If you hunt Africa, have a plan for the moment you face a lion.
Soon I would be part of an untamed Africa, in a desert teeming with game, a free world, tempered only by the presence of lion. On board my chartered Cessna and giving me a real boost was my new rifle, a classic heavy hitter and a real African calibre.
Flying into camp over the semi desert, means your head is hard against the window while you watch antelope racing away with streams of dust tracking their mad dash. It hangs in the air long after your shadow has won the race and now you're over lost valleys of pale tussock grass, stands of green camel thorn and there between the red dunes, a secret place where burnt black trees point to the sky.
Then our shadow flashed over a dry river whose tree line edges traced a meandering path off to the south west. Ahead, a salt pan brilliantly white and green edged. This was our destination, and I knew the lodge had to be close by.
That evening, sharing a last cup of coffee with my hosts, a bat zigzagged through the fire smoke and I was about to comment when out of the darkness from across the camp, we heard a grunting cough. Moments later, it was repeated.
In the silence, everything paused and waited, only the fire crackled softly, then a far-off crash of a bucket being dropped and some African voices and the silence again.
When lions visit at night, the walk to your chalet through thorn trees and tall grass following a man with a lamp becomes a test of courage. Perhaps that's a dry run in the Kalahari, there to speed your adjustment to a wilderness unchanged for millions of years.
I had seen no fence and had been told the camp was open to the desert. Around ten we said goodnight and an African guide appeared as my escort. We walked in silence, his little lamp swaying like a bait. Following, I couldn't help noticing his strange walk and wondered if balancing on the edge of his shoes gave him an advantage when a lion showed up, helping him leap backwards and leaving all contact, however violent and one sided, to the one who followed.
When you walk African soil, you are already part of an ancient struggle and should you stand amongst the camel thorn with red sand under your feet, wondering if you would ever fit in, wait a moment or two because it won't be long before a light, warm wind welcomes you home.
Pages
17
Format
Kindle Edition
Release
September 25, 2014
A lion hunt in the Molopos: an African hunting story...for when you can't be there (African Hunting Stories Book 9)
If you hunt Africa, have a plan for the moment you face a lion.
Soon I would be part of an untamed Africa, in a desert teeming with game, a free world, tempered only by the presence of lion. On board my chartered Cessna and giving me a real boost was my new rifle, a classic heavy hitter and a real African calibre.
Flying into camp over the semi desert, means your head is hard against the window while you watch antelope racing away with streams of dust tracking their mad dash. It hangs in the air long after your shadow has won the race and now you're over lost valleys of pale tussock grass, stands of green camel thorn and there between the red dunes, a secret place where burnt black trees point to the sky.
Then our shadow flashed over a dry river whose tree line edges traced a meandering path off to the south west. Ahead, a salt pan brilliantly white and green edged. This was our destination, and I knew the lodge had to be close by.
That evening, sharing a last cup of coffee with my hosts, a bat zigzagged through the fire smoke and I was about to comment when out of the darkness from across the camp, we heard a grunting cough. Moments later, it was repeated.
In the silence, everything paused and waited, only the fire crackled softly, then a far-off crash of a bucket being dropped and some African voices and the silence again.
When lions visit at night, the walk to your chalet through thorn trees and tall grass following a man with a lamp becomes a test of courage. Perhaps that's a dry run in the Kalahari, there to speed your adjustment to a wilderness unchanged for millions of years.
I had seen no fence and had been told the camp was open to the desert. Around ten we said goodnight and an African guide appeared as my escort. We walked in silence, his little lamp swaying like a bait. Following, I couldn't help noticing his strange walk and wondered if balancing on the edge of his shoes gave him an advantage when a lion showed up, helping him leap backwards and leaving all contact, however violent and one sided, to the one who followed.
When you walk African soil, you are already part of an ancient struggle and should you stand amongst the camel thorn with red sand under your feet, wondering if you would ever fit in, wait a moment or two because it won't be long before a light, warm wind welcomes you home.