Monday, September 1, was the first day of spring in South Africa, so said Flippie. Today, I had a new PH as Linda and I split up. Flippie and I were back at Quagga. It was feeling like home. South Africa was feeling like home.
As was the pattern, things were slow in the morning. Flippie and I took turns napping. Finally, I had learned something – I could rest while the PH kept a look out. (About time I learned something).
Sometime after lunch, a nice male Impala came into water presenting me with a perfect broadside shot. As I drew all I could think was that I had not turned my hat around. All I could focus on was that moment when the string touched the beak of my hat. It never did. Maybe the angle of my hat was sufficient that this didn’t happen.
At any rate, I had too may thoughts that were not anywhere near those that I should have had. I shot anyway. I was over the top by a mile. Flippie looked at me like I had gone crazy. I thought I had gone crazy. He asked what happened. I shrugged in order to prevent actually having to verbalize an excuse. Any excuse would have been just that. I refused to talk, hoping I could relax my thoughts. (hint: I was not happy. This is not what I came to Africa to do).
An hour later, I had an identical opportunity; a chance to redeem myself. The arrow skimmed just under his brisket, the broadhead destroyed on a rock. How dreadful! I over compensated for the last shot and went low. I should have simply forgotten the last shot altogether. My confidence was shattered. Again, I willed myself to relax. That was becoming more and more difficult.
Unknown to me, Linda did similar from her hide. She shot three arrows at the same Impala, the first two of which he sniffed. I’m told he finally looked into the air to see where these strange birds were coming from as her third arrow came whizzing past. None of her three drew blood; none of mine drew blood.
With Linda, it was understandable. This was her first ever hunt. And, even though I worked with her daily for months, when the first flesh and blood animal stood in front of her, she learned that this wasn’t our back yard, and this wasn’t practice. We weren’t in Kansas anymore. Nobody can prepare for that first shot ever. It’s strickly a “learn by experience” deal. Welcome Linda to the brotherhood and sisterhood of hunting.
Back in my hide, I did what I could to calm down. I know I shouldn’t, but I was feeling intimidated. Feeling intimidated seems like a natural first instinct for me. But, I know that’s not all there is. I’ve come too far to let momentary feelings rule. Still, I felt I needed a good explanation, and I had none.
To myself, I knew I needed 100% focus at the shot. All else needs to be erased from my mind. And, that’s not what I was giving. To Flippie I said I had lost my confidence, to which he related a story of a fellow archer who took months to get his mojo back. Great, I thought.
A half hour later, I asked to pick up my two arrows. When Flippie agreed, I asked to shoot a practice arrow. He thought the idea good. I picked out a two and a half inch rock under where the Impala had stood, drew slowly, aimed and ... Swack!!! I hit the thing on the front third sending it like a tiddle wink for 30 feet, well beyond the water hole.
I put down my bow shook my head and laughed out loud! We retrieved the three arrows and proceeded to wait for dark when we’d be able to bring the first of spring to an end, as we had so many other days in the bush.
As with other days, the sun got lower and lower; the time ticked past 6:00; past 6:10. The sun was gone. Blue skies were a memory. Gray was turning to dark. Elgim liked to quit at 6:20. But, the days were getting longer. It looked like the hundreds of other days that have ended for me. You don’t want to give it up, but you must. I guess Flippie liked staying to the bitter, bitter end, unlike Elgim who hunted to the bitter end. Just then, Flippie, looking through his binos, said in an excited, yet controlled whisper “Bull Wildebeest .... Big .... get ready!!” I looked and couldn’t see. He said something about the legs, in the bush, outside the water hole. I tried to see, thought I saw, but don’t know for sure.
I looked at my watch. The radium dials reported 6:25. I reached for my bow in my left hand and an arrow in my right. I tried nocking the arrow without noise, but I couldn’t see the side plate or the arrow rest. I put the arrow down and picked it up from a different angle and tried again. I only was able to put the nock to the string from feel. Flippie had asked if it was too dark for me, but I never heard him. With arrow nocked, I looked out the window. There was more light outside the hide than in, and I saw this huge sillowette. I looked for horns, couldn’t make them out, and was about to say that it was maybe too dark to shoot. Just then Flippie said "shoot." As commanded, I drew, aimed for the place I know from so much experience was the spot, gave an extra half inch and perfect back tension... and the arrow was gone.
Flippie thought he saw the flash of the arrow through his binos and that he shot was good. I didn’t see any arrow at all, though the shot felt great. I did see the biggest animal I’d ever shot at take one great leap out of the water hole and hunch his back as he left. Now, that was a good sign; an excellent sign. But, still, I never saw the arrow go. It could have been anywhere. All I knew is that, when Flippie said shoot, everything in me was focused on the shot.
Flippie brought the Land Rover around, and we stowed our gear. He left it running with the lights on so we would have a frame of reference as we went after the Wildebeest.
We found half an arrow where he first landed after his lunge. It was covered in pink blood. We tracked and tracked and tracked. As is normal, we lost the trail then picked it up again. At last, we came across two pieces of congieled blood, big around as a pencil and a couple inches long. Flippie put the light to it and said, “Pink - that’s good.” I picked up a piece to make it more real to me. He was right. It sure looked like lung blood to me. But, I stood up and looked back toward the Land Rover. It seemed to me as if it were over 200 yards away. My experience has taught me this was a problem, pink blood or not. So, I said to Flippie, “Are you sure. I’ve never seen an animal go two hundred yards on a lung shot.” To which he simply said “Wildebeests are tough animals.”
We tracked a little more as he said the blood trail was light due to my two blade broadhead. I asked if I should have used a 4 blade, but he said, “No. The two blade will kill them just as dead, but the blood trail is somewhat reduced.”
We gave it up for the morning and Shorty. I like Shorty okay, but know it’s not good when we have to have him.
Topic: Kudu versus Elk (Read 986 times)
