Story and Photos by Jeff Johnston
Senior Editor- American Hunter

     Visions of world-record kudu pestered my mind like long-horned heathens, dancing and dodging perpetually out of my crosshairs. In desperation, I did what I could to lull myself to sleep; having long since grown bored of merely reading about it, I opened a book on African hunting.

The smallest of Africa's spiral-horned antelope, bushbuck are solitary and reclusive, often remaining unseen nearswamps. If wounded, they can be dangerous.

     I must’ve been out for several hours when I was roused to consciousness by something big and living, and extremely close. Though it was a sound foreign to this turkey hunter’s ears, I knew it could only be the coughing grunts of a lion. Two minutes later I heard a scratch at the wooden door of my bungalow. Then …creak…the door eased open. Desperately, I felt around in the darkness for my knife, but before I found it, a snout, silhouetted by prying fingers of moonlight, appeared in the crack of the doorjamb. At last the wagging back end of the lead tracking dog, Savannah, materialized in the darkness. I smiled relief as I strummed the Jack Russell terrier’s side. I felt a jagged line of sutures running from her right hip, down to her knee and across her midsection to her left hip. Wishing that dogs could talk, the cantankerous lion bellowed again. Evidently the mighty roar soothed the ignorant little hound, for it immediately induced a snore from her. I followed her lead and slept blissfully the remainder of the night.
    “We spotted a very nice impala two days ago,” said J.P. Kleinhans Jr., my professional hunter. His English was accented by Dutch-based Afrikaans, with syllables as rich as the mountain fog. He wore khaki shorts and drank coffee in the cool morning air of his veranda. The young South African epitomized the profile of a PH: friendly yet authoritative; business-like but humorous; enthusiastic yet calm. I couldn’t help but admire him.
    Springbok...blesbok…bushbuck…he went down the a-la carte menu of animals and they interested me, but frankly I thought of them as appetizers, warm-ups for the real thing. I couldn’t recall Capstick ever writing any books entitled Bushbuck in the Thick Bush or the like, because I’d have read them if he had. I’d come to Africa for the curling, 55-inch horns of the gray ghost, the kudu, the inspiration behind countless stories of my heroes, not to concentrate my energy on smallish antelope, including one so uninspiring as to be named simply, generically, “bushbuck.” But J.P. thought otherwise.
    When he spoke of bushbuck, he exhumed the same crazy-eyed look I’ve noted on the faces of devout whitetail hunters when they speak of double-drop-tine bucks. It’s an obsession that transcends boundaries; alas, a language I understand. J.P. had said enough, and the price was right: I would hunt this mysterious creature they call bushbuck. But first there would be other animals.

Cutting-Edge Optics I carried a Steyr Pro-Hunter in .338 Federal that fired a 220-grain Accubond, and the rifle was topped with a riflescope called the DigitalHunter, from Elcan, a division of technology giant Raytheon. It’s a digital camera containing digitally produced crosshairs. My biggest concern about the scope was its durability. Through jarring Land Cruiser rides and belly crawls, it didn’t let me down. Its electronic adjustments—without mechanical springs—are more precise than traditional systems. With it I took seven animals ranging from 65 to 305 yards. One negative is its resolution compared to glass optics: If an animal is standing still in heavy cover at distance, it can be tough to spot. But if the idea of getting good video of your shot is your priority, the Elcan is tops. Its ballistic compensation aspect is neat and it works, but I found that it is better suited for the bench than for hunting. I recommend creating a custom reticle on the computer that has multiple crosshairs for different ranges specifically tailored to your load. Viewing game on screen takes some getting used to—much like following your child’s baseball game through a camcorder. But once you do get use to it, you realize some great advantages; you can review shots at game to determine bullet placement, for instance. And when you get back home you can e-mail friends live scenes of exactly what you saw just before, during and after you pulled the trigger. —JJ

    I clanked onto the soft soil of coastal southeast South Africa with a lifetime’s worth of gear collected for this moment: Gore-Tex-lined boots, Woolrich safari shirts and zip-off pants, vests, hats, polycarbonate sunglasses, backpacks, knives, laser-rangefinding Leica binoculars, a 5 3/4-pound custom bolt-gun from Rifles Inc. guaranteed to shoot half-inch groups and an Elcan digital riflescope that records videos and still images at the precise time the rifle is fired. After 20 years of technology gathering, rifle shooting, anatomy studying, and buck fever tempering, I still found myself unprepared for missing the first three shots I attempted in Africa.
    We were hunting blesbok, which dwell in the wide and open, and this hunter missed his first shot from on the sticks. When the second boom produced no blood, J.P. muttered, “Oh, jeez,” and something in Afrikaans under his breath, no doubt lamenting the prospect of this hunt, my hunt, being a very long one indeed. The third shot was as high as the first two, and damn the technology, you can see all of them on video if you wish right here. I’d just assume you watch the fourth. Better yet, watch the video of the wildebeest I took that evening with one shot from my .338 Federal. It did to me what a nip of bourbon in the coffee does after dinner; it instilled confidence and stoked a warm feeling within me before going to bed.
    It was the third day and we were easing around the hillsides, delightfully separated from the vehicle when my PH became excited. “Bushbuck!” he whispered. A two-second glimpse into his binocular revealed more. “Very nice one, extremely old…not the tallest ...the old boy is worn down. Definite shooter. Very nice bushbuck.” He was amazed because it was almost dark and the animal was bedded in the open—a rare occurrence. The solitary bushbuck prides itself not on bravado while safely exposed in the middle of the savannah, but on remaining unseen. Having hunted in America, J.P. compares bushbuck to our whitetail. It’s reclusive and wary.
    We were above and behind it, approximately 225 yards out, with the wind in our faces. Laying my second rifle, a Steyr, in a wedge formed by the ocular lenses of a pair of old-school Zeiss binoculars placed vertically on the ground, I went prone and steadied the custom-generated “crosshairs” of the Elcan on a spot just behind the bushbuck’s shoulder blade, held my breath and squeezed the trigger. The report was followed by a slap and a morbid lurch of the animal, followed immediately by a congratulatory slap on my back.
    As we made our way down and around the riverbank where the bushbuck lay, I looked at the direct-view screen of the digital scope, hoping to glean any clues about the hit from its video. But before I could, a shrill, high-pitched bark penetrated the swamp. I glanced up to see the rear end of the brown-black bushbuck vanish into a tangle of green. J.P. was perturbed; I should’ve been watching ahead, though I don’t believe I could’ve touched off a shot even if I had been.
    “Quit messing around or someone’s going to get hurt,” he scolded. “See Savannah’s hips?” he asked, pointing to the little dog. “Client nearly got her killed last week.”
    “Bushbuck?” I asked. He nodded the affirmative.
    I am not asserting that a bushbuck—an 80-pound, swamp-dwelling, spiral-horned antelope—is anything like lion, buffalo or any of the truly dangerous game animals. Like all antelope, it will usually try to get away from you if there is any way it can. But it is one antelope—gemsbok and sable being two others—that is more likely than other non-predatory animals to charge when cornered or wounded. It is keenly aware of the horns that jut upward from its head like twisted railroad spikes. When wounded the little bushbuck will come, daggers first, with no hesitation. Kleinhans is all too familiar with their use. His father hunted dangerous game for a living, and several years before J.P Kleinhans Sr. was killed by a lion, he was gored in the gut by a wounded bushbuck; my PH said his father was lucky the animal only crippled him.
    Savannah could smell the buck and trembled with all the desire in Africa to sink fang into flesh. “Keep up with the dog, and shoot the bushbuck as soon as you see it,” J.P. commanded, “or it will kill her.” And I will never forgive you, I suppose he was thinking, as he placed Savannah on the ground. Instantly she picked up the oily, bloody scent of the wounded animal and bailed off down the steep hill into the thorny tangle. I followed her lead, literally falling into the big, green hell, but with something less than her reckless efficiency. J.P. and I each forged our own paths as we crawled and savagely pulled our way through the vines and vegetation, using Savannah’s intermittent barks as a common guide. Suddenly she growled. “Savannah sees him!” yelled J.P. “Get to her!”
     A few seconds later the PH and I met, both on our knees, under a dense canopy of vines and brush. Savannah was baying and barking, but we couldn’t see the buck for the shadows. “He’s right here somewhere! Be ready!” he whispered.

J.P. Kleinhans (back, center) and company take a break from hunting gemsbok in South Africa's Eastern Cape. Bushbuck prefer denser cover near water sources.

    Holding the rifle at hip level with one hand, I reached for my flashlight. One sweep illuminated the bushbuck’s eyes 8 feet away. It faced the dog, fending her off from behind a tree trunk. Savannah snapped and lunged smartly. Then the buck saw us.
    “Throw me the rifle!” yelled J.P.
    As the bushbuck lowered its head I slung the rifle forward into his hands, and in the same motion he stuck the muzzle toward the animal and pulled the trigger. The animal recoiled and when it did, Savannah attacked, locking her teeth into the fur of its back. J.P. tossed me the rifle and reached for his dog. As I chambered another round I saw the buck move again. “Bust him again!” yelled J.P. I held the rifle at arm’s length and fired again, and the buck went still.
    J.P. peeled off Savannah, and suddenly everything was quiet except for my heart. As I took a knee and admired the game little animal called bushbuck, I patted the little dog’s head and wiped sweat from my eyes. I couldn’t help but think there ought to be more books on bushbuck hunting. Savannah looked up at me as if to say, “Reading is boring, and so are kudu.”