Twenty kilometers for a big old fifty
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Seven-twenty in the morning, a huge spoor — the biggest we have seen — and the roughest sole marks yet. A very big, very old bull. We follow him two point three kilometers to a drink, lose him twenty minutes, find him again. Northeast, northeast, never feeding, never stopping. Surveying his country.
Another five o’clock start for the far west pan road. At twenty past seven, a huge spoor — the biggest we had found. The roughest sole marks yet. Felix, looking at it, went quiet in the way he does when he thinks a very old bull is in reach. We parked.
Two point three kilometers on, he had stopped at a pan to drink. The spoor disappeared in twenty minutes of cow sign before the trackers recovered it. His dung near the pan was cold — hours out. He walked northeast, hardly on any trail, straight into brushy country.
Two more sleeping spots. He kept on his bearing. At nine-twenty, five point three kilometers in, a pan, and a hundred meters further a second pan. He was surveying water — not feeding, not lying down. A bull counting what was his.
At seven point five kilometers, his third rest area, his dung still warm. Around ten-twenty, nine point nine kilometers in, we stopped to drink and eat. Ten minutes later Felix saw him — fifty meters from us, a hundred and fifty meters ahead, asleep under a shade tree.
Lucky we had made no noise. We closed for a look. Very big. Very old. Tusks fifty pounds.
Disappointed, of course — the hunt had been something. Twenty kilometers on foot from the cruiser. We would not say no to that experience. We said no to the fifty pounds.
