African Safari - 03/25, PT. 1

This story actually starts somewhere around 2016 or 2017, in a small gun shop in a small Oregon town that most Oregonians don’t even know about. A buddy of mine and I had gone in to talk with our friend, Marcus, the owner of said gun shop. If I’m remembering correctly, we had just come back down out of the forest after a bit of target shooting, and were talking to him about a strange encounter with a coyote we had, which then turned into talks of various hunts he had done. Finally, the question came up; “Marcus, out of any place in the world, if you had to choose only one place to hunt, where would that be?”

I don’t remember who asked it, but I remember the answer clearly – South Africa. There was no hesitation, no thought required. He then regaled us with stories of his hunts there, and some of the crazy experiences he’d had. One of us said, “I sure wish I could afford to go there to hunt.”

“You can afford it,” he replied. What? How? “If you have a job, and you want it bad enough, you can make it happen. If you think you can’t afford it, you’re making excuses to not go.”

The rest of that conversation is lost to memory, but I can remember that part as clearly as if it were spoken yesterday. We ended up spending a lot of time there, often times long after closing. “I can’t sell you anything,” he’d say, “but I’ve got a case of beer and a crock pot full of chili.” Marcus, who has since passed, influenced us far more than either of us realized, and after he passed it was decided that in order to honor his memory, we were going to Africa; it was then only a matter of when.

Fast forward a few years, and my buddy states plainly that he’s going to Africa for a safari hunt. He had gotten involved with a professional hunter through some work he did for a trail camera company, and had started the paperwork process. I told him I wanted to go too, and I too was in touch with the professional hunter. Through a twist of fate, only I was able to go, and I would say it was every bit of the experience I was hoping for.

The trip was planned about a year in advance, and that year seemed to be the longest year of my life, but finally the time had come. My paperwork was all in order, my rifles put into their airline cases, my bags packed, and passport in my pocket. It was a cold, rainy morning in March, not quite 40*F, as I made my way to the airport. This would be the very start of my (admittedly minor) issues with baggage; there was some sort of issue with the computer system that wouldn’t let me check both of my rifles and my ammunition. As it would turn out, my airline tickets only covered two bags, and I ended up paying quite a lot in extra fees as the trip would progress.

From PDX I flew to Atlanta, Georgia for my first layover. After a few hours and many beers, I boarded the first international flight since I had left my duty station in Japan almost 12 years prior. By now, the anticipation was eating me alive. I kept with me a journal, and feverishly scribbled down notes and updates and times, thoughts, questions I needed to ask my PH.

After the 17 hour flight, the plane touched down in Johannesburg, South Africa. The rain was coming down like crazy, and I could see the water pooling on the runway. My bag with the ammunition had gone to the carousel and the rifle cases had gone to the SAPS (South African Police). After what seemed like forever waiting, my cases were brought out, my paperwork was verified and my temporary import permit granted, and I was allowed to take my cases and baggage up to the hotel. My hotel reservation was there at the airport, and once I had dropped everything off, I took the opportunity to clean up and change my clothes, then head down and get some food. This was the first time I had experienced South African beer and food, and my mind was absolutely blown. Boerewors will forever be one of my favorite things to eat, but little did I know that many more culinary delights were yet to come.

After eating, I made my way back up to my hotel room, and proceeded to stay up the entire night, unable to sleep due to the excitement and the fact that I had slept for a very large portion of the flight. In just a few short hours, I was going to be on my way to Port Elizabeth, where I would meet my PH for the first time in person.

Checking my bags for the flight from JoBurg to PE resulted in paying more airline fees for luggage that my airline ticket didn’t cover, then after getting through the security checkpoint I immediately found an open bar (I have to say, the majority of the beer I had in South Africa completely blows away most American beers) to wait out my layover. Once the flight began boarding, I ran into my second issue; they couldn’t process my luggage when I presented them my ticket. Luckily I had saved my receipt from paying the baggage fees, so it ended up being a non-issue, but it was still one of those situations that was just a bit nerve-wracking. I was then put on a bus out to the tarmac, and boarded the plane to PE.

Around midday, a warm Wednesday afternoon, I landed in PE. There, waiting for me, was Christo, my PH and soon to be very good friend. We collected my rifles and bags, verified my SAPS paperwork, and walked out to Christo’s truck, where I was immediately handed an ice cold beer. We then drove for several hours out to a place in the hills, stopping every so often to look at various animals that were visible from the road, and brief detour to let me pick up a phone that would work in South Africa. Also in the truck with us was Arno, Christo’s heper and photographer/videographer. Eventually, we made it to our destination, a quaint, idyllic little venue called “The Wild Olive”. This was to be our base camp for the next several days while we hunted.

Enjoying a refreshing beverage while stopped to examine some zebra and giraffe on the side of the road.

We arrived sometime around 4pm, where the drinks began flowing immediately after setting down my bags and gun cases. Christo was working on dinner and threatening me with Jagermeister while Arno and I talked while drinking a bunch of Flying Fish (a lemony alcoholic beverage similar to a shandy, but more lemonade-like and less beer-like). At some point the jet lag and booze caught up to me, and I nodded off in a chair, only to wake up some time later to more food and drink. I believe Christo cooked up some steaks that first night, but I can’t quite recall. It had been a very long day by that point, and the jet lag was absolutely kicking my ass. I do know that I ended up finishing my dinner the next morning for breakfast, despite being incredibly full still from the previous night.

The jet lag got me.

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 2

We got up around 5:30am to get ready for the first day of the hunt. Still buzzed from the night before and still half asleep, I scribbled a few notes into my journal, then headed to the main house to get some breakfast and coffee. I ate some of my leftover dinner, along with the food Christo cooked up for breakfast, which I believe was eggs and toast, along with some sort of sausage. We laughed and joked, then packed up my .375 Weatherby rifle and ammunition, and headed out.

It seemed to take several hours before we stopped, and at some point Christo had given me an energy drink of some kind, which helped immensely to knock the sleepiness out of my brain. While stopped, we brought the rifle out and Christo set up the shooting sticks, and we confirmed zero on my rifle scope. We were satisfied that the rifle was shooting true, so we loaded back up into the truck and headed out to the farm to begin our cape buffalo hunt.

We stalked for a while before setting up sticks as a herd began to walk by. Once the buffalo that I was to shoot was pointed out, I was given the okay to shoot, I lined up the scope’s reticle on the big cow’s shoulder, and began to squeeze the trigger. The herd walked slowly in front of us, and one of the guys made a sound just as the trigger was about to release the firing pin. Typically, this would have caused the animals to pause and make for an easier shot, but in this particular instance the herd spooked and took off at a full run. Unfortunately this caused my shot to hit behind where I had intended, and the buffalo cow took off with the herd. I quickly worked the action of my rifle, ejecting the fired case and chambering a fresh round, but by this point the herd had disappeared into the brush.

After muttering a string of expletives, I put my rifle on safe and we began to track the animal. This endeavor would cost us the remainder of the day, and we walked approximately 20 kilometers (just under 12 and a half miles) through some of the nastiest brush I’ve ever seen. Thick, heavy foliage with needle-sharp thorns snagged clothing, cut skin and hung up our rifle barrels as we traversed the terrain. We encountered a few more herds of buffalo, but my cow was nowhere to be seen. My rifle, a Weatherby Mk V Dangerous Game rifle, outfitted with an extended box magazine, a heavy barrel, and a Leupold 2.5-8x36 riflescope, tipped the scales at around 12 or 13 pounds (just under 6kg) and by the end of the hunt, it was very apparent to me why the trend in hunting rifles is super lightweight models.

We did eventually find the cow, but she had unfortunately gone down into a ravine, and, due to the danger involved with retrieving her, the call was made to leave her there and chalk it up to a loss. Some months later, at the time of this writing, she was eventually recovered, and is at taxidermy, but the whole day I felt absolutely awful about how everything had transpired. Often times, with outdoor writers there is a tendency to make every hunt appear as though everything is perfect, but the reality is that sometimes unfortunate things happen and a hunt may not go as planned. In this instance, what should have stopped the animals ended up spooking them just as I was squeezing my shot off. I’d love to blame everyone else for the results of this hunt, but whether or not that is valid, I am still the one who took the shot, and complaining about it doesn’t change anything. I’d like to take this opportunity to share my appreciation with the guys I was hunting with, especially Christo and Bertie, for literally going the extra mile and recovering that cow for me.

As we had split up to track the buffalo I had shot, Christo and I found ourselves alone in the bush on our hike back to the truck. We walked quite some distance until we came upon an abandoned railroad track, overgrown in some places and blocked by twisted up remains of an old fence in others. We knew this track would take us right back to the farm where Christo’s truck was parked, so we decided to follow it out. We had gone maybe half a kilometer when a herd of cape buffalo stomped out of the brush. The alpha of the herd was absolutely massive, seemingly towering over the both of us. At the same time, both Christo and I jumped and released the safety on our rifles. The bull snorted and stamped his feet, and we both backed away quickly, all the while keeping our rifles pointed in the direction of the bull, who was very clearly not happy about us being in the area. Once we had backed up about a hundred feet or so, the bull and his herd took off running down the railroad track for a short way before peeling off and diving back into the bush. Christo and I looked at each other in disbelief for a moment, before laughing at just how close we had come to being turned into paste under the bull’s hooves. Overhead, the skies began to grow dark with heavy cloud cover.

The rain had began to come down as we trekked through the African bush

The walk back after that was pretty uneventful, although the skies did open up and we were absolutely drenched upon our return, and once we made it back to the truck we had some sandwiches and some Flying Fish while we talked about the hunt. I felt like a fool in front of these professional hunters and the game farm owner(and still do to this day, and probably will forever), as they spoke Afrikaans and laughed and joked. Christo and Bertie would later reassure me that everything was fine, and not to worry about it. Arno and I talked and hung out while the others all spoke to each other.

By the time we made it back to Wild Olive that evening, everything had been totally drenched by the torrential (and ongoing) downpour, coupled with heavy winds, but the rain certainly didn’t dampen our spirits much compared to losing my buffalo cow to the ravine. Christo and I took out my 6.5 Weatherby RPM to check zero after I pointed out some of the scuffs and damage on the rifle case from airline handling. To say that rifle is loud is laughable – the .375 will ring your ears a bit, but overall isn’t too punishing. That 6.5, with it’s 24” barrel and brake, is AWFUL to shoot without ear plugs. I got one round off and it was absolutely painful. I figured that because I was just checking zero, I would be alright with just a round or two, but immediately after that first shot I was digging out my ear plugs. I don’t normally shoot without them anyway, due wanting preserve my already damaged hearing (courtesy of Uncle Sam), and I swore right then and there that I’d never fire another shot through that rifle without some sort of hearing protection.

After I took several shots and confirmed zero, Christo began to cook us some lasagna. Since we had shot in the pouring rain and had been soaked through for a few hours, I decided to hop in the shower to warm up a bit, only to find that no matter what I did, the water was ice cold. Needless to say, it was a very quick shower. Christo let me borrow his phone charger and I was finally able to charge my phone and get on the wifi by this point. Bertie, Arno and I hung out and drank beer and flying fish, and Christo kept trying to get us to play beer pong, but I wanted to turn in early. I was incredibly tired and sore from the day’s hunt, and wanted to pack in early.

Bertie wasn’t thrilled about how the hunt had gone, and said he wanted to make it up to me. That was really cool of him to do, and I very much appreciated it. By the time Christo was ready to actually ready to play his game of beer pong, everyone was so exhausted that beer pong was cancelled – we all ended up wanting to go to bed early. It was then that I realized that I am an old man, as for the first time in my life, going to bed early sounded more exciting that playing drinking games in a foreign country. Just as well, we were getting up around 4am tomorrow for plains game.

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 3

Around 4:25am, I made my way to the main house for breakfast and coffee. It was this morning that I’d been off by an entire day the whole time I had been in South Africa, and needed to amend my notebook before I got confused and totally screwed up my journal. We decided to wait to see if the rain would clear before we headed out. Bertie told me that today I had a good chance of getting on some animals that were “for the books”. By about 6:20am, the skies were gray at Wild Olive, but the rain had stopped. However, at the farm, it was still coming down pretty heavily. Arno had decided he wasn’t going with us today, due to his back giving him grief.

An early morning. Christo and Arno having coffee before breakfast.

It was around 8:30am by the time we got out to Meadowfields farm that morning, and we started with ostrich. We ended up going out with Christo’s pump-action 12 gauge shotgun in place of my rifle, and Christo had given me explicit instructions to go for a head shot if possible. The rain had mostly let up, but the wind was absolutely howling at what I would estimate maybe 40-45 mph (~64-72 kph). The shotgun was loaded up with no. 5 shot, and after taking a shot I could see the wind blowing my shot pattern off course. I didn’t land a single pellet, despite being within about 30 yards. I began to worry that the shot wouldn’t do the job effectively, but with Christo’s reassurance, we followed the ostrich along a fence line and continued the hunt. It was a struggle to get him within a range that I deemed acceptable, and I almost talked Christo into letting me go get my rifle to use instead, but we soon crested a hill and spotted my ostrich. I was told to stay put, and Christo took off to come around the other side of the ostrich, and how he wasn’t spotted was a mystery. I ducked down behind some foliage, using it as a natural blind, and Christo had done the same about two hundred yards away in his attempt to get on the other side of the bird.

Somehow managing to pull off getting the ostrich to come my way, I could just barely hear Christo shouting over the wind to take the shot. I stood up from behind my natural concealment to see the ostrich coming my way at a full run. The fence was about 20-30 yards away from me where I stood behind the foliage, and the ostrich was more or less splitting the distance between me and the fence. I brought the shotgun to my shoulder, and falling back on years of wing-shooting experience, took the shot. Memories of previous duck hunts briefly flashed through my mind and I watched as the giant bird dropped in his tracks. I cautiously came up around the side of him, and gave him one more shell to finish him off, and that was the end of it.

The ostrich, taken with Christo’s shotgun.

Bertie had driven his truck up to load up the ostrich, then drop him off at the farm’s processing area, before taking us out farther for blesbok and impala. It was about 10:30 by the time we got into the field, and we bounced between stalking both species. My Weatherby Mk V in 6.5 RPM was about half the weight of the .375 Weatherby, and I was extremely thankful for the reduction in weight, but the animals made us really work for them. Christo told me on the way out that he’d get me to within about a hundred yards to take the shot. Neither of us had thought to bring a rangefinder, but I felt confident in both of our abilities to judge distance that we could come up with a close estimate, and off we went.

We followed for several hours, and each time we’d even start to get close to either species, they would spook and run off. The wind, which was still blowing at a steady 30-40 mph (~64-72kph), which made aiming difficult, as well as trying to walk through it while navigating the hilly terrain (not to mention stay out of the animal’s noses). Finally, after coming up around a stand of trees, we spotted a couple impala rams that were separate from the rest of the herd on a hillside a fair ways away from us.

Christo put out the shooting sticks, and told me which ram to aim for, and I set the reticle on the top of the shoulder. Ordinarily I would have tried to aim a touch lower, but something in my gut told me to go for the higher shot. I steadied the rifle on the sticks, and squeezed the trigger – the rifle jumped and I lost my sight through the scope from the rifle’s recoil, so I poked my head up to watch the hill just in time to watch my ram run about 20 yards or so before dropping down behind a patch of thick shrubbery while the rest of the herd took off in the opposite direction. As we start walking toward where we saw the animal go down, Bertie and Christo congratulated me on a good shot. I asked then, “How far was that? It seems like that was a bit longer than a hundred yards.”

Bertie scoffs, and says, “Nah man, that was closer to 300.” I stared at him, not quite believing him. There was no way it was THAT far, right? As we come up on the animal, Christo looks at the shot placement and says it was a “perfect heart shot, right through the gearbox.” I told them where I had been aiming, and comparing the point of aim to the point of impact with what I remembered of my drop chart for that load data confirmed that it was, indeed, about a 280-300 yard shot. The impressive part for me, and what really made me a believer in the 6.5 RPM was just how little wind drift was present, despite the heavy cross winds. The shot was only an inch or so forward of where I was shooting (left side, broadside) with the wind from the right. The bullet, a 140 grain Nosler Accubond, was loaded to reach about 3050 ft/second (mind you, while this is published velocity for Weatherby’s factory load with the same bullet, the test barrel for that velocity was 26” while mine is 24”, and admittedly my handloads were a bit on the warm side.) and drilled a hole straight in and straight out. We took our pictures of the animal, then Christo and I proceeded to go immediately back to hunting while Bertie picked up the animal.

My first impala, taken at close to 300 yds with 6.5 Weatherby RPM

Around 11:45, we were on the trail of a big, cocky blesbok ram. We stalked him for quite a ways while we stalked the impala, and Christo asked if I wanted a break. We hadn’t eaten since we got up, and I agreed that it would be a good idea. We headed back to the truck and met Bertie there. Christo had brought some boerewors, and proceeded to make sandwiches with it along with what he called ‘relish’, which seemed to me to be more along the lines of a goulash. Regardless of what it actually was, it was delicious.

After our break, we began looking for the blesbok ram again. It didn’t take long at all before Christo and Bertie spotted him down below in a small valley, and the hunt began again. We stalked him down, then back up the other side, and see him stopped. Christo gets the sticks out, and I put the scope’s reticle on him, and he’s looking at us. Just as I’m about to squeeze the trigger, he takes off running. We follow him down then back up the other side of another depression, and he’s stopped and watching us again. He moves from full broadside to quartering towards us. Christo puts the shooting sticks down again, and I put my reticle on the ram again. Christo tells me to hit him in the shoulder, and I do – the blesbok drops in his track as if he was struck by lightning. I was ecstatic! The big ram was only about 130 yards or so from were we shooting from, and the bullet was found to have punched through the shoulder and chest cavity before stopping on the underside of the hide on the far side. Bertie comes up to us, and tells us that it was a great shot, but that it was the wrong animal. What?! I look at Bertie, then at Christo, then the two of them start laughing. Turns out, the man has jokes. (For what it’s worth, I laughed too once I realized it was a joke.)

Taken appx. 130 yds, 6.5 Weatherby RPM

Around 4pm or we went back out for a second impala (Bertie’s way of making up the first day’s hunt), and after a long while of searching, I got another shot on a nice impala ram. However, the wind was blowing so hard by this point that I wasn’t able to keep the rifle steady even when on a rest. The wind was catching the bell of the rifle scope and torquing it over as I tried to aim. I took my shot, and it was a clean miss. We decided then that it was time to wrap it up for the day. Around 5:30pm we were heading back to Wild Olive, and a duiker ran out in front of the truck and into the field next to us. We hadn’t left the Meadowfields property yet, and Christo tells me to quickly get my rifle.

After jumping out of the truck, we quickly follow the duiker ram for a few hundred yards. The duiker ran to a point maybe 80 yards or so from me then bedded down, and Christo put the sticks down. With my face in the wind, almost as soon as the scope settled on the duiker ram, I squeezed the trigger and he rolled over where he lay, never to get up again. It was a great note to end the day on.

Duiker ram, taken appx 80 yds with 6.5 Weatherby RPM

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 4

It was about 3am when I woke up, and I was unable to go back to sleep. I ended up getting up and taking a shower (the folks who run Wild Olive had come by and fixed the hot water issue, so I did end up getting to take warm showers by this point) before brushing my teeth and getting dressed for the day. I took notes, studied my drop charts (definitely confirmed that the impala ram I shot yesterday was indeed at close to 300 yards), wrote in my journal, and before I knew it, it was almost 5am. Christo stopped by with some hot coffee and told me it was impala again today, followed by a baboon hunt, and that breakfast would be ready in about 38 minutes.

Around 7am, we were heading out for baboon first thing. My earplugs were nowhere to be found, having been lost the day prior when I shot the duiker. As we are driving down the hill, a big kudu bull jumps out in front of the truck. It ran in front of, then along side of us, for nearly a quarter mile before peeling off and jumping over the fence that lined the road.

Kudu bull

At 7:37am, we made it to another old farm, I believe owned by the same guy who ran Meadowfield, and hiked several miles through the brush to a hillside clearing overlooking a massive ravine. Christo says that this is where we will shoot the baboon.

A picture doesn’t do it justice. The ravine was much deeper and steeper than it appears here.

After waiting a little over two hours, we headed back – the baboons were a no-show. Once we got back to the truck, we were sprayed down with some kind of gnarly tick repellent that made my skin tingle, and I was told it was the most effective stuff that Christo had ever used. In my mind, I doubted anything I could get stateside would be that effective, as I’ve never used anything that was so potent as to make my skin tingle. Around 10:20am, as we are driving down the highway, Bertie stops the truck and runs over to the road to pick something up – turns out he had rescued a small tortoise from being run over on the highway. Bertie hands the tortoise to me, then drives down the road for a short while before pulling over again. Here, we set the tortoise down in the grass away from the road, and continued on our journey.

The lucky tortoise, saved by Bertie from the road.

Around 11am, we got out to Aasvoelvlei farm, and the hunt began for a springbok ram. We ended up stalking a small group of springbok rams that were separate from the main herd. The weather was bright and clear and warming up very quickly as we moved through the wide-open, hilly terrain. About noon, we had made it to a little cluster of trees and stood in the shade while Bertie worked to push a group towards our position. The springboks ran across a ridge and down into a long but narrow depression in front of us, and Christ had me sight in on a ram about 150 yards out. As soon as I had a clear shot and Bertie was back on the far side of hill and out of sight, I took the shot. The ram dropped in his tracks. Afterwards, we went to the farmer’s house to have the springbok processed and put in the salt. We were invited into his house. The owner was very nice and a gracious host.

Springbok ram, taken with 6.5 Weatherby RPM

Around 6pm is when I got my second impala. We had traveled back to Meadowfield and immediately spotted a group of 5 or 6 big rams, then stalked them for what seemed like miles. We crawled through the brush, trudged up and down hills and valleys, and through rock gardens trying to get a line on one those rams. Finally, Christo puts down the sticks, and as soon as I’m about to shoot, a herd of blesbok spooked the rams and ran them off. From there, we stalked up this high ridge to come down from above them. We finally get another line of sight on the impala, but they stopped cooperating and moved into the brush after we had identified the impala that I was to shoot. At this point it is starting to get late in the day and the sun is setting, casting everything in a warm, golden light.

We begin to head back to the truck in defeat, when suddenly, Christo stops me and puts out the sticks, telling me to shoot the one lowest on the hill and wait until he stops moving. I look where he’s pointing, and sure enough, there are a handful of big impala rams just below the top of a far ridgline, maybe 150 yards out. He’s facing to our right, slightly quartering towards us, and as soon as the ram stops, I sent a 6.5mm, 140 grain Nosler Accubond his way and hear the thump as the bullet made impact. I was confident in my shot, and even saw the dust from the exit on the hillside behind the animal, but Christo shakes his head and tells me the shot was too far back. I watch as the impala all run off over the other side of the ridge to our left, then disappear. I sigh, and accept that it was a bad shot, and more or less hang my head in shame. I had been doing quite well up to that point, I told myself, and it was bound to happen that I would make a mistake. We began walking down the hill and back up over the ridge when we hear Bertie and Arno in the truck shouting at us. He’s down, they say, and point us to a stand of tall grass and shrubs where they had seen the impala drop. As we get up to where the ram lay on the ground, Christo begins to laugh, and when I asked why, he tells me that what he thought was the entrance wound was actually the exit, and had momentarily forgotten that it had turned and ran the opposite direction than he was facing originally. It turned out to be an excellent shot that blew up the heart and lungs, and separated the front shoulder joint on the impact side. The impala was dead as soon as the bullet made impact, and he just didn’t realize it. From what they told me, the guys in the truck had watched the whole thing. He had made it about a hundred yards from where he was shot and dropped, then never got back up. This ram was a big, big animal, with the horns being just shy of record-breaking.

Second impala ram. He really made us put in work to get him. Taken with 6.5 Weatherby RPM

Around 6:30pm, we are back at the Aasvoelvlei farm house. I had initially offered to make American style burgers for everyone, but we had been invited for dinner at the farm house by the owner. The impala was put in the salt, and we all hung out inside with the air conditioning, but not before shooting a few pigeons in the barn with Christo’s shotgun. When we came inside for dinner, the farmer had the braai (a traditional South African style of grilling meat over wood coals) fired up; zebra kebabs, sheep liver and sheep chops, pork chops, and what amounted to scalloped potatoes, as well as bread and butter.

Pest control.

Sunset at Aasvoelvlei.

The back yard of the farmhouse.

Supper cooking on the braai.

That evening, we hopped in the bed of Bertie’s truck, riding through the fields with an ancient featherweight, single-shot shotgun and spotlight, and a pocket full of shotgun shells. The shotgun not only had to be manually loaded for each shot, but the hammer cocked every time as well, and let me tell you, I got quick at reloading that thing. “Give it some love!” became the rallying cry every time we saw the eyes of the springhare glowing in the spotlight’s beam. We all got the shit beat out of us riding in the bed like that, holding on to the truck’s cage for dear life and trying to not put our feet through the rusted out holes in the bed’s sheet metal. The fields we drove through were absolutely destroyed due to the springhare digging burrows, and on one particularly rough landing (yes, we caught air a time or two), Bertie ended up completely separating one of the ball joints in his front end and breaking one of his upper control arms. As we headed back to Wild Olive just after 1am, the truck was all over the road and Bertie was struggling to keep it between the ditches. Once we had arrived back at Wild Olive, I took a quick shower and was out as soon as my head touched the pillow.

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 5

Just before 8am, we are all up, but barely. Sore and stiff muscles and joints made it a struggle to even walk around our lodge. Today is our last day, and we need to be packed up and out before 10am. We drove for a good part of the day, stopping several times during our journey. First thing was driving out to the usual hunting lodge that Christo normally hunts out of, but for this hunt it was full up of utility workers who were building powerline towers through the African bush. Nobody was there though, being a Sunday, and Christo gave me a full tour of the hunting lodge. Many beautiful animals lined the walls of the lodge. Christo also took us out to the meat processing area, where my animals were tagged and put in salt. It was also at this time, Christo took a few portions of meat from my impala, springbok, blesbok, and ostrich – afterall, I didn’t come all this way to not at least try some of the meat that I had harvested.

The normal lodge we would have stayed at. Christo in the middle, Arno at the right.

Sometime later, after trying and failing to talk Christo into letting me drive one of the right-hand drive trucks (if only for a photo OP), we hit the road again and headed towards civilization. I was able to meet Christo’s friend Rosaline, then later Arno’s girlfriend. We had to pick up bedding in Uitenhage before finally arriving at Van Stadens river mouth resort. Check-in was after 2pm, so keeping busy throughout the day was beneficial for us. After we had gotten settled and unloaded our belongings from the truck, Arno and I walked down to the water to watch the surf, and Arno ran into one of his primary school teachers and chatted for a bit.

After we had come back, Christo put some impala backstrap on the braai, and cooked us up a little feed. It was absolutely delicious, and reminded me very much of American deer meat, but with a slightly different gaminess to it. Gaminess is not something I’ve ever really minded, so I found it incredibly tasty. We sat by the fire for a bit, until Christo had finished making us curry chicken for dinner. By this time, I had swiped one of the chili peppers that christo had brought, as apparently I had some sort of allergy to something there at the river mouth, and to combat the extreme congestion and sneezing I would take a bite every half hour or so, just so I could breathe normally. After dinner, we were treated to malfa pudding with a milk-tart topping, which was absolutely fantastic as well. Afterwards, we sat by the fire for a bit, but we packed in early.

Malfa and milk-tart.

Christo (left) and Arno (Right).

Sunset at Van Stadens

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 6

We got up around 7am today, and headed to town. Along the way, we stopped at the Van Stadens bridge, spanning the Van Stadens river. I got a photo taken, then we headed to Taxidermy Africa, in Humansdorp. Jeane Grieve was fantastic, and very personable. I spent a long time talking to him, telling him about the rifle I used to harvest my plains game and talking about how the hunts went. He then showed me around his work shop area, and I got to see all the various stages of taxidermy and how it was done. It felt like I was hosting on my very own Discovery Channel show. Jackie, the receptionist at the front, was also very kind, and was quick to provide us with coffee and a milk-tart pie of some kind. We spent a very long time at the taxidermist that morning, hanging out and chatting while we admired the mounts that were in the process of being finished. It was here that I chose the mounts for my own animals, and asked what would be most appropriate for each animal. In the end, Jeane was very helpful and offered some wonderful insights on what would work the best, and while, at the time of this writing, the mounts are still being processed, I am one hundred percent confident in the quality of work. As I told them, they are the artists, here is what I want, and everything else is open to create the most natural looking mounts.

After snagging a few souvenirs from the taxidermist, we moseyed on over to the gunshop in Humansdorp, and there were a handful of legitimately interesting firearms here that we don’t see often in the USA. One in particular was a bolt action .30-06 with iron sights in a synthetic stock, made by Zastava. This was referred to as being a perfect “bakkie” gun, or what we in the states would call a truck gun; simple, durable, and reliable, a utilitarian workhorse perfect for keeping behind the seat or in the gun rack of a farm truck. In fact, the term “bakkie” is in reference to the Afrikaans word “bak”, meaning container or bowl, and refers to the open cargo area in the back of a typical pickup truck. I spent a long time perusing the wares, and there were a couple items that almost came home with me (a pair of leather rifle slings with African game animals embossed into them), but by this point in the trip, I was running rather low on my budgeted money for the trip and had to leave them behind.

After the gunshop, we headed out to Jeffreys Bay, and walked through some of the shops there. It was a big surfing destination from what I was told, and it looked very similar to some of the coastal California towns I’ve been to. With the exception of the vehicles driving on the “wrong” side of the road, it reminded me very much of Carlsbad. We talked to an old couple that had originally been from the area, but had since moved to Germany and were back in South Africa on holiday. Interesting enough, the conversation went straight to hunting, and the old man regaled us with tales of his hunts in Europe, and new destinations were marked down on my list of places to hunt before I leave this world.

Once back to our little spot at Van Stadens, Christo treated us to lunch, which consisted of sandwiches built with tuna, margarine spread, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and cucumbers. Ordinarily, I would never put most of those things on a tuna sandwich, electing instead to keep it simple, but somehow this strange-to-me combination worked quite well. I don’t care much for tomatoes, and usually strongly dislike cucumbers, but these sandwiches were pretty damn good.

In the evening, around 5:45, Christo put ostrich on the braai, along with a few beef steaks, as we sat by the fire and drank beer and hung out. The whole time I had been there, every time someone mentioned ostrich, it was almost always followed up with how delicious and healthy it is, and I was not disappointed. The ostrich meat is seemingly very similar to duck, in that it is cooked similarly (cooked medium rare) and is even close in appearances, being a dark red color. After eating, we spend a bit of time in the surf doing a bit of night fishing. Only a handful of fish were caught, none of which were the species we were after in particular, but Christo insisted they’d be great if we cooked them up for breakfast. We ended the night around the fire, eating leftover meat from the braai and drinking beers, before finally calling it a night around midnight.

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 7

I awoke to my alarm at 7am, but nobody had gotten up yet, so I laid in bed dozing off and on until I could hear the sounds of coffee being made. The morning from that point consisted of sitting outside and drinking coffee while hanging out and talking, while birds twittered in the background. I paid Christo the remainder of what I owed for the hunt, and began planning my next hunt. On the next trip, I will be going for sable, kudu, zebra, warthog, and another ostrich, and potentially another buffalo if the opportunity arises. As I write this I must mention that while the next hunt was originally planned for March of 2026, at this point it must be pushed off due to unforeseen circumstances, but come hell or high water I WILL return to Africa someday for another hunt.

Today is my last full day in South Africa, and by late morning we had switched from sipping coffee to whiskey. It’s a very relaxed and easy-going day today, but I can feel the melancholy creeping in as the realization hits that I will be leaving this place tomorrow morning for the airport, but I am excited to get home and see my girlfriend after almost two weeks of being in a different country, and having plans for the next hunt makes it easier. It’s possible that next time she may even come with me, but that remains to be seen.

Some time later, Christo had me try a sauce he had made, with a peach chutney base. This stuff was absolutely amazing (and I would later cook it at home for my parents and my girlfriend) and I couldn’t get enough of it. It was like the very best of any fry or burger sauce I’d ever tried, and it went on the springbok and blesbok. Tonight, it would be part of dinner, with some on the braai and some done in the oven to bake. That afternoon, we tried the springbok and blesbok on the braai, and they were phenomenal. Both meats were so tender that we could cut them with our forks.

Around 9pm, I decided to call it an early night. I got too much sun, and I was really feeling it. We had gone down to the beach for a few hours after sitting in the sun for most of the day, and of course I had forgotten to apply any sort of sunscreen. Rosaline, Christo’s friend, had come by and brought pizza, brownies, beer, and more ice. We need to leave early tomorrow, and I had already packed up most of my gear and clothes. I’m absolutely exhausted and stuffed full from all the food, and Christo teased that he had more pepperoni for me as he waved the pizza box at me. I mimicked his words back at him, and everyone laughed, and Christo asked where his twin was.

Good ol Flying Fish. There was an attempt at a sand castle.

Christo and his fishing pole.

Roman’s Pizza

Koeksisters.

African Safari - 03/25, PT. 8

Today is last day. Everything was loaded into the truck by 8:30am. My phone is on the charger. My skin looks like a lobster, but the tenderness of the sunburn had faded since last night. We headed into town and Christo introduced me to his tattoo artist, and what had started as kind of a dare was turning into reality; I was getting a springbok tattoo to commemorate my first trip to South Africa. We saw Rosaline one last time, pulled out some money for tips and to pay the tattoo artist, and went to the tattoo parlor. Quentin, the artist, was stoked to be able to do that particular tattoo, saying he loved doing springboks and portraits. After the usual questions were asked, I took off my shirt and lay down on the table. One of the guys there was admiring some of my other ink, and I chatted with him about the wheres and whys as Quentin started putting fresh ink into my skin. The tattoo went a lot quicker than I had anticipated, and after paying the man for his work, we headed out to the airport in Port Elizabeth. Once there, Christo and Arno and I sat together and drank a few more beers before I had to get on the flight.

The outline. Note the recoil bruising from that old single-shot 12 gauge.

Halfway done.

My finished springbok.

Christo, Arno and I had a couple beers while we waited for my flight.

After traveling back in time for a day, I landed in Atlanta around 11pm on Thursday. The last 24 hours, about 19 of which having been spent in the air, were a giant blur. I tried to get some sleep on the flights from PE to JoBurg and from JoBurg to ATL, but it was spotty at best. Once I had gotten my rifles and luggage cleared through customs, I headed to the terminal where my flight back to Oregon was to leave from (but as with anything regarding airlines, subject to change). I sat sipping beers and reflecting on the last 8 days, thinking about the people I met, the friendships I’d made, and the things I’d experienced. It was a fascinating journey, and it had been over a decade since my last voyage outside of the USA. The plan for the next hunt is to go for a 12 day trip, whenever I am able to. I sat and watched people run through the terminals, rushing and fretting about missing their connecting flights, and I’ve got nothing but time. As I sip my beers, I have this heavy feeling in my heart, as though I’ve left a big piece of it behind in South Africa.

Special thanks:

Christo Kemp, CK Hunting Safaris.

Book a hunt here, and be sure to tell Christo I sent ya!

https://www.ckhuntingsafaris.co.za/

Jeane Grieve (and Jackie, as well as the rest of the team at Taxidermy Africa)

https://www.taxidermyafrica.com/

Juanette Mostert, Travel Router

Book your flight:

https://www.travelrouter.co.za/

And Angelica, my wonderful girlfriend, for being so supportive of my adventures and hobbies, and generally putting up with my shit.