Black Backed Jackal Hunting Wincent

The Ghost of the Karoo: On the Hunt for the Black-Backed Jackal with Wincent

The air in the South African Karoo has a quality all its own before sunrise. It’s thin, crisp, and carries the scent of dust and hardy scrub brush. In the deep blue twilight, the world is a canvas of silhouettes. This is the domain of the ghost, the shadow, the thinking hunter’s quarry: the Black-Backed Jackal. And in this domain, there are few better guides than Wincent.

Wincent isn’t a man of many words. His instructions are quiet, his movements deliberate. A lifetime spent under the African sun has etched the landscape’s patterns onto his features. He points not with a full hand, but with a subtle lift of his chin. “The wind,” he whispers, tossing a pinch of fine red dust into the air. It drifts softly southeast. “We’ll set up on that koppie. He’ll come from downwind, trying to circle us.”

Hunting the Black-Backed Jackal is not like pursuing the grand, lumbering giants of the Big Five. There is little glory in it for the uninitiated. This is a contest of wits, a chess match played across vast, open terrain. The jackal, with its distinctive silver-flecked black saddle, is one of the most intelligent and adaptable predators on the continent. Its senses are extraordinarily keen; its suspicion is its primary shield. For local farmers, it’s a persistent threat to lambs and small livestock. For a hunter, it’s the ultimate test of patience and fieldcraft.

“You don’t hunt the jackal; you invite him to you,” Wincent explains as we settle behind a cluster of rocks, the rough stone cool against our camouflage gear. “He thinks he is the hunter. We just have to be more convincing.”

His tool of persuasion is a small, unassuming electronic caller. With a press of a button, the piercing squeal of a distressed rabbit echoes across the veld. The sound is agonizing, a stark cry of vulnerability in the immense silence. Then, we wait.

Silence becomes the main character in the drama. Every rustle of the wind in the acacia thorns sounds like an approaching footstep. Every distant bird call feels like an alarm. Minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. Wincent remains perfectly still, his eyes scanning the horizon, missing nothing. He taught me that premature movement is the most common mistake. “The jackal sees everything,” he’d said earlier. “He’ll spot the blink of an eye from 300 meters.”

Suddenly, Wincent gives a slow, single nod. My eyes follow his gaze. At first, there is nothing. Then, a flicker of movement. A reddish-brown form, low to the ground, trotting with purpose through the scrub. It stops, head high, ears swiveling like radar dishes, testing the air. The black saddle is unmistakable, gleaming even in the low light.

This is the critical moment. The jackal is cautious, circling to catch our scent. The distressed rabbit call has done its job—it has piqued his predatory curiosity—but his survival instinct is screaming at him. He moves in a wide arc, a ghost flitting between bushes, offering only fleeting glimpses.

Wincent gives another soft press to the caller, this time a shorter, more frantic squeal. The jackal freezes, his attention locked. He takes a few more tentative steps into a small clearing, presenting a clear, ethical shot.

There is no time for hesitation. The crosshairs settle, my breath is held, and the stillness is broken by the sharp crack of the rifle.

In the aftermath, walking up to the animal, there is no boisterous celebration. Instead, there is a quiet sense of respect. Wincent kneels, running a hand over the jackal’s coarse, beautifully marked coat. He points out the sharp canine teeth and the lean, muscular build—a perfect survivor.

“A clever animal,” Wincent says, his voice filled with a mixture of reverence and finality. “In the bush, everything has its purpose. To hunt him, you have to understand him. You have to respect his intelligence.”

Hunting the Black-Backed Jackal with a man like Wincent is more than just a pursuit; it’s a profound lesson in the intricate dynamics of the African wilderness. It’s an education in patience, observation, and the humility required to outwit an animal that has mastered the art of survival. As the sun finally crested the horizon, casting long shadows across the Karoo, it was clear that the experience wasn’t about taking a trophy, but about earning a moment of understanding with one of Africa’s most cunning and enduring predators.