Posted on 02/13/2025 4:56:56 AM PST by vespa300
A woman from New Jersey was killed by a hippo while on an African safari with her husband who now alleges the tour operator failed to keeping her safe.
Lisa Manders, 70, was gruesomely attacked by the hippo last year in Zambia on the trip while her husband, Craig, horrified husband watched on.
The mother-of-three suffered 'catastrophic injuries' and died moments after the attack, according to the lawsuit.
'Had we understood the dangers posed by the hippopotamus, we never would have agreed to be in such close contact while on foot,' Craig said in a statement from his attorneys, Paul Slager and Nicole Coates, reported NBC News.
(Excerpt) Read more at dailymail.co.uk ...
A few seconds later, a bison was strolling towards us on the other side of the road. He passed by us within a few feet of my car.
After the bison passed, I heard my grandson say, “Opa, I’m not bored anymore.”
Lol!
Go to Yellowstone.
First thing you’re told is not to approach the wildlife.>>>> In Yellowstone in the late 1960’s the car in front of us had the window opened. The bear reached in and took the food from the occupant in the passenger seat. Meanwhile a bear was leaning on our car like it was a bar waiting for us to serve up a beer. We slowly moved along. the bear slid off.
Another sight in North Dakota’s Teddy Roosevelt, my daughter and I witnessed the birth of a wild foal.
The herd of wild horses gathered around the delivering mare, head toward her in labor, and dangerous back hooves all pointed out in a circle. That herd knew how to protect the newborn and mama while in childbirth.
We got to see the little thing stand up and take its first steps.
It’s been an interesting life out there.
Welllllll, they ARE FROM NEW JERSEY!
Lol we all been there I think
“Hey, a rattle snake! Let’s poke it with a stick and see what happens”
The Squaw of the Hippopotamus
Long ago in a plains tribe, three young men came of age and were to be married. They were sent out into the world with a bow and arrow and a knife to kill an animal the fur of which was to be used to make their marriage bed
Brave Eagle returned with a wonderful cougar hide that was tanned into a beautiful fur
Charging Bull returned with the hide of a young bear that was tanned into a beautiful fur.
Falling Rocks was not very successful. He returned with the skins of two rabbits and a squirrel. These were not large enough to make a marriage bed. His wise grand mother suggested he take them to the trading post and get a striped blanket.
Alas, the trader would not part with a blanket for such a minor return but offered a dusty hippopotamus hide that though rough was in fact large enough.
A year passed
The squaw of Brave Eagle presented him with a son
The squaw of Charging Bull presented him a beautiful daughter
The squaw of Falling Rocks presented him with twins, a boy and a girl
Theorem:
The Squaw of the hippopotamus is equal to the sum of the squaws of the other two hides
I thought this was another story about The View.
‘Assault Hippos’. Only one solution: ban ‘em.
He’s mad that he didn’t have enough life insurance on her before he sent her to stand next to a hippo.
We saw 32 rhinos in southern Nepal over 4 days in Chitwan NP. No...we neither wanted to “pet” or feed them.
I believe there are MANY African “wildlife” in some neighborhoods of most major cities. Beware!
Hippos are the #3 killer in Africa. Mosquitoes are #1. Humans are #2.
So sad for the poor man
Truly
What were the guides thinking
And where was the .577nitro?
Hippo’s are killers... Anybody going on an African safari should know that long before they even book their safari. That’s called stupidity.
I’ve seen Japanese chase a grizzly down a trail with cameras clicking and the girl ranger chasing after them yelling stop for Gods sake
Tetons at a pull off just off 191
Crazy
2014
All this puts me in mind of a story I need to tell:
Six years ago, FReeper “dainbramaged” (a guy I eventually knew In Real Life named “Rich”, last name withheld for his family’s anonymity) and I were FReepmailing about firearms. He mentioned he had a Winchester Model 94 in .30-30 that his Great Grandfather had bought new in 1898, and that he had no heirs who would care to have it, having only had one uninterested daughter in his life. So we kinda agreed that if and when he ever considered disposing of it, that he would call me, as I live just 40 miles away.
Two years passed, and Rich called: “I have four kinds of cancer, and I’ll be out in about 3 months.” Tragic. He had had a fascinating and good life, a loving wife and daughter, a great place in the woods, a 1973 Ford F250 HiBoy in pristine condition ... and a gun collection.
“How’d you like to come buy me out?” he said. “What all do you have?” I replied. He listed out about 22 firearms, including the 125-year-old Model 1894. “That’s a few more than I can handle, but can I bring a relative and friend?”
So a few weeks later, my BIL, best friend and I went to Rich’s. He had them all carefully laid out on the dining room table. My retired Lt. Col. (artillery) brother-in-law saw the Springfield 1911, sat down in front of it and put his arms around it. That was going to be his, a 1942 WWII US Army model. I had dibs on the Model 94 and a Ruger Blackhawk flattop in .357.
We had a nice lunch with Rich and his wife, and got down to business. We divvied up the guns among us three depending on our interest, taking 20 out of 22 guns. I ended up with several nice pieces.
We had a gentlemanly negotiation in which Rich offered them to us for too little money, we upped our offers, and settled on prices about 1/3rd of market. With several thousand dollars in a nice tall stack, Rich tapped them into place and said, “When we’re all done here, I’m taking this down to the Senior Center and donating it.”
And so, we have in our friend circle a drinking toast:
“Be Rich!”
Which means exactly: “Be generous beyond any reasonable expectation.”
We went back to visit Rich two more times before he passed, and played poker and drank whiskey with an even larger group of guys who had heard the story. I was out of country for the funeral, but my best friend went.
So, as noted above, the .357 is my anti-Griz gun.
The Model 94 was a bit tricky. It had a headspace problem, and I tried for a couple of years to get that fixed, but nobody with skills and parts could get it done. Eventually, I tried different ammo which largely eliminated the problem, and worked closely with an Oklahoman gunsmith I encountered in Tel Aviv to understand that the problem was never going to be dangerous.
So this fall, I hunted Mule Deer in SE Washington State with Rich’s Great Grandfather’s 125 year old Model 94 with open sights. That territory is wide open, with long shots being the norm. This fall, about 12 bucks were taken (3 points on one side minimum), and the shortest shot was 300 yards, longest was 600 yards.
700 yards up on that rugged mountain several years ago, I encountered a guy named “Frank” who was 97 at the time. He had shot a nice buck the year before at age 96 at 413 yards, verified by rangefinder. His family had helped him out with the meat.
Frank is a WWII Navy Submariner. He’s tough as nails. I’ve seen him every year until this year up at the same place, 700 yards up a steep hill, posted up for Mule Deer.
I asked him how he stays in such good shape: “Before I get up out of bed each morning, I stretch and flex all my muscles, move all my joints as far as they can go, then I get up and use my 5 pound weights. I had to back off of the 10 pounders last year. Then I go for a walk.”
On the eighth day of hunting season this year, Frank hurt his hip 700 yards up there. “Yeah, I had to crawl out with my rifle and pack back to the Jeep and waited a few hours for the family to come back down and take me back to camp.”
Frank turned 101 years old this past November.
So, we have a toast in my friend group: “Be Frank!” Which is to prepare to live to a ripe old age while staying in excellent physical shape.
So on to my hunting story. I had had 7 days of poor luck, with dozens of does, several legitimate shots on 2x2 bucks that didn’t meet the 3 point criteria. But I’m regularly stalking big groups of deer as close as 25 yards, so I’m feeling pretty good about the possibility of getting a short shot with open sights.
On Day 7, I ran into a young guy who spent more money on his spotting scope than I had in my rifle, scope, and everything else I had on me. The dude was totally kitted out. I have no idea how many thousands of dollars his scope cost. His rifle was a wonder of modern technology, with silencer (?) / muzzle break, a spectacular carbon fiber tripod brace for his scope and rifle, etc.
He and I discussed the herds we had seen, and following each other’s footprints around the area a couple of miles out past the last road. We got friendly fast, and he told me of a couple of bucks out in a certain cliff area that was way too hard for me to hike at age 63. But we agreed that he’d go hike the cliffs, and if he knocked a buck down to where I was, he’d be happy if I shot it.
So for the next couple of days, I set up to intercept any buck he moved my way. Day 1, lots and lots of does, and 2 different 2x2s at 50 yards. No shot.
Day 2, I’m up in this crenelated basalt wall perch with grass sticking out the top, a perfect hide. There are about 20 does and fawns splayed out below me. No bucks ... until one rounds the corner about 350 yards out, way too long a shot for open sights. So I track him in with the binoculars until he’s at about 200 yards, and I can’t count how many points, but it’s a forest of tines up there, so I’m sure he’s legal.
Then he wanders left into some thick undergrowth, and I lose him. I keep looking out further to the left to see if he’s after the does on the far side of the thicket. Nothing. Dang. Lost him.
So I go back and scan the right side of the thicket, and he’s come back out, is at 100 yards, and heading towards me! I set Rich’s Great Grandfather’s 125 year old Winchester Model 1894 in a slot of the basalt while the buck comes straight at me. No shot.
He stops at 75 yards, turns left 90 degrees and gives me the perfect side to side shot. Drilled him through both lungs.
I’m so freaking excited! But he’s kinda loping around the field like he might make a run for it. I’d hate to lose him in the thicket, the wide open country, or have him suffer any. So as he’s lurching away at 80 yards, I take a head shot. Miss. At 100 yards, head shot, miss. At 125 yards and lurching about, head shot, connected through the brain and out the right eye socket. He drops in place.
That’s a dead deer, so I’m comfortable walking right up. Yup. He’s a goner. 7:15 a.m. Rack is huge on a medium sized animal, 4 points x 5 points. Well over 200 pounds.
Luckily, I’m hard up against a mountain to the South, and I know I have lots of time before the sun hits the carcass. I don’t have my butchering gear and bags with me, and I could use some help. So I hike out 2 miles, go to Frank’s camp for assistance, and nobody but the lady of the camp is there. So I head back in with my meat pack and knives, and get busy butchering.
As I’m going through the motions, I notice the small entry wound, and no exit wound. Weird. So I’m skinning my way down the far side, and my knife hits the mushroomed .30-30 bullet just under the skin. So I’ve got in hand the bullet that took the deer!
When I’m almost done at 11 a.m., two guys from Frank’s camp show up to help. One carries out the head, the other carries out one hind quarter, and I carried out 65 pounds of meat in my pack, all of us in one trip!
Back at Franks camp, I have a great picture of me, Frank, the head of the buck, and the rifle in its rack.
Got the meat down on salted ice water immediately. Gave away all my excess food and beer to Frank’s camp mates. Beat feet back to civilization with a whole lot of excellent venison for the year.
All of which is to say,
********
THANK YOU MY DEARLY DEPARTED FRIEND DAINBRAMAGED, RICH.
********
I will never have a more meaningful hunt.
And to all my fellow FReepers:
BE RICH!
BE FRANK!
Wow. Thank you for sharing this story.
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