In Pursuit of the Phantom

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By Sue Tidwell

Ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch, I placed my foot in the bare patch of sand, careful to avoid crunching any dry leaves that would give us away. My eyes anxiously darted back and forth--torn between dodging the brush, scrutinizing our tracker's every move, and sizing up each tree or large boulder that could offer a port in the storm; if all hell broke loose, I needed to know which direction to run!

On this occasion, hell in Namibia’s Waterberg Plateau Park came in the form of two Cape buffalos and a black rhino, all meandering up the same rocky slope.

My husband Rick’s Cape buffalo hunt turned into more than I bargained for. Like our Tanzanian safari, I had expected wide-open savannas and sparse scrublands, not the thick bushveld terrain that made stalking such dangerous creatures an even more nerve-wracking endeavor.

These particular bovines had already outmaneuvered us on several occasions. The targeted brute had already earned himself the nickname Phantom Bull for his seeming ability to disappear into thin air. Truthfully, many more colorful names could apply to the intelligent beast, but they are better reserved for campfire stories.

We inched forward--yet again--in a meticulously slow version of Follow-the-Leader as our tracker Elias read the story in the dirt. Emil, our Professional Hunter (PH), was directly behind him, followed by Rick, both with rifles ready. Next in our serpentine formation was me, Emil’s wife Kirstin, and our game scout Mayba.

In many ways, the plateau’s rocky terrain and the thick bush veld were a double-edged sword; it offered plenty of obstacles to climb or hide behind in the event of a charge but also provided concealment for the animals. As a non-hunter accompanying my husband, I had no gun. My safety depended on the skill of others--and my ability to scale a tree. Fast!

Elias stopped as I straddled some brush while stooping under a branch, quickly signaling us to do the same. Frozen in my awkward position, I waited. And I Waited. And I Waited. I didn’t dare move. My heart was racing, knowing the cantankerous, unpredictable beasts were nearby. Either that or Elias had eyes on the black rhino--a species also known for its temperamental and aggressive tendencies.

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Rhinos may be endangered, but there was no shortage of the prehistoric-looking species in Waterberg Plateau Park. Like a giant table, the plateau protrudes almost 700 feet above the surrounding area, covering approximately 156 square miles of surface area. With steep rocky cliffs forming most of its perimeter, the plateau is difficult to access, making it a relatively haven for wildlife. Consequently, when Namibia declared the plateau a nature conservation area in the early 1970s, they stocked it with endangered species--including the white and black rhinos--to protect them from predators and poaching. They also re-introduced Cape buffalo and many antelope species.

Aside from the park being relatively isolated and highly protected by anti-poaching units, the park's robust species have very few natural predators. Cattle and game ranches surround the plateau and do not tolerate deadly predators such as lions and spotted hyenas. While leopards and a few cheetahs roam the plateau, they pose little threat to mature and healthy Cape buffalo, rhinos, and larger antelopes. For all these reasons and maybe more, Waterberg’s wildlife populations have soared, allowing them to sell surplus animals to other African communities trying to regrow their wild species.

Most animals purchased are female and young, leaving far more males on the plateau. The prevalence of bulls is what makes Waterberg so interesting from a hunting standpoint. Most of the 1,000-plus Cape buffalo roaming the park are high-quality bulls sporting impressive horns. Only ten are allotted for harvest each year from this excellent gene pool. The proceeds from the hunts help pay for anti-poaching efforts, and all the meat goes to feed the rangers and their families camped at the plateau’s base.

In the Afrikaans language, Waterberg translates to “water mountain,” which is interesting considering there are no natural water sources on the plateau. While water collects in natural pans during the rainy season, offering hydration for part of the year, the wildlife ultimately depends on the artificial waterholes in the park.

With the forested terrain offering limited visibility, the waterholes were a primary starting point for hunts. Emil set up game cameras at several locations, and when a harvestable bull was spotted, the trackers could pursue it even hours later.

However, the clever bovine we sought didn't like a crowd. The Phantom and his dagga boy buddy preferred drinking from a puddle caused by a leaking pipe on the plateau's edge, nestled among the cliffs and rock formations. They weren’t the only ones. Black rhino, kudu, leopard, and a troop of baboons also frequented the spot.

Frozen in the awkward position, I waited anxiously for our next move, wondering what would happen next. We had already pursued the massively horned phantom bull and its smaller companion on three separate occasions, approximately four hours each time. It had shown up on the game camera the second morning of our safari. Although the tracks were already 8 hours old on this occasion, Emil decided this particular bull was worth an attempt. With Elias in the lead, we followed the tracks uphill over and around rock formations that seemed better suited for Billy goats than Cape buffalo.

The hope was to catch up to the buffalo while still feeding, making it easier for Rick to get a shot at the big guy. That didn’t happen. Their trail switched from leisurely meandering to determined strides. That told Elias and Emil that they were looking for a spot to bed. Our pace, therefore, became painstakingly slow.

The change was a double-edged sword. The snail-like forward momentum made it much easier for me to keep up—without giving us away by my stepping on a twig or brushing against a leaf. Yet, it also meant that the animals nicknamed "Black Death" were close—too close.

Every few steps, Elias stopped our forward momentum so he could listen. Then, moments later, he would inch forward again. The rest of us mirrored our tracker's slow, meticulous moves until suddenly, Elias threw his hand up, stopping us dead in our tracks. He pointed to a nearby clump of trees not far away. Frozen in place, partly straddling a dried shrub, I scanned toward the pointed fingers. Yet, I could see NOTHING, and the only thing I heard was the thunderous pounding in my chest.

Suddenly, a mighty whoosh shattered the tense silence. Wound like a coil ready to spring, I launched a foot into the air while pivoting towards the sound, assuming I was about to get steamrolled. Instead, I saw a pheasant-sized bird fighting for altitude. At our intrusion, a korhaan erupted from its roost like a cannonball, scaring the living daylights out of me. Still, we remained fixed in our positions, hoping the bird’s abrupt flight hadn’t alerted the buffalo. But it was a pipe dream.

Unbeknownst to me, just before the disturbance, Elias and Emil could hear the relaxed breathing of the bulls, indicating they were bedded down nearby. Seconds after the ruckus, there was nothing but silence. Two creatures, weighing nearly ¾ of a ton each, disappeared in the thick brush without making a sound. Gone like ghosts in the wind. Minutes later, Emil and Elias found their siesta spot only 12 yards from where Elias stood.

Rather than continuing the pursuit and possibly compelling them to change their routine, Emil felt it better to leave them alone.

Late that afternoon, we perched atop the rock formations that towered above the baboon waterhole, lying in wait, hoping the Phantom and his buddy might come to drink at the waterhole before dusk. When that failed, we returned the following morning to find that two bulls had slept within feet of the waterhole, but the baboons messed with the game camera, causing it to malfunction. Without photos, there was no way of knowing if the bulls included the bull we searched for. Emil didn’t want to spend hours tracking the wrong ones. That afternoon, we again waited on the rocks overlooking the leaking pipe, hopeful the bull would come in during daylight.

The following day, we were back in business. The camera captured photos of the two buffalo and another who had joined them. This time, they took a less rocky route to the flatter terrain above. We moved quickly for the first few miles but returned to a snail’s pace as we closed in, frequently holding stock-still in the most uncomfortable positions. After several hours, we caught up to where they bedded down. Kirstin, Mayba, and I hunkered down while we anxiously watched Emil, Elias, and Rick belly-crawled to a position about 20 yards from the bulls. Then we watched as they inched this way and that, trying to get a better view and a clear shot.

Time ticked by, and minutes turned into an hour. Watching the painstakingly slow assault, without knowing precisely what was happening or where the buffalo were, was terrifying and agonizing—physically and emotionally. It is incredible how a position that initially feels comfortable turns torturous as the minutes grow.

Suddenly, I felt a slight breeze tickle the back of my neck. Instantly, it was game over; the buffalo trio exploded from their beds, disappearing into the bushveld.

Before the wind swirled, Rick and Emil had all three buffalo in their sights, or, more accurately, they had parts of all three buffalo in their views. Not only were all three sets of horns hidden by the brush but not one bull presented a clean kill shot. With their limited visibility, Rick couldn’t risk killing the wrong buffalo or, worse, injuring one. The men had been waiting for the buffalo to wake and leisurely return to feeding, hoping the opportunity Rick needed would present itself. The wind jinxed that plan.

Instead of pushing them, Emil thought it again best to let them calm down and dismiss the threat. Hours later, we picked up where we had left off. Elias quickly found where the bulls had bedded down again after our scent had spooked them. Two hours later, we caught up to the bulls while they were feeding. That is what the men wanted. Still, time was again running out. Dusk was setting in, and from 25 yards away, they could see only parts of each bull, offering no clear shots. It was decision time. Move to get in a better position, possibly alerting the bulls, or wait, hoping the bulls would offer a shot before it was too dark.

Being in the pitch dark with dangerous, often fickle, and cantankerous wildlife was low on my priority list. Therefore, I could have done a jig when Emil decided they had to risk it and move forward instead of waiting for the dead of night. While I already trusted Emil's competence and expertise, having his wife hunkered down within feet of me was a bonus. Her safety, as well as ours, was a primary concern. Of course, this concept only works if the PH adores his wife--which Emil most certainly did.

Sure enough, the moment the men budged, the buffalo bolted. The hunt was again over.

The bulls were smart. After being jumped three times in as many days, they were on to us. The next few days, they switched up their routine and did not return to the baboon waterhole.

Finally, on day nine, the two primary bulls returned to the waterhole. On this occasion, the bulls took an even steeper and rockier route to the flatter grounds. Even with the animals traveling through rocky, narrow passages and over 100-foot flat rock sections, Elias never lost their trail. Two hours later, we reached where they had bedded down. Hopes were high. They were up feeding, offering the best chance for a shot. But just as we were closing in, the wind switched direction. Again, like ghosts in the wind, they were gone, barely making a sound.

Rick’s time was running out. It was the ninth day of Rick’s 10-day buffalo hunt. After letting the bulls calm down, we continued the nerve-wracking, high-stakes game of Follow-the-Leader. Meanwhile, a third buffalo joined them for several miles, weaving in and out of the primary two.

Lo and behold, when the guys were closing in again, the wind swirled again, announcing our presence like a neon sign. The bulls again vanished into thin air without barely making a sound. How beasts--weighing over 1500 pounds--can flee through thick brushy terrain so noiselessly is simply mind-boggling. Anytime any one of us brushed up against a twig or stepped on a dry leaf, it sounded like a bull horn going off, often earning daggers from the eyes of the others.

I was spent emotionally and physically by the time we jumped the buffalo the second time that day. Pursuing an animal nicknamed “the widow maker” for another six hours, on top of all the previous stalks, had blown the wind out of my sails. We also needed more water and food. Fortunately, the buffalo had crossed a road where Emil and Elias could easily pick up the trail later. Not wanting the hunt to turn into a snicker’s commercial (I tend to get hangry) and to let the buffalo settle down, we decided to return to camp for lunch.

With all the focus on the Phantom Bull, one might think Rick had no other opportunities. Yet, he’d had plenty. He passed on five nice-sized buffalo, offering broad-side views at various waterholes. In addition, we spent three hours stalking another lone bull before it sensed something was up, doubled back, and hid behind a clump of trees to investigate--disappearing in a burst once it spotted us at 20 yards. We pursued another three bulls for over an hour, getting within 25 yards. One of the old dagga boys and Rick locked eyes with each other for five minutes before it bolted, taking the other two with it.

Some of these Cape buffalos were old warriors with scars to prove it, sporting broken or smallish horns (comparatively speaking). A few were harvestable but didn’t have the deep curls Rick had set his heart on. Several were spectacular but still in their prime, needing a few more years to spread their incredible genes.

The problem with the Waterberg Plateau--if you call it a problem--is that so many of the bulls that one considers magnificent in many parts of Africa could be better by Waterberg standards. Therefore, hunters are typically looking for premium bulls. Once Rick saw the Phantom Bull, it was the gauge for everything else.

Therefore, after lunch, the hunting party returned to pick up where we left off--minus me. For the first time since our safari began, I stayed behind. It was a decision I will always regret.

When the men picked up the trail, the three buffalo were together again, with strides suggesting they were moving fast, potentially heading for the water. At about the four-mile mark, one buffalo split off. Assuming that the Phantom had stayed with his buddy, they followed the set of double tracks.

Just as the two buffalo reached the waterhole, the men spotted them at 70 yards. Unfortunately, the bovines also caught sight of them. The bull with the more sizeable horns turned and charged directly at the men, stopping momentarily at 40 yards. Something felt wrong, but the bull charged again before having a chance to deliberate. Urgently, Rick asked, “Is he the one?”

Emil responded with a hasty proclamation. "He’s good. Take it!"

Rick pulled the trigger, hitting the pissed bovine in a frontal shot to the heart at 30 yards. The bull spun and ran another 30 yards before dropping to the ground. The hunt for the Phantom Bull was over. Or so they thought.

At 41”, the horns looked slightly different and smaller than expected. Upon further study, the downed buffalo was missing a distinctive white spot on its side. Rick’s bull was not the Phantom. The clever animal had done a bait and switch. Instead of staying with his buddy as it did on so many occasions, it had buggered off on its own after the third bull had joined up with them.  

The harvest of this bull filled me with so many emotions. I was devastated that I hadn’t cowgirled up and hung in there for that last hunt. While I have no desire to pull the trigger, I relish being a part of my husband’s hunting experiences. The pursuit is full of challenges, intrigue, excitement, fear, and disappointment. Then, the gamut of emotions comes with every successful harvest. Joy. Thankfulness. Wonder. Relief, Remorse. Regret. Sorrow. Loss. Even disappointment that the hunt was over. That I wasn’t there to experience the culmination of this extraordinary hunt with Rick--a quest that included 24 hours of stalking on six different occasions--was heartbreaking.

Even so, I’d be lying if I said that some of me wasn’t thrilled that the Phantom was alive and well when we left the Waterberg Plateau. Like hunters, I love wildlife and recognize the need for sacrifice. Sustainable utilization is critical for the well-being of humans and wildlife alike. Still, it is impossible not to get emotionally attached to some animals. The bull had gained my respect and admiration after outwitting us time and time again, earning a special place in my heart.

Rick may not have harvested the bull he worked so hard for, but the old boy gave us unforgettable experiences and many memories. There is nothing like sneaking through the African bush after dangerous game, watching trackers and professional hunters meticulously do their thing. Every sense is on high alert as equal parts fear and wonder course through your body. I am glad the Phantom Bull offered many opportunities to experience that part of the hunt.

After we left Namibia, the old bull continued to toy with Emil. Two weeks later, he went to check the camera--with no hunters in tow--and sure enough, the Phantom was there. But instead of pulling a vanishing act, the bull stood proud as a peacock, wide out in the open, in broad daylight. The clever bovine even posed nicely for Emil to take his picture. Seeing the image of the bull thumbing his nose at us brought me so much joy.

I wish the Phantom was still on Waterberg Plateau, outmaneuvering humans, but he finally made a fatal mistake. Loew, the other PH from Jamy Traut Safaris, pursued the bull with one of his clients two months later. The bovine tried to pull the same bait-and-switch tactic, but Loew, knowing the bull’s previous behavior, didn't buy it. He followed the lone trail, and his client sealed the deal. When Rick learned that the bull's horns measured 47”, it twisted the knife in his heart slightly deeper. I was just sad. Plain and simple. Still, I am honored to have been a part of this magnificent animal’s journey. While his curled weapons do not hold a place of honor in our home, the Phantom will always have a special place in our memories. He did not die in vain. His death means that many more shall live.

“In Pursuit of the Phantom” won a Professional Outdoor Media Association Outstanding Achievement award for a magazine article.

Sue Tidwell is author of the multi-award winning book Cries of the Savanna, An An adventure. An awakening. A journey to understanding African wildlife conservation. Available in print and audible at Amazon and most retailers.