kgesch
AH senior member
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2013
- Messages
- 72
- Reaction score
- 108
- Location
- Cedar Grove, Wisconsin
- Media
- 21
- Hunted
- USA South Africa and Canada
We all know that prior to an Africa trip we do our due diligence, read, check around, check again, re-check, then we make our choice of outfitter and pray for the best. I participated in a hunt, a great hunt, and an even better experience, that fits this process exactly.
Five years ago I went on a memorable first African hunt with my daughter, son-in-law and wife with Andrew Renton, guided by Martin Neuper, and hosted by Andrew and Deb Brill of Mpotshane Lodge. I wrote a brief summary shortly thereafter (“Great hunt with Kei River Safaris” on AH). Starting six or so years ago, as preparation for that hunt, I began to follow, on Facebook, the exploits of a PH who worked for a different outfitter. His name, Thurston Whittle, seemed to come up a lot with successful hunters and quality reviews. I also began to fire off comments and congratulations, and gradually we began a regular correspondence that has continued to this day.
Not overly long ago, Thurston (and his wife Sanrie) began plans to establish their own hunting outfit, or at least begin the process. He then asked if I would be willing to take a chance on a hunt with him. I wondered at the time whether he would want to take a chance on me hunting with him. As it turned out, W-T Outfitters, the new kid on the block, put on a fantastic East Cape cultural and hunting experience.
My wife Gwendy and I began making plans seriously in the last year. We selected dates (June 10-20ish), made plans, continued badgering Thurston for details, changing my mind about animals; all of the usual pre-hunt stuff. I began going to the range with my brother (“Gesch” on AH), and prematurely as it turns out, he pronounced me fit to shoot in Africa.
Gwendy found the best deal on flights possible, which included a 24 hour layover in London. We had a great day learning “the tube,” visiting The Globe Theater (as a British Literature teacher, that was a must), boating the Thames, etc. Our next two flights took us from London to Cape Town and then on to Port Elizabeth, where Thurston was waiting.
After a 45 minute drive we arrived at his newly renovated house and lodge, located north and a bit west of Addo Elephant Park, at the foot of the Zuurberg Mountains (which is redundant since “berg” means “mountain”). Thurston and his wife Sanrie totally gutted and redid an old farm house, rendering it in a kind of Dutch Colonial meets Modernist style. He also built, of rock from the property, a large porch-deck around much of the house. The result is attractive, homey and is well suited to the terrain and history.
We unloaded our belongings in our room, and, having chosen not to bring my own weapon, went out to see how I handled his .270. I didn’t dazzle, but didn’t embarrass myself too much either.
We immediately went out to check out a monster kudu Thurston had his eye on. It was coming out somewhat regularly on the neighboring property. Sure enough he stepped out of the thick bush, following a cow. The shot was a long one for me – over 320 yards. I was in no way pushed into it, but the net result was that I clipped it (probably the brisket) and it left small blood drops every 30-50 yards. The next day we checked the tracks, William the tracker in the lead. The blood had stopped, but William could follow the tracks – somehow. He pushed it out of the thick stuff in front of me and I missed another quick shot, clean. One more miss on a Nyala and I was ready to quit and give my wife the rifle. Thurston did a great job keeping my spirits up (or as up as they would get) and not giving up on me. “No worries” would become a far too common phrase. We made some changes in my shooting and things improved.
In a somewhat glum mood on only the second day, following my second miss on that giant kudu, we found a relaxed old Nyala bull (that I think was pushing another bull, the horns of which I could just see over the bush). It was a wonderfully short shot (80 yards or so), I hit him hard in the shoulder and finished him off after 50 yards or so – he was going nowhere anyway. This was a gorgeous old bull with a beautiful hide, and ivory-tipped horns twisting out at the ends. Having not exactly covered myself in glory the first three times I shot, it sure felt good to get things right for a change. I’m not sure if Thurston or I was happier.
The next morning we left early to hunt a different area about 2 ½ hours away in the Winterberg Mountains (again, redundant). The Winterbergs are high, rocky, seemingly desolate wastelands – filled with game. We saw Vaal Rhebuck, Mountain Reedbuck, Black Wildebeest, Fallow Deer, Eland, Blesbuck, and some more I’m forgetting. We stayed in a beautiful location south of Tarkastad, in a lodge belonging one of Thurston’s acquaintances.
Having had some success yesterday, I changed things up by missing a shot at a Black Wildebeest; what was really depressing is that the sight-picture, again, looked good to me in my mind’s eye. Thurston thought, however, I hit a branch or something and that’s the story I’m going with. What made this shooting drought doubly depressing is that on previous trip to Africa, every animal I shot at we got – not always perfect shooting, but good enough. I still have no idea what I was doing wrong.
I know. Missing.
The good news is that after that miss I actually managed to string together some good shooting. Thurston spotted a group of Blesbok which had not paid much attention to us. We began using what little terrain there was in the valley to our advantage, putting on a stalk of several hundred yards. Coming out of a rocky cut, we emerged, seeing only slightly curious Blesboks, including a nice ram. Using the sticks I made a good shot from about 200 yards and it piled up almost immediately. Strangely, it turned out to be a sort of Golden Blesbok which apparently show up in this area sporadically. It was a good old male. Best of all, I didn’t mess anything up.
Later, while driving a road in the valley, Thurston spotted a Mountain Reedbuck ram at the top of the ridge. We piled out of the truck, I set up on the sticks and made a good shot, uphill, into the sun, at 280 yards. I missed with the follow ups, but my first shot was a heart shot anyway. Imagine that; I got two animals in a row!
The next day we were back in that area searching for the multiple herds of Black Wildebeest in the hills and valleys. We found several and one time there was a shot of sorts, but I couldn’t get lined up before they ran – uphill, as usual. So Thurston said the best – and only - course of action to follow was to climb to the top and hunt down – like the Jack O’Connor sheep hunts I followed as a kid.
We climbed for two hours – straight up. I suspect Thurston could have done it in 30 minutes, but he wisely just kept urging my intrepid wife Gwendy and me to take our time. He could see, periodically, that the herd had settled down a couple hundred yards from the top, many bedding down. So we trudged on, climbing to 6,500 feet.
In Wisconsin I live at 589 feet above sea level. We have oxygen in our air. The air in these dry rock hills was getting a mite thin for us flatlanders. Eventually we reached the crest, and, leaving tracker Ivan and Gwendy there, we began walking and ultimately crawling to get in position. Let me explain something; there are no smooth stones in the Winterbergs. Every rock is like a sharp leggo that your kids leave for you to step on. My elbows and knees were not enjoying it. My hands, for something different, seemed to find every thorn and thistle in the southern hemisphere. I am still picking thorns out of my hands as I type this three weeks later. I’ll stop whining now.
Anyway, we finally peeked over a slight rise and Thurston pointed out two rrrrrrreally nice old bulls (we love the way Afrikaners roll their “r’s”) about 150 yards down the slope – and they had no idea we were there. I was prone, lying in a lovely bed of choice sharp rock fragments and thistles, and then one bull bedded down facing away. The other bull was standing broadside – not much of choice which to shoot. At the shot he bolted, tail twirling. Thurston said that I had put a good shot on him and that he was down (after only 50 yards or so). The celebrations began in earnest. All of the work of climbing, walking and crawling through the rocks, thorns and thistles had paid off. Thurston’s confidence in me, real or pretend, gave me the right attitude to make the shot. Gwendy and Ivan then arrived to join in the celebrations. William brought the truck from a long ways away, and I took the slacker way down the mountain, leaving them to carry the bull down. I’m not sure that was classy of me, but I would have been useless by that point anyway.
That night was a more relaxed, pleasant evening, me having put together some better shooting for a change. We enjoyed the beautiful, if cool, weather and then an early bed.
The next morning began with a breakfast at the landowner’s house, graciously offered to us the previous evening. We had yet another wonderful cultural experience meeting them in their home.
After breakfast we drove back to Thurston’s home and had a quiet evening, relaxing with his family and some friends who came for supper.
The next day was supposed to feature bushbuck and duiker. We headed out early with the truck and then on foot to back of the family property. A pasture or two had been cut out of the bush, and the bushbuck and duiker fed out early most mornings. We saw a beautiful sunrise over the Zuurberg Mountains (redundant again); we saw Tok-Tokkie Beetles; we saw a number of their Nguni cattle; we saw rugged hills; but we saw no bushbuck or duiker. Thurston was not amused. Gwendy and I had a great time out in the beautiful, clear air. So we moved to another outlook, surveying another pasture hacked out of thorny brush. We had a comfortable seat on the sidehill. We had lovely weather to enjoy. We had clear air to breath (with oxygen). But we saw no bushbuck or duiker. Thurston was even more frustrated. Gwendy and I just enjoyed the relaxing morning. So we went back to the house for the midday siesta.
I had just settled in to reread Band of Brothers when Thurston came yelling, “Kevin get the gun; warthogs at the back of the pasture!” So gun in hand, we headed out, me trying to keep up, sticking close to a fence line and the thick brush. Since William was gone with the truck (and the .270) I was carrying Sanrie’s .260, a zippy little number with a bull barrel. At 220 yards Thurston pointed to a fencepost which I used for a rest. The hogs, a giant female, a small one, and an old boar with a broken tusk were leaving, not in a hurry, just ambling at a slow walk. When they stopped I shot the boar which ran 30 or 40 yards and fell kicking. Could it be that I made a decent shot again? Apparently so. William, Sanrie and Gwendy drove up after a bit and we celebrated together.
Later that same afternoon we went to a cutline of sorts in the thick bush on the neighbor’s property hoping to see bushbuck and/or duiker coming to feed in the clearings. After sitting for only 15 or 20 minutes Thurston spotted a duiker WAY far away near the crest of the hill across the valley. I could see nothing. He said it was in the middle near the bush. To myself I thought that there was a lot of “middle” and myriad “bushes” but I wisely kept my mouth shut and waited. Slowly the duiker started moving our way and, when his head was down or he was feeding away from us, we started skirting the cutline, using the thick edge for cover. The plan really worked, just like it does on hunting videos. Or even better, because I was in it.
As we were sneaking down our side of the hill, the duiker was coming our way down his side of his hill. At 210 yards Thurston set up the sticks and asked, quite legitimately and justifiably, if I thought I could hit him from there. Again, even with the atrocious results earlier, the crosshairs stabilized, I had a good site picture and so I shot – and it dropped right there. I didn’t really know what I had, but apparently in that part of the world a 5 ¼ inch duiker is to be remembered in story and song. When William and Gwendy arrived we took pictures painted with the pinks and oranges of the setting sun and then headed back.
Before the trip, Thurston said he wanted me to experience different areas to which he had access. We had hunted southern valley bushveld, the brush covered and jagged Zuurberg Mountains, the seemingly barren and rocky Winterberg Mountains, and today we would drive a bit north of the Zuurbergs and hunt the southern Karoo, pursuing Springbok in their classic environment. We hunted rolling hills, seeing great scenery and a great variety of plains game. Finally Thurston saw a nice ram, but the shot was quick and tough – and yes, I missed. So we followed that ram and his buddies, knowing it was probably futile, but you never know…
Finally the rams stopped in an area where we could get about a 150 yard shot – which I made. I spined him, necessitating a follow-up finisher. He had beautiful, heart-shaped horns. Thurston looked thoughtful, paused his walking, and said it was sort of sad – that was my last animal. He was sad I was done hunting. I took that as a compliment. It was a satisfying end to a tremendous hunt.
Having one more day, we spent the morning greatly enjoying a tour, by Thurston’s father, of his citrus orchards. Wisconsin is not exactly lemon or tangerine territory, so this was all new to us and again it added another cultural experience. And, while we were driving, we did manage to see a very large bushbuck. Next time.
Making use of his parents as babysitters, Thurston, Sanrie, Gwendy and I then went on an afternoon tour of a small part of Addo Elephant Park. To us Americans it was like a giant zoo, overflowing with warthogs, kudus, elephants, zebras, and a host of other animals.
That evening we lived out the South African de facto national motto, “Nou gaan ons braai!” by gorging on steaks properly prepared over a bed of lemon-wood coals. I took a sun-setting-over-the-mountain picture as the steak sizzled in the cool evening breeze.
There was little left to do. We dawdled around in the morning, packed up, loaded the truck and said our good-byes to Sanrie and her mother (who had come for a visit). Thurston took us to drop off our skulls at the taxidermist, and then dropped us off at the airport. From my angle it was a sad parting. I will need another trip – or two – or more to Thurston and Sanrie’s place. It needs to happen.
The return took us through Jo’burg and then London with a 11 hour layover, giving us time for a quick visit to the Imperial War Museum. The final leg to Chicago proved uneventful, as did our 2 ½ drive home to Wisconsin – except we both struggled to stay awake, taking turns driving so as to not end a great trip with a disaster on the road.
There are not enough superlatives to describe the way W-T Outfitters treated us. The hunt showed us three or four distinct, environmental regions of the East Cape, the animals were of tremendous quality and quantity, and the scenery was gorgeous. Sanrie was a ridiculously gracious hostess, generously caring for us and a three year old girl (Lize-Mari) and a six month old boy (Thurston). The food was of course home cooked because we were in their home and part of the family. Our bedroom and en suite bathroom were wonderful, the house classic and the dog, Panga, friendly.
Finally, Thurston. Over five years of digital communication I had developed a picture of a pretty sharp character, a quality guide and a solid Christian young man. I cannot emphasize enough how each of those impressions from across the ocean was more than confirmed in person. Gwendy and I thank you again, Thurston and Sanrie. God’s continued blessings on you, your family and your business ventures.
See you soon.
Five years ago I went on a memorable first African hunt with my daughter, son-in-law and wife with Andrew Renton, guided by Martin Neuper, and hosted by Andrew and Deb Brill of Mpotshane Lodge. I wrote a brief summary shortly thereafter (“Great hunt with Kei River Safaris” on AH). Starting six or so years ago, as preparation for that hunt, I began to follow, on Facebook, the exploits of a PH who worked for a different outfitter. His name, Thurston Whittle, seemed to come up a lot with successful hunters and quality reviews. I also began to fire off comments and congratulations, and gradually we began a regular correspondence that has continued to this day.
Not overly long ago, Thurston (and his wife Sanrie) began plans to establish their own hunting outfit, or at least begin the process. He then asked if I would be willing to take a chance on a hunt with him. I wondered at the time whether he would want to take a chance on me hunting with him. As it turned out, W-T Outfitters, the new kid on the block, put on a fantastic East Cape cultural and hunting experience.
My wife Gwendy and I began making plans seriously in the last year. We selected dates (June 10-20ish), made plans, continued badgering Thurston for details, changing my mind about animals; all of the usual pre-hunt stuff. I began going to the range with my brother (“Gesch” on AH), and prematurely as it turns out, he pronounced me fit to shoot in Africa.
Gwendy found the best deal on flights possible, which included a 24 hour layover in London. We had a great day learning “the tube,” visiting The Globe Theater (as a British Literature teacher, that was a must), boating the Thames, etc. Our next two flights took us from London to Cape Town and then on to Port Elizabeth, where Thurston was waiting.
After a 45 minute drive we arrived at his newly renovated house and lodge, located north and a bit west of Addo Elephant Park, at the foot of the Zuurberg Mountains (which is redundant since “berg” means “mountain”). Thurston and his wife Sanrie totally gutted and redid an old farm house, rendering it in a kind of Dutch Colonial meets Modernist style. He also built, of rock from the property, a large porch-deck around much of the house. The result is attractive, homey and is well suited to the terrain and history.
We unloaded our belongings in our room, and, having chosen not to bring my own weapon, went out to see how I handled his .270. I didn’t dazzle, but didn’t embarrass myself too much either.
We immediately went out to check out a monster kudu Thurston had his eye on. It was coming out somewhat regularly on the neighboring property. Sure enough he stepped out of the thick bush, following a cow. The shot was a long one for me – over 320 yards. I was in no way pushed into it, but the net result was that I clipped it (probably the brisket) and it left small blood drops every 30-50 yards. The next day we checked the tracks, William the tracker in the lead. The blood had stopped, but William could follow the tracks – somehow. He pushed it out of the thick stuff in front of me and I missed another quick shot, clean. One more miss on a Nyala and I was ready to quit and give my wife the rifle. Thurston did a great job keeping my spirits up (or as up as they would get) and not giving up on me. “No worries” would become a far too common phrase. We made some changes in my shooting and things improved.
In a somewhat glum mood on only the second day, following my second miss on that giant kudu, we found a relaxed old Nyala bull (that I think was pushing another bull, the horns of which I could just see over the bush). It was a wonderfully short shot (80 yards or so), I hit him hard in the shoulder and finished him off after 50 yards or so – he was going nowhere anyway. This was a gorgeous old bull with a beautiful hide, and ivory-tipped horns twisting out at the ends. Having not exactly covered myself in glory the first three times I shot, it sure felt good to get things right for a change. I’m not sure if Thurston or I was happier.
The next morning we left early to hunt a different area about 2 ½ hours away in the Winterberg Mountains (again, redundant). The Winterbergs are high, rocky, seemingly desolate wastelands – filled with game. We saw Vaal Rhebuck, Mountain Reedbuck, Black Wildebeest, Fallow Deer, Eland, Blesbuck, and some more I’m forgetting. We stayed in a beautiful location south of Tarkastad, in a lodge belonging one of Thurston’s acquaintances.
Having had some success yesterday, I changed things up by missing a shot at a Black Wildebeest; what was really depressing is that the sight-picture, again, looked good to me in my mind’s eye. Thurston thought, however, I hit a branch or something and that’s the story I’m going with. What made this shooting drought doubly depressing is that on previous trip to Africa, every animal I shot at we got – not always perfect shooting, but good enough. I still have no idea what I was doing wrong.
I know. Missing.
The good news is that after that miss I actually managed to string together some good shooting. Thurston spotted a group of Blesbok which had not paid much attention to us. We began using what little terrain there was in the valley to our advantage, putting on a stalk of several hundred yards. Coming out of a rocky cut, we emerged, seeing only slightly curious Blesboks, including a nice ram. Using the sticks I made a good shot from about 200 yards and it piled up almost immediately. Strangely, it turned out to be a sort of Golden Blesbok which apparently show up in this area sporadically. It was a good old male. Best of all, I didn’t mess anything up.
Later, while driving a road in the valley, Thurston spotted a Mountain Reedbuck ram at the top of the ridge. We piled out of the truck, I set up on the sticks and made a good shot, uphill, into the sun, at 280 yards. I missed with the follow ups, but my first shot was a heart shot anyway. Imagine that; I got two animals in a row!
The next day we were back in that area searching for the multiple herds of Black Wildebeest in the hills and valleys. We found several and one time there was a shot of sorts, but I couldn’t get lined up before they ran – uphill, as usual. So Thurston said the best – and only - course of action to follow was to climb to the top and hunt down – like the Jack O’Connor sheep hunts I followed as a kid.
We climbed for two hours – straight up. I suspect Thurston could have done it in 30 minutes, but he wisely just kept urging my intrepid wife Gwendy and me to take our time. He could see, periodically, that the herd had settled down a couple hundred yards from the top, many bedding down. So we trudged on, climbing to 6,500 feet.
In Wisconsin I live at 589 feet above sea level. We have oxygen in our air. The air in these dry rock hills was getting a mite thin for us flatlanders. Eventually we reached the crest, and, leaving tracker Ivan and Gwendy there, we began walking and ultimately crawling to get in position. Let me explain something; there are no smooth stones in the Winterbergs. Every rock is like a sharp leggo that your kids leave for you to step on. My elbows and knees were not enjoying it. My hands, for something different, seemed to find every thorn and thistle in the southern hemisphere. I am still picking thorns out of my hands as I type this three weeks later. I’ll stop whining now.
Anyway, we finally peeked over a slight rise and Thurston pointed out two rrrrrrreally nice old bulls (we love the way Afrikaners roll their “r’s”) about 150 yards down the slope – and they had no idea we were there. I was prone, lying in a lovely bed of choice sharp rock fragments and thistles, and then one bull bedded down facing away. The other bull was standing broadside – not much of choice which to shoot. At the shot he bolted, tail twirling. Thurston said that I had put a good shot on him and that he was down (after only 50 yards or so). The celebrations began in earnest. All of the work of climbing, walking and crawling through the rocks, thorns and thistles had paid off. Thurston’s confidence in me, real or pretend, gave me the right attitude to make the shot. Gwendy and Ivan then arrived to join in the celebrations. William brought the truck from a long ways away, and I took the slacker way down the mountain, leaving them to carry the bull down. I’m not sure that was classy of me, but I would have been useless by that point anyway.
That night was a more relaxed, pleasant evening, me having put together some better shooting for a change. We enjoyed the beautiful, if cool, weather and then an early bed.
The next morning began with a breakfast at the landowner’s house, graciously offered to us the previous evening. We had yet another wonderful cultural experience meeting them in their home.
After breakfast we drove back to Thurston’s home and had a quiet evening, relaxing with his family and some friends who came for supper.
The next day was supposed to feature bushbuck and duiker. We headed out early with the truck and then on foot to back of the family property. A pasture or two had been cut out of the bush, and the bushbuck and duiker fed out early most mornings. We saw a beautiful sunrise over the Zuurberg Mountains (redundant again); we saw Tok-Tokkie Beetles; we saw a number of their Nguni cattle; we saw rugged hills; but we saw no bushbuck or duiker. Thurston was not amused. Gwendy and I had a great time out in the beautiful, clear air. So we moved to another outlook, surveying another pasture hacked out of thorny brush. We had a comfortable seat on the sidehill. We had lovely weather to enjoy. We had clear air to breath (with oxygen). But we saw no bushbuck or duiker. Thurston was even more frustrated. Gwendy and I just enjoyed the relaxing morning. So we went back to the house for the midday siesta.
I had just settled in to reread Band of Brothers when Thurston came yelling, “Kevin get the gun; warthogs at the back of the pasture!” So gun in hand, we headed out, me trying to keep up, sticking close to a fence line and the thick brush. Since William was gone with the truck (and the .270) I was carrying Sanrie’s .260, a zippy little number with a bull barrel. At 220 yards Thurston pointed to a fencepost which I used for a rest. The hogs, a giant female, a small one, and an old boar with a broken tusk were leaving, not in a hurry, just ambling at a slow walk. When they stopped I shot the boar which ran 30 or 40 yards and fell kicking. Could it be that I made a decent shot again? Apparently so. William, Sanrie and Gwendy drove up after a bit and we celebrated together.
Later that same afternoon we went to a cutline of sorts in the thick bush on the neighbor’s property hoping to see bushbuck and/or duiker coming to feed in the clearings. After sitting for only 15 or 20 minutes Thurston spotted a duiker WAY far away near the crest of the hill across the valley. I could see nothing. He said it was in the middle near the bush. To myself I thought that there was a lot of “middle” and myriad “bushes” but I wisely kept my mouth shut and waited. Slowly the duiker started moving our way and, when his head was down or he was feeding away from us, we started skirting the cutline, using the thick edge for cover. The plan really worked, just like it does on hunting videos. Or even better, because I was in it.
As we were sneaking down our side of the hill, the duiker was coming our way down his side of his hill. At 210 yards Thurston set up the sticks and asked, quite legitimately and justifiably, if I thought I could hit him from there. Again, even with the atrocious results earlier, the crosshairs stabilized, I had a good site picture and so I shot – and it dropped right there. I didn’t really know what I had, but apparently in that part of the world a 5 ¼ inch duiker is to be remembered in story and song. When William and Gwendy arrived we took pictures painted with the pinks and oranges of the setting sun and then headed back.
Before the trip, Thurston said he wanted me to experience different areas to which he had access. We had hunted southern valley bushveld, the brush covered and jagged Zuurberg Mountains, the seemingly barren and rocky Winterberg Mountains, and today we would drive a bit north of the Zuurbergs and hunt the southern Karoo, pursuing Springbok in their classic environment. We hunted rolling hills, seeing great scenery and a great variety of plains game. Finally Thurston saw a nice ram, but the shot was quick and tough – and yes, I missed. So we followed that ram and his buddies, knowing it was probably futile, but you never know…
Finally the rams stopped in an area where we could get about a 150 yard shot – which I made. I spined him, necessitating a follow-up finisher. He had beautiful, heart-shaped horns. Thurston looked thoughtful, paused his walking, and said it was sort of sad – that was my last animal. He was sad I was done hunting. I took that as a compliment. It was a satisfying end to a tremendous hunt.
Having one more day, we spent the morning greatly enjoying a tour, by Thurston’s father, of his citrus orchards. Wisconsin is not exactly lemon or tangerine territory, so this was all new to us and again it added another cultural experience. And, while we were driving, we did manage to see a very large bushbuck. Next time.
Making use of his parents as babysitters, Thurston, Sanrie, Gwendy and I then went on an afternoon tour of a small part of Addo Elephant Park. To us Americans it was like a giant zoo, overflowing with warthogs, kudus, elephants, zebras, and a host of other animals.
That evening we lived out the South African de facto national motto, “Nou gaan ons braai!” by gorging on steaks properly prepared over a bed of lemon-wood coals. I took a sun-setting-over-the-mountain picture as the steak sizzled in the cool evening breeze.
There was little left to do. We dawdled around in the morning, packed up, loaded the truck and said our good-byes to Sanrie and her mother (who had come for a visit). Thurston took us to drop off our skulls at the taxidermist, and then dropped us off at the airport. From my angle it was a sad parting. I will need another trip – or two – or more to Thurston and Sanrie’s place. It needs to happen.
The return took us through Jo’burg and then London with a 11 hour layover, giving us time for a quick visit to the Imperial War Museum. The final leg to Chicago proved uneventful, as did our 2 ½ drive home to Wisconsin – except we both struggled to stay awake, taking turns driving so as to not end a great trip with a disaster on the road.
There are not enough superlatives to describe the way W-T Outfitters treated us. The hunt showed us three or four distinct, environmental regions of the East Cape, the animals were of tremendous quality and quantity, and the scenery was gorgeous. Sanrie was a ridiculously gracious hostess, generously caring for us and a three year old girl (Lize-Mari) and a six month old boy (Thurston). The food was of course home cooked because we were in their home and part of the family. Our bedroom and en suite bathroom were wonderful, the house classic and the dog, Panga, friendly.
Finally, Thurston. Over five years of digital communication I had developed a picture of a pretty sharp character, a quality guide and a solid Christian young man. I cannot emphasize enough how each of those impressions from across the ocean was more than confirmed in person. Gwendy and I thank you again, Thurston and Sanrie. God’s continued blessings on you, your family and your business ventures.
See you soon.
