SOUTH AFRICA: Aloe Africa Hunting Safaris (June 2024)

This hunt begins where my last report left off—sitting around a fire in the Niassa. I was staring across the Rovuma River, debating whether I could rock-hop my way into Tanzania—likely emboldened by one too many G&Ts and soaking in the memories of the previous 14 days as the sun set on another successful safari.

Thinking better of it, I struck up a conversation with a PH who was doing a bit of freelancing after the South African season had wrapped up.

His name was Jurgens Potgieter—or “Yogi” to those who know him. Being fellow millennials, I asked,

“You’ve got a handle… like on Instagram?”

“Yes. Professional Hunter Yogi.”

“Professional Hunter Yogi?? That’s bold. Well then, tell me—what kind of hunting do you do down in South Africa, Professional Hunter Yogi?”

“Our home base is in KwaZulu-Natal, but we also hunt Limpopo and elsewhere. We have very good kudu hunting, and it’s unique because we offer a lot of free-range hunting…”

“You have free-range nyala? Not ‘free-roaming’ or whatever marketing spin that usually means—but the American definition of low-fence, truly free-range animals?”

“Yes. Look at this bull we recently took.”

My ears perked up.

Nearly 20 years earlier, I had read Craig Boddington’s account of his first nyala hunt—a free-range bull in KZN. The species and the locality had intrigued me ever since. I’d had opportunities at nyala on previous safaris, but it was a species that simply didn’t light my fire behind a high fence.

“Look at these bulls.”

He handed me his phone. I scrolled through photo after photo of nyala bulls—above-average bulls at that. Mature. Beautifully shaped. Long. And, most importantly, WILD (the American definition).

Fast forward a few years, and my wife, Rebekah, and I were grabbing a quick bite at Gordon Ramsay Burger in Hamad International Airport between flights. Since Niassa, I’d completed a couple of leopard hunts, but this was Rebekah’s first trip back. Despite three prior safaris, she still hadn’t taken a kudu—and I ignorantly assumed that was what she was most excited about.

She was visibly buzzing, almost overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of seeing Africa again.

I asked, “What are you most looking forward to?”

“BUSHPIG!”

“Really?” I replied, attempting (and failing) to hide a slightly judgmental tone.

“Yes! They’re so weird-looking!”

To be continued with Day 1 tomorrow…

Yogi is a heck of a PH. I’ll not forget the “yogi stare” when I made a noise while tracking. And I’d have a jack russell if it behaved like Moya.

As the jet descended, I stared out the window. A new safari in a new location was about to begin. I was excited—but the novelty of Jo’burg had long since worn off. I found myself nostalgic for that first-safari feeling from nine years earlier.

The tires chirped against the runway and snapped me out of the funk. I glanced at Rebekah.
“We’re here.”

We grabbed our bags and headed toward the arrivals atrium, scanning for the familiar face of Mr. X. Over the years I’d fallen into the habit of renting rifles from outfitters. It’s convenient and, generally speaking, it works. But seven months earlier, a lack of total familiarity with a borrowed rifle had made me hesitate on a trigger pull on a massive tom leopard. Lesson learned. From here on out, I’ll bring my own rifle—at least to easy import countries like South Africa.

As usual, the rifle collection was painless. We linked up with our driver and pointed south along the edge of Johannesburg. Visibility was poor—field fires and roadside garbage smoke hung heavy in the air. I closed my eyes and drifted off, waking as we crossed into KwaZulu-Natal.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I liked what I saw: topography. Rolling grasslands dotted with pine plantations gave way to thick, brushy slopes.
“This looks like Coues deer country,” I thought.

Now it felt like Africa.

Maybe it was the nap, maybe it was the anticipation of getting behind glass and picking apart this subtropical highland ecosystem—but by the time we rolled down the rainbow eucalyptus-lined main drag of Dundee, I was glued to the window, eyes darting across the landscape.

We met Yogi at the grocery store, shuffled bags between vehicles, and headed for the lodge. It was good to see him again. Conversation picked up right where it had left off—recent game movement, the benefits of local farmers shelling corn, and a sounder of bushpigs that had crossed the road the night before.

Twenty kilometers later we turned left and began climbing toward the lodge. This was Chris’s family property—an old cattle ranch dating back to the 1880s that had since transitioned into a game ranch. It was beautiful and lush, and it didn’t take long to understand the name Aloe Africa. Rich red blooms flared across the hillsides in every direction.

After staff introductions and a camp walkthrough, we settled into the chalet to unpack before the inevitable rendezvous at the rifle range.

I’m a decent shot, but the most nervous you’ll ever find me behind a rifle is on Day One of an African safari—with a PH and trackers staring holes into the back of my head while I try to print a respectable group at 100 yards. Unfortunately for me, Chris and his dad showed up too, curious to see how the new client would perform.

Fortunately, the shots felt automatic—just like on the range back in Montana. Ringing the 8-inch plate at 300 yards sealed the deal. That was enough stress for one day.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

We made a short introductory loop around part of the ranch. Indumeni—“where the thunder rolls” in Zulu—loomed in the distance. I found myself fixated on it.

“That’s the highest peak in the range,” Yogi said. “Chris’s place runs over the back side.”

The drive was a chance to mentally unpack and settle in. Impala, blue wildebeest, giraffe, Burchell’s zebra, and red hartebeest lifted their heads as we passed, then calmly returned to grazing.

“We never shoot from the vehicle here,” Yogi explained. “So the game stays relaxed. It’s a different story once you step off the truck.”

Back at the lodge, Chris had a fire going. A Castle Light found its way into my hand, and as the conversation unfolded, I felt confident in our decision to come here. There was no sales pitch, no fluff—just thoughtful, well-read people talking history, habitat, wildlife, and ethics around a crackling fire.

After dinner, Rebekah and I excused ourselves and walked back to the chalet, ready for a full night’s sleep.

“This is going to be good,” I said.

“I know,” she smiled.

Bivy said:

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Beautiful vistas. Envious!

My circadian rhythm still hadn’t synchronized with the new time zone, so I slipped out of bed an hour earlier than planned and made my way to the dining room. Six, the assistant camp cook, was already hard at work—breakfast sizzling, lunch packs coming together with quiet efficiency. I waved him off when he offered help. A rusk or two and a cup of coffee were all I needed, and I was perfectly capable of seeing to that myself.

While sipping coffee, I browsed the collection of coffee table books and found one that caught my attention—The Battle of Rorke’s Drift. I was finishing Chapter One when Yogi arrived, followed shortly by Rebekah.

“Did you bring your spotting scope?” Yogi asked.

“I did.”

As a dedicated Western U.S. hunter, I never leave a spotting scope behind when chasing mule deer, elk, or antelope. Still, this was the first time a PH had specifically mentioned that bringing one would be useful.

We wrapped up breakfast and climbed into the Land Cruiser just as the horizon began to glow.

“No need to rush,” Yogi advised. “It was cold last night. The animals won’t show themselves until the sun warms the hillsides.”

We drove across the ranch toward the perimeter fence. You may have gathered from the species I mentioned on arrival day that the property is high fenced—and you’d be correct. But I also referenced free-range hunting opportunities. That, too, is correct.

In South Africa, many species are available almost exclusively on game ranches for various reasons. At the same time, several species still roam freely across low-fence cattle properties—especially in KZN. Those were the animals we were after: kudu, bushbuck, nyala, common reedbuck, bush pig.

On a typical South African hunt, you enter the high fence and remain within it. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. If you’ve done your homework, you’ll likely find yourself on a vast property with naturally reproducing populations, and the only time you’ll notice the fence is at the beginning and end of your hunt—or when transferring between properties.

This hunt offered a bit of contrast. We exited through a maintenance gate in the perimeter fence and began hunting on an adjacent cattle farm.

A short hike brought us to a rocky perch overlooking the valley below—an ideal glassing point. Unfortunately, we had beaten the sun to the hillside. The first thirty minutes had Rebekah and me regretting our decision to leave base layers and down jackets at home.

I assembled my tripod and spotting scope and settled into glassing the riverine growth sprawled across the valley floor. As I scanned, I could hear Yogi quietly narrating.

“Kudu… cows.”
Moments later: “Kudu bull… young one.”

And so it went.

Finally, I looked up from my scope in mild frustration to see where he was focused. I panned in that direction and—sure enough—kudu. Perhaps I should spend more time following the PH’s lead and less time dissecting shadowed thickets.

Gradually the sun crested the ridge and illuminated the opposite hillside. Now I began finding my own animals, each one politely confirmed by Yogi through his scope to ensure I wasn’t overlooking something.

Then came the words every hunter hopes to hear:

“Nyala… bull.”

He slipped from thicket to thicket, briefly stepping into openings before melting back into cover, feeding leisurely.

“This appears to be a very good one. Do you see him?” Yogi asked.

“Yes… what qualifies as ‘very good’?”

“He has a huge bell. Thirty… maybe thirty-one.”

What are the odds, I thought to myself, that the first free-range nyala I see is a 30-plus-inch bull?

I picked out a few landmarks and pulled away from the spotting scope. Relocating them with the naked eye, I began assessing the challenge ahead. It felt no different than hunting broken terrain and thick vegetation back home.

Step one: find the animal you want.
Step two: wait until he’s in a position that allows for a successful stalk and recovery.

I’d learned the hard way about rushing step two.

“Did you range him?” Yogi asked.

“No. I’m guessing 750.”

Yogi checked with his rangefinder. “Six hundred ninety-seven.”

I chuckled. “Well… I’m not shooting that.”

We tried to keep eyes on the bull, but as morning slid toward afternoon, he disappeared into cover and didn’t reemerge. After more than two hours, we concluded he had likely bedded. Just then, the first raindrops began to fall. A gray wall of weather advanced from the head of the valley.

“What do you think?” Yogi asked.

“I think we get out while the getting’s good,” I replied. “Come back tomorrow and pick this place apart until we turn him up again.”

We all agreed—back out quietly, don’t risk bumping him, and hope we could relocate him the next day.

It had been a good first day. Exactly what I’d hoped for. I was mentally replaying the morning when Yogi interrupted my thoughts.

“The rain can make for good bush pig hunting. Are you up for an evening hunt, or would you like to rest?”

I glanced at Rebekah. “What do you think?”

“I’m game,” she answered without hesitation.

“Alright,” Yogi said. “I’ll check with Annelise and see if we can organize an earlier dinner.”

And just like that, Day One wasn’t finished yet.

That Nyala looks good to me! Perfect bell.

Annelise—lead chef and Chris’ wife—had prepared a truly upper-echelon dinner. It was exceptional. As the meal settled, a seat by the fire and an early bedtime grew increasingly appealing.

But bushpig awaited.

The time was now or never.

“Let’s load up.”

We descended the main ranch road, leaving Stillerust and the perimeter fence behind, and turned into the primary valley. It was broad and water-rich—fertile ground stitched together by cornfields, rangeland, and serpentine watercourses lined with brush. I felt oddly at home, reminded of the “hollers” of Southeast Ohio where I cut my hunting teeth.

Shelling—harvest—had begun shortly before our arrival and would continue for several weeks. Many pigs would remain hidden in the standing corn, but perhaps a few would venture into the harvested fields, rooting for spilled grain and missed cobs.

The sun had long since set, and the morning chill returned with authority, especially in our light layers. We moved from field to field, scanning through optics. A few kudu and duiker lingered on the edges of the first fields, cautiously stepping into the vulnerability of open ground under cover of darkness.

It wasn’t long before we found them.

Two sounders of bushpig—one slipping from a creek bottom, the other brazenly feeding in the middle of a field, consumed by gluttony.

We climbed, crawled, and slid over and under barbed wire fences, using a grassy drainage ditch to close the distance. Slowly… moving as one quiet organism… we advanced.

Yogi set the sticks. Rebekah settled the rifle.

His whisper drifted back on the breeze in our faces.
“See the one on the right—that’s the boar.”
“Got it,” Rebekah replied.
“There’s one behind him that must clear. When it does, you may shoot if you’re comfortable. Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”

Craaaack!

The pig cleared. The boar stood alone. The trigger broke.

He dropped at the shot—two brief leg kicks—and then stillness.

The first animal of the safari. Rebekah’s primary species. Down on the first night.

We approached in the dark—Yogi fixed on the direction, Rebekah and I caught in the quiet electricity of it all.

“Here he is.”

“He’s so cool.”
“Look at his knobs!”
“Oh, I love his color.”

She kept her voice low, as if honoring an unspoken responsibility. That strange feeling hunters know—the reluctance to disturb the wildness around you. Not to conquer it, but to be invited into it… and to tread lightly.

An unexpected gift on the first night.

Yogi smiled. “You were lucky. With this much corn on, it usually takes a few nights.”

The adrenaline faded, and the cold once again found its way through our layers.

No problem. We’d just drag him back to the road.

Taking turns, working up a sweat in the process, we eventually reached the truck and hoisted the boar into the bed.

A well-earned Castle Light.
A well-earned night of sleep.
And a massive nyala awaited…

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Make sure to steal some chilli bites & biltong from Chris`s butchery! Aloe Africa is a beautiful place & awesome hunting! Congrats on the bushpig! Rorkes Drift is worth a visit if you have time.

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Patiently waiting!

Day 2:

We were back in our glassing nest at first light, eager to catch another glimpse of the nyala bull from the day before. The excitement and optimism faded quickly as the chill of the southern hemisphere winter cut straight through our layers. Glass. Shiver. Check the sun’s progress. Joke about Wim Hof breathing. Repeat.

Still cloaked in shadow and desperate for warmth, I was halfway through a round of breath work when something in my mind told me to stop the spotting scope pan I’d repeated for what felt like the 359th time. I reversed course and confirmed the anomaly—yellow legs.

Draped in chocolate brown and haunting the undergrowth of riverine vegetation, a nyala bull has a way of dissolving into the shadows, leaving the hunter wondering if he imagined the sighting altogether. But those legs—buckskin yellow and bright as chrome—are his undoing, glowing against otherwise perfect camouflage.

“Nyala bull.”

“Where?”

“Umm…let me see. See that umbrella tree…”

“What?”

“I mean—the cabbage tree. Straight up. Yellow-leaf bush…umm…”

“Got him.”

We watched for several minutes and eventually confirmed it was our target from the day before. He fed briefly, slipped deeper into the shadows, and finally folded his legs beneath him for an afternoon rest.

With Dennis, our tracker, marking the landmark, we descended the slope and tried to slip into reasonable shooting distance before the bull stirred.

Eventually we ran out of road—“road” being the last grassy opening adjacent to where the bull had bedded.

“Where is he?”

From this new, skewed angle, I struggled to reconcile landmarks. Eventually we settled on where we believed he was bedded—no, where he had to be bedded. One hour passed. Then another. Glass and relax. Glass and relax.

“He’s up.”

I was on the sticks in an instant. Yogi called the range. The scope settled on the bull, staring directly in our direction. The trigger broke.

The shot was long—long enough that I felt the pause through recoil and waited for the resonating whop of a 180-grain bullet finding muscle.

Too long.

No whop.

“Miss.”

“I held for 400.”

“I said 300.”

And just like that, he was gone—like a ghost.

All was quiet as we settled back into glassing, hoping the bull would reappear. He never did.

I understood my mistake. I held wrong, and there was a strange comfort in knowing exactly what had happened. No need to second-guess the rifle. No need to second-guess the shooter. Just a miscommunication and a moment of “nyala fever,” perhaps.

Redemption tomorrow?

Day 3:

We found ourselves once again climbing to our glassing perch. Glassing day after day is exhausting; glassing the same valley day after day borders on torture. As I settled in behind the optics, I admitted to myself that I’m a glutton for punishment—determined to relocate the nyala bull I’d missed the day before.

The vegetation was thick, no doubt, but I was convinced the third day would be the charm.

It wasn’t.

We dissected the valley shrub by shrub. The only movement came from a lone female nyala that stepped into a patch of sunlight across the drainage. Her russet-orange coat glowed against the dark, tangled riverine cover—so different from the chocolate cloak of the bulls. For a moment she looked almost out of place, as if she’d wandered from some imagined jungle into our harsh winter glassing vigil.

Then the stillness shattered.

“WHAAA…whaaaa-aaaa…whaa!”

Down in the valley bottom, a caracal had made its move. The frantic screams of a duiker ricocheted off the valley walls, fading softer and softer—whaa…wha…—until silence reclaimed the basin. Just like that, it was over. The valley resumed its quiet rhythm as though nothing had happened.

Boredom crept in. Time to explore the periphery.

Yogi shifted his glass to the head of the valley. Nearly 2.5 miles out, he picked up movement.

“Kudu.”

A small group of kudu cows fed in the morning sun—a welcome distraction from our nyala obsession. Our timing put us at the tail end of the kudu rut. If there were cows, there could be a bull.

No—there should be a bull.

And there was.

A young bull drifted into the opening, nose glued to the tail of a late-estrous cow. Not the bull we were after, but it’s hard to turn away from a species whose behavior so closely mirrors our elk back home. We watched, content for the moment.

Then—

“Kudu bull…have a look.”

“He’s a wide bull.”

“Let’s get a closer look.”

By early afternoon we were navigating toward the head of the valley, the wind steady in our faces. We slipped from grassy bench to grassy bench.

Sneak… glass… retreat.
Sneak… glass… retreat.

Where did he go?

We found our landmarks. We relocated a few cows. But we were too late. The bull—and most of the herd—had melted into the bedding cover.

Ghosted…again.

We looped back to the glassing rim for the final thirty minutes of light. Eight miles on the legs. True free-range hunting. A savory sort of defeat.

“Tomorrow—new country.”

Spotting scope video of kudu bull pursued on Day 3...

A change of scenery started the day. The valley of the big nyala needed a break—especially after our kudu tromp the day before. So we headed to Danie’s place, another low-fence cattle farm offering nyala, kudu, and bushbuck.

We settled into a new rock-rim perch, glassing small emerald openings in a sea of thick brush. The sharp crack of bullwhips echoed from the valley floor. Unnatural blue dots trailed white cattle below us. The spotting scope confirmed the familiar uniforms of farm workers gathering Brahman cattle on foot.

Closer in, a nyala bull emerged… then another.

“26… maybe 27. Not your bull.”

The day carried on with a few nyala sightings, fewer kudu sightings, and ever-present rock hyraxes providing a welcome distraction from four days of glassing fatigue. Nyala ewes appeared on the horizon. Would a bull materialize behind them? No.

As the prime evening hours approached, we shifted to another vantage point. By the time we settled in, animals were already on their feet. Nyala ewes and kudu cows offered entertainment as eyes strained to find a bull slipping through the shadows.

“Kudu bull.”

Two hundred fifty yards below us, a kudu bull stood stripping leaves, horns laid back along his shoulders. Two steps later, he vanished. Spotting scopes tried to X-ray the brush. Gone. How?

Regardless, he wasn’t just a bull. He was the bull—old, ivory-tipped, beautifully shaped.

Rebekah eased onto the sticks.

“He’s coming out.”

And there he was… sauntering into the open.

A yell. A shot. A miss?

“Over his back.”

Deflated, we reviewed the video. It didn’t look promising. Still, there was nothing to do but follow up.

We descended to the opening. Yogi and I triangulated landmarks, hyper-focused on finding any speck of blood. Sixty yards to her right, Rebekah called out:

“There he is!”

There he was. Dead. The shot—perfect.

I remembered my own kudu bull nearly ten years earlier. Iconic. Masculine. Elegant. Beautiful.

Yogi and I left Rebekah with the bull and climbed to retrieve the truck. As we ascended, Yogi pointed to a nearby slope.

“This is where I shot my kudu bull.”

Significant. Reverent.

Just a ridgeline to most—idyllic for at least two.

Here's the shot footage from Rebekah's kudu bull. What appears to be over the back was through the top of the heart.

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Congratulations. Nice style of story telling!

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Kudu hunting during the rut is flat-out fun—so fun that once Rebekah’s bull was in the salt, we weren’t ready to be done. If I was going to take another kudu, it would have to be a special one. A bull worthy of being my last.

We knew exactly where to start.

Day five found us at the head of Big Nyala Valley—kudu in the morning, then slipping down toward the nyala’s lair in the afternoon.

“Kudu bull.”
“Kudu bull…no…two bulls.”
“Check this one out.”
“How does he look?”

The hills came alive as the sun finally pushed warmth into the valley. Groups of cows and calves filtered into the open, soaking it in. On the edges, like satellites, bulls lingered.

“He doesn’t have the curls.”
“He doesn’t have the tips.”
“He might be what we’re looking for…”

We hopped side drainages one by one, covering the mile between us quickly—but not quickly enough.

Gone.

Grey Ghosted.

Was he the one?
(Maybe we’ll find out later.)

“I want to look into this next valley. I haven’t hunted it.” Yogi suggested.

The allure of new country. I’ve always loved the unhunted—and it has loved me back more than once.

“Nyala bull…have a look.”

“Let's go!” I had seen all I needed to.

Flare. Ivory. Age.

I couldn’t have painted a better nyala bull.

And…gone.

He’d allowed himself to be seen—just briefly. One flick of the tail and he dissolved into the brush. But the patch he vanished into—maybe thirty-by-thirty feet—was ringed by grass. If he broke, we’d see him.

Dennis and Rebekah covered the exits while Yogi and I slipped inside 80 yards.

One hour.
Two hours.

“Is he still in there?”
“How can we not see him?”

Three hours.

“I see him.”
“He’s stepping out.”

The only nyala I will ever hunt. An ancient, beautiful bull.

The pack out was brutal. By the end we were beaten and bloody. I ran my fingers through sweat-stiffened hair and pulled a one-inch thorn from my scalp. Yogi and Rebekah had made the four-mile hike back to the truck while Dennis, AJ, and I carried the bull.

By the time we finished, darkness had settled in. The evening chill demanded sweaters that were miles away. I leaned back against the nyala’s shoulders, gripping my prize from the pack out—a 19.5" Cape bushbuck skull. (That unhealthy obsession was just beginning)

Above us the southern sky burned bright. I found Scorpius first, then the Southern Cross.

“Home is that way… but I’m in no hurry.”

Nyala shot.


Nyala lair.

Awesome trophies.

Loving the report. Awesome trophies so far! And that bushbuck!