The rounded black and shiny boulders resembled a herd of Buffalo resting amongst the sparse grass and stunted shrubs up ahead. I slowed down with caution as we approached along a well-worn Hippo path that would eventually steer us past the only water point in the area. The sun was headed for the horizon on our first afternoon of the Lonely Bull Backpack Trail in northern Kruger National Park. Back-Up Trails Guide Mark and I had already navigated the group of eight guests far up the Matrabowa and away from its confluence with the Letaba River to set up camp. Somewhere along a dry and forgotten watercourse, pale grey Leadwood tree trunks stood like pillars between our dwarfed tents on a clear and warm winter’s day.
As I lead the group off the path to collect water, I rounded a sunburnt mopane shrub to find an attentive Buffalo bull lying down less than ten paces ahead of me. Up close and with full frontal view, I noticed the unmistakable erosion of age on the beast. Threadbare ears flopped below a smooth and blunted set of horns. A balding face, crusted with patches of dead white skin, complemented his desensitised expression that must have ripened with repeated persecution by Lions. In one quick and well rehearsed motion, Africa’s black death was up and heading straight towards me at full speed.
There was no uncertainty. I had to kill or be killed. Assisted by a surge of adrenalin and muscle memory I prepared my rifle, placed it in my shoulder and took aim. My sights neatly lined up with the Buffalo’s brain as I confidently squeezed the trigger with less than five paces between us.
A puff of dust lifted from the point of impact on the Buffalo’s forehead, but there was no change in the animal’s trajectory or intention. I had missed the most important shot of my life. All the hairs on my frigid body turned to cactus needles and my gut, full of pool acid, tumbled with the volatility of an old farm windmill in a gale.
Contact was immenent as I decided to hold my position between the wounded Buffalo and the Trail group. In a hopeless attempt to manufacture time to reload my rifle, I took a step back. Just then, I was consumed by darkness.
Once I regained consciousness the Buffalo towered proudly over me. He forced his head onto my torso and tried to mangle me by swinging his horns from side to side. I did my best to block his blows by pulling my legs into my chest. At one point I managed to get my right foot into the curve of his left horn and briefly created some distance between the rampaging bull and my vitals by straightened my leg. The Buffalo surged once more as I desperately tried to reload the rifle. I could see the grit obstructing the process and realised that my efforts were futile.
Mark was in a nasty predicament too. The Buffalo’s head was positioned over most of my body, which prevented him from taking a shot at the animal’s tennis-ball-sized brain. He opted to shift his rifle’s front bead onto the brute’s shoulder joint. The shot did enough to drop the Buffalo on top of me. It’s sternum squashing my legs and his gargantuan head burdening my rapidly pulsing chest. I lost contact with my rifle. A warm sensation spread across my upper body as a blend of frothy blood and cud leaked from the Buffalo’s muzzle and into my uniform. The obscene scent was forced up my stretched nostrils by every, seamingly bottomless, huff of my nemesis. Our exagerated pupils locked as I peered down his snout. Both of us were momentarily paralysed, but unwilling to die.
The battered Buffalo started struggling to his feet. Just before he regained his balance, I managed to get out from underneath the tremendous weight and make my way to Mark’s side. We managed to direct the guests, who were bunched together in a cloud of dust no further than five paces behind us, to some respectable cover.
With head hanging low and buckled front legs, the Buffalo retreated into the exact corridor from which he had exploded when we first met. He was clearly dazed, but still standing relatively close to my rifle. Mark reloaded his weapon and handed it over to me. Side by side we approached the Buffalo in an attempt to put him out of his misery. He collapsed without further disagreement as the shot went off. I couldn’t bring myself to fire a coup de grace. My ears were ringing and I had violated the wilderness and her silence that I value so deeply.
We had done enough, but only just. I turned and hobbled ahead of the group and into the remaining three days of Trail. I struggled to find comfort in my tent that night as my thoughts incessantly drifted home. Visions of a widow holding my newborn baby girl denied my fragile body much needed rest. This journey had a hero and his name was Mark.
Nature is amoral, unconcerned with egocentric notions of status and dominion. Best you expect anything and assume nothing. If conflict is absolutely unavoidable, know exactly what it is that you are defending. Trust yourself, but always have someone to back you up.
