Clifton Robinson

 

My good friend, Dr. Wayne Falcone, local cardiologist, recently told me of the horrible hunting experience that ensnared his San Antonio friend, retired builder Zeev Nederman. This true story, in Zeev’s own words, sends a clear message to these thousands of outdoorsmen who will be trekking into the forest this fall in search of game. Tragedy can strike at any minute and from any direction, so be prepared.

— Clifton Robinson

This year was to be a year of many trips across the globe for me. But in the end the longest trip was the one I made flat on my back, in the rear of a truck, bouncing along rugged terrain of a faraway land and wondering if the small foam mattress I lay upon would be my deathbed.

And wondering, too, about the wisdom of hunting water buffalo far from the amenities of what we call civilization.

Certainly I had seen much before my trip to Papua New Guinea. In March I went to Cameroon, Africa. April, to Spain. May, to Israel and the Yucatan of Mexico. The last big trip was going to be Australia and Papua New Guinea.

Veteran Texas hunter Zeev Nederman poses with a water buffalo he shot in Papua New Guinea. Another of the beasts would come close to bagging Nederman not long after this picture was shot.
Zeev Nederman photo

There I connected with a friend, Jason Bruce from California. He was filming a series about hunting in the South Pacific, so we met in South Australia and hunted hog deer and sambar deer.

On July 15 we arrived in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. The capital is a big city, quite crowded. The next day we took a commercial flight to Wewak, a small port city on the north side of the island.

First on the agenda: a boat ride, lasting about 30 hours in rough seas, to the so-called Hermit Islands. Of the five main islands, only the island of Luf is inhabited with about 200 people.

The welcome we received was unbelievable. The people were very hospitable and did everything to make us feel welcome. Even so, this is probably one of the most remote places in the world.

Three of the islands had a population of Rusa deer originally brought by German settlers back in 1903. Our hunt with native folks proved something to remember.

Run-in with water buffalo

On the boat ride back to the mainland, the sea was calm, allowing us to fish. We had a great many catches, too, among them marlin, tuna, mackerel and barracuda.

Back in Wewak we got some supplies, then went off to buffalo hunting grounds. That meant three hours on the back of a truck, then another two hours walking to camp with an army of pygmies as our porters. The camp was comfortable enough, but by then we were always cognizant of the fact we were seemingly at the very edge of the world.

The next day we went hunting for water buffalo about 5 in the afternoon. I managed to harvest a very nice buffalo. But my feeling of exhilaration was short-lived.

As we were walking back to the truck, about two miles off, another water buffalo charged without warning from the tall grass. Perhaps he was startled. In any case, I was only aware of him for a split second before he knocked me off my feet and proceeded to gore and roll me on the ground for what seemed forever.

Realizing the desperation in my situation, I finally played dead, lying motionless till at last he lost interest in me, focusing on the truck coming toward us. My friends were able to get the truck between the buffalo and me before the buffalo slipped back into the wild.

Being on the edge of the world was no place for a 54-year-old man in my condition. The buffalo had opened the back of my scalp, leaving a 12-inch laceration. Besides that he

*  Made a hole in my back.

*  Made a hole on the back of my left arm.

*  Tore a hole in my right wrist besides breaking it.

*  Fractured six ribs on my left side.

*  Broke the little bones protruding from five of my vertebrates, as well as causing a few large hematomas to top it off.

The 30-minute ride to reach camp seemed to last forever. Some first aid was administrated before we embarked for the nearest hospital — some nine hours in the back of a truck on a small foam mattress. I remember every pebble on that road to town.

When I put my hand on the back of my head and contemplated all my injuries and all the blood, I thought I’d never make it to any hospital. During those nine hours, everything went through my mind, including things I’d left incomplete in life and, of course, my family.

We got to the hospital in Wewak in the early morning hours. This hospital would not qualify as an infirmary anywhere in the world. There was no modern equipment whatsoever, not even an X-ray machine, but they nonetheless did close all my wounds and gave me an IV with morphine and antibiotics.

One miracle: A few months earlier at an Ovis convention in Las Vegas, I had purchased medical evacuation insurance, of all things, from a company called MedjetAssist. I figured over the course of all my trips, it wasn’t really that expensive.

Well, let me tell you, that was the best thing I ever did — and it’s one reason I’m still here to talk about it. They actually sent a Lear jet from Australia with an anesthesiologist and a nurse to pick me up (four hours each way) and take me to Brisbane, Australia, to a modern hospital.

After being at Princess Alexandra Hospital for 11 days and undergoing three surgeries, I returned to the United States where I was hospitalized for three more days. I got my right wrist surgery done right here in my hometown of San Antonio.

Still recovering

Today the hearing in my left ear is almost 100 percent but the feeling is only 50 percent. The doctor thinks it will get better in two to three months. On July 30 my neck became infected and they had to reopen all the stitches, clean the wound and close it again. And, yes, it was painful all over again.

Even so, everything is looking up. I’m doing physical therapy every day. It pretty much takes everything out of me. Any remaining pain now comes from my six broken ribs. Sometimes I wonder, but doctors assure me that I’ll make a full recovery.

As for my misadventures in Papua New Guinea, I guess you could say the water buffaloes and I are one-for-one. After some 30 major hunting trips, if you’ve lost one, you’ve lost only one. And if you’re still around to tell the tale, it’s still something of a victory.

Clifton Robinson is the chairman of Robinson Media, which owns the Tribune-Herald .