With trout season still two weeks off and the news bulging with virus reports, I wonder how to distance myself mentally from this national alarm. Ah, let’s remember my trip to Africa, the hot sun, sweeping grasslands and scattered thorny scrub, impenetrable in spots, where countless game roams and every day is an adventure into the unknown.
When the alarm went off that Namibian morning, it was pitch black and I was plotting how to quickly snap on the wall light and blind my daughter when the ornate lamp beside my bed lit up like the sun! I cried out and ducked under the covers, cartwheels of yellow explosions twisting in my tortured eyes. Chrissy burst out laughing, she’d beaten me at my own game. Well, I did get her yesterday.
Stepping outside, the far off, high-pitched call of a jackal echoed. An ostrich squawked in answer. Against the faint dawn sky the charming silhouette and bewitching curves of the lodge’s thatched roof were visible and warm, inviting lights glowed from the lodge. A wood fire was burning inside and we backed up to it, welcoming the heat. Bacon and eggs for breakfast, then into the vehicle.
It was still nippy, the Toyota heater welcome. The land was still shadowed and dim, it’d be 15 minutes before the sun touched the horizon. Suddenly, Andre hit the brakes. A group of alert oryx stood 30 yards off, their black and white striped faces and beautiful markings clearly visible, several with impressively long horns.
Several times, steenbok, tiny antelope weighing about 20 pounds, dashed across the trail, a warthog and two piglets were glimpsed, then some kudu females peeked at us from the brush before turning and vanishing. As we neared a gentle rise a small herd of hartebeest hightailed it out of sight, the dust rising behind them. Strange birds flew or ran. Sand grouse, red-billed spurfowl, laughing doves everywhere and then a large flock of guinea fowl. The variety of life here is bewildering.
Twenty minutes later we saw our first eland some 300 yards off, but even at that distance they were awesomely huge. Weighing 2,000 pounds each, the massive animals easily jumped the five-foot fence and disappeared into the savannah. Fences mean nothing to the game here, all jump them with ease, and only the cattle are contained.
We soon drew near a wide, bowl-shaped expanse, thorn brush ringed with a small lake in the center. Any species of game might be hanging around the water.
We stopped and glassed the bordering sand and rock scrub but saw nothing, continuing on our way. We’d barely started when Simon, our tracker, leaned over speaking excitedly in Afrikaans to Andre. We stopped and I raised my binoculars. A quarter mile off, among the thickets of sweet thorn, was a herd of springbok. Springbok are a beautifully marked antelope weighing 80 to 110 pounds. They’re flighty and spook easily.
Andre, our guide, suddenly spoke. “Grab the rifle! There’s a magnificent buck there, really something, let’s go!”
Crouching low, we scuttled into the brush. The sun beat down with a dazzling brilliance on the reddish sand as we snaked ever closer, sometimes retreating and tracing another route in order to remain unseen. Glancing back at Chrissy I saw her face tense as she carefully placed each foot among bone dry twigs and patches of crunchy grass. We mustn’t make a sound.
Finally, Simon bent very low, peeked under an overhanging thorn bush and slowly backed up. Andre set me in the spot he’d left and set up the sticks. Sitting I positioned the rifle, squinting across 250 yards of bone dry, dazzling lake bed to the thickets on the far side. Several springbok were visible, but one had horns far larger than the others.
The heat waves from the hot ground danced and swayed in the scope, the crosshairs moving gently with them. He’s not a large target and the nervous antelope are all swishing their tails, staring at us and on edge.
“Shoot!” Andre whispers, nervous himself. I steady the crosshairs and squeeze. “Wham!” The shot surprised me. The Springbok jumps, whirls and disappears.
Simon, our tracker grins and remarks I hit him. I desperately hope so. We march across the hot lake bed and Simon finds blood. After a quarter of a mile doubt nags at me, but then just 100 yards further on lays the buck. Hit perfectly, he ran over 500 yards. African animals are incredibly tough.
Andre quickly measures the buck and with a huge grin announces it will make the record book. “What! Are you kidding? I never dreamed!” I’m slightly stunned by the news.
Andre absolutely insists I mount the animal and won’t let up until I agree.
Chrissy had watched appreciatively and with relish Andre beating my Scottish frugality out of me. When I finally agreed to do so she took me aside. “Dad, it makes the record book, the biggest they’ve shot here in years and you’re not going to mount it? Stop being cheap, it’s the right thing to do.”
They were right of course.
Once the decision was made I could finally begin to marvel at my good fortune and admire this magnificent springbok. Delight began to flood my being; what a splendid animal and how fortunate the chance that led me to him. There truly was much to be thankful for.
