By: Ricardo Longoria

The roan antelope (Hippotragus equinus) is a close relative of the more often seen sable (Hippotragus niger). After the eland, the roan is the second-largest antelope species occurring in Africa. While a mature eland bull might weigh 700 kg, a roan will likely weigh close to 300 kg, substantially larger than any of the other pains game.
The large, mature bulls are considered to be one of the most aggressive animals in Africa. Their confrontations with each other can be among the most violent of any of the African species and are said to rival those of the Cape buffalo.

Four different sub-species, based on their geographic location, exist of roan antelope. They are the Western, Sudan, East African and Southern roan antelopes. I would be hunting the southern roan species that occurs principally in South Africa.

Howard Knott, of Greater Kuduland Safaris in South Africa, has one of the largest populations of southern roan in the country. Over the years they have built their numbers to the point where they are now selling breeding age bulls and cows to other ranchers and leading an expansion process of the species to other parts of South Africa. For this reason, most bulls are sold on the hoof and few are hunted. Occasionally, however, a larger non-breeding bull will be available for a hunter to attempt to harvest. This situation gave me the unique opportunity to hunt this rare and treasured antelope in the late summer of 1999.

Having hunted with Howard on a previous trip, I was eager to attempt to harvest a roan. The challenge of hunting for only a large, mature animal appealed to me. In a property as large as Howard’s Alldays Ranch, it would take a lot of determination and patience to find what we were looking for.

In the middle of September of 1999, my wife and I arrived at Alldays for what would be a ten-day hunt. My previous hunt with Howard had been at his Tshipise property, which has somewhat of a different terrain. The camp at Alldays is nestled on top of a koppie and provides a panoramic view of the open plains in all directions. A waterhole that lies just below the lodge is host to a constant procession of many different species of game. Sitting on the terrace and watching the game coming to drink for hours at a time is one of the most thrilling experiences a hunter or even non-hunter can have.

Though the roan have inhabited Howard’s properties for several decades, and he has hosted dozens of bowhunters, this would be the first attempt to try and harvest a roan with a bow. Robbie Guthrie, Howard’s PH at the time, would be my guide once again. I was pleased to be hunting with him for the second time. Having spent much time together on a previous trip, I felt almost as if I was hunting with a long-time hunting partner. We were anxious to get out and try to tackle the roan.

Our first afternoon in a blind began as a fairly inactive one. A female ostrich came to water, but with the wind at our backs, little else would come in. An occasional snort or bark in the distance made it very clear that our presence was well established. I made myself comfortable with the idea that it was a nice afternoon to advance in my reading and maybe get a shot at a guinea fowl or sand grouse.

With little warning, the wind changed in our favour and the game began materialising from the brush. We had multiple warthogs come to water as well as three tsessebe bulls. A medium-sized roan came in, but not what we were looking for. I was enjoying the "African parade" immensely.

A jackal approached, standing at less than ten yards, just before circling around behind us. Once behind us, the jackal began to make a tremendous fuss. It was yelping and barking like mad. I thought that maybe it had caught our scent, but Robbie said that it was just calling. Shortly thereafter, behind the waterhole, I noticed something moving stealthily and then materialising just in front of us. A leopard! It sat at only 11 yards from us, lapping water. I couldn't believe it! It was a fully mature male. For several minutes we just watched in awe, my whole body aching for the leopard permit I did not have. The beautiful cat delicately drank water and then turned to face us, staring directly at us for at least ninety seconds and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

The next afternoon was cold and the wind was howling. The only animal that came in during the afternoon was a female gemsbok. Shortly before dark, a big bachelor group of roans came in to drink. One very nice, older bull was broadside, drinking water. I had an arrow nocked and was ready to take the shot. He was the type of bull we were looking for, but something did not feel right. Though the situation was perfect, I decided to pass on the shot.

For me, shooting a longbow has been a spiritual experience that comes from within, much different from shooting a modern compound with sights. Though an animal might be in a good position and the arrow nocked, if my soul is not ready to wish the arrow on its course, then I have learned from previous experience that it is best to pass on the given shot. This was one of those moments and I did not regret the decision in the least.
Two more days passed and we did not see any more roan. The first days of hunting led me to believe that seeing them was not that difficult. Nevertheless, the cold and overcast weather was working against us. As we were getting ready to go out and hunt on the fourth evening, I wondered if we would get another opportunity. I felt that maybe I had made a mistake in letting go of that first one. However, on our way to one of the blinds, we saw a lone bull roan leaving the waterhole we would be hunting. Immediately I knew then and there that this was the bull I wanted to take. We had close to a week left on my hunt, and from now on that was the waterhole where we would be spending most of our time hunting.

Two more days passed, but there was no sign of our roan. Some animals came and went, but not the one bull we were after. Each day we would arrive earlier at the blind thinking that maybe we had just missed him. After having had a brief period of warm weather, the wind was once again howling and cold. Nothing at all was coming in to the waterhole.

Sitting in the blind on the sixth afternoon, I thought that it was going to be another miserable evening in which little or no game would come to drink. I had a copy of a great book by Fred Webb, "Home from the Hill", that I was enjoying. Entertained with Fred’s stories, I sat back and read about his humorous adventures in the far North. Robbie was taking a short break and resting on the floor of the blind. The long, uneventful days were taking their toll on us both.

Occasionally, I would look cautiously out of the small openings in the blind and then around behind us, checking to see if anything was coming in. At about 16:45, I caught a fading glimpse of the large roan bull about two hundred yards behind us. I looked closer and observed him trotting briskly in our direction. There was no doubt in my mind that he was coming into water! I nudged Robbie to get up while getting myself ready for the shot. Though it seemed a bit strange that the first animal I saw was our roan, the bull was not by himself. He was in a large group, so I would have to be careful to take the right one. There were 13 bulls in all, but I knew which one I wanted. My arrow was knocked and I was ready for the shot, physically and psychologically.

First, one of the smaller bulls came to water. He put his head down to drink, a mere 12 yards in front of us. Then, without warning, the large roan appeared broadside at 8 yards. I did as I had practiced many times in the past. Picking the smallest spot I could, I pulled back and let my arrow fly. Everything felt in place as I watched the Magnus-tipped Forgewood shaft disappear into the bull’s vitals before exiting completely out of the opposite side. The entrance was a little bit back from where it should have been, but with the roan quartering away, the hit was good.

Emotions overcame me and I was, for a moment, oblivious to my surroundings. I closed my eyes, relishing the moment. The spirits that look over those who choose to hunt with a stick and string were all smiling upon us at this moment. We had done well.
Upon impact, the bull bucked and galloped away for a short distance, before slowing to a walk. The crimson-stained arrow was laying on the sand ten yards beyond where the bull had been standing. My 66# Harrison Back Wolf and 850 grain "Battleshaft" arrow had been more than adequate to achieve a complete passthrough on the large bull.
Focusing our attention on the old bull, we watched him walking slowly out in front of us, finally stopping about sixty yards away. He was clearly suffering the effects of the broadhead. I was somewhat surprised that he had not dropped sooner, but I felt confident that it would only be moments before he would expire. With his neck held low, he stood in the same place, shifting his weight from one side to the other and finally bedding down. It was clear that he was having problems breathing. The end was ever so near.

Suddenly, and catching us completely by surprise, another roan bull, taking notice of the injured one, raced over and began charging him and butting him with his horns. I watched in horror as he forced the fallen bull up and sent him running over to the water, immediately bedding down once again, directly in front of us. I wanted to take another shot, but it was not possible because some branches were covering the vitals and the other bull was standing just behind him. Less than twenty yards away, on the far side of the waterhole, this second roan was hooking and pushing hard on the one I had arrowed.

Standing in the blind spellbound, I could not believe what I was witnessing. I know very little about roan behaviour, but it appeared to me that this younger, less-dominant bull was trying to impress upon the older one that now he was the leader and not the old, now injured bull. It was an awesome display of force.

Without warning, the second roan forced mine up and chased after him into the thick brush, not far from the blind. I didn't know how long this could last. Earlier he had bedded down peacefully to die, and now his adrenaline was at full force and he was being pushed to defend himself from his aggressor. It did not seem possible that he could have lasted that long with the arrow wound, but many of those that have hunted Africa have been humbled by the almost supernatural endurance that African game possess. I have witnessed perfectly double-lunged impala travel more than a half mile before finally expiring, sometimes an hour or more later. I concluded that the roan’s stamina was no different from that of the other plains game.

From a distance, a throaty sound could be heard, almost as if the bull were choking. Soon after, the aggressor pranced out of the brush with blood covering his right horn. The smaller bulls gathered around him and they trotted off to the north, their new leader out far in front.

At this point, Robbie and I were both sure that the roan was dead. We got out of the blind and started tracking. The farther we went, the more apprehensive I became. I had felt certain that the bull should have gone down immediately, but this was not so. We continued to track for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Robbie decided to go and get the help of Howard and the native trackers.

With the additional help of the expert trackers and Howard, it was not long before we found the roan. He was bedded down, but not yet dead. I approached the bull quietly, hoping to put a quick end to his suffering, but I was unable to get a shot before jumping him from his bed. Darkness was settling in, making it difficult for us to continue tracking. Besides that, it would be better to leave the roan alone and let the broadhead finish its job, versus pushing it and making the recovery even more difficult. Attempting to approach him once again would only send his adrenaline level through the roof, making him go farther than he would otherwise. We would have to call it a night and continue the search in the morning.

For me, the feeling of leaving a wounded animal overnight in the field is heart-wrenching. For this reason, I always try to avoid shooting animals late in the afternoon and on my previous trip to Africa I had not taken a single animal while hunting in the afternoon. When hunting in South Texas or Mexico, if you take a whitetail with less than ample daylight left, you can consider the meat and cape lost as the coyotes will usually find the downed animal and leave little. In Africa, leaving an animal overnight is even more risky. Between jackals, hyenas, leopards, cheetahs and bushpigs, there is not much left after they find a carcass. Animals like the eland that are often taken right at dark are usually found with much of their carcasses eaten the following morning.

During dinner, I could think of little else but the roan bull. Would we be able to find it in the morning? I was hardly able to sleep and by the time the first hints of sunlight began to glisten across the horizon, we were ready to start looking for my roan.

Robbie and Howard were already awake and having breakfast when I walked into the dining area. We spoke for a short time and shortly thereafter Johan, the ranch manager, came up to the camp with the rest of the crew. The plan was that we would spread out and criss-cross the area where we had last seen the bull.

Upon arriving at our intended destination, we began to comb it in a methodical fashion. The high grass and relatively good natural camouflage of the roan, made this task more difficult than one might think. We were making good progress in covering the areas where we thought the bull might be, but no roan.

After searching for more than two hours, we had covered most of it and only had one place left to check. If we found nothing, then we would have to broaden our scope and start looking farther out. Up until now, we had only looked at a distance of about 1,000 meters from where we had last seen the roan. However, the heavy brush closest to where we had last seen the bull was, as of yet, untouched.

We took a tea break and had casual conversation. We were busy eating slices of ham and biscuits, thinking about what we were doing, what we were searching for. Finally, after much conversation and little action, we jumped in the Land Cruiser and drove in the direction of the last place where we might find the roan. If he were not there, then we would possibly not be able to find him. Had the hit been farther back than I thought? That and many other ideas were crossing my mind at that moment.

Once at our destination I jumped out of the Cruiser, initially leaving my bow behind. Robbie urged me to bring my bow saying that it just might be necessary. Grabbing it, I formed part of the line and once again we continued our search for the animal. We fanned out and began to go over each and every bush, carefully sweeping across the bushveld in our long line, all of us searching earnestly for roan.

A few minutes later, one of the trackers began to yell. Had he found the roan? I went towards him as fast as I could move, my heart pounding with excitement. As I ran up, I could see the roan lying there, dead. We had finally found him, less than three hundred yards from where we had jumped him the evening before. Though he had been eaten slightly by predators, his meat and cape were almost completely intact. I studied the gouges around his neck, the ones that were caused by the other attacking bull.

Running my fingers along the heavy, ridged and swept-back horns I gave thanks for the successful recovery of this magnificent animal. This rarest of all of the Southern African antelope species had fallen to a simple longbow and wood shaft. My moments of reflection began to transform themselves into feelings of effervescence and excitement. I was beginning to get in the mood for a celebration. It was now time to celebrate the harvesting of one of the first southern roan antelope with archery equipment.