By Mike Handley
-- When we swung into the graveled drive in front of the brick farmhouse, I assumed that Thomas, our guide, was stopping to get a key to a locked gate behind which was supposed to be boundless herds of impala and toothy warthogs. I was surprised when a barefoot youngster charged out of the house and climbed into the Toyota’s bed alongside me.
Photo: Rack editor Mike Handley is proud of his littlest trophy from last year’s South African safari. As small as it might seem, however, the exceptional steenbok’s horns qualified for both the SCI and Rowland Ward record books.
His name was Juri (pronounced Yuri). When we came to the first gate, the 11-year-old jumped down, ran to it, opened and held it until we’d driven past. After he closed it behind us and twisted the wire that served as the gate’s primitive latch, he hopped back into the truck. Before continuing, Thomas began conversing with Juri in Afrikaans.
After an exchange involving a flurry of hard consonants and the kid’s pointing, the professional hunter turned and explained. “A large herd of impala has been seen several times at the edge of a field,” Thomas said. “We’ll start there!”
My partner, Rack magazine designer Tim Martin, was up first. I’d shot a gemsbok the previous evening, and it was his time to ride standing against the truck’s cab, which can be a lot like planting your knees against the gunwale of a deep-sea fishing boat. But that’s the way most plains game safaris start out in South Africa. You usually get off after spotting an animal and stalk within range. Sometimes, as you’ll read later, it is not necessary.
Soon into our drive through what resembled a badly overgrown pasture, Tim and Thomas dismounted to stalk some impala. They were unable to head ’em off at the pass, so to speak, so we resumed the slow drive through the property until a trio of warthogs made the mistake of trying to run faster than Tim could shoot.
Afterward, when I was the gunman, we crossed the main gravel road to hunt the opposite side of the sprawling farm. I was astounded to learn later that the farm actually belongs to young Juri, not to his father. And nobody knew the land as well as that kid did. That was why he’d joined us; it wasn’t because “the old man” needed a babysitter.
The second place we visited held cattle — and not the Hereford or Angus varieties that one sees in rural Alabama. If not for their domesticated demeanor, the lop-eared, humpbacked creatures more resembled some species of bulked-up antelope than cows. I must admit that I even fancied one hanging above my mantel before we rounded a dusty bend and I spotted a for-real antelope.
Okay, I actually had no idea what it was. From a distance of a quarter-mile, it could have well been a rabbit. And truthfully, even from a couple hundred yards it still might have been a rabbit. I’m talking small!
While I studied the miniature deer-like shape through my scope, which was cranked all the way up to 12-power, Thomas was looking at it through binoculars. At first, I was just mildly curious, never once thinking that I’d like to waste the ammunition on what had to be a steenbok (steen-buck). I’d seen several of them in three days of scanning the brush.
But then the little fellow turned his head and the sun struck his coal-black horns, which really got my attention. Even to my untrained eye, he was an exceptional male, a fact that Thomas somberly acknowledged.
“That is a great trophy,” he half mumbled before turning his brown eyes on me. In them, I recognized that if I wasn’t interested, it would take all the self-control that Thomas could muster NOT to take my rifle and shoot it himself. Behind me, Tim also cooed: “Man, he IS a nice one!” But I’d already decided to take the shot before either of them said a word.
As soon as my crosshairs drifted over his shoulder, I gently squeezed the .30-06’s trigger. The shot felt as smooth as butter, and I was certain that the 165-grain grand slam bullet would obliterate the animal’s boiler room. But instead of falling, he just turned and walked a few yards into the bush. Within seconds, Thomas and I were on the ground and creeping forward.
“There he is, standing beside that tree,” he whispered. “Shoot him again!”
I couldn’t see the steenbok’s head or neck, but his shoulder was visible. I scoped the tree first, then moved a little right, putting the crosshairs just behind his front leg — before touching the trigger. I couldn’t believe it when he remained on his feet. The bullet had barely nicked the tree, though fragments still tore into my target. Yet it took more than a minute for him to fall.
While examining my prize, I discovered that the first shot had blown straight through him. The exit hole was no bigger than the entrance, though the shot had pierced both lungs. That’s the only reason I got a second chance. The follow-up did tremendous damage, even after and probably because it had glanced off the tree.
I was joking when I proclaimed back at camp that I’d bagged a “world record” steenbok, but I was not too far off the mark. I didn’t know until more than a month later, but my steenbok sailed into both Safari Club International’s and the Rowland Ward record books. None of the other guests paid much attention to the “Chihuahua with horns” until Christo Carstens and Bud Weakland, two of the three partners behind Amber African Adventures, began ogling the 5-inch-long horns. Of all the superb animals taken that week, none received more attention than my little trophy.
I didn’t know it until I got there, but there is a growing number of people who long to take Africa’s “Small Five.” The Big Five, commonly referred to as “dangerous game,” includes elephant, rhino, Cape buffalo, leopard and lion. Try as I might, I have not been able to find out the other species among the Small Five, but steenbok is among them. So is duiker, which I also saw during my safari.
The duikers were just too fast for me. As soon as I saw them, they’d already seen me and were slicing through the tall grass like the velociraptors of “Jurassic Park.” And while the duikers were generally seen in pairs, the steenboks were always alone.
Scoring steenbok horns, at least by SCI’s yardstick, is a matter of taking four measurements to the nearest sixteenth of an inch — the two overall lengths and each horn’s circumference at the base. Minimum for inclusion in the SCI record book is 11 inches, the best on record carrying 1612û16 inches. Highveld Taxidermists in South Africa scored mine at 12 9/16 inches.
Booking Information: To book your African safari, call Russell Weakland at Amber African Adventures — (301) 790-2084 — or e-mail him at hunterwbg@aol.com.
– Mike Handley
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