The author and his springhare

By Rian Horn

I could not feel my legs. I was backed up against a giant ant heap occupied by trophy-size arachnophobia. I was not sure if it was a bird or a bushbuck I was stalking, although it was making too much noise to be a bushbuck. Actually, it was making too much noise to be a bird.

As I shifted my weight out of the cold mud and sweet-thorn pudding that was eating up my lower limbs, the bushbuck appeared… exactly where I had not expected it to be. Four yards away, it was towering over me.

I could see my smiling face on the glossy pages of ABH&A magazine, as my slow, painful fight to get to my 65-pound longbow to anchor started.

The bushbuck was a keeper. It was now 12 yards off and only half aware that it wasn’t alone. The bushbuck looked down straight at me. I was so close to my adopted anchor point.

The release was premature. The arrow flew true, nock spinning clockwise over the beast and snaking away in the long grass. The bushbuck took a long hard look at its hapless foe, then with a loud bark ran out of sight.

It was a long walk home, and to make matters worse it was the last night of a weeklong hunt.

As it was already dark I switched on my headlamp.

Earlier I had found a wire snare next to the river and wanted to remove it before leaving the farm. Du Plessis Erasmus, the farm’s co owner, had the pliers, so off we went. We hadn’t gone far before the first spring hare (“springhaas”) crossed our path. He was soon followed by others. They were in a hurry, but I eventually managed to entice one to the light and it parked in neutral at 48 yards. My eyes were a bit squinted from the single beam light on my head, forcing me to pick a spot.

In my ears was the encouragement of Du Plessis (a non-hunter). At the end of the tunnel was a monster of a spring hare, and the last threads and tatters of a bowhunter’s pride. The release was textbook Olympic stuff. The hare was off like a shot, but the next moment did something strange, blinking first its left eye then its right, followed by a slow fade to black.

The snuffer three-blade broadhead entered between the two undersized front legs and left my arrow dripping with blood, a complete penetration by 30 yards. It seemed as if the hare was lying in one place, and all its blood in another.

My chest was swelling. My first traditional bow kill. I could see my picture in ABH&A. That night in my dreams the giant, old 16-inch bushbuck was a bit out of focus. The images of the giant spring hare came into view, the blood sticking to a wooden arrow.