You get what you ask for. I had requested the old school hunt, doing everything on foot. After yesterday’s mileage, I was hurting this morning, but a few advil later, I sucked it up and we headed out before day break once again. Typically the Potgieters use this tough little Yamaha Rhino four-wheeler to get you in the proper neck of their nine thousand acres ranch before setting off on foot, but we were plagued with a flat within a kilometre of leaving camp. Kobus asked if I minded going on foot, and grinning from ear to ear, I hopped out. Blisters be damned.
It’s difficult to describe the feeling, hunting in Africa, walking at an easy pace through the long grass, Kobus’s old and worn 30-06 draped casually over my shoulder, my early nineteenth century waxed cotton fedora keeping the rising African sun out of my eyes, and I notice the guide’s hand trailing through the long grass, striping the grains off the tops as he passes, and sprinkling them absent mindedly. I’m surprised to find myself doing the same. We cover many miles before we reach the foothills, and young Kobus, like a mountain goat, takes off straight up the side. Thanking my youth of mountain climbing, I’m soon grabbing for lips and edges and struggling to keep up as we head straight up, climbing while trying to remain quiet, and keeping the strain on my burning thighs and broken blisters to a minimum. We are soon on the top, and jumping from rock to rock and ducking the dried branches and keeping a wary eye, for we are in prime kudu territory now, but they are not here. After another couple of hours, we have snuck across the mountain and start to head down the other side, far more precarious and painful than the climb, and eventually, painfully, once again we find ourselves out in the tall grass of the plains, and we walk and walk and walk. The game is strangely absent today but I don’t mind. I’m hunting in Africa.
After lunch, I concede that I feel forty years old, which isn’t bad considering I’m forty-six, but I ask Kobus if we can cut back on the walking and spend more time in the Rhino. It’s like admitting defeat, but my body needs some respite. Kobus isn’t dejected at all, and after walking back and repairing the flat Kobus takes to the mountains with the same vigour we did on foot, tackling impossibly steep rock strewn river beds, bouncing off rocks and through warthog holes, and I’m amazed at what the Rhino is capable of. Kobus apologizes for not finding kudu, but I reassure him, that if it was a sure thing, it would not be a thing worth doing. I want the hunt to be hard. I want it to be difficult. I don’t want a guarantee.
We eventually head back to the top of the valley were we saw the huge kudu the day prior, park the Rhino and head in on foot. Despite thoroughly enjoying the off roading, this feels like proper hunting again.
We do our best to determine where the kudu will come down from the mountain in the evening to the water hole and burrow in. A Slender Mongoose dashes by, and Kobus calls him back, and the mongoose, confused, closes to about two feet, before casually sauntering off. I hear some noise behind and turn to see a huge warthog, at less than ten feet, with tusks going over thirteen inches. Kobus, excited, whisper for me to take him, but I am here for kudu. The warthogs have terrible eyesite, but we can tell instantly when he winds us and he is off with a grunt.
As the sun sets, we stalk towards the waterhole in case the kudu has somehow gotten by us, but there’s nothing to be seen. Some hartebeest off in the distance, and springbok prances by, an small duiker sprint about, but no kudu so we head back to the Rhino and camp.
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