented ad nauseam. In any case, we were all having fun. It was great being in the Okavango, laughing and joking with Wally and our trackers. Safaris should be fun, and maybe these evenings were the antiseptic needed to assuage the disappointing wound of the first day.

Wally was still laughing as his pipe bounced up and down between his teeth. “Buggers are fast, aren’t they? Chris, when they’re crossing in front of you at full speed, lead ’em two-and-a-half body lengths before you touch one off.”

We gave the herd a half-hour to catch their wind, and then we resumed the chase. I didn’t embrace Wally’s suggested lead, particularly with a high-velocity rifle. But I was determined to follow his instructions literally, if for no other reason than to witness a bullet strike in front of the stampeding bull. I was astonished when the bull somersaulted, head first, at the crack of the rifle. Notoriously tough, the wildebeest was stone dead, shot at the junction of its neck and shoulder.

Wally smiled approvingly. As a sign the hunt was over, he removed his cap and ran his hand over his head. It was a good day. We took the backstraps and

“The story of Walter Walker Johnson will be one of the last to emerge from the old Africa of classic big-game hunting and high adventure, when elephant could be hunted on an unlimited commercial basis and when a man could still explore vast areas of Africa all but untouched by Western sophistication and progress.”

Peter Hathaway Capstick The Last Ivory Hunter

From the Okavango to the Plains of East Africa

≈ 10 ≈

hindquarters for ourselves and camp staff and hung the front half of the bull for lion bait.

I graduated from wildebeest to bounding impala. “Chris, pick a spot in the air where you think they’ll

jump and shoot the spot just as they’re gettin’ ready to jump off the ground. Hell, they’ll leap right into the bullet. You’ll see.”

Damn, if he wasn’t right. I was elated when I downed a leaping impala at two hundred yards employing Wally’s shooting tip. The sight of a .375 slamming an airborne impala has to be seen to be appreciated. I remember thinking there was no way to make the shot without keeping both eyes open: the right on the scope’s reticle and the left on the bounding impala!

“A .375, Chris, that’s all you need. You shoot it well. Stick with it,” Wally admonished.

And then there was buffalo. Oh, did Wally love to “play” with buff. Naturally, he removed the top from his Land Cruiser. But Wally went a step further—he removed the doors.

“Don’t want to miss anything,” he offered.

We didn’t; in fact, I still have the scars on my left arm from a wait-a-bit bush jerking me out of the truck onto the ground.

Wally drove his Toyota into the nastiest bush imaginable, into the middle of a buffalo herd, but not before insisting I join him in the front of the truck. On several occasions I was eyeball-to-eyeball with Black Death a few feet away. Wally always laughed and said he didn’t know whose eyes were bigger, mine or the surprised buff.

“You can’t be afraid of ’em, Chris. Respect ’em, but don’t ever be afraid. If you can face these buggers, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of.”

I’m sure Wally gave his son, Walter Jr., the same lessons. I know this because Wally told me.

It was around noon, and the afternoon turned decidedly hot, so we shed our sweaters and jackets. The ash of grass fires tainted the sky, for it was that time of year when much of the delta was torched by man. The sun’s rays ricocheted off every pool of water, and the unburned, golden grass pulsated with a dry heat.

Wally Johnson and the author wait for a bush flight at Kweenie Camp strip. The author is being flown to Pom Pom Camp to continue with Willie Engelbrecht. The author was privileged to hunt with Ole Man Wally, and he considers him one of the most extraordinary personalities he ever met.

The Master Takes a Pupil

≈ 11 ≈

We were hunting buffalo and kudu in a large thicket of thorn trees when we came upon a gruesome sight. Hunkered in the shadows of a large tree was a solitary buffalo. Not wanting to spook the beast, we kept to a distance of two hundred yards while appraising his worthiness. But a black figure standing in dark shadows can be difficult to see, even with Carl Zeiss’s finest binoculars. Wally eased the hunting car closer by fifty yards. As we continued to glass the bull the consensus was, “He’s nothing special.”

“You know, I think he’s been injured,” Wally said. “He doesn’t look right to me.”

Wally engaged the low gear and let the Land Cruiser creep in stealth mode directly to the bull. The buff never moved; he never flinched and never raised his head to test the air.

At fifty yards the bull remained motionless, with his head drooped halfway to the ground. Then we saw the grisly source of his malaise: His tongue was hanging eighteen inches out of his mouth!

“Jeeezuus, its foot-in-mouth. Steve, kill him. Put him out of his misery.”

I called for the .458. There were solids in the magazine of the Model 70, but Wally told me to make the first shot on buff with a softnose bullet. I slipped a 510-grain Winchester soft into the chamber and steadied the rifle on my daypack for the impending execution. The bull hadn’t moved and was facing me, only twenty-five yards away. It was an opportunity for a frontal brain shot, and I chose to take it.

To this day I’m still amazed at what happened. With the rifle rock-solid on the pack, I centered the cross hairs of the scope between the bull’s eyes and slowly squeezed the trigger. Shot execution was nearly perfect because I clearly remember seeing the impact of the bullet through the scope before the recoil rocked me backward. The bullet blew a hole the size of two golf balls out of the skull, just above the bull’s left eye. The bullet’s impact created a crater of pink and

white flesh, gristle, and bone. After absorbing 5,000 foot-pounds of focused kinetic energy, the bull was still standing. All he could muster was a weak head shake and a futile attempt to raise its muzzle. Can you imagine? A .458 at twenty-five yards above the eye! I don’t mean into the boss of the horn, but into the skull. The concussion, alone, was devastating.

Wally knew exactly what happened. It was the notorious Winchester softpoint bullet. Throughout Africa, .458 softs were infamous for weak jackets. The bullet simply disintegrated on the buff ’s skull.

“Wait, Chris, I’ll move the truck. Use a solid, put it through the shoulder, and we’ll get the you-know-what outta here.”

I really didn’t want the buff to suffer any longer. I modified the prescribed shoulder shot and took out both front legs and the top of the heart. He collapsed instantly at the roar of the huge magnum.

As the echo of the rifle’s report dissipated over the delta, the macabre execution of the once-mighty bull ended abruptly. Not a single word was uttered. The trackers didn’t laugh. No one offered congratulations. There were no pictures. No one wanted to be near the fallen bull. We simply drove away.

“Nasty job, but it needed to be done, Chris,” Wally said as we left the thicket.

“Yeah, I know, Wally.”“What say we head back to camp. We’ll shower

and enjoy our last night, if that’s OK with you?”“Sure. We’ll lose the sun in an hour, anyway. I

could use the daylight for packing.”“That’s the spirit. You need everything squared

away when you meet Willie, tomorrow.”“Hope so, Wally.”“Don’t worry, Chris; you’ll do fine. Hell, you’ve already

learned more than most guys do after a dozen safaris.”“Yeah, the hard way.”“Those are always the best lessons. Listen, Willie

Engelbrecht is a great hunter. He’ll find your lion.”