Two in a million

Sometimes in hunting, if one spends enough time outdoors, you’ll eventually experience a day so unbelievable that it burns itself into your memory for life. But like many good things in hunting, a bit of luck,  and a huge amount of hard work, are often required to create that perfect day.

Let’s start at the beginning… I was traveling back from a successful hunt for an elusive white bushpig boar in KZN with my good friend Frikkie Botha when, by chance, I started chatting about bushpig hunting with a young man named Ruben Kotze. He mentioned that they, too, had a white bushpig visiting one of their bait sites from time to time. I asked if it might be possible to bring a client and try for the white boar, and he thankfully agreed to give me the opportunity.

Arrangements were made for me to visit the bait site and set up a blind for the upcoming hunt. I phoned a good client of mine, Dyllan De Beer, and confirmed that he was indeed up for the challenge of hunting this very special white boar. Plans came together quickly, and we set the hunt for the following week.

We were all aware of Cyclone Eloise and the rain it was expected to bring to South Africa. However, being the eternal optimists that hunters tend to be, we picked a day when the forecast looked the most favorable. Finally, after what felt like a month of waiting, the arranged Wednesday arrived, and we headed out for our first attempt at the white boar.

Heading in, we could see the roads were badly flooded and every small stream looked like a full-fledged river. The threat of rain was ever-present, and we drove through intermittent storms the entire way there. We barely made it to the blind without getting stuck, even in a Land Cruiser, and prepared ourselves for a long night, as the pigs were normally coming in quite late, between 10:30 p.m. and midnight, sometimes even later if they skipped their first visit. The wind, unfortunately, was all over the place due to the cyclone, changing direction what felt like every 10 minutes. Needless to say, when we climbed out of the blind the following morning at 5:30 a.m., we were much colder and wetter than when we had climbed in! Nature had played us a difficult hand, and we’d been firmly beaten by the wind, proven when the pigs arrived at the bait site later that same night after we’d left.

Early in that first evening’s sit, however, something else caught our attention. One of our PHs, Mark Jarman, sent me a picture of a very rare animal,  a red nyala bull. He’d been driving home to his family farm when he spotted the incredible animal next to a fence line on one of his neighbor’s properties. Reversing back, he managed to snap a quick photo before it disappeared into the bush. When I asked if he knew the landowner, he said no, and the search was on!

Like any good detective, Mark managed within a few days to identify the farmer and arrange a meeting, during which we secured permission to try for this remarkable nyala. The owner knew of its existence but had yet to have a hunter connect with it.

We checked the weather, which didn’t look promising, and tried to come up with a workable plan. Needless to say, the rains only got worse, and South Africa experienced what must have been one of its heaviest rainfalls in a decade. It became almost impossible for Ruben to reach the bait site to feed the white boar, who was still fairly new to the bait, and many days went by when the pigs went hungry. Never a good thing for bushpig, especially an old boar!

Spotting a small gap in the weather, we arranged to head out on Wednesday, the 10th of February, to try for the red nyala and, if possible, sit for the white bushpig that night, assuming he’d fed, as he’d gone without for almost three nights.

Arriving in Vaalwater that morning, we met up with Mark and, after sorting our gear, headed to the property where the red nyala had been seen. The landowner greeted us warmly, wished us luck, and handed us a radio before we set off for the morning.

We began checking the dense thickets and likely spots where nyala like to hide. We saw plenty of bushbuck darting away as we scoured the property, but no nyala. Eventually, turning a corner, there he was, the red nyala, standing right in the middle of the road. For a few seconds, we all just stared at him, struck by his sheer beauty and uniqueness. Then, thankfully, Mark’s brain kicked into gear, and we slowly reversed out of sight. Climbing out, we grabbed the shooting sticks, checked the wind, and began our slow approach back up the road, hugging the bush line.

When we rounded the corner again, the bull was no longer in sight. Straining my eyes into the shadows, I finally caught the red color of his back above the grass. Through my binoculars, I saw he was standing slightly quartered away, looking back over his shoulder at us. Concerned about the bullet’s path, Dyllan wisely waited for him to turn his head away from the offside shoulder.

After what felt like an eternity, the bull finally turned, and Dyl immediately took the shot. The nyala jumped up in that classic way a well-hit bull does, and in a flash of white tail, he was gone. We were confident, Dyl was shooting a .375 Ruger, and the shot had been no more than 50 meters.

At the spot where the bull had stood, we found excellent blood right away. The trail was easy to follow, and within 30 meters Dyllan spotted the nyala lying in the green summer grass.

It was a surreal moment. You occasionally see photos of a red nyala, but to actually touch one in person is something I’ll cherish forever. What a stunning old bull he was, lying there like a bongo in the thick, green summer bushveld. He was completely red, indicating his testes weren’t producing any testosterone at all, surprising, given the size of his horns. The red color in such bulls results from underdeveloped or damaged testicles, which prevent them from transitioning from the female-like juvenile coat to the dark, maned adult form.

We sat under a shady tree, savoring the moment with this remarkable old bull, still not quite believing our luck. His teeth were worn flat, putting his age at likely over ten years. Eventually, we carefully carried him into the sunlight for photos worthy of such a unique animal.

Soon after, I received a message from Ruben, the bushpigs had been at the bait site the night before. The camera had been bumped by a buffalo investigating the bait in the afternoon, so we didn’t know the exact time, but the fresh tracks and scuffing in the mud were undeniable.

We got the nyala back to the skinning shed, and Mark and I prepped him for a full mount. Leaving the cape to soak in solution in the cold room overnight, we returned to Mark’s farm for a quick lunch before our evening sit.

After a delicious braai of common reedbuck and a quick swim to wash off any scent from the morning, we headed out again. The weather looked ominous, and we hoped the rain wouldn’t ruin our bushpig hunt. The roads were in terrible shape, and Ruben advised us to use the alternate gate. Even so, we nearly got stuck several times. Eventually, we reached about 800 meters from the bait site, any farther and we’d have been bogged down.

Loaded like pack mules, we carried our gear through the mud. It was clear it had rained the night before, the tracks were crisp and fresh. Our spirits lifted the closer we got, as the bait site was covered in sign. The boar had clearly had a field day with his sow, digging everywhere. The bait was nearly finished and had developed a fermented smell from the moisture. We climbed into the blind and settled in for the night.

By about 6:30 p.m. the wind finally steadied, and our first visitor, a huge, single-tusked warthog. appeared just before dark. On any other day he would’ve been fair game, but I quickly unzipped the hide door to spook him off. He looked up, trotted off, and, reassuringly, hadn’t caught our scent.

An hour later, as darkness fell, I heard chewing, another warthog! I spooked him as well, but unbelievably, he was back within 20 minutes. Deciding it was too late in the evening to risk more noise, we let him feed. He stayed until well past 8 p.m., never once smelling us.

By 10:20 p.m. fatigue started setting in. I lay back to rest for a few minutes, waking just after 11:00 to find Dyllan still alert, watching through the window. I wondered if this would be another long, cold night. Then, at exactly 11:26, Dyllan tapped me, once, then again, harder. “He’s there,” he whispered.

“Shoot him! Shoot him now!” I hissed back. Dyl didn’t say a word. Calmly, he reached for his rifle, already set up on the rest. I covered my ears and waited. A bright flash lit the blind, followed by the deafening crack of the shot.

“Did you get him?” I asked.

“There’s a dead pig on the bait,” Dyllan said calmly.

Chaos erupted inside the small blind as we celebrated, what an incredible end to an unforgettable hunt! As we approached, even from a distance we could see how brilliantly white he was in the torchlight. Up close, he was magnificent, an old boar with worn teeth, a crooked tail from an old break, and a stiff rear leg. Clearly, he’d lived a long, hard life.

Ruben and his friend arrived soon after to join us in admiring the once-in-a-lifetime boar. Ruben mentioned that he’d recently found a trail-camera photo of this same pig from 2010, when his father had been baiting another boar, and even then, he was already massive and likely 5–6 years old. With no top teeth left, we estimated his age conservatively at over 15 years. It’s incredible to think how he managed to avoid leopards and hunters alike for so long, especially while being completely white!

Our next challenge was getting him out. We couldn’t get a vehicle in due to flooding and hadn’t brought a carry mat. Thankfully, there’s no better help than two enthusiastic 17-year-olds, who quickly devised a way to carry the boar on their shoulders, sharing the load. We made a second trip to collect the rest of the gear and then prepared the bushpig for a full mount, a fitting tribute to such an extraordinary animal.

By sunrise, Dyllan and I were in the bakkie heading home, the old white boar safely in the back. We were tired but deeply content. Days like that are special, and it’s important never to take them for granted, because you never know when the next one will come.

A big thank you to Mark and Ruben for all their help on this unforgettable adventure. We couldn’t have done it without you, gents!