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Guest Blog: Tim Herald, The Two-Year Sable

Tim Herald
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  • Tim Herald

Tim Herald is co-owner and host at Worldwide Trophy Adventures. The Two-Year Sable originally appeared in African Hunter

To me the sable antelope is worthy of its royal status, and personally I find a jet-black bull the most striking of all the antelope on earth. Some may argue that the beautiful bongo, the elusive mountain nyala, or the majestic Lord Derby’s eland are superior trophies, and to each their own, but the fact that sable are a bit more common as far as numbers and distribution than these others does not diminish my reverence for this absolutely magnificent creature.

The first time I hunted sable I was unsuccessful in bagging a bull, but that isn’t really a fair statement. I did have a sable on license, and I did want one badly, but I was also trying to squeeze sable in with a leopard, buffalo and tuskless elephant all on a ten-day hunt. I was successful on all the others, but only got to hunt sable one afternoon, and the herd we found gave us the slip in some thick mopane.

When I booked my first hunt with Kambako Safaris in the wild and rugged Niassa Reserve of northern Mozambique, I again made sure to have a sable on license. I was once more hunting leopard and buffalo, but I wanted to devote more time to hunting sable on this trip. The fact that I killed my leopard fifteen minutes after daylight on the second day of the hunt certainly opened up some time to pursue sable.

To put things in perspective, one needs to know about some special rules that Kambako Safaris abides by. First, they only shoot six year old or older lions to work within the Niassa Carnivore Project’s parameters. Secondly they only shoot cats in daylight even though night hunting is legal. Third, Kambako only hunts dagga boy buffalo bulls and leaves the herds alone so they flourish and stay in the area, and lastly, they only take past prime breeding sable bulls.

I had never heard of such a rule on sable, and Kambako Managing Director Jumbo Moore explained it to me. “We want our sable population to grow, and we want the herds comfortable within our area, so just like with our buffalo, we only take sable bulls that are out of the herds. We also look for secondary horn growth. If you look closely at the base of a sable’s horns, you will see a thickening on old bulls. The rings, or ridges, sort of fill in down at the bases. This secondary growth only starts when a sable is six years old, and it grows approximately an inch a year. We are very particular and try to make sure all the bulls we take are out of herds and have secondary growth. So you have to get a good look at a sable before you shoot it.”

I was to learn a lesson on this during the afternoon of the day I took my leopard. My friend, and PH, Stu Taylor, told me about a big sable bull he had seen a few times in a certain area prior to my arrival. He knew it was the same bull because he had lots of secondary growth and the tip of one horn flared out while the other was straight. We went and checked the area and found the bull’s tracks by a waterhole in a dry creek bed, but the tracks were a couple of days old and not worth following.

Stu then wanted to go up in the hills to an area where there are a few spring seeps and sable traditionally have called home. About 3:00pm, we were slipping around a hillside when our head tracker Davey pointed out some sable across a ravine 250 yards away. We crept ahead another 100 yards, and we could see about twenty sable calmly feeding on the slope. There was a big black bull in the middle of the herd that immediately caught my eye, and I looked at Stu pleadingly. He smiled and whispered, “I wish we could go after him, but he is a herd bull and is off limits. I would guess him at about 42″. He is a gorgeous bull, but we just don’t shoot those herd bulls, sorry Tim.”

To say that my heart didn’t sink would be a lie. This was the sable of my dreams, completely unaware of our presence, and I had to just watch him feed. To top that, even though Kambako’s average sable is right at 40″, a bull of 42″ is a super trophy for the area. Though the official line for Roosevelt’s sable is the Ravuma River on the Tanzania border (only forty miles away), all of Kambako’s PHs think that the sable in Niassa are indeed Roosevelt’s, and I believe some DNA testing has been done that supports this. The Niassa and Selous Game Reserves have a common corridor for wildlife, and it makes sense to me that the sable can easily move back and forth like the elephant and lion do. The sable in the Selous are Roosevelt’s, so…

We took our buff on day seven of the safari, so we really ramped up our sable efforts then. We ended up putting a trail camera on the waterhole where Stu knew the big lone bull was drinking, and through the remainder of the safari, we found and followed his tracks a number of times. We felt that we were close on a couple of occasions, but we never actually laid eyes on the bull.

When I hit the ground the following August, Stu told me that he had recently seen “our” sable twice in the same area we had hunted him the year before. We were both keen to give this bull a try, and after checking lion baits and having an exciting encounter with two young males the first morning, we decided to go check on our flared horned sable during the afternoon.
Our waterhole from the year before was completely dry, so we followed the sandy creek about a kilometre to where it joined a small river. There were a number of elephant bore holes close to a small seep where a herd had been digging in the sand to get to water, and it was there that Davey found the tracks of a lone bull sable.

Stu and Davey felt like the tracks were fairly fresh, and soon it was evident that the sable was meandering in no particular hurry. He was weaving around in the riverbed, and Stu said he was feeding a bit on the edges, but he seemed to be looking for a water source. The elephant sign was as fresh as the sable tracks, so he might not have been able to drink if the elephants were at the water.

We continued to follow the tracks for another twenty minutes or so, and suddenly Davey dropped to his knees and Stu threw up my BogPod. When I stepped up to the sticks, Stu was glassing, and I asked what he saw. The area was quite thick riverine and looked more like bushbuck habitat than that of sable, but when he whispered, “sable bull”, I had already seen the black spot in the dense tangle.
I could see the bull’s horns sweeping back toward his spine, and I slipped the safety off on my .300 Win TC Dimension. All I knew was that he was alone, he was about eighty yards away, and I had his shoulder covered with my Nikon Monarch’s crosshairs. I was just about to ask Stu if he could see secondary growth when he told me in no uncertain terms to “Shoot that bull now!”

I didn’t need to hear more than that, and I sent a Winchester Supreme 180gr Accubond toward the sable at 2950fps. The bull bucked and dashed into the thick vegetation, but I felt 100% confident that I had hit him well.

We found his tracks and about twenty five yards after that we found good blood. After twenty five yards of following this sign, the country opened up, and the blood spoor dried up. I was really second-guessing my shot and wondering if I had hit a branch or some other obstruction as we continued on the sable’s tracks. With no blood for fifty yards, I was breaking out in a cold sweat even though it was 85º F out, but then Stu pointed ahead, and I could see the sable was down about seventy yards in front of us.

When we reached the fallen monarch, I was simply in awe. He was all I had ever hoped for in a sable bull. His dark coat was glorious, his long thick horns swept back like scimitars, and he had 6 ½” of secondary growth at his bases.

Best of all, Stu pointed out that one horn flared out, and that confirmed that this was our bull from the year before.

Even though I killed him on the first day of my second safari with Kambako, Stu and I felt like we had definitely earned this bull. We had put in at least parts of seven days looking for him the year before, and there was not another sable in all of Mozambique that I would have rather taken. Not that it mattered, but his horns stretched the tape at 42″. The real prize to me was that our bull was aged at over twelve years old. He truly is royalty to me.

 

This article originally appeared in African Hunter Vol 20 No 2. http://www.africanhunteronline.com

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Limited-Entry Alaska Dall Sheep: North America’s Pinnacle Hunt

Limited-Entry Alaska Dall Sheep: North America’s Pinnacle Hunt

As the December 15 deadline to apply for Alaska’s most coveted big-game tags approaches, one opportunity stands above all others: limited-entry Dall sheep. If you’ve ever dreamed of pursuing this iconic high-country species, now is the time to apply.

Why this Hunt Matters More than Ever

In the not-too-distant past, Alaska suffered back-to-back-to-back severe weather events that dramatically impacted Dall sheep populations across much of the state, resulting in fewer over-the-counter opportunities and even closures. Hunters have been forced to look to Canada, where hunts are now largely sold out through 2027 and prices have surged beyond $60,000. Even at such outrageous prices, availability is scarce.

This shift has made Alaska’s limited-entry draw areas for Dall sheep one of the most valuable options left for serious hunters. With hunts priced between $28,000 and $35,000, applicants can still access very high-quality white sheep at nearly half the cost of Canadian alternatives.

Exceptional Success Rates

Despite the challenges statewide, the limited-entry regions—managed by very conservative tag allocations—continue to produce outstanding results for the lucky applicants of WTA TAGS:

  • 100% shot opportunity during the past three seasons,
  • 90%+ harvest rates on mature rams,
  • Some of the largest Dall rams in North America.

For those willing to embrace the physical challenge, this hunt represents the ultimate North American mountain adventure.

Why…
My Alaska Range Grizzly Adventure

My Alaska Range Grizzly Adventure

I’ve been a bear hunter my whole life, but grizzly was always the dream. When the time finally came, I reached out to WTA to book a hunt. My someday hunt was finally becoming a reality. I thought I knew what I was hoping for: one good opportunity at a mature grizzly. What actually happened over those 10 days was beyond anything I could have imagined.

My journey began in Anchorage, where I stayed the night before flying into the bush. The outfitter has a liaison in town to help with any last-minute needs, so no rental car was needed. The next morning at Merrill Field, I boarded a turboprop (they use caravans, not tiny Super Cubs) for the 1½-hour flight into hunting country.

At the airstrip, the crew waited with Kong—a massive military deuce-and-a-half that can ford rivers, plus Polaris six-wheelers. After a stop at the roadhouse to organize, we headed to moose camp, about four miles upriver.

The camp itself told stories of 50 years of hunting. Cabin walls covered with dozens of hunters’ stories, as far back as the ’70s. Old regulation books showing $50 polar bear licenses. Boxes of ammo, left behind over decades for anyone who might need them. Four cabins with wood stoves surrounded the main lodge, and there was a creek-fed shower with endless hot water. A crate of beer stays ice-cold in the stream. It’s glorious. Remote Alaska with just enough comfort to keep you hunting hard every day.

From the roadhouse, we spotted two black bears on the mountainside. That evening, the cameraman Jordan and I glassed near camp, getting oriented for what was supposed to be a grizzly-focused hunt.

The next morning, those black bears were still there. We moved in. At 390 yards, with shifting thermals threatening to blow our approach, I took my shot. Low but lethal. Two more shots finished it. While butchering, we discovered this old boar was peppered with birdshot—dozens of pellets in each leg and shoulder. Somewhere, sometime, he’d been a problem bear. He could take a bullet. By 3 p.m., we had meat in the freezer and the hide salted. We were back to looking for grizzly.

Day two took us seven miles up the creek on six-wheelers, somewhat technical riding through river crossings and over rough terrain. Near the old sheep camp, we spotted a sow with three cubs and various black bears, but no boars.

Then everything changed. Rounding an alder-lined corner, our guide hit the brakes. A black bear ahead was acting strangely. It was actually approaching us. Behind him, a grizzly was hunting him, panting from the chase. The black bear, caught between predators, escaped up the cliffs.

The grizzly sat on its haunches, exhausted, looking between us and the black bear as it escaped. This bear was in full predator mode, seemingly calculating whether we might be easier prey. Then he simply lay down for a nap, 400 yards away, completely unconcerned by our presence.

For 34 minutes, I stayed behind the gun. Time passed slowly as we talked through every scenario: “If he does this, we’ll do that.” Finally, he stood and turned broadside at 415 yards. One squeeze, perfect shot placement. He barrel-rolled down the slope.

This was it—the animal I’d wanted forever, taken in a sequence I couldn’t have scripted better. Pure euphoria.

We had two bears down and over a week left of hunting. Day three was Jordan’s birthday, and we decided to get him a bear tag from camp. This would be his first hunt behind a rifle. We picked up a great black bear in no time. Jordan’s demeanor totally changed as he went into hunt mode and put a perfect 350-yard shot right into the bear’s heart. Top-tier birthday!

Three bears in three days with a week remaining. I bought a second tag and grabbed my bow. We spent four days searching for another bear, exploring drainages, following wolf tracks, catching Dolly Varden, and collecting shed antlers. Living the full Alaska experience while always hunting.

On the second-to-last day, I spotted a huge black bear doing loops through berry patches on a steep face. After multiple failed positioning attempts, I opted to go solo while Jordan and our guide filmed from a distance. The bear, hearing me crash through the alders below him, thought I was another bear invading his berries. At nine yards, with his hackles up and ears flat, I put an arrow through his front shoulder. Our group’s fourth bear.

Four bears in four days. An incredible adventure. This was the outfitter’s first year focusing on Fall bear hunting. The populations are thriving (evident from the moose without calves), and they’ve wisely increased tag allocations.

I came to Alaska with a lifelong dream of taking a grizzly. What I got was something I couldn’t have imagined: multiple species, incredible encounters, and memories that transformed a dream hunt into something beyond dreams. The grizzly lying down in front of us, completely unafraid. Jordan’s pure joy at his first bear. Stalking with my bow, close enough to hear the bear growling and clacking its jaws.

Some hunts meet your expectations. This one created new ones. When you book with WTA, you’re not just booking a hunt, you’re setting yourself up for adventures you can’t even imagine.

Learn about this Hunt

The Central Flyway is a waterfowl superhighway—a vital corridor for migrating ducks and geese—and for those of us lucky enough to be waterfowlers, it offers unmatched opportunities to hunt and experience the migration from September through January.

Over the past 40 years, I’ve had the privilege of chasing ducks around the world, but many of my favorite memories come from following this flyway, especially during those early years when my duck-obsessed father would pull my brother and me out of school every Fall to chase birds.

That’s right! We missed school every year for dedicated waterfowl trips. No regrets.

In the true north country, along the edges of Canada’s boreal forest, early-season hunts are nothing short of magical. The birds are just beginning their journey south—hungry, unpressured, and eager to settle into newly harvested grain fields. It’s a waterfowler’s paradise. The decoy spreads in these northern zones are often among the first the birds see, and their eager, uneducated responses can be absolutely breathtaking.

One of the most unforgettable sights is the famed swirling cyclone of Canada geese funneling down into a field. I can still hear my dad yelling over the deafening honks, his voice barely audible, “They can’t hear us!” The birds were so loud that those at the top of the funnel couldn’t even hear the gunfire below. If you’ve ever experienced it, you know exactly the kind of spine-tingling moment I’m talking about.

When the birds pushed south, so did we.

The prairie pothole regions of North Dakota are pure waterfowl gold. The right pothole on a cold morning—especially if you can find open water—can be magic. And if the water’s frozen? My dad had a fix: get there early, break trail through the skim ice, and push it under itself to create an opening. Voilà…open water.

I’ll never forget one frigid morning. After breaking ice, my hands were bright red and on the edge of frostbite. I looked at my dad for sympathy, but he just grinned as the puddle ducks cupped up and said, “Do you want warm hands, or do you want to shoot ducks?” Like I said, he was a fanatic. I grabbed the old Winchester pump and did my best. That day, I also learned the value of hand warmers and Gore-Tex gloves.

There are so many unforgettable moments:

  • Slipping and sliding at a Nebraska reservoir, laughing hysterically as we wondered if we’d ever get the old Suburban and trailer back up the icy boat ramp. After limiting out on greenheads.
  • Rowing across the Delta Marsh in the dark to find the perfect crescent-shaped bulrush island to set the decoys that the canvasbacks couldn’t resist.
  • Chasing snow geese in South Dakota and realizing we’d finally picked the perfect field, the one that made it worth all those hours spent spray-painting sheet-metal shell decoys in the garage.

These weren’t just hunting trips. They were memories shared with family, with friends, and with the great outdoors itself.

In the end, missing a week of school every year was worth every single minute.

The last duck hunt I shared with my admittedly duck-crazy father was a world away and half a lifetime ago. The hunt may be long over, but the memory will always stay with me.

At WTA, we’re proud to connect our clients with trusted partners so they can experience these same one-of-a-kind adventures.

We offer incredible destinations and outstanding outfitters all along the Central Flyway—from Alberta and Saskatchewan to North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma—so you can create your own lasting memories.

Call Worldwide Trophy Adventures at 1-800-346-8747 today to book your trip of a lifetime.

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