The 12 Mile Track. By Nathan Boehm.
After getting busted by a small group of gemsbok and zebra, we went up to a nearby glassing spot and located a different herd of gemsbok. There was a nice bull! We quickly made a rapid hunchback shuffle to close the distance. We reached 150 yards before the gemsbok went into another patch of brush. I set up using Chris' safari sticks and found the bull in the scope as he was walking away. I waited for the bull to turn broadside as Chris was whistling in an attempt to gain the bull's attention. As the gemsbok turned, he had a few steps remaining before he went into the brush, and I made a quick judgment call based on how the bull was quartering away and placed the shot slightly farther back in an attempt to hit the vitals and opposite shoulder. I squeezed the trigger. Crack...and thud! Upon the hit, the bull did a classic mule kick and ran off.
Pleased with my shot, we all celebrated at what we thought was a given victory. We gathered our gear and went to the location where the bull had been standing and immediately found blood, but not too much. In my mind, I was not too concerned given the construction of the bullet and the tough hide of the animal I was hunting.
We called in the trackers, and they began to work their magic, following the heart-shaped hoofprints through the sand. They would miraculously spot the tiniest drops of blood. After a half a mile, we were quickly hushed and told to drop to our knees. There was the bull! He was standing 60 yards from us hidden in the mopane trees. I managed to uncomfortably lean against a nearby tree, and I had a small window of about eight inches to sneak a second shot in, but there was no time to waste. I pulled the trigger and it was another hit, and looked good based on the way the gemsbok reacted. He took off and we decided to give him a half an hour.
After waiting, the trackers led the way and with their incredible skill tracked the bull for another mile before we jumped him for the second time. We gave him another 30 minutes, still confident the hits had been good, but surprised he was still standing as we expected to come upon him dead at any moment. We continued and the trackers were able to follow the hoofprints of the individual gemsbok, and just when I thought there was no hope, they would show me a speck of blood. Sometimes the specks were 500-600 yards apart. The gemsbok was now aware something was chasing him, and he continued to travel for another three miles without resting. At this point, we decided to let him be overnight and pick up the pursuit tomorrow. That evening we were all in agreement that the bull would die tonight when he laid down to sleep.
Day 2: It was hot. Our hunting buddy "SP" decided to come along and assist with the tracking. I was grateful for the company, but simultaneously guilty for detracting from others' hunting time in order to track a wounded animal. We began tracking again. Three miles later the tracks joined three other gemsbok. Very discouraged by this given the minimal blood spots, I felt we may have "lost the track" as they say. But as we stayed put, the trackers circled back and found a speck of blood where the bull had pulled off from the group. We were back on the trail!
I was thanking the Lord for every speck of blood we found, even though it was specks. I knew the blood was God's special encouraging gift for me, as the trackers said they looked for hoof prints rather than blood. Now that the gemsbok was back on his own, we were still on the move. Another three miles and he still had not stopped from when we last bumped him six miles ago. It was now getting to be about noon and we were all exceedingly hot, thirsty, and frustrated. We could see from the tracks that gemsbok was behaving oddly: constantly pulling random 90 degree turns, walking in circles, and then going back the same direction.
We kept trekking for another two hours. Finally we see him! But to our dismay, he is running away. We had discovered the spot where he had laid down for the night and found a coagulated sandy mixture of blood where he had been. The trackers who observed him running said he appeared weak as he ran. Feeling defeated at this point that the gemsbok was alive and on his feet, we continued on. He finally crossed a road where we paused, and considering the situation and what we knew, we decided to call in reinforcements.
Howard brought in the helicopter with Clay and his 30-06. Baffled by this whole development, I was somewhat conflicted. As fantastic and awesome as it sounded to go up in the chopper to pursue an animal, the hunter in me felt like I had failed in that I had been unable to make an ethical shot and put the animal down quickly. But rather than having the animal get away and suffer another night, it was time to put an end to the madness.
In short order, Howard was there and we loaded up into the chopper. We went up and began a grid search pattern in the direction the gemsbok had run, and I spotted him laying under a mopane tree, hiding in the shade. We circled back around and I positively identified it was my gemsbok. Howard swung about and held position while I found the bull in the scope of Clay's 30-06. Crack! Another shot. This time he rolled over on his side and remained motionless. It was a double-lung shot. What a sigh of relief! He was finally dead. We found a spot to land the helicopter and let the others know where we were.
What a great experience it was to fly in a helicopter! I would be able to rest in peace that night knowing that the gemsbok was down. We followed on the heels of the trackers and soon they let out the most welcome whistle. There he was! I was so excited to get my hands on him. The gemsbok is truly an incredible creature. While we were all standing around celebrating, the trackers were busy cutting a path open to get the gemsbok out of the bush.
SA Native and hunting friend "S1" stuck his finger in one of the wounds and came over to me putting his finger in my face. I was utterly bewildered. He said, "You need to do it, it's 'tradition.'" But still just sticking a finger in my face. Unaware of what "tradition" was in this instance, it seemed to me he was attempting to stick his finger in my mouth. I finally decided to embrace whatever "tradition" was and closed my eyes. S1 wiped a streak of blood on my cheeks and forehead. Whew, that wasn't so bad!
It required a group effort to haul the bull back through the bush on a drag-mat and to the truck and everyone was getting snagged on the thorns, but we made it. We loaded him up and headed for the skinning shed. Once we arrived, the gemsbok was measured and caped out for a shoulder mount. Gavin ran the measurements: 34 inches. It was the biggest of the season so far. It had simply looked like a nice big bull to me!
Finally there was peace tonight as we went back to the fire and shared the stories and celebrations of a hard-earned hunt. I would sleep well tonight.