The main characters of the story

The hidden valley where it all happened.

By Robin Barkes

In the August issue of ABH&A I related the story of the very first buck I took with a muzzle-loader. The impala ram fell to a single shot from my .58-calibre Mississippi rifle and after that I only used my modern rifle to back up overseas clients on professional hunts.

From that day on I have only used black powder guns when hunting for my own pleasure. Of course, my kill rate dropped drastically, but by that stage of my life I realised that there was more to hunting than just killing. I began to appreciate the difference between knocking off an animal at 300 yards with a scoped rifle laid over a rest, and creeping, crawling and sneaking through the bush to get close enough for a shot – that’s what they call real hunting. Now I’d like to tell the story of perhaps my greatest achievement with a muzzle-loader – using the very same historic gun I shot that first buck with.

For many years I hunted in the heavily forested foothills of the Cocks Comb mountains that begin near the little East Cape village of Patensie. I’m sure it’s safe to say that this area holds the biggest concentration of bushbuck in South Africa, but oh boy, there are places in those mountains on which I’m sure no man has ever set foot, so inaccessible and jungle-like are those deep dark kloofs that stretch as far as the eye can see.

Around 1880 Thomas Bean and his family arrived by ox-wagon and settled in a hidden valley that became known as Bean se Bos. Nearly 40 years ago I met Ted Bean, a descendant of Thomas, and during our long friendship we hunted bushbuck together on his historic family farm. Indeed, many years ago I shot my first bushbuck there with my old .303 rifle. After a few years I progressed to a .243, then a .270 and finally, a 30/06. Then I discovered the exciting world of muzzle-loader hunting and my life changed forever.

I have always loved reading history and have actually spent more enjoyable evenings with people who have been dead for hundreds of years than I have with some still living.

All those stirring tales of old hunters, their trials and tribulations, failures and successes, their exciting lives and sometimes tragic deaths awakened something deep within me. I, too, wanted to experience the skilful hunt for a quarry that knows the bush better than me; that can see, hear and smell better than me, and can certainly run faster than me. I wanted to feel the punch of a heavy load against my shoulder, smell the burnt powder and hear the satisfying thud of a lead slug as it strikes home.

From then on, when other hunters climbed aboard the jeep to head into the mountains to their favourite shooting spots, I would quietly amble off up the valley to walk-and-stalk a bushbuck. I really enjoyed this type of hunting and still do, because it’s different from sitting for hours in one place glassing the opposite slope and hoping a ram will step out into an opening 200, 300 or even 400 yards away.

One thing’s for sure, those Patensie mountain men really can shoot. Of course, if you shot a ram you’d have to scramble down to the bottom and, guided by your pal, claw your way up the other side to reach your fallen buck. Then you’d have to carry, drag or roll the animal down again through almost impenetrable thorn and eventually come out below. When you are young, this is all part of the fun and you’d eventually appear looking as if you’d been savaged by a leopard, with half your clothes hanging in the bush behind you.

Back to my story. There I was early that morning, slowly doing a stop-go-stop kind of walk alongside the crystal clear mountain stream that meandered through the forest. On either side, ancient yellow-woods rose up to conceal the virtual wall of thick bush that reached up to the sky. It was finger-tingling cold and I stayed on the move just for warmth. Every so often I had to cross the river and was careful to choose stepping stones that would keep me from getting my boots wet so that I ended up with ice cold feet as well.

As I went along I kept my right hand tucked under my armpit to keep my trigger finger warm because I couldn’t really feel much. In my free hand I carried the long .58-calibre Mississippi rifle loaded with 60 grains of ffg and a hollow-based mini ball. Historically, this was the correct service load used by American Civil War soldiers and I figured that if the charge was good enough to drop a Yankee or Johnny Reb, it would be good enough for a bushbuck.

After about an hour I sat down on a big boulder alongside the trail. Walking through long stretches of deep river silt and over belts of loose river stones was pretty tiring and hard on the feet. Besides, I had noticed that the game path crossing in front of me was well used by creatures of the forest when they came down from the heights to drink.

Silently I sat with the musket across my knees, finger on the trigger and thumb on the heavy hammer … waiting … ready … the solemn forest silent, except for the musical tinkling of water over dozens of tiny waterfalls.

How long I sat there I cannot remember, but what is crystal clear in my mind is the change in the rhythm of my heartbeat as it suddenly accelerated when my eyes caught the movement of a black shape flitting through the bush towards the opening. In an instant my gun was at my shoulder and I peered down the long barrel at the opening in front of me.

Here it comes, I thought, my first bushbuck with a muzzle-loader. Instead, to my absolute amazement, two playful baboons suddenly rolled into the opening. As the hammer clicked back, one of the creatures looked up, straight down the muzzle, and I’m sure if it had been able to speak its last words they would have been: “Oh no!”

The big gun thundered in my hands and through the bellowing white cloud I was aware of a hazy black shape flying through the air. When the smoke cleared there was nothing to be seen.
I wasn’t sure what had happened. Slowly and very hesitantly I moved forward, my heart beating faster than my legs were moving. When I reached the spot I saw behind a bush a great big bull baboon, lying as though it had been struck by lightening. The heavy mini ball had passed right through its body from armpit to armpit.

After a while I loaded up and began the long walk back to the old homestead. I took my time because I hunted every step of the way, still hoping for a bushbuck. Finally, I left the valley and stepped out onto the farm road and headed for home. At the gate a long steep driveway led up to the house and I could see my two pals sitting on the veranda, so I gave a sharp whistle. Seeing one of them pick up their binoculars to find out what I wanted I indicated for them to bring the jeep down.

Soon the boys joined me and demanded to know what reason was so urgent to tear them away from their noonday beers. I climbed into the vehicle and not saying anything else, told them to drive on up the valley. Of course, both guys were pretty sure I had shot a ram and were winking and nodding at each other slyly. I felt pretty sly myself right then.

After a long and very bumpy ride I stopped them at the spot at which I had sat and proceeded to tell my story. Slowly and very dramatically the tale unfolded, then paused at the moment when the black shape appeared in the opening and I fired.

“Now,” I said, “come and have a look at what I shot.”
Leading them I halted and pointed behind the bush. Both chaps stared down at that big old baboon with open mouths. Ted, who as a citrus farmer wages continual war with these pesky plunderers of the mountains, was beside himself with joy. As he pointed out, the crafty apes are occasionally shot at 400 yards, and more with modern scoped rifles. To bag one with a “voorlaaier” was unbelievable.
So, boys, that’s the story of how the first baboon in about 150 years was shot with a muzzle-loader in the Patensie mountains. What’s more, I’ll probably go down in history as the last person ever to do it.