SOUTH AFRICA: Dream Trip With KMG Hunting Safaris

[swashington]

Thanks Steve. Hope you and Brenda made it home safely. I'm sitting at my desk working now, but in reality, I'm still there....

Yes sir, already back in NC working. We managed a couple of days at home in Florida and got out of there as quick as we could. Already too hot. Ready to go back to Africa, the world needs more winters.

 

[Hyde]

Chapter 4: Intro to Bushbuck, and a Beautiful Old Impala Ram

On Day Three, we stayed close to home. The morning was spent searching for bushbuck on property owned by the lodge’s family. We glassed for hours, scanning every pocket of thick brush and shaded hillside, but never saw more than a bird or the flick of a tail. After a few hours, we headed back to the lodge for lunch and a short rest before venturing out again in the evening.

That day set the rhythm for the next few: up early to glass for bushbuck, back to the lodge for a midday break, then out again until dark. It was becoming something of a ritual. But after several days, I began to wonder if this whole bushbuck thing wasn’t Africa’s version of a snipe hunt. I’d only seen one in three days—a distant shape at 500+ yards that melted into the shadows before I could get a good look. Through the spotting scope, I could just make out horns before he disappeared into the thicket like a ghost.

The next morning, we drove about an hour to a new farm owned by one of Lloyd’s lifelong friends. We arrived at first light and settled in for another long session of glassing. I was starting to develop a deep respect for Lloyd and Sive’s patience. They could sit for hours, eyes glued to the same patch of bush, never wavering. That kind of discipline has never been my strength, but I did my best to stay focused.

It was moments like these that made me grateful I had booked a ten-day safari. I didn’t want to feel rushed. With both nyala and kudu already in the salt, the pressure was off. We had time to hunt deliberately. And I was beginning to see that bushbuck wasn’t just another check on Lloyd’s list—this was personal for him. He has a real passion for hunting them, and the lack of opportunities only fueled his drive. Every evening, we’d talk through the plan for the next day. And every morning, we were back at it.

After several days of slow action, we decided to take a break from the bushbuck grind. Lloyd suggested a trip to a larger farm some distance from the lodge. He encouraged me to bring my big camera—we’d be focusing on impala, but there was a good chance we’d also see other game, maybe even rhino.

The drive alone was worth the trip. We passed through stunning countryside dotted with giraffe, zebra, waterbuck, and buffalo. I was in my element, snapping photos and enjoying the scenery.

Eventually, we spotted a rhino grazing in the open, and I took my time capturing every angle I could.

Then, as we rounded a bend, Lloyd spotted a lone impala ram in the distance. Without hesitation, he pointed and said, “That’s one we should look at.”

The camera was quickly swapped for a rifle, and we set off on foot.

It didn’t take long to catch up. The ram was moving steadily, not spooked but clearly alert. He crested a small rise, and we followed slowly. As we reached the top, we peeked over and found him standing under a tree, about 75 yards away. We took a few cautious steps. Lloyd set the sticks and motioned for me to get on the gun.

“Tell me what you see,” he whispered.

“He’s facing straight on,” I replied quietly. “I’m steady on his chest.”

“If you’ve got a steady shot,” he said, “go ahead.”

The shot felt clean. The ram dropped in his tracks.

As we walked up, I saw he was an old warrior—sweeping, wide horns and a well-worn face. Lloyd pointed out his teeth, worn almost flat with age. We took a few photos, appreciating the moment. This wasn’t the biggest impala ever taken, but he was beautiful and clearly near the end of his life. A perfect trophy.

I opted for a European mount and a full flat skin. Sive set to work expertly tending to the skinning.

One of the hardest things for me to get used to in Africa was standing by while someone else cared for the animal. Not because I doubted their skill—Sive is an absolute expert—but because I’ve always believed that field care is part of the hunt. Where I come from, hunters take pride in handling the meat and prepping their trophies. It felt strange to be a spectator.

Still, I reminded myself—this was their world. Their rhythm. And they did it right.

 

[jacques smith]

Knap gennad — nicely done. Great Nyala

 

[gillettehunter]

Nice impala and good shooting. That Lechwe in your picture above looks like a dandy!
Bruce

 

[Ridge Runner]

Congrats on getting some very nice animals. I am enjoying your hunting report.

 

[Sabre]

I remember you posting in the past about your missed opportunities to go. I am really glad to see that you made it and I am enjoying your hunt report. Looking forward to more.

 

[Hyde]

Chapter 5: Huge Antelope

Eland has always ranked high on my list of dream animals. Those long, heavy, spiral horns have lived rent-free in my head for as long as I can remember. On this particular day, we made the two-hour trek back to the same farm where I had hunted kudu earlier in the week. We had seen a nice herd of eland at the head of the canyon during that hunt, playing a quiet game of cat and mouse in the shadows. The question was—would they still be there four days later?

Marius, the owner of KMG Hunting Safaris, had his doubts. He did his best to manage my expectations, reminding me that eland are notoriously nomadic: here today, gone tomorrow. But I couldn’t help feeling lucky. Things had gone our way so far, and I hoped we could ride that streak just a little longer.

We arrived at the farm and bounced our way up the rough jeep trails to a high overlook—one that offered a full view of the same sprawling canyon where we had chased kudu. Almost immediately, Sive and Lloyd spotted a large figure moving through the distant brush: the pale silver and cream hide of a huge eland bull, shimmering in the morning light.

We wasted no time. We drove as close as the terrain allowed, then Sive pushed forward quickly on foot to find an ambush spot. I, unfortunately, was battling a nasty chest cold. My lungs were only operating at about 70%, and the uphill walk was punishing. Every breath was a balancing act between effort and the growing need to cough. Lloyd stayed back with me, pacing our progress and helping me manage the struggle.

About halfway to the canyon’s edge, Sive’s voice crackled through the radio—low and urgent:
“I see a large eland bull, come quickly!”

That was all I needed to hear. I shifted into gear and made the final stretch as fast as I could. As we reached the rim, I saw him—feeding across the canyon, moving in and out of aloe trees. He was calm, unaware of us, and absolutely stunning. The bluish hue of his front quarters stood out clearly even at a distance. I forced myself to not look at the horns. My heart was already racing, and I didn’t need any more adrenaline.

We crept forward slowly, inch by inch, using trees and brush to mask our movement. Finally, we reached a position right on the canyon edge—about 250 yards from the bull. I got set up on the shooting sticks while Lloyd adjusted the range on my scope.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “Work on your breathing.”

I wanted to cough so badly I thought I might explode. I used every trick I knew to fight the urge. I thought I had the shot and asked Lloyd for the green light. He held me back.

“Wait—he’s still quartering. Let him turn. We’ve got time.”

Apparently, eland are the most patient animals in the world. He stood there—barely moving—for what felt like an hour. Meanwhile, I was locked in, fighting shaky legs and rising fatigue. Standing on the sticks for that long is deceptively hard. My breathing was shallow, and the scope was starting to dance.

Lloyd could see it. He stepped in, supported the rifle for a moment, and told me to relax and stretch out. That 30-second break made all the difference. I got back on the gun, now solid and focused.

Soon, the bull shifted. He stepped sideways into a clear opening—completely broadside. I had already mapped out the terrain and knew this was the moment we were waiting for.

“There,” Lloyd said softly. “See that bulge on the shoulder? Aim there.”

I settled the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger.

Crack.
The report of the hit echoed across the canyon. The bull lurched, spun, and began to run.

“I’m taking another one!” I called out, racking the bolt. The evening before, Marius has advised me that if the bull was still up, keep shooting! I was simply following orders!

Before Lloyd could object, I sent a second round and was rewarded with another report of the bullet hitting home. The bull stumbled and crashed down the slope, breaking through a large tree before coming to rest about 10 yards below where he’d been hit.

I stayed on the rifle. “If he moves, I’m sending another,” I warned.

Lloyd smiled and said, “You won’t need to. That first shot was perfect—right through the heart.”

From our position, there was no direct way to reach him. We studied the landscape, picked some landmarks, and hustled back to the truck to drive around. It took nearly 30 minutes to reach him.

As I approached the downed bull, I was stunned by his size. Photos and hunting books don’t prepare you for the real thing. His body was tangled in a dense bush, and we wrestled with him for quite some time just to get him into a position for proper pictures.

Lloyd called the farm manager to report our success, and within minutes, a tractor and five or six helpers arrived to assist with recovery. Even with all the help, moving him was no easy task.

We took plenty of photos, marveling at the bull’s mass and beauty, before heading to the farm’s well-equipped skinning shed. Sive got to work immediately, and it was clear he had his hands full for the next few hours.

As I stood there watching the process, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude—for the opportunity to take such a magnificent animal, for the skills and dedication of my PH, for Sive’s sharp eyes and steady hands, and for the unseen team of local workers who helped make the moment possible.

This was more than a trophy. It was a memory etched in stone.