Spots and Stripes
By Gayne C. Young

“Couch?”

“Yeah,” I responded, eager to assuage the look of confusion and disbelief canvassed on my Professional Hunter’s face.  “A couch.  And maybe some luggage or a purse for my wife.”  

Eric ran his hands over his thick black goatee in thought. "Well, I’ve never heard of that but I suppose what you do with your trophies is up to you.”

I hadn’t come to Africa to hunt for the materials to make furniture and luggage specifically, but after visiting with Richard Sanders of Walden & Bork and Russell Moccasins at the last Dallas Safari Club Convention I decided the possibility was certainly worth investigating.  As Richard explained, “There is so much more you can do with a trophy than just taxidermy. Game skins can be made into anything from wallets to boots to luggage and notebook covers. Pillows. Coasters. You name it.”

The idea of turning skins into keepsakes was further brought home when I came across Cowhide Western Furniture Co. at the same convention. Their display of couches, easy chairs, and ottomans made from cowhide, exotic leathers, and game hides really brought home the idea of turning my upcoming trip to Africa into a way to decorate the game room as well as get some personalized items for me and my wife. Furthermore it would give me a good excuse to add zebra and giraffe to my species list for my forthcoming safari. With my decision made I contacted Eric Sorour of Limcroma Safaris and informed him of the additions to my list of hopefuls.

Located in the Limpopo Region of Northern South Africa, Limcroma Safaris offers hunts for all the major South African species on concessions totaling over 200,000 acres. For zebra I’d be hunting out of one of Limcroma’s satellite lodges near the small farming town of Modi Molle. Although a smaller hunting area than the company’s main concession, the lodge at Nylstroom Farm was incredibly comfortable and more than a welcome sight after a hard day’s hunting.  It was over a congratulatory dinner for my taking a 29 inch waterbuck that Eric outlined his plans for finding me a nice zebra.

“I think our best bet is to walk in to a small waterhole I know of. It’s pretty deep in the scrub,” Eric began.  “But I’ve seen some very mature stallions watering there. We’ll make a blind and sit over the water. I think that’ll be our best bet.”

Having total confidence in Eric, I wholeheartedly agreed and retired for the evening.

The next morning Eric, our tracker Alfred, and I loaded in the truck and headed out shortly before sunup. We reached the hunting area just as the sky broke in shades of rose and crimson over the acacia and sweet thorn covered landscape. The early morning light brought into view an area covered in South African scrub brush and trees woven into impenetrable islands dissected by pockmarked dirt roads and heavily rutted game trails.  Driving the area we jumped several herd of gazelle, a small sounder of warthog, and a lone jackal skirting the brush along the road in search of an easy meal. At a wide patch in the road just short of a six foot tall termite hill Eric stopped and killed the engine.

“Grab your stuff,” he casually instructed.  “We’ll get out here.  It’s about three hundred yards in.”

By the time I gathered my rifle and daypack, Eric and Alfred were ready and waiting. Despite the fact that Alfred was the only one of us with a machete, Eric led me into the brush with Alfred pulling up the rear. About seventy-five yards in the narrow game trail widened considerably allowing Eric and I to walk side by side. Moving further into the thick Eric pointed out warthog, kudu, blesbok, and bushpig tracks. But it was a set of tracks that was accompanied by a huge pile of droppings that interested Eric the most.

“This isn’t good,” Eric whispered in English before switching to Afrikaans to converse with Alfred.

As they discussed the matter at hand I leaned over to inspect the plate-sized tracks myself.  I had just begun to trace the deep indentions with the tip of my finger when Eric tapped my shoulder and motioned me to rise.

“These are black rhino,” Eric explained.  “They’re very fresh. We’re going to back out of here very slowly and come at the water hole from a different direction. Trust me, we don’t want to come across this guy on the trail.”

Noticing how white Alfred had turned, I had no doubt that Eric wasn’t exaggerating the danger. 

An hour later we had circled back around to hit the waterhole from the opposite direction. Alfred and Eric constructed a small blind out of freshly cut limbs about 100 yards from the water. After Eric and I were situated inside Alfred backed out to return to the truck. Almost immediately wildlife began to return to the small waterhole. Impalas, blesboks, and a small group of kudu cows came to drink, each time their presence  scattering the blue tit, glossy starling, and crimson breasted shrik birds that paced the water’s edge drinking and feeding. Having something to watch made the time fly.

Just as Eric began to tell me about a zebra hunt he had with another client he suddenly stopped and held up his hand to silence me. He pointed to a dark figure scuttling out of the brush to the left of the waterhole.

“Baboon,” He informed me.  “If he makes us out we can kiss the day good-bye. He’ll tell everything within yelling distance.”        

No sooner had I trained in on the lone baboon coming to the water than a herd of five zebras slowly appeared from the opposite shore. Lifting my Meopta 10 x 40s to my face, I quickly trained in on the herd for a closer look. At the rear of the small group was an old stallion, his coat dirty brown and black striped with deep scars along his neck and hind flanks.

“That stallion’s seen few fights I’d say,” Eric offered. “He’s real mature. Maybe 700, 750 pounds.” I kept the stallion in my field of view as Eric continued his commentary. “We can probably find a younger one that size that’s white and black if you’re…”

“No,” I replied reaching for my CZ 550 .375 H & H leaning against a tree. “That’s the one I want.”

“Well then you need to take him before he moves on. They won’t be here long.”

I leaned into my rifle held snug against the tree and quickly found the stallion in my scope. I eased the crosshairs to just above and forward of his front shoulder and squeezed. The sound of thunder echoed through the blind as 300 grains of Remington Premier Swift A-Frame rocketed forward. The herd scattered in a cloud of thrown mud and screams. The lone baboon howled his discontent and fled back into the brush.  he stallion slowed behind the herd once inside the protection of the thorn brush and dropped. 

“Congratulations my friend,” Eric offered extending his hand.  “Let’s go see what you got.”

The stallion was the perfect representation of a wild Burchell's zebra. Once brushed free from his coating of dirt and dried mud the old stallion was the very picture of maturity and strength. His taunt muscles bulged beneath his broad brown and black stripes and his mane stood erect as if just coifed and groomed for show. 

Loading him into the truck was not nearly as pretty.  Even with the three of us, maneuvering 700 pounds of horse like dead weight into the small Toyota bed was just short of impossible. In order to get the zebra’s entire body in the truck bed Alfred was forced to pile the items usually in the back of the truck on top of the stallion. This posed a serious problem as gear flew out of the back of the truck and onto the road twice on the way back to the lodge.

The next morning Eric, Alfred, and I drove to Limcroma’s main lodge in Northern South Africa. Situated on the banks of the Crocodile River along the South Africa / Botswana border, the lodge consists of a main house with game room dining room, bar, kitchen and office and several private chalets each with sitting room, private bath, and king size bed. From these posh accommodations we would head out to a high plateau over the river known as the Badger Pan in search of giraffe. As with my zebra, I wanted an old, mature giraffe. One with some character and not reminiscent of something out of a zoo or drive through park. Eric said he knew of a herd on the Badger Pan that just might have what we were looking for.

Over the next two days we saw probably twenty giraffe but only saw the old sentinel that Eric was referring to once. He was hidden in plain sight among some tall trees intertwined with sickle bush and wait-a-bit thorn. His hide was dark in color, his alternating black and burnt rust colored pelage almost blending into a solid shade. How something almost 17 feet tall in height could all but seemingly disappear was completely beyond me. Despite Alfred’s best tracking efforts and Eric’s best stalking abilities we simply failed to get to within shooting distance of the old patriarch. Unfortunately we never would.  After conversing with a farmer that lived not far from the Badger Pan Eric came to me with the bad news.

“I’m afraid we won’t get a shot at your giraffe, my friend.”  Eric apologized. “It seems he left the Pan and got into an electric fence on the neighboring property"

“So?” I inquired.  “What does that mean?”

“He licked the fence. Giraffes do that every now and again.”

“You mean it shocked him.”

“Let’s just say your couch got electrocuted.”

A strangely morbid end to a great animal but nevertheless an excuse to try again next year.