A Croc on the Bank is Worth Two in the River… By Ricardo Leone

By Ricardo Leone

It was good to be back in the lower Lupande, Luangwa River Valley in Zambia. It had been four years since we were in this camp with Peter Chipman of Kwalata Safaris – we now called Peter “Bwana”. In some ways nothing had changed, in others it was completely different. In the three years inbetween, Zambia was closed to hunting and the concession suffered – to be clear, the animals had suffered dearly. The poachers and villagers ran amuck – the elephants best told the story with their unstable and dangerous behavior – not the way we remember them from 2012. My son, Mac, joined me for the second straight year – this year was meant to be a life-changing trip for him – his first Cape buffalo. I had a few species on my wish list for this trip myself - other than another buffalo of course – one of which was a Nile crocodile.

While I am not a huge fan of baiting game, croc baiting is slightly different. Here, the idea is to fill their bellies so that all they want to do is sun themselves while digesting. Crocs have a highly developed sensory system and they can feel the slightest footstep coming at great distances. Thus, the baiting process is simply to dull their senses as they sleep off a big meal, though the hunter has no idea where they may sun themselves.

Two days prior I had shot a hippo, and although we had to give a hindquarter to one of the local village officials who got wind of our trophy and decided to levy a tax on us the very evening of the hunt, we still had plenty of hippo meat to use for bait. Bwana had his crew set the bait in the Luangwa in two specific places – one near camp, and the other down a winding road lined with trees and brush next to the Luangwa several miles from camp. (We called it Ele Alley!) This road was notorious for bushbuck and elephants moving to and from the river, making it rather dangerous for us driving in the Land Cruiser – not fun! In fact, the very afternoon we shot our hippo, we had a problem.

While driving down the road casually looking for bushbuck, we saw a herd of elephant coming up from the river to our right. We decided to drive quickly to stay ahead of them. However we did not realize that the herd had been split, and we managed to drive straight into the back of the leading

herd. To complicate things, the last elephant there was a mother with a baby, and she was not happy to see us – not at all. Now we had a real situation to deal with.

What made matters worse was our PH, Adam Buski, who normally drove his own Land Cruiser, was sitting on the back bench with Mac and me, and unfortunately Adam had left his gun in the cab of the vehicle. He asked me for my gun and then the standoff between the disgruntled mother and us began. She made the first move – raising her ears, trumpeting, shaking her head and flapping her ears, ready for a mock charge.

Adam was barking instructions to the guide: “Rev the engine, rock the vehicle, mock charge at the elephant and make noise!” Of course while the guide was revving the engine and attempting to rock the vehicle, he stalled it. Adam lifted my Griffin & Howe .375 H&H Mag rifle and pointed it directly at her head, muttering, “Don’t make me do it, don’t make do it…

“Just turn around and go,” he urged the mother elephant, “I do not want to be doing Two precision shots. paper work all day tomorrow.” As the guide revved the engine all I could think was, “Why have I put my 26-year-old son’s life in danger – this was not going to end well. Luckily, without any more drama the mother turned around with one more snort of her trunk and walked off to catch up with the front part of the herd. With no time to spare we had to hastily drive down the road as the second half of the herd was just about to overtake us. I was just praying that the guide would not stall the vehicle again. Needless to say, I did not like anything to do with elephants or alleys.

Ok, now back to crocs…

Once the bait was in the river, we had to check it periodically to see if any crocs had been feeding or were sleeping off their feast nearby. The next day, we had to check the bait down that alley – something I was not really keen to do for the obvious reasons. It was just before 8 a.m. and as we were winding our way down, not more than 30 yards away we saw a really nice male bushbuck to our left. I grabbed my Griffin & Howe .300 Win Mag and swung it in one motion, placing my elbow on my knee to stabilize the rifle and shot – the Bushbuck flipped forward doing a full summersault; I never saw anything like it. We stopped for pictures and proceeded to see the bait. The bait was down a path off the road tied to a tree that lent over the river. Unsurprisingly, no signs of a croc with the shot fired and all the commotion we were making with photos and talking. The Land Cruiser itself does not always frighten animals away as the animals become accustomed to the game drive vehicles. The next morning Adam wanted to check the bait again. A glutton for punishment, I agreed and off we went again, the same way. The plan was to drop Adam, Mac and me off just before the path to the bait and keep driving to avoid stop/ start noises that could spook a croc. As the Land Cruiser drove away, the three of us quietly walked down the road onto the path to the bait, and there, lying motionless under the bait tree facing away from us, was a monster croc! Adam turned to remind us - NO noise! All we could see was the back of the croc, its head and tail below the bank. Its back was really wide. I had no shot at any vitals, so we needed to quietly make our way around the tree to see if we could make a shot. This was mission impossible – while the croc’s senses may have been dulled from the hippo feast, the animal was not in a comma. As we walked off the path onto leaves, the croc crashed into the water. It

was enormous. Adam said it could have been anywhere from 14 to 16 feet – huge by any standard, specifically in this region where a 12 foot croc is considered a respectable trophy. We walked back to meet the Land Cruiser to finish our drive down the road that looped away from the river back to the main road. It “Don’t make me do it, was just after noon and we decided to make our way back to camp. On the way to the don’t make do it… main road, we saw a waterbuck in one of the drying mudflats, and the tracker signaled our driver to reverse. Now it was Mac’s turn. He grabbed the .300 Win Mag, not his preferred rifle. The waterbuck ranged at 94 yards. Adam saw that the waterbuck, having seen our Land Cruiser, was on alert and told Mac to quietly Now it was Mac’s exit the vehicle and position himself. turn. He grabbed the Mac steadied himself and with one perfect .300 Win Mag, not his shot, he had his trophy. Though no preferred rifle. crocs – we still had a productive morning and headed back to camp for lunch. We were equally happy for the waterbuck and to be leaving that alley. Back at camp we shared the stories of the enormous croc and of Mac’s waterbuck success. We started our usual pre-lunch routine: shed shoes, get a cold drink and take in the sights the river offered. The wide expanse on the other side of the Luangwa was

a game reserve, spectacular for photography. The expanse on the opposite side of the river was considerable and the views were spectacular. The sandy bank gradually merged into the river – we could see much wildlife drinking on the bank. After lunch it was time to just relax. Our other hunting partner, Manno, would usually say, “Time to get horizontal,” and he would disappear for his nap. As we would not leave for the afternoon game drive till about 3.30, we would have a nice long break – or in Manno’s case a long nap. Mac and I would have a cigar and chat.

Later, as we were relaxing, Mac looked out onto one of the sandbars in front of the camp and spotted a large croc. While it was facing towards camp, we could see its width and get a sense of the length. Mac asked Bwana if it was a shooter.

“Yah, yah, go get your PH.” Mac ran to find Adam and I ran to get my gun, the Griffin & Howe .300Win Mag. Adam came with sticks in hand. Unlike in the bush, we did not have a guide; no scout, no vehicle and there was no classic stalk to make. As the croc was sunning itself, we had time to make a plan. It was facing the camp with his head turned slightly to our right towards Twelve foot Nile crocodile with Griffin & Howe .300 Win Mag. a group of trees at the corner of the camp. Adam pointed to the trees.

“Let’s walk there quietly and have a good look.” I already had my range-finding binos around my neck and Adam brought his binos – we both glassed. I ranged the distance at 96 yards and Adam checked the lengthof the croc – a good 12 footer – respectable. While not the size of the one we saw earlier that day, “A bird in hand is better that two in bush,” especially if the bush were the alley.

Adam set the sticks and told me to give it one in between his eyes. My Griffin & Howe .300 Win Mag can be surgical at 96 yards assuming no user error. I could take my time and just breathe slowly and squeeze the trigger. The noise from the shot was deafening - while I thought I had brought everything, I forgot my ear plugs, and the noise was amplified within the camp, ricocheting off the thatch fence and tents – the closest of which was Manno’s tent in which he was napping. In fact, I was about six feet from Manno’s tent in the shade from the trees I was shooting under.

The shot was perfect – right in between the eyes. The croc opened its mouth wide and moved its head from side to side. When it closed its mouth, Adam said, “Give him another – same spot.” I did not hesitate – I was still on the sticks and watching the croc’s every move in my scope. The second shot was also perfect – now my ears were ringing. The croc was motionless. I looked at Adam thinking he would start to congratulate me. Instead he instructed me to give the croc one more shot, this time into the engine room. For the first time in five African hunting safaris – I almost questioned the PH. I guess Adam could read my body language. “We do not want that croc to make a lastditch effort to flee into the water, as we will never see it again.” What the PH says, goes: I took a third shot which made the same thundering noise as the first two. The croc remained motionless – now my ears were really ringing. At this point – Manno abruptly appeared from his tent with his Rigby .416 in hand looking as if the camp was under siege and he needed to protect himself. While ready for battle, he was only wearing swim trunks. “Manno – puts some clothes on,” I said. “I DID!” We told Manno he could put down his gun, we were just shooting a croc, and pointed to the croc lying on the sandbar. In Manno’s defense, the previous few nights we had been woken by the cacophony of elephants creating a ruckus just outside the camp, and Manno was convinced they had broken through the thatch fence surrounding the camp and that we were shooting at elephants to protect ourselves. Once the confusion was sorted out, we all I ranged the distance at 96 celebrated. Then Bwana called the camp crew together to retrieve the croc. Three members of the yards and Adam checked the crew rolled up their pants and with rope and a long pole to scare off other crocs, they lengthof the croc – a good went out to the sandbar to get our trophy. They dragged it up a steep embankment 12 footer – respectable. where there was a obligatory photos. picturesque This photo spot for session the was unique – a bit surreal. We were in camp, but it did not feel very safari-like. It was more like a beach party – the entire camp joined in. Manno was still in beach attire, and both Mac and I were wearing our flip flops. Everyone was happy. I had my croc, and Mac and I were equally happy that we did not have to return to “Ele Alley” for the rest of the trip.