"Elephant by Inches"
By Chip Anderson
Of course, he knew we were there, but with his myopic vision, he was forced to rely on his sense of smell and his acute hearing. We stared with breathless horror as, like some decapitated serpent, his trunk waved dementedly left and right over the top of the palms, his great bulk up to the crown of his head obscured by the thick African bush. It was a game of nerve and patience, the three of us crouched with hardly a breath between us, not twelve yards from behemoth, knee deep in this lukewarm, somewhat rancid bit of swamp. Mosquitoes swarmed us but no one dared slap. I can remember wondering if, like sharks, crocodiles could smell blood in the water as my legs were bleeding quite freely from our last mad dash through thorns and razor grass. With several tons of enraged pachyderm bringing up the rear with murderous enthusiasm, one doesn't take too much time to worry about the route of escape. Here I was on the seventh morning of a fourteen day elephant hunt in Botswana's great Okavango Delta. Man! This morning had started bad and from the looks of things it wasn't getting any better any time soon. Truly, I had dreamt about this my whole life. Well, not exactly this ugly situation I find myself in at the moment, but the actual hunt and pursuit of the greatest game on earth, bull elephant and adventure in deepest, darkest Africa. As a child, we all had our heroes. My peers wanted to be cowboys, astronauts or fire chiefs, etc., but for me, from the moment I could read, I was obsessed with the writings of Ridder Haggard (King Solomon's Mines) and Alan Quartermaine then on to Roosevelt, Hemingway, Ruark, Bell and my favorite, James Sutherland. Later, like many of us, I fell under the spell of Peter Capstick's spine tingling prose which only fueled my ivory and African obsession further. So finally I was here and it was absolutely living up so far to all of my expectations and perhaps a bit more at the moment.
It had been a week of fruitless tracking and disappointing marches over miles of thorn and scrub, covering the delta inch by bloody inch, long marches under hot sun, the delta sand beneath your feet taking away one step for every two you take, evenings by the fire spent self-medicating, pouring perfectly good single malt scotch over prolific thorn wounds on various body parts, although I assure you, I administered some internally. Doctor's orders, you understand. Certainly elephant were present. Hell, we were constantly into them. In fact, running from irate cow herds and dodging small bulls anxious to prove their manhood became a daily exercise, even had one chase our jeep for several miles. The usual routine each day was our dawn patrol to the water holes and favorite elephant paths. Looking for suitable track that is something around 21-23 inches with frontal depth. This could mean heavy ivory. Despite the miles put in, each evening we would raggedly return to camp, exhausted but excited by the days adventure. Actually, most large tracks had panned out well, proving to be very large bulls, but as luck would have it, upon stalking as close as we could, the bull would reveal himself to be ivory poor or more often than not, he would have one tusk broken off short. Oh well. I've heard it's not golf or elephant hunting if you don't have to work at it. I don't know anything about golf, but elephant hunting is certainly not for the unfit or unfaithful. I'm not sure who said it, although I believe it was Peter Capstick, "No one kills an elephant with a rifle; you kill them with your feet." Truer words were never spoken. Just the day before this latest escapade, we had trailed five bulls for at least eight to ten miles through some of the roughest country I had yet to see. It seemed like one or two should be carrying very good ivory. As the heat of the morning grew, they slowed down and we finally caught up with them at about 11:30. Closing in to about some thirty yards or so, I was absolutely stunned by the view before me. Here were five grand bulls. Three were wearing about thirty to forty pounds, obvious askari types, but the remaining two had ivory in the sixty to seventy pound range. Here they were, all under one small grove of Mopane bush and they were sound asleep... SNORING! I am not kidding! Snoring for all they were worth! The breeze was dicey and changing constantly, presently not at all in our favor to approach for a shot at the largest of the five, and, truth be told, there is no way I could bring myself to interrupt his dreams with five hundred grains of alarm clock. Besides, we had another problem of imminent concern. In our excitement as we had closed in on this bunch, we had inadvertently worked our way almost on top of a herd of perhaps 200 cows and calves. Matsumi, our tracker, climbing an anthill, explained with animated signals and frantic Setswanan that we needed to leave now, as quickly and quietly as possible. To fire a shot under these circumstances would be insanity. Someone would certainly get killed. So, as discretion is certainly the best part of valor, we assumed retreat. Sitting around the campfire that night, Mike Murray, my professional PH suggested a break from chasing ivory since we were all a bit burned out physically after six days of this kind of stuff and a bit on edge after our past few exciting forays. Well, I had a buff license anyway, so it was settled. At dawn we would head out in the Makuros, far out into the marsh where thousands of small islands that make up the delta often hold the biggest and baddest buffalo. Certainly it would be easier than tracking elephant. Besides I was really having a craving for some more of that wonderful buffalo bone soup we had been dipping in to all week.
Funny, how you never think of Africa as cold, but I can assure you July in northern Botswana can be downright frosty. I was very happy that I had packed my goosedown vest, pulling the collar tightly around my ears as the Makuros slid silently across the cold, grass choked swamp. Underneath us I imagined all sorts of terrors. The water itself was black in the early morning light and I had seen huge crocs during the week, but scarier yet were the hippos who seemed to have some sort of chip on their shoulders about almost everything, and Makuros don't exactly give you a sense of security as they barely draft two to three inches above the water and are about as stable as a sailor on a three day shore leave. Understandably, all of us would get quite tense any time a hippo came into view. He would watch us with those small mean eyes then submerge. "All right, boys. Hold your breath and anything else that might matter and wait...wait...until you saw the telltale line of bubbles moving, thankfully, away from the boat. Whew!"
Five miles out, we had scouted a half a dozen islands before we found where a large herd of buff spoor led into the tall grass. Beaching the Makuros, I threw two soft nose shells into my Wilkes 470, Mike loading his Brno Mauser 458 with the same. Creeping up the beachhead with Matsumi and Byetei in front, pointing as the tracks led deeper into the dark grass. Quite a bit taller than all of us, one gets the idea of being in a tunnel except that you can't see the light at the other end. In fact, what is waiting at the other end is most likely a thousand pounds of sharp-horned bad attitude with nowhere to go when cornered except the way he came in which I am reminding myself is exactly where I'm standing. Moving at an agonizingly slow pace along this buff trail, Matsumi stopping occasionally to insert his finger into droppings, the warmer they were, the more excited he got. Obviously, we were getting close. We had only moved inland some hundred yards, which I might add that hunting in these conditions is a pretty fair piece of ground, when both Byetei and Matsumi froze. They were definitely upset by something, pointing and whispering in an agitated manner. Mike and I move up to investigate the cause of their concern. Apparently we were not alone on the hunt in this little piece of green hell - twin sets of spoor from two very large male lion are now on the same course as we, all heading towards our bovine quarry. This was definitely not a good situation. With the breeze being quite dodgy, our visibility several yards at best and not knowing where these lion are exactly. A decision was made to give this up as a "bad deal". Besides, these buff are going to wind one of us and the ensuing stampede would be very scary indeed. We had no sooner turned tail to make good our retreat, when the grass around us exploded in a chaos of loud grunts, rushing hooves, and I must tell you four very terrified hunters absolutely running in all directions. I don't remember passing Mike, but somehow I made it to the beach ahead of him, throwing myself literally from the grass veil. Of course, Byeti and Matsumi were already out. Those two sure can move when they have to! Mike and I stared at the grass, waiting for the worst, with rifles trained. Our pursuers burst out on to the sand, coming eye to eye with us, they squealed their mistake, turned, tails up, and head back in from where they came. Three of the most surprised warthogs you can imagine! Well, we all collapsed with relief and laughter, lying down in the morning sun to catch our breaths and I'm sure, some of us, to wash our bush shorts out.
When the gods choose to bless you, they often pick the strangest moments to do so. We had hardly recovered from our fright, when Mike, who had climbed up the steep bank to glass the further islands, shouted down to me, "Quick! Quick! Look!" Pointing north out across the water, I fumbled to get my binoculars focused. Coming in to my glasses, three large forms like grey ships floating against an ochre ocean. ELEPHANT! I could see through my binoculars, they were moving away, but as the middle bull walked, his head slung side to side and the sharp glint of long ivory played peek-a-boo with us. Mike turned, his eyes wide with excitement, and said to me, "If we want him," (Boy, did I want him!), "we have to go now. No boats, shed the packs, travel light." Matsumi would remain behind, our beacon in the dark, as it were. It was only 8:30 am, but with elephant you never know just when you'll catch up. So Mike, myself and Byeti hit the water. Waist deep and cold, I struggled with each step, mud sucking your feet in and requiring great effort to pull free, but even this couldn't dampen my enthusiasm. All I had ever dreamed of was somewhere across this water, mud, and grass. My grail lay ahead.
Knowing this gave me some strength. We reached dry land after some three quarter miles of marsh slogging, leeches and all, and I must tell you that razor grass really does cut you to ribbons. Using the small cloth bag of campfire ash, we checked the breeze and crawled up through the Mopane. This bit of ground was thick as hell, made of the usual scrub and of course lots of thorn and more lion track (oh great!). The three bulls had moved off into the center of this piece. Circling to get the wind right, we approached the thickest part of this island, where their spoor seemed to lead. Frustrated after trying desperately to see our quarry in this dense bush, Mike shimmied up an anthill to look over the situation. Byeti and I remained quiet at its base. After a minute or so, Mike hissed down to us that the bulls had moved on to the next island. At least, he could see the back end of one moving up the bank. It was exactly at that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement. Turning quickly, coming at full deadly speed, I saw a dark form, curiously silent. The only sounds were the swish of branches sweeping out of its way. No time for any detailed explanations, I yelled to Mike, "We've got to get out of here!" He must have seen it too, as he slid down the anthill and all three of us ran through the bush, rolling bodily downhill into the water, splashing downwind as fast as we could. Obviously this askari to the old bull had laid a trap with the other two leaving the island ahead of us, this young bull had located his pursuers and was intent upon eliminating the problem. One of the things that makes hunting elephants so fascinating is their incredible intelligence, the same quality that also makes them very dangerous.
So, here we are frozen in this black water, with a very motivated bull elephant now hunting us. As I said, this day started bad and at the moment it didn't look like our odds were about to improve. The interesting thing about elephants is that they can be so very silent when moving about. Waiting for this big boy to lose us or just interest seemed like hours, but as that grey trunk and crown disappeared back into the palms, we weren't taking any chances and gave it about ten minutes before we dared move down water to check. The track showed clearly that he had left to join his companions on the next island. Confident, I'm sure, that he had discouraged us sufficiently. As we tracked down to the waters edge, I couldn't believe what lie ahead! At least twenty yards of very deep water. We very well couldn't wade or swim it. The bulls had made quite a path onto the next piece, but I could not see how we were to get there. Byeti immediately starts cutting papyrus and laying it across the water. Cutting and laying, cutting and laying. Unbelievable! What kind of madness was this? Was he building some way to attempt a crossing? There was no way I was going to get on that thing... Well?... Byeti rightfully crosses first with Mike carefully stomach crawling from behind. I look at this contraption dubiously. Swallowing deeply, I slide my rifle forward and snake my way out onto this makeshift bridge. I really have to admit at this moment to being at my physical and emotional end. Man, I thought I was fit, but real ivory hunting separates the men from the boys. Of course, the worst happens. About halfway across, I fall through this rickety contraption, holding my head and shoulders above water with my body from chest down immersed in the cold current rushing around me, my beautiful Wilkes 470 crosswise on the reeds. My leg muscles had seized up from calves to thighs - I literally could not move. I was finished! Mike crawled out as far as he could risk and was trying to encourage me. I told him, "I can't go on. I don't care anymore. Let's just leave this elephant." Meanwhile I could hear through my pained haze, Byeti scolding me in Setswanan. He seemed very irritated, although I could hardly care at the moment. Mike was saying, "You have to pull yourself out of there. There are big crocs! You must push your gun down and pull yourself out." Right! I'm going to shove a $10,000 double rifle into this water? Forget it! Let the crocs eat me! What is Byeti yelling at me? Mike translates his abuse for me, "He is saying, "If you want to be like a woman, then you should stay at camp and cook. If you are a man, you will get out of there and kill this elephant." Oh, God! I thought death by crocodile was one thing, but to be shamed by your tracker is another whole issue, and as reluctant as I was to do it, I pushed down on that beautiful stick of circassian and iron, filling its twin barrels with cold marsh water. AAAUUGHH!!! My legs wouldn't work, but my arms found the strength and inch by excruciating inch I dragged myself across that papyrus bridge."
All three of us now lying on the bank, me trying to work my leg cramps out and get some feeling back into my freezing body, we tested the wind and as usual it proved treacherous. Our best strategy to get ahead was to circle the island low to the east, coming up ahead of the three bulls who would hopefully be feeding quietly or napping in the heat of the day. The breeze shifted constantly as we hit the far eastern banks of this cover, unfortunately putting us right on track into a monkey roost. Now, I have worked with animals all my life and I have smelled some pretty offensive things. Landfills, bad kennels, low tide in Jersey, but a monkey roost absolutely takes the prize. Crawling along in this disgusting mess of feces and urine, I am sure no elephant alive could scent us. As we hit the bush outside the roost, we could make out the three bulls, now feeding in the heavy cover in the island's center. Trying to stay as low as possible on our stomachs, we did that Army crawl, guns cradled in our forearms, moving inches at a time, freezing in place whenever they lifted their heads. It took us twenty minutes or more to cover some fifty yards. With sweat in our eyes and the ice pick bite of tetses to torture us, we remained determined. I had come too far and been through too much to blow it now. Moving in to a mere twenty five paces at best, I slid the barrels of my 470 forward, crouching further to open my shot when I heard Mike whisper, "No." I looked at him questioningly. "If you are to do this right, you must stand up and out from these bushes and face this elephant." As tired as I was and eager to end this, I knew he was right. There would be shame to do otherwise. So I gather myself and stand. In that instant I stood immediately feeling so small, somewhat akin to David confronting Goliath. A brief second of shock for both the bull and myself, our eyes met and both sized up the situation. I distinctly remember the dull blast of air billowed off his ears as he pumped them forward in threat and recognition. (Would I be so bold and defiant when I finally confront the end? I can only hope for that kind of dignity and defiance.) With the rear v and blade settled perfectly between his eyes on that second wrinkle down, I squeezed the trigger, sending five hundred grains of metal and lead into his skull. The resounding boom erupted panic in the askaris, predictably crashing off violently in the direction they were facing. His head snapped back, trunk raised, as he collapsed, first to his haunches, then to his side. The whole ground of this island shook. Byeti and Mike already racing through the thorns to his rear, I kept the rifle trained on him as I too ran for his backside to administer the estocade. Rushing into the bull, I move in much too close as he rocks forward in an attempt to rise. Myself, now literally on top of him as he clears the ground and gets his front feet under him, I fire my left barrel into where I believe his heart would be. Another five hundred grain pill rocks him, but with little effect. Quickly reloading, I flank him until I could level my sights past his ear. Concentrating and praying for all I was worth to the Good Lord, all the gods of hunting, and anyone else who might help. Holding steady, I lined up. With fingers mentally crossed , I fire a perfect side brain shot. The bull crumples as if pole axed in a haze of brown dust, again shaking the earth beneath my feet as he ends his tenure in the Okavango, for good this time.
We had spoken so many evenings around the fire about what the natives called "Dreaming your elephant" and up until this moment I mistakenly thought of that as literal. Some kind of local magic, juju, mojo, or what have you. But in this instant, I suddenly knew what it meant. The experience, the miles, the emotions, and, yes, the dream, had all brought me to this point. It was as it should be. I had hunted hard and fairly and finished this labor honorably. It took me a long time to compose myself. I sat near his head running my hands over and over that sixty some-odd pounds of cold, smooth tusk, not ashamed that I felt tears running down my cheek. The awesome responsibility of having reduced this great giant to so much grey inert flesh and ivory was coming home to sit deeply. My head was swimming with so many thoughts and I couldn't help but remember what the great hunter Bror Blixen had said that "no man was worthy of killing an elephant." Of course, Bror had killed many in his life and now I had done so myself. Non-hunters may never understand how it is to pursue something that you passionately love and to be able to, at the final moment, take from it not only its life, but capture the essence of its very soul to possess in some small way for yourself that gift. Those who never hunt ask why? Those who do never need to ask at all.
If there is moral or metaphor in this, the long days and hours in slow, agonizing pursuit of this glorious game which now lies still before me, collecting flies and gathering tribesmen, looking not nearly so noble in death, making me realize as I travel on in age... and time catches up, we are all heading in the same direction and getting there by inches.