14/07/2025
There’s nothing “typical” about waking to the sounds of the African bush.
Before the sun crests the horizon, camp stirs quietly. The aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the smoky breath of the morning fire. Somewhere in the distance, a francolin calls sharply—a reminder that the day has begun.
After a light breakfast, rifles are checked, wind studied, and the trackers fall into rhythm—feet on earth, eyes scanning, minds already far ahead. The rest is instinct. You walk. You wait. You listen. Maybe you find fresh tracks just after sunrise… maybe not until the light begins to fade again.
There’s no clock here. Time is measured in spoor and gut feel.
Lunch is often under a camelthorn tree, quiet and unhurried. Some days, you glass a koppie for hours. Other days, you crawl on your belly through thornveld for a single chance. Whether you take the shot or not—it’s the hours leading up to it that define the hunt.
Back at camp, the fire crackles again. You pour a drink. You laugh. You remember the way the kudu looked just before it slipped into the bush. You tell stories that feel older than the land itself.
And then, under a sky littered with stars, you sleep. Knowing that tomorrow, you’ll do it all again—with the same respect, the same wonder, and the same quiet gratitude for wild places.
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