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Jeri Stephens and I recently spent two weeks hunting in the rain forest of Cameroon with PH Geoffroy Gentile in Mayo Oldiri’s Lognia camp. It was indredible experience hunting with Geoffroy and the Pygmy trackers. They were very professional and hard working. We hunted buffalo for twelve days and actually got within fifteen yards of buffalo on seven different days but the foliage was just too thick to get a glimpse of the buffalo. Oh man, what a rush to hear the buffalo snorting and running through the forest and watching the Pygmies climbing up the trees. Highlights included taking a 27 inch 600+ pound bongo on the first day of the safari, calling a five inch Peter’s duiker in by myself, and finding a fifteen foot python at a saline that graciously posed with us for pictures.
We also saw gorillas and chimpanzees throughout the safary and Jeri almost got trampled by an elephant that took exception to our duiker calling. Geoffroy actually had to fire his rifle in the air when the elephant was about fifteen feet away that’s some adrenalin. Other trophies included a blue duike and red river hog. The camp was very comfortable and the food delicious. I would highly recommend this trip and PH for anyone wanting to go to the rain forest. Remember nothing is easy in the forest neither a step nor a breath and the forest protects its own. See Bragg’n Rights for pictures!.

It was early the morning of the fifth day. Just a few minutes out of camp, we picked up the tracks of a single bull, maybe not smoking fresh, but definitely made the night before. We followed through dense green thickets into more open gallery forest, across another forest road and into more forest. We had followed for little more than an hour when a heavy animal crashed away just in front of us. Our lead tracker released his terrier-like dog, and the trackers behind us released three more.
In seconds, the barking grew more shrill and stabilized, and we fought our way toward the din. There was movement ahead through the leafy screen. We fought more vines and creepers, and then there were patches of mahogany hide and hints of white stripes. Professional hunter Guav Johnson and I saw the horns at about the same time, good horns well shaped. I got the rifle on the bull just as he turned to go, and we had a beautiful bongo bull.
I was in one of Mayo Oldiri’s concessions in the forests of southern Cameroon, and this was an entirely different experience from my first encounters with bongo – two 21 – day hunts in adjoining Central African Republic. Five days into the hunt, a good bongo bull was in the salt.
Technically, at this point three bongo bulls were in the salt. Hunting with the same outfitter in nearby camps, Iowan Howard McCutcheon took his bongo on the fist day. My hunting partner, Cameron Hopkins, took his on the third day. All three were good, mature bongo bulls.
In 1996, my first forest safari, I didn’t get a bongo, but my partner, Sherwin Scott, did. In 1997 I took a great bongo, but my partner, Joe Bishop, did not. In fairness, Joe, Who had previously taken a good bongo, turned down two or three bulls looking for a big one. This is unusual. Almost nobody turns down a mature bongo! But results are results. In 1996 and 1997, we totalled three bongos in 42 hunting days. In 2006, three bongo in five days.
In my opinion, these disparate results do not suggest a different in outfitter or professional hunter competence, or even a significant difference in bongo density. After all, in order to take a bongo you only need one large, round-toed, fresh bull track to be successful. There are differences in hunting methodology –and there are differences in the forest itself.
In 1996, hunting with Rudy Lubin and Jacques Lemaux, we hunted extreme southeastern C.A.R., with Sudan to the east and former Zaire to the south. Bongos are supposed to be somewhat less common here, but as you move from west to east, bongos definitely get larger in the body and, at least potentially, commensurately larger in the horn. Perhaps more important, this area was technically “finger forest”, a transitional region where fingers of true forest intertwined with fingers of savanna woodland – as was the country where bongos were hunted in southern Sudan. Foolishly, I insisted on “pure tracking” without dogs. In this finger forest, it was possible. Sherwin got a bongo, and quite easily. Jacques and I tracked bongos every day. We heard them move in front of us, and once I even saw a flash of red. The tracks led us through many open areas, so with a wee bit of luck I might have gotten a shot – but I never did. And then it raining, and the last 10 days we had no tracks at all.
In June 1997, I hunted with Alain Lefol in southwestern C.A.R., on the Cameroon border. This was my first look at the true forest zone of Central Africa, from the air an almost unbroken blanket of green. On the ground, average visibility might be 10 yards – often less, only occasionally more.
Here it is my view that pure tracking, without dogs, is almost an exercise in futility, and certainly an exercise in blind luck.
This year in Cameroon, our pygmy trackers used several dogs, leashed until the bongo is seen or, more likely, heard. Either way, one dog or several, the intent is to distract the bongo long enough not only to close for a shot, but also to see the horns. It doesn’t always work. There are no wild canines in the forest, and indeed no predators at all that are dangerous to a mature bongo. Some bongos stop to stare at this strange yapping creature. Others instinctively try to kill the dogs. Still others simply walk away, never stopping at all.
Despite his legendary rarity, I believe that the bongo is the most common game animal in much of the vast forest zone. The bongo isn’t rare, but he is difficult.
Rain is essential. Rain quiets the forest and makes tracks more visible, which is important. But the real kicker is that when the forest is dry and noisy the forest animals move very little, thus leaving few tracks to follow.

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Fresh out of a cool shower, I felt the first trickle of sweat crawl across my scalp less than five minutes after the refreshing river water sprayed over me from a gravity-fed tub suspended overhead. Toweling off back in my palm-frond-and-wood hut, I felt the mugginess in the air as a troop of monkeys tittered to each other in a nearby tree.
The temperature was mild, about 75 degrees, but the humidity was as high as a Turkish sauna. All it took to start perspiring again after that cool shower was a little bit of exertion-tying my shoes.
I was in equatorial Africa, deep in the rain forests of Cameroon, a scant 20 kilometers from the border of the Congo. I was a visitor, a Tall, in the land of the Bake pygmies (pronounced Baa-kaa), the forest-dwelling natives that have lived much as they live now for the past 10,000 years. The Bake are hunters, phenomenally gifted and patient hunters, and they would show me their ways of finding game amid the thick tropical vegetation, towering trees and dense foliage of the rain forest.
The pervasive hot-towel humidity really wasn't entirely unpleasant, not when you're living a boyhood fantasy. I grew up in the '60s longing for Saturday morning television and my favorite program, Tarzan. The best by far were the Johnny Weissmuller renditions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's adventure hero, complete with Jane, Cheetah and Boy, and a supporting cast of greedy bad guys and restless natives to fight, not to mention the occasional crocodile to thrash. The chattering of monkeys, honking of elephants, roaring of lions-Africa! Tangled vines, hissing snakes, malarial swamps-Africa! Pygmies, bongos, gorillas, natives-no-go-further-Africa!
My golden dream of Africa, as Roosevelt called it, was to hunt the steamy tropical jungle where Tarzan lived, but I learned as I grew up and read the classics-Roark, Hemingway, Capstick-that the Dark Continent is really not like my boyhood Saturday mornings. Instead of thick, green, tropical rain forests, it was mostly dry, gray savannah dotted with flat-topped acacia, thorn-covered bushes and semi-desert expanses. Instead of hacking our way through a matted tangle of vines in a steamy, green jungle, the Africa I found was mostly an open plain with lots of game, hence the term "plains game." The hunts took place out of well-equipped, modern safari camps easily reached from a major metropolis with an international airport, like Johannesburg.
I was mildly disappointed with this Africa. Don't get me wrong, hunting southern Africa is magnificent, every bit the soul-captivating experience that African hunters say it is. To stalk gemsbok across the red sands of the Kalahari or track Cape buffalo through the jess of the Zambezi Valley are exciting and enthralling and I'll never forget killing my first kudu along the Timbavati River...but where was Cheetah? This wasn't the Africa that had sparked the imagination of a young boy. How can it be Africa if it's not a jungle? I vowed one day to hunt my boyhood Africa, Tarzan's Africa, and now at last, here I was sweating after a shower in a remote jungle camp in Africa, complete with pygmy trackers, wild forest elephant and, yes, even a pet chimp.
The country was Cameroon, a former French protectorate on the west coast, just in the crook of the elephant's ear of the continent. I was hunting out of a camp called Lognia, named for a nearby stream, that is around two degrees north latitude, less than 120 miles from the earth's median. It doesn't get any more equatorial than that. We were less than 20 kilometers away from the Sangwa River, the border of the Congo, truly the fabled jungles of the apeman.
I came to hunt bongo, an exotic orange antelope that lives only in the dense rain forests of equatorial Africa. If I was lucky, my Cameroonian big game license also would allow me to try for some of the other unique species of the forest, animals like the forest sitatunga, yellow-backed duiker, giant forest hog and dwarf buffalo. My license also entitled me to an assortment of little antelopes like the blue and Peter's duiker or Bate's pygmy antelope, a tiny little thing not much bigger than a Chihuahua. But the real object was to hunt the shy and secretive bongo. Bongo is a pygmy word for a 600-pound antelope with a stunning coloration of chestnut orange punctuated with dramatic white stripes. Tragelaphus euryceros is a member of the spiral horned family that includes the kudu, bushbuck and eland. Many hunters say the bongo is the most beautiful and desirable of all African antelopes.

Exotic Experience
Apart from actually living those thrilling Saturday mornings of yesteryear, what really attracted me to hunt bongo was not so much the rarity of this remarkably handsome antelope, but more so the unique hunting experience of tracking with pygmies in the rain forest. It just doesn't get much more exotic than hunting with pygmy trackers chopping a path through thick jungle with their machetes.
In recent years, Cameroon has emerged as the best place to hunt this short-legged, stoutly built, forest-dwelling antelope. Success rates with the better outfitters-and I was hunting with the very best in the country, Mayo Oldiri Safaris of Madrid, Spain-is 100 percent for bongo on a two week safari. I was hunting with a seasoned veteran of a professional hunter, French-born Geoffroy de Gentile, who has hunted central Africa for over 20 years, specializing in forest safaris. He hunted for years in the CAR and then hunted in Cameroon with the legendary Jacques Guin, who is to West African PH lore what Percival or Selby were to East.
Geoffroy personally built the Lognia Camp and delineated the boundaries of what is now defined as Hunting Zone 31 when it was first created by the Cameroonian game department as a hunting block. In the past 10 years in the zone, his clients have taken 53 bongo with an average horn length of 28-inches. I was hoping to be happy hunter number 54.

Welcome To The Jungle
As I discovered when tying my shoes, the rain forest redefines mugginess. You simply can't stay dry, either from sweat, rain, swamps or mud. I brought two pairs of canvas tennis shoes, one to dry out while I was resoaking the spare pair. Everyone recommended long sleeve shirts and trousers. For this sort of sauna-like heat, I was naturally thinking along the lines of swimming trunks and a T-shirt.
"Cover every part of your body," Geoffroy advised. "Wear gloves and a hat. Cover the back of your neck so caterpillars can't fall down your shirt. You need gaiters over your lower legs to protect from the thorns and keep the jungle ants from crawling up your trouser leg. Leave nothing uncovered!"
I quickly saw the wisdom of Geoffroy's 20-plus years of experience. You don't walk in the forest, you slowly push your way through the undergrowth festooned with sharp thorny barbs, pricking, scratching and tearing at you every step of the way. And if the jagged vegetation isn't enough, there are the biting ants, stinging caterpillars, poisonous spiders and malarial mosquitoes. You wouldn't last five minutes in shorts and a T-shirt in the rain forest.
Equipment selection is crucial in the forest, not just because of the inhospitable jungle but also because of what lives in it. For a rifle, Geoffroy told me to bring whatever I liked, as long as it could stop an elephant at three paces. At least a .375, preferably a .416, a .458 even better. I chose an old style Ruger 77 in .458 Win. Mag., the kind with a fast and reliable tang-mounted safety. The old Ruger 77 features a big claw extractor, spring ejector and, most importantly, flawless reliability.
For optics, I put my money where my mouth is and mounted what I think is the best close-range, dangerous game scope extant, Trijicon's 1.25-4X AccuPoint. This lightning-fast scope features an illuminated post reticle with a sharp red triangle at the top of the post. The lit reticle comes from a combination of fiber optics delivering ambient light to the glowing triangle or, in the dark, tritium self-illumination. With no batteries to drain or complicated electronics to corrode in the humidity, the AccuPoint is ideal for these sorts of conditions.
Ammunition is just as critical and for the big .458 Win. Mag., the best loading available is Hornady's "turbo charged" Heavy Mag carrying the same firm's heavily reinforced 500 gr. bronze solids. With Hornady's Heavy Mag, a .458 can honestly reproduce the velocity of the .470 Nitro Express, the cartridge it was designed to duplicate. This magic number is 2,150 feet per second, a benchmark only Hornady's Heavy Mag achieves of all the factory offerings. So I was set, proper clothes, a big gun, good ammo, a perfect scope and a seasoned professional hunter. All that remained was to meet the rest of the hunting team, the fabled pygmies of the rain forest.

It's A Short World
Geoffroy de Gentile, who, as the oldest son of the oldest son of the oldest son going back five generations, is actually a French count, shook his head affectionately and smiled paternalistically when I asked him about his pygmy trackers. "The pygmies are the best hunters in Africa. They live in the forest, they know everything about the forest. They find tracks where there are no tracks," said the 44-year-old PH in his marvelous Marcel Marceau French accent.
"The pygmies believe they live in heaven. Really. Everything they want is in the forest. If they want food, the forest gives them fruit, meat, vegetables. The forest always has fresh water and the rivers have fish. If they are sick, the forest has medicine. They don't understand why anyone needs anything beyond what the forest gives them.
"The pygmies like to sing-they are a happy, care-free people-and one song starts like this: 'Deep in the forest, live a little people. Born in the past, living for the future.' This says a lot about the pygmy."
We were hunting with pygmies from the Bake tribe, a large clan of semi-nomadic forest dwellers living in Cameroon, the CAR and Congo. They come and go as they please. The pygmies are the only people in the world who can legally cross international boundaries without a passport; they're defined by international convention as "citizens of the forest."
Incidentally, the term "pygmy" is not at all derisive or racist. They are proud of being pygmy. They refer to all others as "the Tall," with not the slightest bit of jealousy or resentment. The pygmies are friendly and hospitable by nature, a part of their open and accepting hunter-gatherer culture.
During my safari, I got to know a pygmy named Monbateau quite well. He was assigned as my gun bearer and a lead tracker, but he was quite happy that I never asked him to carry my rifle. I don't believe a man should ever allow another man to serve as his beast of burden, simply because it's not dignified. Besides, I want that big Ruger in my hands when we could encounter an elephant or buffalo unexpectedly.
Monbateau smiled infectiously, his strikingly white teeth straight and beautiful. Unlike many of the Bake tribe, Monbateau didn't chisel his front teeth into sharpened points. His natural leadership was evident as he hustled and cajoled the other trackers when they weren't quite as diligent as he liked. Monbateau didn't know how old he was, but almost certainly less than 30. Pygmies don't have long life spans, 40 for a woman and 45 for a man.
We hunted with anywhere from four to nine Bake at a time, half of which brought their own hunting dogs. These small, thin mutts resemble a shorthaired coyote in size and conformation, a sort of mixed breed of domestic and wild dog. Fed well, but sleek as greyhounds from hunting every day (and probably a good case of worms), these dogs were to be pivotal in my bongo hunt.

The Orange Ghost
Hunting bongo begins with searching for tracks. We drove the rain-polished, sun-baked dirt trails cut by logging companies to transport the massive saipo and sapelli logs that are hewn from the forest. Without the logging industry, there would be no bongo hunting because there's no other way to penetrate the dense jungle. As an aside, logging of the African rain forest, at least here in Cameroon, is done responsibly. There is none of this clear-cutting and massive deforestation that you read about in connection with global warming from the destruction of the rain forests. Lumber companies may be bulldozing the rain forest in South America, but not here in central Africa. In fact, each tree is assessed a "trophy fee," paid by the lumber company, so the cutting is highly selective.
Driving these trails, we looked for three things in a bongo track. First, the track must be fresh. With the frequent rainfall in the forest, the roads are washed clear of tracks with every rain, so finding a fresh track is not as hard as it sounds. Second, the track must be large, belonging to a big male. And lastly, the track must be solitary. If there are two or more sets of tracks, the odds are it's from a female and a young. We didn't follow any of those.
Interestingly, the pygmy trackers paid no attention at all to the one thing that is crucial in selecting a track to follow in savannah or bush terrain-wind. The reason is simple. It's not that bongo can't smell, it's that there is no breeze at all under the jungle canopy. The wind swirls above the treetops.
The first track we found was everything we wanted-fresh, big and solo-and so we shrugged into our water-bearing CamelBak daypacks, loaded our rifles, leashed the dogs and set off into the forest.
From the road, the forest appears like a massive green wall of vegetation, but once we plunged inside, we found the foliage varied quite a bit. Big trees towered over us, their leafy branches like giant broccoli overheard, but the undergrowth of broad-leafed plants and dense thorn-covered vines was what blocked our way.
We pushed and clawed into the green thickness, the pygmies swinging their machetes expertly as they chopped a path into the jungle. Parts of the forest are relatively open with not as much undergrowth. This is the primeval forest, Geoffroy explained, forest that is at least 100 years old and has not been cut. The secondary forest, younger with smaller trees and less canopy, lets more sunlight in to feed the undergrowth. It was here that visibility was measured in feet, not yards, and we stepped from one entangling bunch of barbed vines to the next.
The forest floor was covered with a carpet of dead, brown leaves, but we stepped silently across them. The rain keeps the leaves wet and heavy, so there is no crackle or crunch of walking on dry leaves. We inched deeper into the forest and with every track that the pygmies found-a bent branch, a disturbed leaf, fresh droppings-I grew more and more excited.
I marveled at how these amazing little forest people could discern the slightest disturbance on the wet, leafy ground, the subtlest sign of an animal passing. Every now and then the lead tracker would stop and puzzle over the ground. If he wasn't sure which may the bongo had gone, he would gesture to the sides and the other pygmies would fan out, each bent at the waist, their gentle eyes seeing things I never could.

Loose The Dogs
Suddenly one pygmy gave a short, soft whistle and lifted a leaf to reveal a bongo track. How did he see under the leaf? I was amazed at the uncanny skill. The other trackers honored his find like pointers on a covey of quail. The pygmies picked up the track and plunged into the vegetation, machetes chopping rhythmically. After another half-hour of silent tracking, the lead pygmy froze in midstride and cocked his head to one side. Something moving ahead...
He gestured to the dog handlers and the little dogs sensed the quarry was near. They shivered with excitement as their masters picked up fresh bongo droppings and, crushing the glistening, round droppings in their hands, blew the scent up the nostrils of the dogs. The bongo was close, not more than 20 yards away, and the hunt was on. As the pygmies unclipped their leashes, the dogs dashed ahead silently, noses to forest floor.
Geoffroy had explained the methodology of hunting bongo over dinner our first night in camp. "The pygmy hunt the bongo. They track him, they do the hunting. The job of the dogs is only to hold the bongo once we get close, giving us time to see if it's a male," he explained.
"You will only have a moment to decide. You will only see a glimpse of the bongo. The bongo will be fighting the dogs and if he sees us, he will charge. Bongo is very dangerous. We don't want the bongo to see us, so if we don't shoot, we leave. Right away! The forest is very thick and we will be very close, five or six meters.
"I will look through my binoculars to see the horns. You must shoot if the bongo sees us and charges. I won't have my rifle ready when I am looking with the binoculars. If I see it is a good bull, I will tell you and you must shoot quickly-for the shoulder, if you can see it."
It had not occurred to me that bongo are dangerous, but it makes sense under the circumstances. Geoffroy elaborated, "Any animal, before it charges, must make a decision to fight. Maybe it runs, maybe it fights, it must decide. With the dogs, the bongo has already made the decision to fight. Now, if the bongo sees you, it does not make a decision to charge, it has already made that decision with the dogs. Now it only changes targets. You are more threatening, so it charges."
And now, suddenly, the dogs were yipping and barking. The lead trackers had run ahead and as we clawed and pushed our way through the barbed vines, one of the pygmies ran back, waving his arms furiously that the bongo was fighting the dogs. Geoffrey plunged ahead into the entangling forest and I followed him into the green wall.
My heart pounded as I heard the dogs barking not more than 10 yards away and, as we shoved our way through the last branches, the sound of the dogs mixed with the thrashing of bushes-the bongo was just six paces away. I was breathing heavily even though the dash through the forest had not been so far, but the excitement was gushing through me.
I saw a blur of orange, a flash of white. "He's a bull, he's a bull!" Geoffroy exclaimed. "Shoot, shoot, shoot!"
The big Ruger was already at my shoulder and I looked through the wide view of the Trijicon scope dialed down to its lowest 1.25X setting, virtually no magnification. The bright red aiming triangle shone like a beacon on the chestnut hued bongo. It was close, very close, but the forest was so thick, it was hard to see...
There, the shoulder! I never heard the crash of the elephant rifle as 500 grains of bronze encapsulated Hornady solid bore through both shoulders and the bongo disappeared from the scope. "Good shot, good shot!" Geoffroy yelled. "Come, come!"
We pushed through the last wall of vines and leaves and there was my bongo, a perfectly round, wet, red hole in its shoulder. I kept my rifle at my shoulder, ready to fire if the bongo got up, but it never would. "Watch out for the dogs," Geoffroy admonished unnecessarily. There would be no need of a finisher.
The pygmies ran up delightedly, cooing and gasping and smiling and strutting around the kill, proud and happy hunters. Suddenly one let out a loud trilling sound and they all erupted with a pygmy cheer. Then the singing started, and the clapping and the handshaking and the hugs. Geoffrey grabbed me both shoulders and made me look him in the eyes. "There is your bongo!" he shouted as the pygmies skipped and sang. "An old bull, a very old bull! Look at how polished his horns are!"
I looked and I looked again, and the enormity of the moment overwhelmed me. The dogs still barked and licked the bullet wound. The pygmies sang and danced. And I looked up and saw no sky as the jungle canopy shaded the gray mist above us. I silently thanked God for this magical moment, this incredible experience-hunting bongo in the forest with pygmy trackers. Suddenly I was that 12-year-old boy fixed to the black and white TV in our family room. I was here, in Tarzan's Africa.

It was February 18, 2006 as I stood behind a scrub tree in the northern Cameroon's Savanna. I settled the cross hairs on my 300 Winchester Mag on a Sing Sing Waterbuck laying down facing away from me. If I make this 375 yard shot I will have fulfilled a life time goal of taking 400 different species of big game animals, which few hunters if any in the work have ever accomplished.
This trip had really started at the SCI convention in 2005 while at the Mayo Oldiri booth. My old friend Antonio Reguera the owner of the company asked me if there was anything left in Cameroon that I had not taken.
I told Antonio there were two animals that I had not taken that occur in Cameroon, the Korrigum (Giant Tope) and the Sing Sing Waterbuck, which occur in the very Northern part of their country in the savanna. Antonio told me only very few permits per year given for the Korrigum in the entire country. Antonio then invited me to hunt with him in the Mayo Nduel camp in zone 20 where there were lots of Korrigum and Waterbuck and I could have his permit. My long time friend Al Cheramie, 12th SCI Past president would join me on this hunt. Al wanted to take a Western Savanna Buffalo, along with several other animals. We would be hunting for six days, along with another friend Mike Hagen who would join us for a 14 day full big hunt, including the Giant Eland.
On February 16, 2006 we arrived in Douala, Cameroon on an Air France flight. We were met by Mayo's people who efficiently whisked us through customs then took us to the Meridiem Hotel to recover from our jet lag. The next morning we were picked up and taken back to the airport to catch a domestic flight to the northern city of Garoua. There we were met by Sadi Cheikh and an old friend from the forest hunt, Luis. We loaded duffel bags and weapons, and then were taken to a house to eat lunch and discuss the upcoming hunt and catch up on old times. We each were send to three different camps.
Sadi and I were off to Mayo Nduel, while Al went to Mayo Oldiri, Mike and Luis went to Mayo Vaimba camp. Our trip took 3 ½ hours over terrible roads, we drove through villages filled with round huts made of grass and straw. Everywhere we saw people looking as we drove through the villages. Two weeks before the trip started I slipped a disk in my back, it was still very painful. My doctor took an x-ray and had found that two vertebras had been broken at some time in my life. The only time that this could have occurred was in 1963 during one of the three helicopter crashes that I survived in Cambodia during the Vietnam War. I had been a sniper serving in Cambodia, Laos and North Vietnam for MACVSOG making hits on Chinese and Russian advisers, then destroying their training camps.
I had picked up a plastic bottle of frozen water, and then placed it on my back as we drove to help ease the pain from the constant jarring, the 115 F temperature did not help the situation.
Once in the Nduel I found a small but very comfortable camp with round huts made of brick and stucco. My hut had its own bath and large bed. Guav Johnson, my guide was there to meet me as I stepped out of the truck, a Zimbabwean who guided for Mayo in the Savanna as well as the forest hunts in the first part of the season. He then goes to Mozambique or back to Zimbabwe to guide.
That evening after a delicious dinner of Waterbuck fillet with sauce and fresh vegetables from their garden Guav and I discussed our hunt and what type of animals I wanted to harvest. I had brought along pages photo copied from the SCI Record Book for the Korrigum and the Waterbuck. I told Guav I would like to take both animals in the top ten; after all we did have 6 days to do it in. The next morning we were up at 4:30 am, ate breakfast and loaded up the land cruiser. My trackers would be Taiwee, Martin and Zacario, who as I would find out were very capable and professional with excellent eye sight and great knowledge of the area we were hunting. Once we left camp we immediately saw a large numbers of animals, it was like being in Tanzania, Roan, Waterbuck, Western Kop, Duikers, Western Hartebeest, Giant Eland and Western Buffalo in large numbers with many being trophy quality.
We drove about one and a half hours to the very edge of the area before we started seeing Korrigum; we encountered small herds of five to fifteen. We decided to park the truck and start walking to see what we could find on foot looking over some wonderful animals.
Several years ago there had been a die off for some unknown reason. They are just starting to come back so they are able to give few permits a year. After walking for one hour we spotted what we both agreed was an outstanding head, so we made the long crawling stock for about 300 yards, always keeping trees and shrubs in between us and our quarry. At 350 yards out we glassed, Guav was planning the final stock, he said he wanted to get closer by 150 yards before the shot would be made. I think I told him, I was going to make the shot from here; he asked, "Can you make the shot?" I told him to watch. My 300 mag. built on a pre 64 Winchester action, which had its organ as my sniper rifle. Enemy fire had hit the barrel with an incinerator round as well as the scope and stock, while the rifle was on my back without a doubt the rifle, saved my life. Rather then throw it all away, I saved the action and throw everything else away.
The shot entered the right shoulder, taking out both lungs, he never moved out of his tracks. This made my count, 399 species of the world. We thought he was big but never expected him to be the largest ever taken in Cameroon, as well as the largest taken anywhere in the last 25 years. The drive back to camp was a joyous time with my trackers patting me on the back. When we arrived in camp at 9:30 am Sadi came to greet us with a surprised look on his face as if to say," why are you back so soon." Guav simply said, "We have nothing", this is when I spoke up and said. "There is no game in this area at all." Sadi was taken back and his face fell as if I had hit him with a fist, with that there was no way I could continue with the joke, we took him around to the back of the truck and showed him what we had taken. He was astonished at the size of the horns; he had never seen a Korrigum this large even in the days when there were lots of them. We all sat down and had a cold drink, talked about the morning hunt and waited out the heat of the day which hit 115F, the week before arriving the temperature had been reaching 125F.
At 4:00 pm we went back out looking for Waterbuck, we saw lots of game including Waterbuck, but not the right one. Just before last light we spotted the one we had been looking for; he was in thick timber but not enough light to make a good shot. If it had been 10 minutes earlier he would have been mine, but for this day it was not to be. We would have to wait until tomorrow at sunrise, we creped back to the truck and head back to camp.
First light found us on foot pursuing my quest for #400, following the tracks he left during the night. After about ½ hour we spotted 15 Waterbucks in all but not the one we had seen the night before. We continued to follow tracks until we broke out into a clearing; this is when we spotted him about 650 yards away. Down on our hands and knees we crawled to where we were around 400 yards. We stopped to rest and take another look, he was laying down facing away from us, he was a little lower then we were behind a scrub tree. Guav thought that we should wait for him to stand up and then make the shot. I then suggested another way; I had a good rest to take him through the center of the back taking out the back bone and exiting through the lungs. Guav stated I would have two inches from side to side to hit the back bone, kawam!!!! The shot was true and he lowered his head not knowing what had happened.
Number 400 was mine!!!!! After the photos and hand shakes all around, we headed back to camp. In just one and a half days I had completed a dream that I had started since I was 5 years old hunting antelope with my father in Wyoming so many years ago. We hunted together every year until he died in 1980.
Our camp was all a buzz; they had caught a poacher with about 20 snares in a sack and a bushbuck. They were interrogating him, trying to find out who else was with him. He was then taken into town and turned into the local authorities for punishment.
As we ate lunch I discussed with Sadi how to interrogate a prisoner not to leave marks, but to get the information they needed, after all I was well versed in this area from the war in Cambodia.
That afternoon Guav, Sadi and I left our camp to see what Al and his guide were up to and possibility we could have been some help. We arrived at the new camp just before dark soon after Al came in with a wonderful Western Buffalo. He was so happy to realize it would be in the top 20. I went out with Al the next several days to help spot, in 6 days he took a Western Hartebeest, Western Savanna Buffalo, Western Roam and a Western Kop. Jose Carrion was Al's guide, a very nice person and an expert guide.
Al had a very interesting time hunting his Roan from my first camp where we spotted several good trophy animals. Using his 375 he shot through a small tree trunk and killed the Roan.
Mike Hagen hunted for another week taking a Giant Eland, Roan, Bushbuck, Western Kop and Warthog. The highest point of his hunt was taking his Eland out of a herd of over 200 with an additional 50 Roan and 40 Hartebeest. Mike's Roan was over 31 inches long, which will put it in the top 10 of SCI' s record book. In addition he took Reedbuck, Red Flank Duiker, Hartebeest, Waterbuck and Oribi. His guide's Luis and Joaquin were outstanding, they moved to three different area's to find the best game there was. Mike is still saying he cannot believe all the game he saw while he was there. Mayo Oldiri is without a doubt one of the premier outfitters in all of Africa, especially for the hard to take species. They run 100% on all game that a hunter seeks. Every year several 50 inch Giant Eland are taken, as well as the Bongo of the south, most of them over 30 inches. The only regret that I have is there is no need for me to go back to Cameroon, but who knows maybe Antonio will open up in another country that has specie I have not taken.

Here is a short report on the Bongo Hunt.
I harvested a Bongo which is about No. 17 in the book.
MAYO OLDIRI SAFARIS is a first class and very fine safari outfit. All accommodations and services were exceptional. If someone has the desire to harvest a Bongo, this is definitely the place to go.
I have hunted Africa since the early 1970's but truly feel you have not had the 'true' African experience until you have hunted in the heavy rain forest areas of Cameroon and the Congo. However, if you don't have an unrelenting desire for a Bongo - it is a good country to stay out of.
All 3rd World Countries are in a class of their own and Cameroon is no exception. Cameroon has many problems, in addition to the normal ones, disease, insects, poaching of game and government graft. But, the experience and reward of hunting with Pigmy Trackers is unbelievable.
When I took my two sons with me, little did I know what I was getting them in to. On two occasions, in the middle of the night, we saw Safari Staff being carried out of the camp on stretchers to be MED VAC to Germany. At the time, I was surely hoping that the 'big guy' upstairs was watching.
We were constantly being harassed by rough Elephants who have been peppered by poachers armed only with shot guns. At the time, I had wished I'd left the kids at home. Since American's cannot import Ivory you only have one option - RUN. A hunter prior to us had to cancel his Elephant Hunt because they had to shoot two cow rough Elephants who refused to break their charge. The Jungle is so-thick, you often don't see these Elephants until you are within 50-feet.
Last year, the Head Tracker was killed by a large Bull Elephant who had established a strong dislike for humans. They claim these Elephants are endangered. I however disagree as I was witness to the many times and the large number of Elephants who chased us.
They also claim the Ape's are endangered. However, we saw seven (7) Apes. Some of them were huge. At least they did not chase us. The Pigmy's claimed they were excellent to eat.
Can you outrun a Pigmy - better think about it before you go.
There is only one animal worth going on this trip for - BONGO!!
This would be an excellent hunt for bow & arrow. Be sure to take your Bible with you.
I promise you that you will never get a hunt like this in Texas.
HAPPY! - HAPPY! - HAPPY!

No one said hunting for the Giant Lord Derby Eland in Cameroon would be easy. I just didn't know how difficult it would actually turn out to be until pursuing the eland on his terms.
I had the opportunity to meet the owners of Mayo Oldiri Safaris at the Reno Convention of SCI in January, 2005. They are most hospitable people and very honest and sincere wanting their clients to be successful.
Getting to Cameroon from my home in Montana is not an easy task. I booked reservations for my wife Virginia and myself using Delta/Air France. Air France must be used as it is the only major airline serving Cameroon. The country of Cameroon has its own national airline, Cameroon Air but I soon found that they fly a supposed regular schedule but that schedule is subject to the whim of the pilots on any given day as to whether they want to fly or if there is any interest in even going to any particular destination which they are supposed to serve. I know of several hunters that have been stranded in communities served by Cameroon Air for as much as five days waiting for a plane to show up to take them to Douala, the Capital city of Cameroon.
I booked dates with Mayo Oldiri and choose their opening date for the first hunt which included Christmas and New Years holidays. Virginia and I were very excited over the prospect of spending these two special holidays in a true remote safari camp.
As the time for departure drew near we realized our little 15 year old Australian Silky terrier Essie May who had been gravely ill with diabetes for over a 18 months would not fare well being confined to a veterinary clinic for a period of almost one month. She is hopelessly spoiled and also requires special attention with insulin injections twice daily.
As painful as it was for both Virginia and me we cancelled the hunt. A very short time later Virginia insisted I reinstate the hunt dates if possible and go by myself. She said this was a chance of a lifetime and it should not be postponed. It pained me deeply to think of leaving my wife behind to care for Essie who we both dearly love but I agreed and went ahead with the plans to fly. I cancelled Virginia's reservation and proceeded on my own leaving Billings on December 20, 2005. My flight would take me to Houston Texas where I would catch Air France to Paris and then change aircraft and on down to Douala where I would spend one evening and then take Cameroon Air back up to Garoua to be picked up by camp staff.
My trip started out with more then a few difficulties. First upon arriving in Houston I found the Air France flight was very late arriving in Houston and I would miss my connecting flight the next morning to Douala. I was faced with spending an entire day and night in Paris since there is only one flight daily from Paris to Cameroon.
There were perhaps 15 American oil field specialists waiting in Houston to catch the same flight I was on. All were also taking the flight from Paris to Douala where they would take connecting flights back up to Nigeria, Chad, Benign and other destinations to work the refineries and oil drilling rigs. This may have been what saved me a long delay in Paris. When our flight arrived in Paris there was an Air France agent at the gate holding up a sign with my name on it. I was told we must hurry and follow this agent as they were holding the flight to Douala. We literally ran for a long distance from my arrival gate to my destination gate. There were also agents to assist the oil workers. I often wonder as to what may have become of some of those men on that flight with me. After I returned home I saw on the news that a number of oil rig and refinery workers had been murdered and some were missing. There has been no further word that I am aware of at this time as to the outcome with some of those missing people. Some that may have flown with me to Douala.
I was greatly please to know that I was on my way to Douala and would shortly be in safari camp. Wrong! I arrived in Douala where I was promptly met by a representative of Mayo Oldiri. They had made a reservation for me at the Le Meridian hotel which proved to be very nice and comfortable. A good thing as I ended up spending two nights there instead of one due to the fact Cameroon Air had decided not to fly to Garoua the next day. Fortunate for Cameroon there was another domestic airline that had begun a regular schedule December lst and the Mayo Oldiri people in Douala were able get me on a flight after two nights in the hotel with nothing to do but wait for a flight.
While waiting for my flight to leave for Garoua I was surprised to meet Guav Johnson, the young PH from Zimbabwe that I would be spending some time with while in safari camp. He had just arrived after three days of air travel getting from Zimbabwe via Kenya to Cameroon. That is Africa.
We arrived in Garoua and were met by Luis another Mayo professional hunter who along with our driver would take us the five hour drive over terrible roads to my first hunting camp Mayo Vaimba. We arrived at camp Vaimba late in the afternoon and met the camp manager Joaquin. The camp was absolutely beautiful nestled on the banks of a beautiful river. The dining and meals were gourmet and my rondovel was clean and well cared for.
I was supposed to hunt with Luis for the first week in pursuit of eland and other plains game. Unfortunately Luis had contracted a serious eye infection and was having serious problems with his eye. He had to wear an eye patch and was using several antibiotics which had been prescribed by a physician in Garoua.
Due to Luis's eye problem I was to be guided by Joaquin who proved to be most competent and a true professional hunter. On several occasions Luis came with us but struggled walking long distances over rough terrain with a patch over one eye. I admired his determination but continued to worry over what appeared to be a deteriorating condition with his infection.
We hunted very hard for an eland. Hunting eland is much like elephant hunting, you simply walk and walk and walk until you find fresh tracks or the animals themselves and then try to make a plan for a stalk. Sometimes you will follow fresh tracks for miles and never catch up with the animals that are feeding and moving constantly through the forests. Add to the constant walking in temperatures of 100 degrees and more and it becomes a true challenge to harvest one of these animals.
In addition to the many miles walked each day in the intense heat there was another problem that made hunting very difficult. As I mentioned I was the first hunter into the Mayo Oldiri camps and that being the case a lot of the forest and savannah had not been burned and in some areas the grass was too green to burn. In the areas we could burn and then come back and hunt a day or two later we would find ourselves walking through all the fresh ash from the freshly burned grass. This ash was loaded with sulphur and other irritating properties that would fill your eyes and sinus and drain down your throat causing everyone to have coughing spells. As we hunted along with our column creating these clouds of ash and soot we sounded as if we all had pneumonia or consumption. My throat and nose were very sore from the time I began the hunt until days after the hunt had ended, all from the heat, soot, dust and ash.
Joaquin had been anxious for me to harvest something and on the fourth morning of our hunt we saw a group of Sing Sing water buck males several hundred yards away through a clearing in the forest. Joaquin suggested I try for the largest which was a fine ram. I was using a camp rifle, an 8 X 68 Mauser equipped with a very nice German scope. The rifle also had a muzzle break to reduce recoil. I had not fired the rifle thus my first shot with the rifle was to harvest this large waterbuck. I was able to get on the beast and set the first trigger, (this rifle had double set triggers) and as I moved on target I squeezed the second hair trigger.
My first round fired through this Mauser was most effective and I had collected a marvelous trophy. The only problem was my ears were ringing so bad I was almost deafened by the muzzle blast. This would continue through out the hunt. I wish I would have had ear plugs and had I known about what I would be using for a rifle. I would certainly have taken my fitted ear protection with me. Always ask questions of your safari operator. I know better and should have asked more about the gun.
I had finally drawn blood and everyone was feeling much better. I had been refusing to shoot game we were seeing such as water buck, bohor reedbuck, hartebeest or duiker as I did not want to disturb the hunting areas by firing a shot when my primary trophy was the giant eland.
After walking for some four or five miles on the morning of the fifth day we came across fresh tracks. Our tracker went to work and we followed the zig zag tracks of cows, calves and several bulls in this herd of perhaps 15 or 20 animals. It was probably another 2 miles when our tracker and PH stopped suddenly. All was very still and quiet. We listened and in the distance heard a eland calf calling to its mother for milk. We knew we were close so took precaution to keep the wind in our face. This required a large circle away from the tracks we had been following. After perhaps another two miles of walking as quietly as possible on the dried and burned leaves and brush we had completely lost track of the eland. We decided on a bold move and cut back across our circle path hoping to find the tracks of the herd again. While walking rapidly up a narrow gully our head tracker, who with age was very hard of hearing and partially blind which is quite common among the blacks who spend their lifetime in the intense African sun, came up out of the gully and to our surprise there was a very nice eland bull running away from us some 150 yards away. Joaquin was very upset with the tracker for not having used more caution when coming up out of the gully. All we could do was to continue on but we knew now that the herd had spooked. When eland become alarmed they can move at a full run for miles. We decided to again gamble and continue straight across country to try to intercept the herd.
After another 4 or 5 miles of hard walking in the now noon day sun and temperatures of over 100 degrees we spotted eland in the trees about 300 yards distant. We approached as close as we dare and still were a long 200 yards away from perhaps 6 or 7 eland that we could make out in the shade of the forest. Joaquin had me take up a position with my rifle resting in the crotch of a small tree, the only tree between the eland and ourselves. He told me to watch for a bull to present itself for a possible shot. I maintained this position for perhaps one hour in the blistering sun before it was decided the eland were sleeping and would not move for maybe another two hours or more. We thought it best to leave this location and walk a large circle to come into the herd from a different angle with more cover. I felt like a lobster fresh out of the pot after standing at the small tree for so long.
We did another 2-3 miles and came into where we thought the eland should be. One of our trackers climbed a small tree and spotted eland about 450 yards away. We made our way slowly towards them but as so often happens in hunting, we spooked a small herd of hartebeest that broke into there clumsy gait and ran in the direction of the eland.
We quickly had to change plans which took us right back past where we had waited for so long hoping for a shot. From there we cautiously made our way parallel to the forest where the herd had been sleeping earlier in the afternoon. The sun was cruel and intense at this point. We had been on this stalk since early morning and it was now perhaps 3 PM. We continued walking not knowing exactly where the eland might have gone when suddenly our tracker and Joaquin following behind him froze. At this point you must understand that Joaquin is 6 ft. 3" tall and towers over my five ft. 7 inches so he had a commanding view of the terrain ahead of us.
Joaquin called for the shooting sticks and motioned me forward. I moved cautiously with the man with the sticks. He set up and I looked directly over the sticks with my rifle in place and saw movement. There were eland moving through the trees maybe 200 yards ahead. They disappeared and the two of us, the black tracker with the sticks and myself moved slowly forward, eyes peering into the trees. The tracker stopped and placed the sticks into position again. I moved in one fluid motion onto the sticks searching for what he had spotted. Suddenly about 125 yards ahead I could just make out the spiral horns of a giant eland coming up from a low spot in the ground. I was on him instantly, setting my trigger I waited for him to come into full view. As the cross hairs found their mark I touched the hair trigger and heard the roar of the rifle and the thud of a good hit. The bull lurched and moved maybe 25 yards through some short trees and stopped. Joaquin who had caught up with us by this time urged me to shoot again which I quickly did and the eland was down. The 200 grain Nosler partition bullets had done their work very well.
We all ran through the stifling late afternoon African sun to my trophy. What a thrill to see this huge beautiful animal and to know that we had met him on his terms and had overcome adversity such as the heat, dust, soot and so many miles of both walking and running to harvest what is considered as Africa's premier spiral horn trophy.
Weighing upwards of 2000 pounds and heavy spiral horns that can measure over 56 inches around the spirals the Giant or Lord Derby eland is highly sought after. There are only three areas in Central Africa where these animals are hunted, CAR, Cameroon and a small area of the Sudan. The sportsman seeing one of these trophies must plan carefully for the hunt. The hunt itself is very physically demanding and this part of Africa can be very unforgiving. Be prepared for miles of difficult walking in high temperatures. Strong stable footwear is a must.The hunt can also vary from savannah to small mountain ranges and rocky terrain which all add to the difficulty of harvesting one of Africa's finest antelope.
My bull measured just on 50 inches on the longer horn and carries massive bases. He was an old bull and of the type that make for a very fine trophy. Once the trophy is received I plan to mount the bull on a pedestal where he will occupy a prominent place in our atrium trophy room.
At the end of my fifth day of hunting and having successfully taken my Eland and Sing Sing waterbuck I changed camps to hunt with Guav Johnson at Camp Mayo Nduell. A 5-1/2 hour drive over terrible roads.
There with the able help of Guav and his 7 ft. tall tracker I harvested six very fine trophies in the remaining 8 days of hunting. They included a Nigerian Bohor reedbuck, Kob de Buffon, Western hartebeest, Western bush duiker, Western Savannah buffalo and a very nice harnessed bush buck. My only regrets were missing a shot at a red flanked duiker which I would dearly have loved to have added to my pygmy antelope collection and not having a chance at a lion although we saw lion on two occasions.

For information on hunting in Cameroon I highly recommend Mayo Oldiri Safaris.

Looking back over the month I have just spent in the rain forests of south eastern Cameroon, I can honestly say, without at all wishing to sound sensational or melodramatic, that I have never hunted in a more inhospitable and dangerous place in Africa. The inhospitality is caused mainly by the micro-predators - the ants, ticks, fleas, centipedes, millipedes, caterpillars, flies, bees, mosquitoes, insects and snakes - as well as the climate. Rain here is measured in metres - three and a half metres, on avererage, per annum - to be precise. And when it is not wet, it is so hot and humid that, within an hour of picking up tracks and walking on them, you have perspired right through your clothes and are sodden from head to toe.
Everything is wet. When you go to bed, your sheets are damp. When you wake the next morning, the clothes you put on are clammy. Within days, your camera gear has fogged up, the stock of your spare rifle is covered with green mould as is any unused leather gear. Any cut or scratch usually festers and eye, ear and lung infections are rife.
And yet it is important to hunt during the wettest part of the hunting season (June/July), as it is usually the most successful time. Rain washes away confusing tracks and makes it easier to walk quietly through the sodden forest. The drip drop of water filtering down through the overhead canopy after the rains helps to camouflage what noise you do make. Most importantly, rain makes the forest animals cold and uncomfortable. They move and search out open areas where they can dry out and warm up. It is this movement that provides the hunter with the chance he needs.
What makes it so dangerous is primarily two things - the claustrophobic confines of the 250 foot high, full canopy rain forest itself and the unrelenting pressure of the commercial bush meat market. The heavy undergrowth in the forest limits visibility to a maximum of 30 paces. Where the forest has been illegally over logged (as is usually the case) and sunlight has been allowed to penetrate the forest floor (this encourages a lush growth of thorn encrusted vines, creepers, lianas, shrubs and aspirant forest giants), visibility can be reduced to as little as five paces. In other words, when an animal first becomes aware of you, you are often slap bang in the middle of its flight or fight circle and which way it runs - at or away from you - is like betting on red at roulette. Poaching pressure exacerbates the issue - both the elephant and buffalo I shot carried shotgun slugs - two in the face for the elephant and one in the neck for the buffalo. A lot of these animals have worked out that offence is the best form of defense and unprovoked charges are a regular occurrence in the rain forests.
For example, in the week before I arrived, the head tracker, a Baka pygmy called Jean Quatre, of my highly experienced professional hunter, Geoffroy de Gentile, was attacked and killed by an elephant within 40 paces of him. Geoffroy heard the elephant trumpet and instinctively ran towards the sound but, by the time he arrived on the scene, his tracker of seven years was dead and the elephant was gone. As he explained, an elephant, buffalo or gorilla runs through the rain forest undergrowth as if it were a spider's web. For us feeble humans it takes roughly an hour to cover a kilometer through the intertwined morass. The 40 or so paces probably took Geoffroy half a minute. It was too long.
Jean Quatre was dead. There was not a drop of blood to be seen on his body but his chest and stomach were badly bruised. It looked as if he had been squashed.
My first encounter with one of the huge, lowland, silver backs, one of whom had recently bitten off the arm of a villager from nearby Kalluma, nearly embarrassed me. From nowhere, a cacophony of screaming, shrieking, drumming and roaring erupted from the dense, dark, dampness to my left. The awful noise rose to a crescendo as branches broke like gun shots and vines snapped like fire crackers on the 5th of November. The torrent of sound approached at the break neck speed of a tornado. Before I could help myself, I came as close to running away as I ever have. Even so, I levitated three paces backwards. My rifle automatically glued itself to my shoulder and, if someone had so much as breathed on my trigger finger, 400 grains of Federal's best would have blasted from the barrel of my .416 Rigby into the all enveloping, large, waxy green leaves which bulged toward me no more than six paces away. Even so, they still obscured whatever was making the truly horrendous noise. And then, total silence. Not an insect stirred. Not a millipede moved. Not a turaco kock-kock-kocked from the canopy above. Behind me, one of the pygmy trackers whispered, "Bobo" and I knew I had just experienced my first mock charge (as 99% of these charges are), from a lowland gorilla male unless, of course, you are a very unlucky Kalluma poacher who has, in all likelihood, shot a number of the gorilla's offspring.
So why hunt in this inhospitable and dangerous place? For the adventure, of course. For the novelty. For the unique, difficult to hunt, mysterious, rain forest inhabitants - forest elephant and sitatunga, bongo, dwarf forest buffalo, giant forest hog, red river hog and a slew of duikers like yellow-backed, bay, Peter's, gaboon and blue. For the chance to test skills and "intestinal fortitude" in a hunt which must lie at the extreme opposite end of the spectrum to canned and put-and-take killing.
I believe that you hunt the rain forest denizens in their dark, dank, dangerous habitat with your head. There is nothing to take your mind off the fact that your body is taking punishment. You see no brilliant birds, beautiful vistas or bright blossoms. It reminds me of scuba diving all day in storm tossed, silt filled waters except the predominant colour is green. Green on green on green.
De Gentile says that, in order to be successful on a rain forest hunt, you need to do three things well - walk far, walk quietly, and shoot fast. The latter two both require concentration and mental alertness at all times. Chances are few and far between and, when they happen, you have only a few seconds to make the decision - shoot or no shoot. I would hazard a guess that more opportunities are lost in the rain forests because the hunter could not get a shot off in time than for any other reason. Of course, the thing that makes this even more difficult, is the lack of visibility. Even at ten paces it can be impossible to make out what part of the animal you are looking at.
On day 15 of my hunt for one of those nasty, aggressive, red dwarf forest buffalo, I am ashamed to admit that I shot at what I was convinced was the shoulder of the animal standing broadside on, facing to my right and some 20 paces away. In reality, the bull was lying down, facing to the left and the soft nosed bullet sliced harmlessly through a bunch of broad, innocent leaves.
And you can never relax and lower your guard. On two occasions it nearly cost me dearly. We heard the small herd of buffalo thunder off. It was just too thick and we were too close. They probably heard us as there is hardly ever even a trickle of wind in the cloistered confines of the forest. I relaxed as we entered a small, rugby ball shaped opening, about 30 paces at its widest. I say opening and not clearing because the undergrowth was merely less dense while there was a still a full canopy overhead. In the middle of the opening, a dome of dense shrubs cluttered what would otherwise have been a pleasant, Robin Hood/Sherwood Forest type of a glade. I wandered wearily towards the dome as I heard the thundering of hooves suddenly grow louder again. I was confused. As the words, "Could it be?"entered my tired brain, the buffalo burst into the opening to myright, passed behind the dome of shrubs, made a tight turn to their left and came straight at me, two abreast, from a distance of about 12 paces. My by now adrenalin filled reflexes were fighting a losing battle to catch up with the program and mount my rifle, flick off the safety catch, aim and fire. I was not going to make it! I could see the beady, dark brown eyes of the left hand buffalo fix on me.
From my left, two, dull brown, turbo charged projectiles hurtled across the leaf littered forest floor, barking hysterically as they came. Up until now, our four pygmy "hunting" dogs had proved absolutely useless. In three nano seconds they went from zero to hero in my book. Glock, a Jock-of-the-Bushveld look alike, fearlessly jumped at the face of the buffalo on the left which had already lowered its head as she came at me. As the buffalo flinched left, she bumped her companion out of her stride (I think it was also a cow) and Suffrance snapped up at her left flank. The buffalos turned sharp left again and battered out of the opening by the same route that they had entered.
As I looked around with my heart hammering a heavy metal beat in my chest, I could see no-one other than Geoffroy. Then, as our six man pygmy hunting team gradually climbed down out of the surrounding trees chattering excitedly at ten to the dozen, I became aware of a tiny hand in the small of my back holding tightly to a bunch of my olive coloured, thick, cotton shirt. It was my faithful gunbearer, Mombato, all four feet and some change of him.
Geoffroy did not mince his words. He explained in single syllables that I was not to become separated from him again. Ever. And that when I heard drumming - I was to find a tree. Immediately!
I did not have long to wait to put both lessons into practice. The very next afternoon, after tracking and wading for nearly three hours through a thorn infested swamp, full of boot sucking, grey, glutinous mud and smelly, rusty brown water, we hit solid ground and discovered a large patty of olive coloured buffalo dung on the tracks. It was covered by a thin skin which indicated to me that it was about two hours old. I was more than weary (we had been hunting since dawn) and fed up at the thought that we had been misled as to the freshness of the tracks by the wetness of the ground in the swamp. I suggested to Geoffroy that we call off the hunt as it was getting late and the one thing you do not want to do is be caught in the rain forests at night. Do it once and you will never, ever do it again.
We moved off the tracks and on to a "bimo", an elephant highway or path through the forest which made for much easier walking. We had not traveled far when Mombato whispered urgently to Geoffroy that he could hear the buffalo. "Release the dogs! Release the dogs!" he added in French. Talking into his shoulder mounted radio, Geoffroy repeated Mombato's instructions to the four man, dog pack leader trailing behind us by some 200 paces. I was not hopeful. We had done the same thing on 11 previous occasions with nothing to show for it. The dogs would return after a brief and silent run (they are trained not to bark unless they see something), wagging their tails jauntily as if to say, "See, we showed them who is boss around here".
For only the second time in 16 days, hysterical barking broke out and I needed no second invitation to find a tree. Then the barking stopped so suddenly it seemed as if the power had tripped. We waited anxiously. Mombato looked like a bird dog on point. Then someone turned the power back on.
As the barking started to fade into the distance, Geoffroy shouted "Come" over his shoulder as he plunged back into the forest. We ran towards the sound. A snake thin, thorny tendril slashed across my face. A branch stretched out a hand to snatch at my rifle. Eventually, the hallooing of the dogs, which had in any event been fading rapidly, stopped. So did we. Then we walked forward a few paces until we came to a small opening. We later discovered it was about 12 metres in diameter.
At this stage, I was in front, a sold, dark brown tree trunk to my right. Behind me and to my left stood the ever present Mombato with Geoffroy in a similar position behind him. We formed a diagonal line like half a sergeant's stripes. I slowed to a halt and was at a loss what to do next. My indecision did not last long.
Without any warning, the leaves to my front burst open and a reddish tan body hurtled into the opening, saw me, turned hard left and disappeared into the all-embracing greenery. Behind me I heard Geoffroy shout, "Don't shoot. Don't shoot".
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than there was an action replay. Except the second reddish tan body was twice the size of the first one. And it didn't turn left. Its big, brown, bulging, white rimmed eyes focused and it came straight for us.
I would like to say that I calmly shouldered my rifle. That everything happened in slow motion. That I stapled the crosshairs between the eyes of the buffalo, waited for it to come closer and drop its head to hook me and smoothly squeezed the trigger. I can't. I have absolutely no recollection of anything other than seeing the head of the buffalo filling my Zeiss Diavari scope turned down to its minimum setting of 1 ½ power. Then it was too close. The .416 fired itself and the buffalo dropped to the shot. From the buffalo to me measured precisely four of Geoffroy's paces. Worse still, from where I stood, I could see that I had missed the whole head of the buffalo. The bullet had grazed the cheek, passed through the ear and penetrated the neck, breaking it, about 12 inches back. Later, we found the badly deformed, 400 grain, Bear Claw soft nose under the skin behind the right shoulder. There is no doubt in my mind, that if this had been a bus bodied Cape buffalo and not this half pint, red , 250 kilogram, smaller version, things would have turned out very differently.
Earlier in my month long hunt, I shot an excellent forest elephant at 15 paces (the biggest Geoffroy has taken in nine years of rain forest hunting), a good representative giant forest hog (only the third ever taken in the concession) and good quality Peter's, bay and blue duikers - a good haul I have been assured for a 28 day rain forest hunt.
Although I have previously hunted the pristine rain forests of the Central African Republic on two occasions, neither these experiences nor my reading and research prepared me for the rain forests of Cameroon. For this bald, 57 year old, roll-on-deodorant of a man, it was nearly, but not quite, a bridge too far. Although I became stronger, both mentally and physically as the hunt went on, I still lost six kilograms in weight and I could readily understand why each of my three hunting companions decided, for one reason or another, to curtail his trip. Clearly, this is not a hunt for everyone.
But, if you are weary of conventional buffalo and elephant hunting. Have been there, done that and sold the T-shirt. Are looking for some new, interesting and exciting challenges, then Cameroon rain forest hunting may be just the thing for you.
I will remember Cameroon for an unbeatable and unforgettable, five day elephant hunt and, although the buffalo cow chose me and not the other way around, I will also remember it for two days of the most exciting and exhilarating buffalo hunting of my life. The memories of these hunts will remain crisp and clear in my mind for many years to come and, after all, isn't that what a lot of hunting is all about?

At first I thought it was the fault of GT's bongo. My friend of 25 years and regular hunting companion for 20 of those, had shot a good, representative bull on the fourth day of our hunt with Antonio Reguera's Mayo Oldiri safari company, out of Lognia camp, in the 275 000 acre rain forest concession, in the South Eastern corner of Cameroon, bordered by the Sanga River and the Republic of Congo to the East and the Ngoko River and the same country to the South.
We had celebrated that night with smoked salmon complemented by the first chardonnay of GT's new winery and, although we did not overindulge and were in bed by 9:30, when I awoke to the first ominous signs at midnight, my first thought was that perhaps I could have eaten less of the rare bongo fillet and drunk less of his superb wine.
For the next five hours my intermittent sleep was interspersed with sprints to the toilet - some of which I won - as I employed the full range of my bodily orifices. By 7:00 a.m. the next morning, all I had managed to keep down without mishap was two mashed bananas and a glass of coke. I felt decidedly fragile when, somewhat belatedly, I joined my PH, the highly experienced Geoffroy de Gentile and his six pygmy trackers, Van Damme, Denis, Mombato, Mongokelli, Josef and Remi - all Baka tribesmen - on the back of his venerable, metallic gold Land Cruiser. We were off to continue our search for a good Kamba - a true forest elephant bull.
Loxodonta Cyclotis has a number of obvious physical differences to the savannah elephant, Loxodonta Africanus. The most incontrovertible, apart from size - 2½ to 3 tonnes, as opposed to 4 to 6 ½ tonnes - revolves around nails. The forest elephant has five toenails on its fore feet and four on its hind feet as opposed to the more usual four and three, respectively, of its larger cousin.
Other obvious differences include the shape and girth of the tusks which look as if gravity has pulled them directly earthwards (instead of curving forward), making them progressively longer and thinner, almost like macaroni. When a forest elephant stands erect, it looks as if it is trying to drink water at its feet through a straw, except the straws are tusks. The shape of the ears is more rounded, circular if you like, and different to the "Continent of Africa" shape of the bigger bruisers from the savannah. Of course, to complicate matters, there are also savannah elephants which invade the rain forests on a temporary basis and I really did not want to make a mistake. If possible, I wanted to take back a full skin for mounting purposes because, as far as I could find out, no full mount of a forest elephant existed in South Africa or Africa for that matter.
En route to the northern borders of our concession, we found our path blocked by a fallen Pemba tree, host to a vicious ant, called Sassa by the Baka, which lives in the hollow twigs and branches of the tree. Try and pluck the pale yellow, apricot sized fruit and see what happens. The ants rush out of the hole you have just created in the twig or branch by picking the fruit and swarm to the defence of their host and bite and sting simultaneously, vigorously and often. As Geoffroy said in his inimitable French accent, "Zay are ze only one who fight ze elefaan and gorille wiz out gun an win!"
The big elephant tracks we found next to the tree as we gingerly moved it out of the way changed our initial plans but, after 2½ hours on the tracks in the stifling, near 100%, June humidity, bending, kneeling, standing and walking as we snipped and hacked our way through the secondary growth created by the undisciplined and unscrupulous tree felling of the lumber company, was too much for my weakened constitution. I called a halt and, dizzy and shaking, sought relief in Land Cruiser power.
Lumber companies still operated in the concession and we were often bullied off the main, red, dirt road, which bisected the concession from north to south, by their heavily laden vehicles boiling along at breakneck speed. This led to frequent accidents, three of which we witnessed, as the trucks skidded off the slick clay (sometimes overturning) and into the jungle.
The grotesque evidence of the companies' recent handiwork was also readily apparent. Unnecessarily wide tracks wound every which way through the forest. Discarded tyres, lengths of rusting wire cable (eagerly used by the poachers to make snares for bigger game like elephant and buffalo), plastic and metal drums lay where they were dropped. Worse still, one cut and rejected tree trunk after another was left to rot on the forest floor in a tangled mess. I gave up trying to estimate the cost of the pillage, destruction and waste.
Of course their uncontrolled logging not only allowed the sunlight onto the forest floor which, in turn, resulted in thick, almost impenetrable undergrowth, but this vegetation also soaked up the water in the salines or salt licks. Their roads provided access to commercial bush meat poachers, two of whom Geoffroy's anti-poaching team caught during our stay (to complement the five others caught earlier in the year), along with over 400 snares, one half dead Peter's duiker, a Bates pygmy antelope and 15 smoked blue duiker, all destined for the bush meat market at Kika.
The next morning I felt much stronger and we went back to the same area as the day before. Sitting in a wooden seat fastened to the front bumper of the Land Cruiser, Joseph, a specialist elephant poacher-turned-tracker, picked up the tracks of a big Kamba as it gouged a muddy, reddish tan path up an incline to the left of the overgrown logging track we were following. The tracks looked very similar to the ones we were forced to abandon the day before.
The heavy thunderstorm the previous evening had been a real stroke of luck but was also the reason we were hunting in June/July, the wettest part of the hunting season. The rain made the forest animals wet, cold and uncomfortable and they moved out of the continually dripping forest into the more open areas to warm up and dry out. Another by-product of the rain was that it washed away the old tracks and allowed us to move much more quietly through the thick undergrowth. The steady drip drop, tip tap of water filtering down through the layered leaves of the 200 foot high, full canopy above, also camouflaged what little noise we made when moving through the rain softened, sodden undergrowth.
The bull followed a "bimo", an elephant highway, through the forest from one choice feeding spot to another, appearing to concentrate on the bamboo trees which produced a yellowy red fruit roughly the shape and size of a small mango. Quite palatable, the Baka say it is "lokoloko" or sweet but the strawberry coloured fruit exudes a whitish paste which acts as a kind of glue and makes it very chewy and sticky to eat.
We were hunting efficiently and quietly. So quietly, in fact, that we approached to within 15 paces of a tail twitching, minute blue duiker who, oblivious to our presence, bustled and scuttled its foraging way across the forest floor and out of sight.
Van Damme and Denis alternated in the lead, followed by Geoffroy, me, my gun bearer, Mombato, Theo Pretorius, one of South Africa's leading cameramen amongst his many other talents, who was filming the hunt, and our remaining three trackers. Whenever the tracks became confused, which was not infrequent as there were many other elephants afoot, the team would spread out to unravel the problem and communicate quietly via radio with Geoffrey who listened on an earpiece to reduce noise.
Geoffroy de Gentile's name reminded me of a French version of one of the Knights of the Round Table. You know Rodney the Brave, Geoffroy the Gentle, that kind of thing. He resigned as a lieutenant from a crack French Commando unit to follow a dream initially kindled by the overblown, some may even say "mythical" adventures of Alexander Lake, to become a professional hunter at the age of 24. At 43 he is now in his prime and has hunted out of Lognia Camp for the past nine years. During this time, his clients have shot 43 bongos (only one has not been successful and that was during the 1998 drought brought on by El Nino), seven forest elephant, eight dwarf forest buffalo and two each of the giant forest hog and forest sitatunga. I was hoping to add to the score of the latter four species.
Hunting in the rain forests is like no other hunting habitat in Africa. In my opinion, it is the most inhospitable and dangerous environment on the continent. A fact borne out by the death of Geoffroy's head tracker of the last five years, Jean Quatre, in the week before I arrived. The dogs had bayed a bongo and the hunting team was running to close in. Jean, being small, fit, fast and keen, was some 40 paces in front of the rest when they heard the elephant scream. Denis said he heard Jean Quatre cry, "The elephant has killed me" and, when they arrived on the scene, they found his body, lying on its back, bruised around the chest and abdomen, but without a drop of blood or visibly broken bone. As Geoffroy explained to me, "The elephant runs through the vines, plants and trees as if it is a spider's web but a person can't".
Admittedly, there are no big predators like lions or hyenas in the rain forests and the leopards are small and few and far between. However, they are not the ones to worry about. It is the micro predators that are the real concern - the fleas, ticks, ants, mosquitoes, flies, bees, millipedes, caterpillars, worms and a myriad of other different insect types, all in their thousands. Each, like Shylock, wants a piece of you and, when they are done, it is the turn of the razor sharp grass, the thorn encrusted vines and spike filled branches. I can go on and on.
Then the big game, like elephant, buffalo and gorilla, are constantly pressured by the commercial, bush meat poachers. Both the elephant and buffalo I shot bore fresh bullet wounds from shot gun slugs, one of which we recovered - an imported Prevost from France, not available on the local market. These animals have learnt through bitter past experience that attack is often the best form of defence. When you consider that you and your prey often only become aware of one another at very close range - say a maximum of 30 paces - usually within on another's fight or flight circle, then it is a toss up as to which way the animal will run - at you or away from you.
Rain forest hunting requires special clothing, footwear, equipment and skills, which needs an article all on its own. The most important piece of equipment, however, is a mere six inches long and is found between your ears. Although three rain forest hunts do not make me an expert, it seems to me that you hunt the animals in the rain forests with your head. There is not much to see in the claustrophobic confines of the forest. There is nothing to take your mind off the fact that your body is suffering. The micro-predators grind you down and the presence of snakes like the formidable gaboon viper can also prey on your mind. I believe that you need to be mentally strong and concentrated to withstand the tensions, pressures and discomforts of the hunt and yet remain alert.
According to Geoffroy, you need to be able to do three things well if you want to be successful in the rain forests - walk quietly, walk far and shoot fast. In my book, all three require a certain degree of mental toughness and alertness.
We picked up the big Kamba's tracks at exactly at 6:43 a.m Don't ask me why I remember but I do. Originally the pygmies said the tracks were "makala", their word for "right here, right now". Initially we found fresh dung and urine and advanced in a state of heightened alertness, every sense primed and questing. I was tense. Nervous. Worried how I would react. Whether I would be able to see enough of the bull to place an accurate shot. Concerned that a poor shot might endanger our team. Intervening vines were carefully and silently snipped or sliced. Denis and Van Damme cupped their ears with their hands and pointed urgently into the forest to our immediate front. Mombato gathered his fingers together in a cone and held them to his nose to show he could smell the Kamba. So could I. The strong, musky odour of elephant was unmistakable.
2½ hours later the machettes had been out for some time and Denis had stopped shaking his forefinger at anyone who took an incautious step. My pulse had slowed to the speed of light. I had returned my .416 Rigby to my gun bearer and was feeling much more calm and confident. Suddenly, Van Damme did an abrupt about turn and came back down the track passed Geoffroy and I in a rush, the whites of his eyes showing and fear written in capital letters across his face. The "Dicky bird" effect took immediate hold of the pygmies and I just managed to retrieve my .416 before Mombato disappeared in a blur of green and black camouflage.
The Kamba bull, some 15 paces in front and slightly below us, was small and had even smaller tusks. He was inadvertently heading down the same "bimo" we were on, only in the opposite direction. Still, I suppose if I was unarmed and had lost a close friend and colleague to one of these battleships of the bush less than two weeks previously, well, let's just say that in any confrontation between valour and discretion, the latter would have won hands down.
The second bull we crossed swords with was a much more orderly affair. We were moving through a section of Limbali trees. They have a very dense, hard wood not favoured by furniture makers and are used mainly for railway sleepers. The distance from a suitable market makes it uneconomical to cut them in South Eastern Cameroon and so these parts of the rain forest remain as pristine, with relatively light undergrowth, as they were hundreds of years ago.
We spotted the bull at almost double the distance of our first encounter. "I can't see the tusks"" Geoffroy whispered in my ear as I tried for a clear shot through the 1.5 x 6 Zeiss Diavari Scope attached to my custom made .416 Rigby (Walther barrel married to a Brno ZKK action) loaded with 400 grain Federal solids. "He is not bad" Geoffroy breathed as, for an instant, the cross hairs locked onto the creases below the ear and behind the elbow of the bull. My forefinger tightened and then, like a lighthouse, the bull was gone. Now you see it, now you don't.
I became aware of Van Damme standing to one side beckoning at us. In French he explained to Geoffrey that this was not the right bull. The track we followed belonged to a much bigger animal. Encouraging, I thought. It was now after 10:00 a.m. Our bull was clearly a traveling man. Turning to Theo I said, "I guess our best bet will be to try and catch up to him while he has his midday snooze". After an hour or so, as if to bear me out, the tracks started to meander to and fro and it looked for all the world as if the bull was looking for a place to rest.
We crossed a further two, gravel bottomed, crystal clear rivulets and ploshed through the grey mud and ooze of four salines before we hit a second section of Limbali trees. One moment Van Damme was walking confidently on the tracks, the next he disappeared. The five foot tall pygmy crouched low on the forest floor and pointed. Geoffroy bent over his point and beckoned urgently behind his back.
As I turned from retrieving my rifle from a by now thoroughly composed Mombato, I caught a glimpse of long, straight, creamy white ivory and knew, without a word being exchanged, that it was time for me to step up to the plate.
The bull, burnished a tanny brown by the mud with which he was newly caked, was approaching from the left at a brisk walk on the diagonal towards us at a distance of about 30 paces. In the dim darkness of the full canopy some 200 feet above, it was difficult to make out the elephant clearly as his skin colour blended perfectly with the browns and beiges of the ground leaf litter and dark brown, dappled, lichen splashed tree trunks. Only the flashes of bright tusk through the green on green of shrubs and leaves guided me and enabled me to calculate both the movement and positioning of the animal. The big bull was closing fast.
Then there was no more time. As the bull started to draw level with me about 15 paces away, I saw his right tusk through a miniscule two foot gap. As his front leg entered the gap, I found my aiming point behind the right shoulder and made the shot I had practiced repeatedly on the range and in my imagination. Re-chambering quickly, I moved around an intervening tree trunk and fired a quick second shot as the elephant bulldozed its way off at a tangent before, as arranged, Geoffrey's double bellowed and the bull slumped to the shot. Encouraged by him and from where I stood, I placed two shots in the spine region and then, reloading and moving briskly to my right, at an angle of about 30 degrees, I placed a bullet which bisected the brain and came to rest behind the left eye socket. And it was probably just as well that I did so.
While my first shot bisected both lungs, Geoffroy's had missed the brain and merely concussed the beast. While the spinal shots may or may not have been effective, the final and fatal last brain shot most definitely was and, by the way the elephant flung his head back at the shot, he may have been in the throes of recovering consciousness.
With that the pygmies went crazy and so did we. They danced, shouted, clasped hands, hugged one another and me. Mombato jumped into my arms to his amazement and mine. Although there was no way of knowing whether this was the selfsame bull that had killed their friend, at the very least, it was like getting back on the horse that had just thrown you to find out, with great relief, that you had lost none of your hard won riding skills.
A big forest elephant weighs between 2 ½ and 3 tonnes, slightly less than half that of an equivalent savannah elephant. So, a forest elephant with tusks weighing 25 pounds a side is probably acceptable. 30 pounds is good; 35 pounds, very good; and 40 pounds and above, exceptional. The bull I shot was left handed and the left tusk was broken off at the tip but, due to the extra work load, was also a bit thicker than its neighbour. They measured four feet eight inches and four feet six inches, respectively and, according to our Heath Robinson scale, we estimated the tusks to weigh about 40 pounds each. It was the best elephant that a client of Geoffroy's had shot in nine years in the rain forests.
Although the position of the fallen forest giant made for some good photographs, the entire camp staff could not push it over and, instead of being skinned out from the stomache, it had to be skinned from the backbone down. It was a mammoth undertaking which took a day and a half in very trying conditions of heat, humidity, flies, bees and rotting meat and gave me renewed respect and admiration for the work of Carl Akeley and what went into the elephant exhibits in New York's American Natural History Museum, not to mention that of my own long time friend and taxidermist, Rodney Kretzschmar, who volunteered for our month long expedition.
Hunting the dim, dark, recesses of Africa's rain forests for its special treasures - forest elephant, sitatunga, buffalo, giant forest hog, red river hog and the variety of duikers - may not be everyone's cup of tea, but if canned lion shooting ranks at zero in the African hunting scale of 0 to 10, then forest elephant hunting must be right up there at 10. It can only take place on foot and without dogs and, without wishing to gild the lily or sound melodramatic, it is an exciting, dramatic, dangerous adventure of note.
Before the hunt, two professional hunters with more West African, rain forest hunting experience behind them than any other current hunter, Alain Lefol and Rudy Lubin, both told me on separate occasions but in virtually the same words, that they thought elephant hunting in the rain forests was the last great hunting adventure left in Africa.
With great respect to these two, outstanding professional hunters, I must agree with them

I made a big mistake. Two in fact. I became separated from my professional hunter, Geoffroy de Gentile, by about ten metres and I failed to find a tree.
When the drumming sound of big, heavy hooves thundered across the leaf sodden forest floor I could not at first determine the direction of the deep, bass sounds. Then the crackling noise of tearing, ripping vines and the crashing sound of breaking, smashing of rain rotted branches announced the imminent arrival of the buffaloes.
I was caught in no-mans land with only a four inch diameter sapling as a friend to my front and my diminutive pygmy gunbearer, Mombato, holding a handful of my shirt, to the rear.
I was on the western edge of a small opening, maybe 30 paces in diameter, in Mayo Oldiri's 275 000 acre, rain forest concession in the South Eastern corner of Cameroon where it borders the Republic of Congo. I say opening not clearing, because we were still in the deep, dark, dappled shadows under a complete canopy of 200 foot high trees, but the undergrowth was less dense in the small, oval patch in which we were standing. I could stand upright for once and turn through 360 degrees without becoming entangled in vines, lianas, leaves and branches. And instead of my sight being limited to the more normal 15 to 20 paces, I had a reasonably clear view across the opening except for the middle section which was cluttered with a dome of dense thicket about 12 paces in diameter. I stood rooted to the spot about five or six paces from the closest edge of the thicket. Diagonally to my right front, Geoffroy stood behind a fallen tree trunk, his .500 Krieghof double at the ready. I started to move towards him, urged on by Mombato, but it was too late.
Big, reddish tan bodies burst into the opening maybe three or four paces in front of Geoffroy. In the blink of an eye, they passed behind the screen of thicket to my front, turned hard left through ninety degrees and headed straight for me.
The lead buffalo, a cow I think, bent to hook at Glock, a smaller version of Jock of the Bushveld, who fearlessly ran to attack her. This gave Dragon, a courageous, little, one-eyed dog, with beagle somewhere in his dim and distant past, a chance to leap at her face. The cow turned sharp left again and headed back the way she had come with a bright, red tan calf in tow and a charcoal bruiser of a bull, with tan patches on his ears, a further few paces behind. The bull passed by Geoffroy within spitting distance. As they faded from sight and sound, I heard lots of words like "merde" and "putain", which I did not understand. Whatever they meant, however, I am sure they referred to me and the relatively easy opportunity I missed (had I stood next to him as I was supposed to), to down a trophy quality, dwarf forest buffalo bull.
It was our sixteenth day of buffalo hunting in these dim, dark, dank rain forests and, for the first 14 of them, I had become progressively more and more despondent. Geoffroy had lost his lead tracker, Jean Quatre, killed by an elephant in the week before I arrived. Yes, to the dim, dark and dank you can add another "D" for dangerous. His second tracker, who had been excellent in tracking the outstanding forest elephant I shot in the first week of the safari, developed a mystery ailment in his left elbow which, amazingly, incapacitated him. Geoffroy explained that this was a regular occurrence. Said he was like a match - you could only use him once! Number three in line was promoted beyond his level of competence. He turned out to be a bully, a poor tracker and worse leader of our eight man, Baka pygmy hunting team and either could not or would not follow instructions. He was fired. Before this, he had single-handedly spooked three separate buffaloes in the "late finals" of a stalk due to his blundering, undisciplined behaviour.
We now had an essentially new, untried and untested team. A week earlier we had moved from our camp at Lognia (pronounced "lonya") to a poorly designed and equipped fly camp right on the main logging route in Mayo Oldiri's North Boumba concession. It had been a mistake to move. While there certainly were buffalo in the area, which was well serviced by the fast overgrowing tracks left by the uncontrolled tree-felling of the logging company, the forest was unbelievably dense and every step forward entailed a huge effort of cutting, slashing, dodging and ducking. It took over an hour to cover a kilometer and we sounded like a company of motorized infantry moving through the forest. The two stalks we made ended in frustration with the sound of distant hoof beats as the only compensation, other than a good 4 ½ inch Peter's duiker, with enormously thick horn bases, which I shot when it inexplicably ventured out onto the forest track some 80 paces to our front. Shot is possibly the wrong verb as the .416 Rigby simply glued the beautiful little animal to the ground.
Before we could explore the region fully, however, we were expelled from our camp by the pistol toting, rude and deeply unpleasant manager of the logging company who drove all the way to Moloundou, the capitol of the region, and back with a wildlife official in tow to advise us that Mayo Oldiri had no right to hunt the area, despite an apparent agreement with government to the contrary. We later learnt that he had also accused us of hunting at night and interfering with the logging operations, both palpable lies. Despite the protestations of Geoffroy and the pygmies, however, it was to no avail and the large, blubbery bureaucrat from Moloundou was loud, arrogant and adamant. To avoid a fight and further unpleasantness, we left.
Cameroon, under the leadership of Mr. Paul Biya for the last 23 years, is well known for its soccer prowess but it is very competitive in one other area. The international competition it wins more than any other is that of the most corrupt country in the world (four times no less in the last eight years) and I wondered how much a part this propensity played in our expulsion so that the logging company could carry on unhindered in its grotesque rape of these pristine rain forests without the prying eyes of unbribable outsiders to see and tell.
We drove back to Lognia the same day and the heavens opened. It poured all day and most of the night. It was just the break we needed. Heavy rain makes the forest animals cold, wet and uncomfortable and they move out of the forest into the open areas to dry out and warm up. The rain also washes away any old tracks, allows you to walk really quietly on and through the sodden undergrowth and the steady drip, tap, drop of water filtering down through layered leaves and the irregular, crashing fall off rain rotted branches, camouflages what little sound you make. It was for precisely this reason that I had chosen to hunt in the wettest part t of the hunting season in June/July 2005.
The day before, we had woken at 5:00 a.m. as usual and were out of camp by 5:45 a.m. We picked up the first fresh tracks of two buffaloes less than an hour later. We had now settled on a hunting strategy of three pygmy trackers in the lead, followed by Geoffroy, myself and my gun bearer, Mombato. About 100 metres behind us four other pygmies followed each with a hunting dog on a lead. Geoffroy was in contact with his dog pack leader (especially chosen because he was scared of buffalo and therefore not likely to crowd the tracking unit) and lead tracker via radios married to ear pieces which allowed for silent comms. The dogs were to be released on Geoffroy's command if and when we spooked the buffalo and the idea was for them to try and bay the lone buffalo we were following (our first choice when it came to choosing a track to follow) or the bull in the small herd, seldom larger than five animals (our second choice). Up until now, however, we had released the dogs eight times and, although seemingly eager to get to work, they only ran a short way and gave a few desultory barks before returning to us with tails wagging as if to say, "that will show them who's boss here". As one of my Texan friends put it, they were as much use as "tits on a boar hawg".
We hunted really well that morning and caught the first two buffaloes totally unawares. At 25 paces I could move no closer, could not understand what the pygmy tracker was trying to tell me and my inexperience in forest hunting showed. I thought the buffalo was standing and facing to my right while it was actually lying and heading in the opposite direction. The shot, intended for its broad, green leaf covered shoulder, disappeared without a trace into the forest along with the two buffaloes. In the tree canopy an unseen blue and yellow giant turaco mocked us with its distinctive "kak, kak, kak" call while a troop of funeral black and washing powder white colobus monkeys "hurrr hurrr hurred" in agreement.
But my day was not over. We picked up a fresh, lone, bull track at just before 10:00 a.m. and, two hours later, in a very dense, dark section of the forest, came face to horn with the bull at about 25 paces. All I could make out in the Stygian gloom was the tips of the horns and, despite the urgings of Joseph, one of our trackers, I simply refused to repeat my earlier error and loose a 400 grain .416 Rigby round into the leaves. The ten or so seconds I had to find an identifiable body part through the thick cover was not enough and the bull thundered off still sight unseen.
This was more like it. Although I was disappointed in myself, it had been an exciting morning and we had hunted really well as a team. It was like no hunting I had ever known before. The odds were totally stacked in the animal's favour. As Geoffroy said in his inimitable, French accent, "Ear, to win ze buffle it must first make a mistake. No mistake, no buffle". Not only that but the forest was literally crawling with poacher pressured elephants and irascible lowland gorillas which all needed to be avoided and evaded along with the flies, bees, millipedes, caterpillars, ants, worms, ticks, fleas, mosquitoes, beetles, insects and rapacious plants and thorns all, like Shylock, intent on extracting their pound of flesh, not to mention blood. It is these micro predators that are the really dangerous ones. When coupled with the very humid climate, which seems to incubate germs and causes wound to fester, it partly explains why the pygmies have such a short life expectancy of barely 40 years.
There are no predators of any size in the rain forests. No lions or hyenas. There are leopards but they are small and few and far between. The pressure on the game comes from relentless, commercial, bush meat poaching (the 12 man, Lognia anti-poaching squad have caught seven poachers and recovered hundreds of snares and scores of smoked and recently killed animals so far this year). Also, because shots in the forest are rarely at distances in excess of 30 paces, when animals become aware of you, you are slap bang in the middle of their flight or flight circle and they have learnt, through bitter past experience, that offence is often the best form of defence. In these circumstances there is on way of knowing whether they are going to run at or away from you.
After the three buffaloes roared out of the oval shaped forest opening that fateful sixteenth morning, it took more than a moment or three to compose myself. My heart was hammering in my chest and the backs of my knees had a strange sponginess to them. Then Geoffroy started his diatribe in French and those pygmies that had not run away or climbed trees started jabbering loudly, pointing excitedly and talking all at once. I had never seen them so animated and it lasted all the way back to the vehicle. En route, I saw Geoffroy bend his head to listen to the radio strapped to his left shoulder. Turning to me he said, "ze anti-poaching team ave found anozzer trasse. We go now. It is far".
We started into the forest on the north western side of the concession just after midday. The going became progressively thicker and tougher. Suddenly, I was enveloped by an avalanche of sound. Roaring, screaming, shrieking, drumming erupted from our left front. Whatever was making the horrendous, bowel emptying cacophony was crashing, thrashing and rushing through the forest towards us at breakneck speed tearing apart everything in its path as if it was a mere spider web. I levitated two paces backward as the thicket bulged to my left. My rifle was locked into my shoulder, safety off and, if someone had so much as breathed on my trigger finger, 400 grains of Federal's best was going to blast through the middle of the noise with my blessings.
Then there was silence. So complete that not a bird called. Not a cicada zizzed. Not a fly flew. Into the silence, one of the Baka dropped a word like a hand grenade in a gold fish bowl, "Bobo". It was one of three mock charges I experienced from these huge, silver backed, lowland gorillas and it was not an experience which grew on me. I found each simply shattering and needed all my self control not to make an idiot of myself.
The tracks took us into a thorn infested swamp. We ever so quietly managed to skirt an elephant bull snoozing in the midday humidity and then ploshed our way, pace after noisy pace, through thick, ankle deep, boot sucking, glutinous, grey mud and even deeper rusty brown water. My ankle length, waterproof boot slipped off a water slick exposed tree root and I half slid, half fell into the mud. My knee length, nylon gaiter stopped the watery mud filling my left boot but, just as I was congratulating myself, I came down hard on my right leg to stop myself falling and stepped neatly into a knee deep, elephant footprint. I could feel the cold water and mud filling the space between my Goretex sock and boot and silently cursed. After the morning's excitement and two hours on the new tracks, I was feeling the pace and the pressure but our three diminutive pygmy trackers, Jean Pierre, Paul and Josef, were like bloodhounds, bent over at the waist and totally focused with an air of taut tenseness about them that they developed when the track was freshening and we were closing in.
At last we emerged from the swamp and found two piles of olive green dung on the tracks covered by a thin skin. "That's over two hours old", I said to Geoffroy who nodded in agreement. Somehow we had confused the age of the tracks. Possibly the wetness of the swamp had made the tracks look fresher than they were. We moved off the tracks onto a "bimo" or elephant highway through the forest (which was more open and made movement easier) and turned to call our trackers. As I turned, Mombato stage whispered to Geoffroy in French while cupping his hand to his ear, "I hear the buffalo. They are leaving. Release the dogs! Release the dogs!"
Geoffroy muttered into his radio and the dogs came haring soundlessly past us - they are trained to bark only when they see the prey. Seconds later hysterical barking erupted close to our right. Geoffroy shouted, "Find a tree! Find a tree!" After that morning I didn't need a written invitation. Following Geoffroy up a three foot high mound in the forest from which a strong, straight, grey white, lichen covered tree trunk extended, I felt marginally more secure only to realize that the dogs were quiet once more. Everyone around me was like a bird dog on point - head and ears craned towards the direction of the last sounds. Then the dogs opened up again a little further away. "Come. We go", Geoffroy hurled over his shoulder as he hurried off the trail into the depths of the forest.
I battled to keep up as a branch snatched at my baseball cap. An impossibly thin liana tangled around my legs and I nearly tripped and fell as I half jumped to pull free. Thorn encrusted vines ripped at my shirt and slashed my face. The barking was coming closer as I caught up to Geoffroy on the edge of an opening about a dozen paces in diametre. "Back against that tree" he instructed not bothering to lower his voice as he pointed behind us. No sooner had I reached the tree, with Mombato slightly behind me and to my left and Geoffroy in a similar position behind Mombato, than the dense, waxy green shrubbery to our front burst open and a yellowy tan buffalo calf, with short devil-like horns, galloped into the opening.
"Don't shoot" yelled Geoffroy as the calf turned sharp left on seeing us and exited the opening to my right. As the calf crossed in front of us, a second animal, twice its size, exploded into the opening hot on the calf's heels and headed straight for us. The .416 fired itself and the buffalo ploughed into the ground exactly four paces from where I stood. All around me men were shouting, dogs were chattering hysterically - barking, yelping, yodeling cries. The forest floor was alive with the sound of thundering hooves, the bashing and crashing of bushes, shrubs with leaves and lianas being ripped apart in minor explosions of force and violence. My eyes darted from side to side across the opening. Mombato pulled me through 180 degrees shouting "Buffle, buffle" and pointing urgently behind me. I saw a charcoal shaded tan shape drum past about 30 paces away and then, suddenly, it was over. For moments I stood stock still. I felt almost as if I was waking from a surreal dream. And like a dream I cannot really recreate in my mind what happened in the split seconds it took for the dwarf buffalo cow to cover the eight or so paces across the opening towards us.
What I do know is that Mark Sullivan has nothing to fear from me. I did not ask the buffalo how it wanted to die. It was the buffalo that was asking all the questions. I would like to say that I calmly shouldered my rifle, waited patiently for the buffalo to come closer and drop its head, then stapled the crosshairs to a spot between its eyes and carefully squeezed the trigger. But I can't. I cannot remember anything other than seeing the buffalo's head filling the scope. I cannot even remember mounting the rifle or pulling the trigger.
Like most big game hunters I have often imagined the situation and tried to think through how best to react. I have read dozens of accounts of experienced professional hunters killing charging animals and have even watched a few on video. I have also repeatedly practised downing simulated buffalo charges on various shooting ranges but with such poor results that I have always vowed never to wound a dangerous animal in order not to have to confront a charge and, correctly so, because in the actual case in point, I was hopeless. I missed the entire head of the buffalo. The bullet shaved the left cheek of the cow, passed through the left ear, entered the neck about 12 inches behind the ear, which it broke, and lodged under the skin behind the off shoulder. If it had been one of those big, bus bodied Cape buffaloes, I don't think the bullet would have had the same effect and I would now be playing a harp in the company of a very small pygmy and a very lanky Frenchman.
Afterwards, when we reconstructed the events that took place in the small, rugby ball shaped opening, it seemed as if the cow was merely running away from the dogs roughly on the heels of her weaned calf. Her course would probably have taken her past me by about a pace to my left but directly towards Geoffroy and Mombato who stood in a staggered formation behind me and to my left. Unless of course she saw me, in which case she might have converted a flat out run into a charge by the simple expedient of changing course to the left by one step.
Before I booked the hunt, both Alain Lefol and Rudy Lubin, two of the most decent and experienced rain forest professional hunters active in West Africa today, both made very similar comments when I asked their advice. In essence, they said that rain forest hunting for elephant and buffalo might not be everyone's cup of tea but it was the greatest adventure left in African hunting. After 28 days in south eastern Cameroon, I have to agree with them.
Geoffroy says, and I agree with him as well, that if canned killing is at one end of the spectrum, then rain forest hunting for elephant and buffalo is at the extreme opposite end. Cow or no cow, this aggressive, tough, tenacious, pugnacious, dwarf forest buffalo will have pride of place in my trophy room to remind me of two days of the most exciting and exhilarating hunting that I have ever experienced.

In May of 2004, Barry Style and I traveled to Cameroon for a Lord Derby hunt. I booked the hunt with Mayo Oldiri Safaris. I met them at the SCI show in Reno the previous year, and instantly took a liking to the owner Antonio Reguera, his daughter Raquel, and the camp manager Elisa. Traveling to and through Cameroon is in it self an adventure, arriving at the Douala airport is an experience that only a hunter could endure and enjoy.
Mayo Oldiri, runs a very smooth operation, and are wonderful host. After arriving in Douala, we were met by one of Antonio's employee's who took us to and incredible dinner of Nile perch and 30 year old scotch. We then spent the night, and flew to N'Goundre the next morning. We were greeted by a cheerful and energetic Elisa, but Barry and I were tired and bogged down by jet lag, or maybe it was the bottle of scotch the evening before in Douala?
Once in camp, we met our guide Guav who coincidently was from Zimbabwe, and a good friend of Barry's. Guav's father hunted for Buffalo Range Safaris in the past. So that first night, I slept well comforted by the fact I was in good hands.
We have all read the stories of the long hot marches in search of the Majestic and elusive Lord Derby Eland. Two hours out of camp, we drove by a salt lick, and there in front of us 100 yards through the tall grass stood a heard of eland. I could have easily shot an average eland from the back of the truck, and probably on the 14th day I would have, but not on the first day. Several hours later we cut the track of another herd and packed up our gear for our first eland march. Like any other African hunt I was in awe watching Guav and his band track the eland and read the signs. It was apparent from the signs the eland were not far ahead. Barry, unlike our past safaris took up position in the back of the convoy, he was my camera man. Several years ago Barry and I discussed not only hunting together in Zimbabwe together, but hunting all the other great species and countries together, and this was our first foray outside of Zimbabwe.
Moments later the eland were spotted, and we began our sneak. This is easy I thought as we crept forward. The wind was swirling in the mid day heat, the eland spooked, but not bad, so we stayed on their trail. A few hours later in great excitement the herd cut across in front of us. Guav focused his binos as a herd of 50 eland trotted by 75 yard in front of us. I promise you one thing, every cow Lord Derby looks like a really nice eland! My adrenaline raced while waiting for Guav to say "there he is" All I could see were tan bodies with long spiraling horns trotting through the bush. I was shooting a custom built Granite mountain Arms .416 Rigby. The rifle was built by Joe Smithson for this hunt. The command came; I steadied my rifle on the sticks and searched for the bull. He was running through the brush I followed him, and as he cleared I fired. What a beautiful animal, what a great trophy his thick horns spiraled over 49 1/2". "Guav, I thought this eland hunting was tough?" He cursed me for being so lucky…His previous hunter shot his eland on the 14th day.
Through out the week, I harvested Nigerian Bohr hor reed buck, Western duiker, Red flanked duiker, Oribi, Western Kob, Western hartebeest, warthog. A beautiful harnessed bushbuck and an incredible Western savannah buffalo that may score in the top 20. After a week I finished my entire license. Sitting in camp for tea, I asked if there was anything else I could hunt. I joked to Elisa that I felt robbed of the true eland hunting experience. Amazingly the hunter who was coming in after me had just cancelled. So Elisa allowed me to buy his hunt for Barry making him the holder of the license. I pondered for a long moment, the decision was made and we finished our tea and headed out to hunt another lord derby.
Only this time my luck was starting to change. Day after day, the true experience was unraveling. One particular hot, dusty, dry arid day. We marched all day following a herd of eland that were obviously on there way to the western shores of Africa. The next morning, still weary from the day before. I asked Guav what the plan was, and he said we were going to resume following the heard from the night before! What a horrible idea I thought as the morning sun began to melt our backs. The grass, when not burned was dusty and ten feet high, real nice morning walk. The ground in Cameroon is laden with millions of dried worm mounds giving your ankles a lot of stretching. And when the grass is not ten feet high it's burnt leaving inches of ash which hangs in the air with the slightest stir. When there is no ash the mopane fly's cloud your airspace invading your eyes, ears, nose and mouth.
As the morning turned to afternoon, the stifling heat forced us to drink most of our water. The eland showed no sign of slowing; I could see the trackers expressing doubt. I questioned Guav tactics several times, but he repeatedly insisted we continue on since he felt the eland would have stooped ahead.. An hour later, I told Guav that it was looking hopeless, and I already had a great trophy. There was no point in killing ourselves. He pleaded, "Let's just go another half hour". OK, I begrudging mumbled, but then it's back to the truck some five hours behind us.
Twenty minutes passed, and out of the thick brush was the unmistakable sound of eland. Guav with a big smirk on his face turned to me with "I told you" written across his face. I already had my middle finger up in his face as he turned to me. We all chuckled and started our stalk. Minutes later, 100 yards off quartering away was my bull. Never look at the horns, focus on the killing zone and slowly squeeze the trigger. Once again, I had a magnificent 49 ½" trophy. The best part was now that we had the eland down the trackers had to cut a road into recover it. Which meant we got to take naps, even though we ran out of water and the mopane flies drove us crazy. When the truck arrived we celebrated with warm cokes. Throughout the second week, I harvested another buffalo, and almost all of the species I had on license.
We saw several more eland, a few of which I could have easily shot. This hunt while challenging and expensive is an absolute must for those who want to experience a different part of Africa, and collect different species. The area that we hunted was abundant with trophy quality game. The lodging was comfortable, and the food was the best I have ever had on Safari or any other hunt. Gourmet French every night!.I hunted out of two different camps so we were able to see a lot of the area. Sadi is the other camp manager and also works as a PH. He was a great host and the stories and laughter were endless. Mayo Oldri run a great operation, Barry and I are going back for Bongo in 2005. Craig Wong purchased Mayo Oldiri's donation to our San Diego Chapter fund raiser. If we are lucky enough to get another donation it's the one of the best deals going.

Enveloping the savanna like a hot, dry fog, the Saharan wind swept across the Mayo Oldiri hunting concession in northern Cameroon, permeating the air with an opaque haze of desert dust. The sky was gray and overcast with a mist as fine as tale.
It was an Armaton, or, as the Arabs call it, a Shemal - a surreal weather condition that occurs as violent winds swirl and churn the Sahara Desert, filling the air with a microscopic dust that now, some four hundred miles away from the great desert, settled on us like a cloudy day.
The game wasn't moving. Just as whitetails bunker down in a strong wind, the animals here- the Western kob, the hasrtebeest and roan, the northwestern buffalo, the sing-sing waterbuck, and the Lord Derby Eland- were bedded. The only animal that seemed unperturbed by thefreakish weather was the peripatetic red-flanked duikerwould sooner jump into a lion's mouth than stand still.
The Armaton had blown in during the night. As we drove the next morning to search for Lord Derby Eland tracks- our sixth day of a frustrating and fascinating chess game between a herd of Africa's largest antelope and the keen hunting tactics of native Cameroonian PH Stephane Ndondue- I was struck by the bizarre sense of moving tingling sense of strange foreboding.
We headed toward an area where Ndondue had predicted the herd would cross as they moved from water to their favourite browse, the Isoberlinia tree. Something in the road caught Ndondue's eye and he called for our driver, Danzabe, to stop the Land Cruiser.
The four trackers scampered from the vehicle, scattering like pointers, and I clambered down and tried to peer into the Armaton with my binoculars as I waited, excitedly for their veredict. Perhaps they had found the fresh track of a giant