J.C. Rothwell
It was one of those nights—quiet, almost too quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around you and pulls at something deep inside, like a memory you can’t quite catch. The fire was low, the coals just barely glowing red beneath the ash, and I found myself staring at them like they held some kind of answer. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. I’ve spent too many nights like this to count, lost somewhere between the crackle of the fire and the memories that come unbidden when the world around you finally shuts up for a minute.
We’d been in the bush for three days. A simple hunt, or so it had seemed. Just me, a good friend, and our guide—a local who could tell the age of an elephant by the way it bent the grass when it walked. I wish I could remember his name. There was a time when I could recall every name, every face, but these days … well, let’s just say my mind has become more of a sieve than a steel trap.
Anyway, we were out there chasing kudu, or at least, that was the plan. I hadn’t laid eyes on one yet, but I could feel their presence, just beyond the tree line. It’s funny how you get that sense after a while, like you and the land come to an understanding. The kind of understanding that’s not written in any guidebook or told over any barstool. It’s a switch that just flips in your being—an involuntary but direct line of communication between the natural world and your body, like an old scar that aches before a storm.
That night, as we sat there waiting, I started thinking about the first time I’d come to Africa. It wasn’t anything like this, of course. Back then, I’d had more excitement than sense. Didn’t know half of what I was doing, though I made sure to look like I did. I remember stepping off the plane, the heat hitting me like a punch to the gut. Funny thing, I hadn’t packed a hat. Of all the things. The sun beat down on me like I’d personally offended it, and by the time we reached camp, my scalp was burned so bad I spent the next week peeling like an old boot and lacking in dignity.
But back to the hunt. We were still sitting there, waiting, when it hit me that we weren’t really waiting for the kudu. We were waiting for the moment—the one you come out here to find. You don’t always know when it’ll happen, but when it does, it feels like the world stops for just a second. And in that second, everything makes sense. Your reason for being out here, the hours you’ve spent with nothing but your thoughts and the weight of your rifle, all of it snaps into place like a puzzle you weren’t even trying to solve.
I guess that feeling is what I’ve always been chasing, more than any animal. The feeling that the world still has something left to show me, if I’m patient enough to let it. And yeah, I could’ve found that closer to home, maybe in some forest up north or on the edge of a canyon somewhere, but Africa … Africa has a way of making you feel small and infinite all at once. You stand there and you know this place doesn’t need you, but you need it.
That night, we didn’t see the kudu. Didn’t matter. We packed up the next morning and moved on. The guide—whose name I swear I’ll remember eventually—led us to a spot near a watering hole, and by noon, we had what we came for. It was a clean shot, dropped the bull right where he stood. The ole .375 H&H delivered once again. A classic, and some may say overkill for kudu, but reliable. But it wasn’t the kill I’ll remember.
It’s the waiting. The fire. The silence. And that feeling … like something out there was waiting for me, too.
Then, well, that was that. We packed up, got moving again. I probably should’ve written down more about that day, but, eh, you know—some things stick, some things don’t.
