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.

 

[Hyde]

Chapter 6: A Tour of the Farm

The sprawling farm where we had taken both kudu and eland also held a healthy population of red hartebeest—an animal that had been high on my wish list from the beginning. With Sive busy tackling the monumental skinning job on the eland, Lloyd and I grabbed a quick bite to eat and headed back out in hopes of finding the funny-looking, long-nosed hartebeest.

This property was a tapestry of terrain—deep, brush-choked canyons, low flats, and a high plateau where open-country speedsters like hartebeest tend to roam.

As we cruised through the various zones, we spotted herds of bontebok, a few gemsbok, and some blue wildebeest. Then, nestled in among a group of bontebok, we found our target—a lone bull hartebeest, standing tall and statuesque. His deep red coat was striking, and I caught myself studying him as he blended with his striped cousins, yet stood apart.

The wind howled through the shallow draw where they milled about, but the animals didn’t seem bothered. Lloyd glassed him carefully and confirmed it was a mature bull—the same one they'd seen a few times before in this area. But one thing was clear: getting within shooting range wouldn’t be easy. That was a wide-open plain, and there were a lot of eyes out there.

We watched the group feed slowly over a rise and disappear from view. Using that brief window, we moved in low and slow, hunched over, carefully picking our way forward. Eventually, we reached a spot with a little elevation and enough cover to lie prone. We spotted them again—about 300 yards out. Thirty yards ahead, a small outcropping of rocks offered better position. Lloyd asked if I was comfortable taking the shot from our current spot, but with that howling right-to-left wind, I didn’t feel good about it.

I pointed to the rocks and asked if we could crawl there without blowing the whole thing. The ground was a mess of grass, stickers, and stones—but I had on my trusty plumber pants, complete with built-in kneepads. Crawling wasn’t going to be an issue. Lloyd nodded, and we set off belly-down.

When we got to the rocks, the animals had started to key in on us. They were all alert now, ears up and eyes locked in. We froze low. I used my bino case to rest the rifle and steadied myself. We had closed the gap to around 250 yards, but that wind was still a factor. We agreed I should hold about six inches right of the target to compensate for the gusts.

I exhaled, took up the slack on the trigger, and sent one. The shot passed just in front of his nose. Elevation was perfect, but we had misjudged the wind drift. The whole herd exploded and vanished over the rise in seconds.

Lloyd quickly assessed the situation and pointed to a group of trees near an old homestead site. He figured we could drive around and park there to reposition for another play. We parked and set off again on foot, heading in the direction they’d gone. Sure enough, we found the herd again—and our bull was still with them.

If there was one silver lining to the wind, it was that I could cough freely without fear of spooking game. The chest cold still had me in its grip, but the wind covered everything. What followed was a two-hour game of bushveld chess. We’d sneak forward, they’d move. They’d vanish over a rise, we’d crest it and glass again. Back and forth it went.

Eventually, we found ourselves tucked into a dense grove of trees on the edge of a big field. The herd would graze toward us, then away, then off to one side. We just kept shadowing them. After what felt like hours, Lloyd decided we were done playing tag.

“Stay close behind me,” he said. “We’re walking in.”

We didn’t march straight at them. Instead, we took a slow, angled approach—just enough to look like we weren’t a threat. Amazingly, it worked. We closed the distance to about 200 yards. Lloyd set the sticks, and I got into position.

Even with the wind, I felt steady. The bull stood quartering slightly. I made a slight wind correction, squeezed the trigger, and the bull dropped on the spot—but he was still alive and thrashing. I chambered another round, but before I had a clear second shot, the bontebok crowded in. I held fire, hoping the bull would expire quickly.

He didn’t. In true antelope fashion, he suddenly sprang back up and bolted.

We knew he was hit hard and that recovery was likely. We scanned for movement, then moved cautiously forward. Eventually, Lloyd spotted him again in thick cover. By the time I arrived, he was up and running again, though clearly wounded. We followed at a trot, both of us breathing hard, and finally the bull stopped, standing broadside about 150 yards away. I took one last shot, just behind the shoulder, and it was over.

When we walked up to him, we saw that my first shot had gone through both lungs and exited clean. He just didn’t know he was dead yet. His horns were heavy, nearly touching at the bases, long and worn with age. His hide was flawless—smooth, almost silky, with deep, rich coloring and sharp features. I was torn. I love flat skins, but this animal was too perfect to cape out only for leather. He would be mounted—wall pedestal style—and I could already picture where he’d go back home.

We arrive back at the skinning shed and Sive was tidying up after taking care of the eland. He was glad to see that we had been successful and he got to work right away on the hartebeest. In no time, Sive had caped the hartebeest, and the carcass was hanging along side the huge eland in the walk in cooler.

On the way back to the main highway we were fortunate to see one of my favorite sights on this trip: A beautiful mountain zebra, along with a Zonkey. We had also seen an albino sable in the same location on the previous trip to this farm.

It had been an unforgettable day. Two incredible animals, each hard-earned, both taken on this magnificent piece of land. It felt like more than I deserved. But I was grateful—grateful for the experience, for the hunt, and for the people who made it all possible.

 

[Ridge Runner]

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.

View attachment 692450

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.

View attachment 692451

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.

View attachment 692452

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.

Congrats on your first eland. They are monsters.

I just gotta ask;

How bad were the ticks on your eland?
My eland and several more of the larger animals I successfully hunted were loaded with ticks.

Did Lloyd volunteer showing you that nasty tick that causes tick bite fever?

Are you going to have your eland mounted as a (highly recommend) wall pedestal, or shoulder mount?

LMAO....thinking about my eland hunts.....(in jest)...Looks like your eland was dragged out whole....so it wasn’t much of a problem for all the helpers getting it to the tractor....or they haven't yet learned it is easier to get the big antelopes such as: eland, kudu, gemsbok, and sable in half at the back of the rib cage to get them to the tractor, or truck, with trailer.

Saying Sive has his hands full for the next few hours in definitely an understatement.

Just saying from experience. Whether you tip or not these fellows that work to get your big antelope out of the heavy brush and up and/or down mountainsides earn their tip.

 

[Ridge Runner]

Chapter 6: A Tour of the Farm

The sprawling farm where we had taken both kudu and eland also held a healthy population of red hartebeest—an animal that had been high on my wish list from the beginning. With Sive busy tackling the monumental skinning job on the eland, Lloyd and I grabbed a quick bite to eat and headed back out in hopes of finding the funny-looking, long-nosed hartebeest.

This property was a tapestry of terrain—deep, brush-choked canyons, low flats, and a high plateau where open-country speedsters like hartebeest tend to roam.

View attachment 692708

As we cruised through the various zones, we spotted herds of bontebok, a few gemsbok, and some blue wildebeest. Then, nestled in among a group of bontebok, we found our target—a lone bull hartebeest, standing tall and statuesque. His deep red coat was striking, and I caught myself studying him as he blended with his striped cousins, yet stood apart.

The wind howled through the shallow draw where they milled about, but the animals didn’t seem bothered. Lloyd glassed him carefully and confirmed it was a mature bull—the same one they'd seen a few times before in this area. But one thing was clear: getting within shooting range wouldn’t be easy. That was a wide-open plain, and there were a lot of eyes out there.

We watched the group feed slowly over a rise and disappear from view. Using that brief window, we moved in low and slow, hunched over, carefully picking our way forward. Eventually, we reached a spot with a little elevation and enough cover to lie prone. We spotted them again—about 300 yards out. Thirty yards ahead, a small outcropping of rocks offered better position. Lloyd asked if I was comfortable taking the shot from our current spot, but with that howling right-to-left wind, I didn’t feel good about it.

I pointed to the rocks and asked if we could crawl there without blowing the whole thing. The ground was a mess of grass, stickers, and stones—but I had on my trusty plumber pants, complete with built-in kneepads. Crawling wasn’t going to be an issue. Lloyd nodded, and we set off belly-down.

When we got to the rocks, the animals had started to key in on us. They were all alert now, ears up and eyes locked in. We froze low. I used my bino case to rest the rifle and steadied myself. We had closed the gap to around 250 yards, but that wind was still a factor. We agreed I should hold about six inches right of the target to compensate for the gusts.

I exhaled, took up the slack on the trigger, and sent one. The shot passed just in front of his nose. Elevation was perfect, but we had misjudged the wind drift. The whole herd exploded and vanished over the rise in seconds.

Lloyd quickly assessed the situation and pointed to a group of trees near an old homestead site. He figured we could drive around and park there to reposition for another play. We parked and set off again on foot, heading in the direction they’d gone. Sure enough, we found the herd again—and our bull was still with them.

If there was one silver lining to the wind, it was that I could cough freely without fear of spooking game. The chest cold still had me in its grip, but the wind covered everything. What followed was a two-hour game of bushveld chess. We’d sneak forward, they’d move. They’d vanish over a rise, we’d crest it and glass again. Back and forth it went.

Eventually, we found ourselves tucked into a dense grove of trees on the edge of a big field. The herd would graze toward us, then away, then off to one side. We just kept shadowing them. After what felt like hours, Lloyd decided we were done playing tag.

“Stay close behind me,” he said. “We’re walking in.”

We didn’t march straight at them. Instead, we took a slow, angled approach—just enough to look like we weren’t a threat. Amazingly, it worked. We closed the distance to about 200 yards. Lloyd set the sticks, and I got into position.

Even with the wind, I felt steady. The bull stood quartering slightly. I made a slight wind correction, squeezed the trigger, and the bull dropped on the spot—but he was still alive and thrashing. I chambered another round, but before I had a clear second shot, the bontebok crowded in. I held fire, hoping the bull would expire quickly.

He didn’t. In true antelope fashion, he suddenly sprang back up and bolted.

We knew he was hit hard and that recovery was likely. We scanned for movement, then moved cautiously forward. Eventually, Lloyd spotted him again in thick cover. By the time I arrived, he was up and running again, though clearly wounded. We followed at a trot, both of us breathing hard, and finally the bull stopped, standing broadside about 150 yards away. I took one last shot, just behind the shoulder, and it was over.

When we walked up to him, we saw that my first shot had gone through both lungs and exited clean. He just didn’t know he was dead yet. His horns were heavy, nearly touching at the bases, long and worn with age. His hide was flawless—smooth, almost silky, with deep, rich coloring and sharp features. I was torn. I love flat skins, but this animal was too perfect to cape out only for leather. He would be mounted—wall pedestal style—and I could already picture where he’d go back home.

View attachment 692710

We arrive back at the skinning shed and Sive was tidying up after taking care of the eland. He was glad to see that we had been successful and he got to work right away on the hartebeest. In no time, Sive had caped the hartebeest, and the carcass was hanging along side the huge eland in the walk in cooler.

View attachment 692711

On the way back to the main highway we were fortunate to see one of my favorite sights on this trip: A beautiful mountain zebra, along with a Zonkey. We had also seen an albino sable in the same location on the previous trip to this farm.

View attachment 692712

View attachment 692713

It had been an unforgettable day. Two incredible animals, each hard-earned, both taken on this magnificent piece of land. It felt like more than I deserved. But I was grateful—grateful for the experience, for the hunt, and for the people who made it all possible.

That is a nice hartebeest.

 

[Hyde]

Congrats on your first eland. They are monsters.

I just gotta ask;

How bad were the ticks on your eland?
My eland and several more of the larger animals I successfully hunted were loaded with ticks.

Did Lloyd volunteer showing you that nasty tick that causes tick bite fever?

Are you going to have your eland mounted as a (highly recommend) wall pedestal, or shoulder mount?

LMAO....thinking about my eland hunts.....(in jest)...Looks like your eland was dragged out whole....so it wasn’t much of a problem for all the helpers getting it to the tractor....or they haven't yet learned it is easier to get the big antelopes such as: eland, kudu, gemsbok, and sable in half at the back of the rib cage to get them to the tractor, or truck, with trailer.

Saying Sive has his hands full for the next few hours in definitely an understatement.

Just saying from experience. Whether you tip or not these fellows that work to get your big antelope out of the heavy brush and up and/or down mountainsides earn their tip.

Not too many ticks noted on the eland. The tick problem was back closer to the lodge, usually associated with the tall grass. Pepper ticks to be precise. Lloyd and Sive had them all over their pants at times. I had taken extra precaution and sent all of my hunting clothes (socks included) to Insect Shield for treatment. I never saw one tick on my clothes or found a tick on my body the whole trip.

As for getting the eland out, he dropped about 100’ from a jeep trail. They winched the bull up onto the jeep trail, and then rolled him into a platform on the back of the tractor. Even with all the help, it was very challenging to get the bull onto the tractor.

The eland will be mounted European style. I just don’t have the space to display an animal of that size.

 

[Ridge Runner]

Not too many ticks noted on the eland. The tick problem was back closer to the lodge, usually associated with the tall grass. Pepper ticks to be precise. Lloyd and Sive had them all over their pants at times. I had taken extra precaution and sent all of my hunting clothes (socks included) to Insect Shield for treatment. I never saw one tick on my clothes or found a tick on my body the whole trip.

As for getting the eland out, he dropped about 100’ from a jeep trail. They winched the bull up onto the jeep trail, and then rolled him into a platform on the back of the tractor. Even with all the help, it was very challenging to get the bull onto the tractor.

The eland will be mounted European style. I just don’t have the space to display an animal of that size.

LOL...I treated my hunting clothes with a strong solution of Permetherin before I left the states and had to retreat my clothing using an already premix solution of Permetherin a couple of weeks into my trip after seeing a tick crawling on my pant leg. I weaken the pre mix down to use on my skin, legs when wearing shorts and arms when wearing short sleeve shirts, and after finding a second tick (one of the nasty ones) crawling on my arm.

The pepper ticks were really bad....on the rest of the various hunting parties; mainly in Limpopo and the East Cape areas.

Just something to consider;
I didn’t think I could display another eland and a buffalo mount either then my taxidermist showed me a wall pedestal mount of each.

This, my second eland has longer horns than my first eland which is shoulder mounted. So as the alternative I'm trading wall space for room area space, by having both the eland and cow buffalo wall pedestal mounted.

I am at the point before this shipment of trophies arrive home to seriously look into building an addition onto the house as a designated trophy room with 12 or 14 foot walls and with more floor space.

Now back to the rest of your report. We want to read more about your adventures.

 

[Nyati]

Congrats for a great hunt, and thanks for sharing !

 

[ILDRHNTR]

Congrats on a truly spectacular hunt!! You harvested several tremendous animals. Thank you for sharing your hunt with us. I sure hope there’s more to come. Your writing is excellent.

 

[Hyde]

Chapter 7: A Much Needed Down Day

By day seven, we had five beautiful animals in the salt. I was completely satisfied with the hunt, and if I didn’t take another animal, that would have been just fine with me. I was content—grateful just to be in Africa. There were moments I’d catch myself sitting quietly, just staring at the landscape surrounding our home away from home: the peaceful, inviting Outspan Lodge.

The lodge itself was exceptional—spacious yet cozy, with a lovely dining and gathering area and separate rooms for guests. My room had a comfortable queen-sized bed, a private bathroom, and, to my surprise, a solid Wi-Fi connection that made staying in touch with family back home almost effortless. That combination of comfort and wildness made it feel like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

After a slow morning and a leisurely breakfast with plenty of coffee, we decided to take a little day trip to the river for some fishing. Rods and reels were gathered up, and before long, we were at a beautiful spot not far from the lodge. We ended up doing more relaxing than fishing, which was just fine. It was the kind of day that invited you to slow down—to soak in the sights and smells of the bush, and to share stories that grew taller with each telling.

As usual, Lloyd’s eyes never stopped working. At one point, he glassed the high canyon walls and spotted a herd of about ten kudu, including one solid bull. We watched them from across the river, maybe a thousand yards out, as they worked their way near the top of the canyon. Just imagining a stalk in that kind of country gave me a shiver. It was the kind of adventure that might have tempted me in my twenties, when I was leaner and had legs made for scrambling up rock faces.

The terrain of the Eastern Cape reminded me so much of the rimrock country of eastern Oregon where I grew up—rugged, wild, and dotted with steep canyons and broken ridgelines. Aside from the basketball-sized rocks that rolled underfoot and the ever-present thorn bushes, it could’ve passed for home.

We sat by the river for hours—glassing the ridges, trading stories, and simply enjoying the quiet company and riverside fellowship. It was the break I didn’t know I needed. After six whirlwind days of hunting, moving, tracking, and shooting, a day like this let my mind and body catch up with each other.

Later that afternoon, clouds began to roll in, and we packed up and made our way back to the lodge, looking forward to another of the chef’s excellent evening meals. Tomorrow would be Day 8—just three hunting days left.

Our focus now would shift toward the final piece of my spiral slam: the elusive bushbuck. I’ll admit, my optimism was low. But Lloyd’s sheer determination and passion for hunting the little brown antelope gave me a flicker of hope. Maybe—just maybe—we’d find one.

 

[Hyde]

Chapter 9: The Elusive Brown Antelope

Earlier in the week, we had spent countless hours searching for bushbuck. To be honest, I was relieved when we shifted focus to other species on my list. But now, with five of my most favorite animals taken and three full days left, I was ready to commit—truly commit—to giving this little brown antelope everything I had.

It would turn out to be even more difficult than I expected, and in the end, the hunt earned my deep respect.

We glassed for what had to be a combined 12 hours a day—day after day—with few sightings. If anything, they would catch a quick glimpse, but nothing that would convert to an opportunity. But on the second-to-last day, we finally caught a break.

We had posted up near several large fields, separated by choked draws, creeks, and thick bush. Lloyd and Sive had seen a mature ram here the evening prior—just for a moment—before he vanished into the scrub with a handful of ewes right at dark. That alone gave us hope. Then, as if on cue, one of the farm workers passed by and paused to chat. Lloyd spoke to him in their native tongue, and a crucial piece of intel emerged: the same ram was known to frequent this exact field every morning at daybreak, without fail.

That was all Lloyd needed to hear.

The next morning, we were in place 30 minutes before sunrise. As the first light hit the field, there he was—just as predicted—feeding confidently alongside four or five ewes.

Sive stayed back with the truck to maintain a high vantage point and would feed us intel by radio. Lloyd and I dropped low and began our approach, using hedgerows and bush for cover. We initially set up at about 300 yards, but we both came to the same conclusion: too far. We needed to get closer.

We backed into the bush and slipped down into a narrow draw, using the terrain to conceal our movement. A small creek had to be crossed, and we weaved through thorn patches, angling carefully to improve our position. We slowly closed the distance, and eventually had to leave the cover and venture out into the open to gain a shooting position. Each step we took felt like it could be our last before they busted us. Lloyd stopped. He had that look—this was as good as it was going to get.

He quietly set up the sticks. We were on a slight sidehill, but I managed to get steady. Through the 10-power scope, I finally got my first real look at a bushbuck ram. He was stunning. His coat was a rich, chocolate brown, almost glossy in the early light. I took a few seconds—rare for me—to admire the shine of his horns and the elegant markings on his face.

He was quartering away—an ideal angle—and my crosshairs were locked on the shoulder. Then Lloyd whispered, “Wait.” There was a small bush partially obscuring his vitals. I hadn’t even noticed. Lloyd ranged the ram—something like 160 meters—and we waited.

The ram fed slowly, and I silently counted down the steps he needed to take to clear that last bush. Lloyd whispered again, wanting one last range read. By then, I was already applying about two pounds of pressure on the 4 pound trigger.

Finally, I heard him say, “You’re good.”

The shot rang out instantly. A solid hit—no doubt. I cycled the bolt, got back on the rifle just in time to see the ram bound twice and vanish into the bush. Lloyd grinned. “Smoked him.”

We cautiously approached, scanning the dense cover. I learned that Bushbuck have a reputation for being aggressive when wounded, and Lloyd insisted I stay back while he advanced, rifle at the ready. It felt like forever. Then I heard the metallic click of a cleared rifle action. “Come see your ram Mr. Steve.”

The ram had dropped within feet of where I’d shot him.

As I walked up, I was overwhelmed by his beauty. His coat was rich and smooth, his markings distinct—the spots on his face, the crisp white chevrons on the bridge of his nose. For the next thirty minutes, it was all handshakes and picture-taking. I soaked it in. This animal was hard-won—every bit of him.

At that moment, I knew my safari had come to an end.

I felt a deep wave of gratitude—for the animal, the land, and most of all for Lloyd and Sive. They had worked so hard for this ram. This was their trophy as much as mine. I had done the easy part.

 

[Ridge Runner]

Chapter 9: The Elusive Brown Antelope

Earlier in the week, we had spent countless hours searching for bushbuck. To be honest, I was relieved when we shifted focus to other species on my list. But now, with five of my most favorite animals taken and three full days left, I was ready to commit—truly commit—to giving this little brown antelope everything I had.

It would turn out to be even more difficult than I expected, and in the end, the hunt earned my deep respect.

We glassed for what had to be a combined 12 hours a day—day after day—with few sightings. If anything, they would catch a quick glimpse, but nothing that would convert to an opportunity. But on the second-to-last day, we finally caught a break.

View attachment 693334

We had posted up near several large fields, separated by choked draws, creeks, and thick bush. Lloyd and Sive had seen a mature ram here the evening prior—just for a moment—before he vanished into the scrub with a handful of ewes right at dark. That alone gave us hope. Then, as if on cue, one of the farm workers passed by and paused to chat. Lloyd spoke to him in their native tongue, and a crucial piece of intel emerged: the same ram was known to frequent this exact field every morning at daybreak, without fail.

That was all Lloyd needed to hear.

The next morning, we were in place 30 minutes before sunrise. As the first light hit the field, there he was—just as predicted—feeding confidently alongside four or five ewes.

Sive stayed back with the truck to maintain a high vantage point and would feed us intel by radio. Lloyd and I dropped low and began our approach, using hedgerows and bush for cover. We initially set up at about 300 yards, but we both came to the same conclusion: too far. We needed to get closer.

We backed into the bush and slipped down into a narrow draw, using the terrain to conceal our movement. A small creek had to be crossed, and we weaved through thorn patches, angling carefully to improve our position. We slowly closed the distance, and eventually had to leave the cover and venture out into the open to gain a shooting position. Each step we took felt like it could be our last before they busted us. Lloyd stopped. He had that look—this was as good as it was going to get.

He quietly set up the sticks. We were on a slight sidehill, but I managed to get steady. Through the 10-power scope, I finally got my first real look at a bushbuck ram. He was stunning. His coat was a rich, chocolate brown, almost glossy in the early light. I took a few seconds—rare for me—to admire the shine of his horns and the elegant markings on his face.

He was quartering away—an ideal angle—and my crosshairs were locked on the shoulder. Then Lloyd whispered, “Wait.” There was a small bush partially obscuring his vitals. I hadn’t even noticed. Lloyd ranged the ram—something like 160 meters—and we waited.

View attachment 693335

The ram fed slowly, and I silently counted down the steps he needed to take to clear that last bush. Lloyd whispered again, wanting one last range read. By then, I was already applying about two pounds of pressure on the 4 pound trigger.

Finally, I heard him say, “You’re good.”

The shot rang out instantly. A solid hit—no doubt. I cycled the bolt, got back on the rifle just in time to see the ram bound twice and vanish into the bush. Lloyd grinned. “Smoked him.”

We cautiously approached, scanning the dense cover. I learned that Bushbuck have a reputation for being aggressive when wounded, and Lloyd insisted I stay back while he advanced, rifle at the ready. It felt like forever. Then I heard the metallic click of a cleared rifle action. “Come see your ram Mr. Steve.”

The ram had dropped within feet of where I’d shot him.

As I walked up, I was overwhelmed by his beauty. His coat was rich and smooth, his markings distinct—the spots on his face, the crisp white chevrons on the bridge of his nose. For the next thirty minutes, it was all handshakes and picture-taking. I soaked it in. This animal was hard-won—every bit of him.

View attachment 693349

At that moment, I knew my safari had come to an end.

I felt a deep wave of gratitude—for the animal, the land, and most of all for Lloyd and Sive. They had worked so hard for this ram. This was their trophy as much as mine. I had done the easy part.

Nice bushbuck. Congrats.

LOL....It must be a joke among PHs to wait until after the bushbuck is shot before informing their clients that are hunting bushbucks for the first time that bushbucks are known to charge when wounded or when surprised/spooked in brush.

 

[Betterinthebush]

Great writing and so informative. Thank you.

 

[Art Lambart II]

Great report, and a great Spiral Slam.

 

[Hunt anything]

Great job, beautiful trophies.
Congratulations