Tristan Dummer

Stalking Shadows: A Hyena Hunt Gone Wrong

The African bush has a way of getting under your skin. It is a place where the silence is a living thing, punctuated by sounds that can make the hair on your neck stand up. Tonight, that silence was what we were counting on. My Professional Hunter and I were tucked away under the sprawling branches of a camel thorn tree. The last sliver of moon did little to pierce the inky blackness. Our quarry was the spotted hyena.

A Ghost in the Thermal

There is something primal about hunting hyenas at night. They are ghosts of the savanna, masters of the dark. Forget the cackling scavengers from cartoons; these are powerful, intelligent predators. Local farmers had been losing livestock. The culprit was a large, bold clan that had grown a little too comfortable with human territory. Our job was to selectively remove a mature one to restore a bit of balance.

My rifle, a trusted .375 H&H Magnum, felt solid in my hands. It was topped with a state of the art night vision scope, a piece of gear that felt like cheating but was absolutely essential for this kind of work. We had set up our small, makeshift camp hours ago. We let the bush settle back into its natural rhythm around us. Now, all we had to do was wait.

Midnight came and went. The world around us was a symphony of chirps, clicks, and the distant, haunting call of a nightjar. Every rustle in the grass sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system. Was it a harmless springhare or the soft pad of a hyena's foot? You learn to sit still, to breathe slowly, and to become part of the landscape. My PH, a man whose senses were as sharp as a hawk's, nudged me gently. He did not speak, just pointed. I raised the rifle, peering through the green tinted world of the night vision. Nothing. Then, he handed me the thermal monocular. The world transformed into a canvas of heat signatures. A warm blob moved in the distance, a steenbok, probably. We waited.

Then we heard it. Not the famous "whoop" but a low, almost guttural groan that seemed to come from everywhere at once. They were close. My heart hammered against my ribs. More sounds followed. The crunch of dry leaves, a soft chuckle. They were circling, testing the air. Their incredible sense of smell was trying to unravel the mystery of our presence. This is the moment that defines a hunt. It is not about the shot. It is about the raw, unfiltered tension of being in the animal's world, on its terms.

From Triumph to Trouble

I scanned methodically with the thermal, my hands slick with sweat despite the cool night air. A flicker of heat appeared behind a thicket of brush, then another. The clan was moving in, drawn by the bait we had set out earlier. They were cautious, appearing and disappearing like phantoms.

Finally, one broke from the pack. It was a big one. Its shoulders were broad and powerful even as a heat signature. It moved with a confident, rolling gait, head low to the ground. It paused, lifting its nose to the wind, offering a perfect broadside view.

"That's him," my PH whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Time seemed to slow down. I settled the crosshairs on its shoulder, my breathing steady now. I flicked the safety off. The click sounded like a thunderclap in the quiet. I squeezed the trigger. The .375 roared, shattering the night's silence and sending a jet of orange flame from the muzzle. The hyena dropped on the spot.

The rest of the clan scattered into the darkness. A wave of relief washed over me. We gave it a few minutes before switching on our headlamps and starting the walk toward the downed animal. The adrenaline was still pumping. In my excitement, I did not watch my footing as closely as I should have.

One moment I was walking on solid ground, the next I was falling. The earth just disappeared from under me. I landed hard at the bottom of what felt like a pit, my right leg twisting awkwardly. A sharp crack echoed in the hole. Not my leg, thank God, but something equally precious. I had fallen straight into an old warthog burrow. My beloved .375 had taken the brunt of the fall, the stock snapping clean at the wrist.

The Bushveld Gunsmith

My PH, Dempsey, helped me out. After checking that Tom was mostly just bruised and and his ego hurt, we inspected the rifle. The action wasn't cycling the bolt smoothly. His custom Dakota .375 had taken a beating.

Back at the main camp the next day, word of Tom's clumsy fall and damaged rifle had reached our good friend, Lee. Now, if you know anything about fine English guns, you know that name. Lee started his career as an apprentice at Westley Richards, one of the most revered gunmakers in the world. He was a master craftsman.

He walked over, a cup of coffee in one hand. "Heard you had a bit of a tumble," he said with a wry smile. He took one look at the rifle, tried cycling the bolt and said "Nasty fall, go get your Leatherman."

For the next hour, Lee went to work. Using nothing but that multi tool to file and shape a few metal bits, and back to perfection it went. The bolt cycling smoothly like nothing had happened.

A couple scratches and a few dents here and there, It is a constant reminder of that crazy night. The thrill of the hunt, the shock of the fall, and the incredible fortune of meeting a master gunsmith who could fix a rifle with a Leatherman. That is the magic of the bush. You never know what it is going to throw at you.

This trip started with an unexpected encounter with a dying waterbuck that tested our ethics before we ever set foot on a night hunt. If you’re planning your own African safari, get your firearms permit sorted with Ambulo and record the whole adventure in the game book.