The author with his longbow and his bushbuck ram.

Australian bow hunter Andrew Ivy tells how, on a hunting trip to South Africa, he hunted a bushbuck with his longbow.

The grass was dry. The air was still, amplifying every step I took. He was close now! My shaking hand searched for the perfect grip on the bow. He raised his head and I froze, the sun beating down on my shoulders, muscles trembling from fatigue. Two more steps and he would be in a quartering-away position. I’d have my shot. My heart was pounding in my chest so hard I feared the wise old bushbuck ram would hear it. Then I heard a sound right in front of me, and before I could process it a covey of francolin exploded from the thick grass beneath the Acacia tree that concealed me from my prey. The stalk was blown. It was over. I stood up disappointed but with a smile. I was bowhunting in the Limpopo province in South Africa.

On this particular trip my cousin Nigel and I spent a lot of time hunting bushbuck. We both used longbows. Mine was a Super Shrew – 62 pounds at 28 inches. With it I was using a Carbon Express Heritage arrow with a Wensel Woodsman broadhead. The total arrow weight was 650 grains.

After a few days of scouting we located several good rams. We did a lot of scouting from the tops of koppies, as it allowed one to see a lot more than when on the level ground and also reduced the risk of one’s disturbing the animals.

Hunting was very difficult due to the thick bush the bushbuck were inhabiting. The area was dry and hence very “loud” for stalking – especially with the longbow, where we ideally wanted to be within 20 metres.

We had several blown stalks. Nigel once caught the bushbuck bedded down, and at other times the wind gave us away. But worst of all was the francolin, or now spur-fowl, that hid up in the thick cover, coveys exploding from under your feet in the tense stages of a stalk. It was enough to give a man heart problems.
One hot afternoon Nigel and I were looking over an area where we had been seeing two rams quite regularly. After a while, not seeing anything, I decided to work my way to another area. Nigel decided to stay.

Before long I got into one of the dry river beds, so I slowed down. It was hot and dry and the ground was noisy. I was going to skirt past an area of thick bush, but as fate would have it I changed my mind and cut into it. Before long I caught movement and saw a bushbuck ram moving towards the river. I followed quickly and quietly on the sandy path through the rocks but could not gain on him. When I got to the river I had lost him, and I thought he might have sensed me and ran.

I climbed onto a big rock overlooking a small pool to see if I could catch him crossing the river, but after a few minutes I figured he had crossed before I got there. I started scanning the thick bush on the far bank and soon saw a shimmer of red and white in the tall grass. I picked up my bino’s. It was the bushbuck. I quickly decided a route, nocked an arrow and slipped down to the river bed at a point where I knew I could be almost completely silent on the warm, soft sand. At 18 metres I stopped and took a deep breath. The ram turned slightly quartering-away. I had practised and imagined this shot a thousand times. I raised my bow, drew, and burned my focus behind the shoulder. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a broadhead smashing though ribs. There were a few crashes, then nothing.

I was shaking with excitement as I nocked another arrow. The bush he was in was thick, so I backed off and climbed back onto the rock that I had spotted him from, where I picked through the thick bush with my bino’s to try and see some sign of my arrow or the ram. I called Nigel on the radio and he ran all the three kilometres to get to me. After waiting over half and hour, we decided to take up the spoor and blood trail. We found good blood, then a little further on I picked up my arrow. It was covered in red, bubbly blood. I smiled and put it back into my bow quiver. The blood trail was steady. The spoor showed a stumble and fall going to the left. My fingers curled harder around the string as I looked to my left and saw fur. I froze instinctively. My eyes raced over the animal. He was dead!

I filled my lungs with fresh air that had never felt as clean, and then raised my arms and bow to the African skies.

He was a beautiful old ram, the tips of his horns worn away by the years. The skin on the back of his neck was bald and hard from fighting, rubbing and old age.

We celebrated that night with a good Islay single-malt whisky, and meat hard earned with the stick and string. The fire crackled mysteriously as its flames danced under the African stars.