Justbryan
AH fanatic
- Joined
- Sep 26, 2019
- Messages
- 799
- Reaction score
- 1,957
- Location
- Dallas Metro Area, Texas
- Media
- 70
- Hunted
- South Africa(3X), Namibia, New Zealand, USA, Canada, Spain
September 5, 2026
My wife and I began our long-awaited African adventure aboard a Delta flight bound for Cape Town. The journey had been a year in the making, delayed by our daughter's wedding and a series of unexpected obstacles. Through every change of plans, Philip graciously helped us rearrange our dates, always communicating clearly and keeping our dream alive.
Although this was my fourth trip to Africa, it felt like the beginning of an entirely new expedition. I had never ventured beyond South Africa, and Cape Town promised fresh discoveries. On previous trips, we had flown from Dallas-Fort Worth through Atlanta to Johannesburg. This time, I was eager to avoid Johannesburg, while my wife had one mission in mind: to see the penguins.
Still recovering from our daughter's wedding expenses, we chose economy seats to conserve our travel funds. The flight to Atlanta was smooth and uneventful, but the long haul to Cape Town became an endurance test. Cramped into economy for hour after hour, we arrived feeling as though we had survived the first major trial of our adventure.
Fortunately, I had brought along a Firefly device, which stimulates the nerves and causes gentle muscle contractions. Somewhere high above the Atlantic, it became my secret weapon. By the time we landed, I felt less fatigued and recovered more quickly than I expected. First-class seats might have made the crossing easier, but for two travelers balancing adventure with a wedding-depleted budget, the Firefly proved to be the more practical solution.
Exhausted but triumphant, we stepped off the plane in Cape Town. The difficult flight was behind us, a new continent-spanning adventure lay ahead, and somewhere along the coast, the penguins were waiting.
September 6-7, 2026
We landed in Cape Town at around 6:00 p.m., exhausted but eager to begin the next chapter of our journey. After struggling to find our pre-arranged ride to Afton Safari Lodge, we decided not to waste another minute at the airport. Neither of us sleeps well on planes, and after the long flight, all we wanted was a warm bed. We summoned an Uber and set off into the evening.
The ride was short and easy, with the setting sun casting a spectacular glow over Table Mountain. It felt like the perfect welcome to South Africa. When we reached the lodge, our host greeted us warmly. We unloaded our bags, paid the driver, enjoyed a much-needed beverage, and settled in for the night.
Then came an unexpected twist. Later, I discovered that I had been charged more than $1,000 USD for the brief ride from the airport. Somehow, in our exhausted state, we had fallen victim to a scam. It was a costly and unsettling start to our Cape Town adventure, but we refused to let it overshadow everything that lay ahead.
After a wonderful night's sleep, we awoke refreshed and ready to explore. The lodge was quiet, warm, and cozy - exactly the retreat we needed. We spent the day on a private tour of Table Mountain, Boulders Beach and its famous penguins, and the rugged beauty of Cape Point. From sweeping mountain views to penguins waddling along the shore, every stop felt like another scene from an unforgettable expedition.
We returned to the lodge just in time for a wonderful meal with our host. Over a few beverages, we shared stories and lively conversation about the day's discoveries before turning in for another well-earned rest.
The following morning began with another delicious meal. Then it was time to pack our bags and head back to the airport for the next stage of our journey: Namibia. Despite the costly surprise at the beginning, Cape Town had given us breathtaking scenery, remarkable wildlife, warm hospitality, and memories we would carry with us.
Our excitement grew as we prepared to add another country to our expanding map of adventures - bringing our total to 54 countries and counting.
September 8, 2026
Namibia greeted us with our first test of patience. After stepping off the plane, we crossed the tiny airport and joined a long international passport line. We had traveled extensively, but this was the slowest immigration process we had ever encountered. Each traveler seemed to require 10 to 15 minutes to clear, and the line crept forward at an almost comical pace.
At last, our passports were stamped and our visas approved. We entered the reception area, where a man immediately greeted us by name. It was Juan, the camp manager and our tracker for the week. We were puzzled by how easily he had picked us out of the crowd until we learned that he had copies of our passport photos. The mystery was solved, and our Namibian adventure could officially begin.
We loaded our gear and set off on the 45-minute drive to @KHOMAS HIGHLAND HUNTING SAFARIS. Before long, the pavement disappeared beneath us, replaced by a rough, unpaved road that bounced and twisted through the rugged landscape. The ride gave us our first real taste of the country, but the best part was getting to know Juan. As the vehicle rattled onward, he patiently answered our many questions and outlined the plan for our seven-day hunt.
When we finally reached the lodge, the Khomas Highlands team welcomed us warmly - along with a cold beer on tap. I rarely drink unless I am on vacation, but during this adventure, a beer after each day's hunt became a welcome tradition.
We settled into the lodge and met the people who would share the journey with us: Philip, the owner; Retief, one of the professional hunters; Issiac, our professional hunter; Jason, our driver; and the talented kitchen staff who kept us well fed. That evening, we gathered for an incredible meal, exchanged stories, and began to feel at home in the Namibian wilderness.
After dinner, Juan briefed us on the following day's plan. Our first stop would be the shooting range, where I would practice using the shooting sticks and become comfortable with the rental rifles selected for the week. We chose two suppressed rifles: a .243 Winchester and a .338 Winchester Magnum.
The anticipation made it difficult to contain my excitement. Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin. I did not know it yet, but before the week was over, the powerful .338 Winchester Magnum would become my trusted rifle of choice.
September 9, 2026
The next morning, our Namibian hunting adventure began at the rifle range. It did not take long to become familiar with the rifles and shooting sticks, but Juan wanted our first morning to unfold at a leisurely pace. There was no need to rush. This was our chance to establish a routine and review the essential details: how they wanted me to carry the rifles, when to chamber a round, and when it was safe to shoot.
With the range session complete, we climbed into the vehicle and began exploring the ranch. As we traveled across the rugged terrain, Juan and Issiac carefully scanned the hills and valleys. Game seemed to be everywhere. We spotted warthogs, steenbok, Hartmann's mountain zebra, and many other animals moving through the vast landscape.
Our target species for the week included warthog, klipspringer, springbok, oryx, and Hartmann's mountain zebra. I had originally planned to hunt dik-dik, but a recent fire had affected the area where they were found, so I changed that hunt to klipspringer. Still, one animal stood above all the others on my list: the warthog. It had eluded me during three previous hunts in South Africa, and I hoped Namibia would finally bring that long pursuit to an end.
Before arriving, I had been warned that game could be sparse in Namibia and that patience would be essential. Our first drive told a very different story. We encountered more wildlife than I had expected, including numerous warthogs. Several had tusks extending about two inches beyond their mouths - what Juan called a good "smile" - but none were mature enough to be considered true trophies.
We also examined many representative klipspringers, though none were quite what we wanted. A few kudu appeared in the distance, along with several impressive trophy hartebeest. Every sighting added to the excitement. By the time we turned back toward the lodge, I could hardly wait for the afternoon hunt.
Lunch proved to be an adventure of its own. We sat beneath the covered patio and enjoyed an incredible zebra schnitzel. It was the first of many memorable meals prepared during our stay. Over the next seven days, we sampled zebra steaks, zebra burgers, oryx cordon bleu, mincemeat pies, kudu meatballs, oryx spaghetti bolognese, and delicious guinea fowl appetizers. The food became one of the week's unexpected highlights, with the mountain zebra dishes topping my list.
After lunch and a short nap, I was rested and ready to help the kitchen restock its meat supply.
That afternoon, we returned to the field beneath the warm Namibian sun. Once again, animals seemed to appear around every bend. We spotted a kori bustard, numerous warthogs and steenbok, and groups of mountain zebra. Juan and Issiac studied each animal carefully, judging its age and determining whether it was appropriate to harvest.
As the day faded, a soft sunset settled over the rugged hills. Then everything changed. On top of a steep, boulder-covered slope, we spotted a group of warthogs. Among them was a large boar with an impressive smile. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for. Led by our sharp-eyed professional hunter, Issiac, we carefully climbed the hill. Jagged rocks shifted beneath our feet as we worked our way upward. The boar disappeared over the ridge, but Issiac soon located him only a few yards below us, digging in the earth and unaware of our position. "Shoot offhand," Issiac instructed. I raised the rifle, found the warthog in the scope, steadied myself, and squeezed the trigger. The boar bolted away.
I had missed cleanly, and I could not understand how. The distance had been short, and the shot had seemed easy. Later, when we reviewed the video, we discovered what had happened: the bullet had struck the edge of a boulder directly in front of me. The rock had not been visible through the scope.
The hunt was not over. Issiac quickly relocated the boar and set up the shooting sticks for another attempt. This time, I settled the rifle, focused on the target, and fired. The shot was perfect. The great boar fell where he stood.
We climbed down from our perch and were greeted by my wife and our driver. After three unsuccessful hunts in South Africa, the warthog that had eluded me for so long was finally mine. We celebrated with fist bumps, hugs, broad smiles, and plenty of photographs before loading the boar into the truck.
Even then, the day's adventure had one final surprise. On the drive back to the lodge, I made a long shot on a large baboon. It was an exciting conclusion to an already remarkable first day. When we arrived at camp, Retief and Philip came out to inspect the warthog and congratulated me on the long-awaited trophy. At last, my elusive warthog was "in the salt."
That evening, we gathered for another outstanding meal. The conversation flowed as freely as the stories, and we relived every moment of the day's hunt - the abundant wildlife, the rugged climb, the mysterious first miss, and the perfect second shot. It had been only our first day in the field, but Namibia had already delivered an adventure I would never forget.
September 10, 2026
The first afternoon of the hunt felt like the beginning of a great adventure. Around every bend in the rugged landscape, a new opportunity seemed to appear. We spotted several impressive kudu, countless klipspringers balancing effortlessly on the rocky slopes, and even a massive baboon making his way up a distant hillside.
As we watched the baboon, Juan quietly instructed me to aim his head to allow for his movement. The baboon was approximately 210 meters away and moving steadily uphill, putting more distance between us with every step. I settled behind the rifle, steadied my breathing, and carefully placed the crosshairs on the crown of his head. When the moment felt right, I squeezed the trigger. The baboon dropped instantly.
Excitement built as we climbed the hill, already imagining a magnificent skull mount for the trophy room. We approached cautiously, but as we reached the animal, our anticipation quickly turned to disappointment. The shot had struck higher than intended, leaving the skull unsuitable for a trophy. The old baboon had been moving just slowly enough to change everything. While we could not recover the trophy we had hoped for, it left us with another reason to return to Africa one day.
The adventure continued as we spent much of the afternoon pursuing mountain zebras. Time after time they slipped away before we could close the distance. Their seemingly endless movement across the mountains began to wear on my confidence, and I started to wonder if a mountain zebra would remain out of reach.
As daylight faded and we finally turned back toward camp, one last opportunity emerged.
The team spotted an outstanding klipspringer standing proudly on a rocky outcrop roughly one hundred meters away. After a quick evaluation of his size, we quietly left the truck and moved into position. Before I could prepare for a shot, the little antelope disappeared farther up the mountain and out of sight.
For a moment, it seemed the opportunity had vanished. Then Jason, our sharp-eyed driver, spotted him again just a few meters higher on the rocks. Isaac quickly repositioned the shooting sticks, and within seconds the klipspringer appeared in my scope. Knowing the opportunity might disappear again at any second, I took a quick shot. The klipspringer collapsed where he stood.
Now came the hard part. The rocky outcrop was extremely steep, and both Jason and Juan had to climb carefully to reach the animal. From below, I could do nothing but wait. Those minutes felt far longer than they really were. Ever since taking the shot, I had been filled with the familiar anxiety every hunter knows, the uncertainty that lingers until the animal is recovered.
The wait was especially difficult because of a memory that still haunted me. Two years earlier in Limpopo, I had shot a klipspringer that disappeared into a maze of giant boulders. Despite our efforts, it vanished into deep crevasses between the rocks and was never recovered. It remained the only animal I had ever lost in Africa.
Then, at last, relief washed over me. Far above, I saw Jason and Juan descending the rocks, carrying the klipspringer. The animal was recovered, and with it came redemption. The disappointment from Limpopo was finally behind me.
Back at camp, the excitement only grew. As the team examined the klipspringer, everyone became increasingly enthusiastic about the trophy. The horns were exceptional, and the secondary growth was unlike anything most of them had seen. Philip confidently predicted it would rank among the finest ever taken. He was right.
While I was still in Africa, the official measurements were completed. The klipspringer ranked as the number three klipspringer ever recorded in Namibia, placing it firmly among the top ten all time. The remarkable secondary growth made it a truly extraordinary specimen and one of the highlights of my hunting career.
It was a day filled with challenges, disappointment, redemption, and triumph, the kind of day that reminds a hunter why Africa continues to call them back.
September 11, 2026
By the dawn of the third day, the hunt already felt like an incredible adventure. I had taken an elusive warthog, redeemed myself with a magnificent klipspringer after the disappointment of losing one years earlier, and even helped thin the local baboon population. My confidence was growing, but I knew the hunt was far from over.
That morning's mission was a springbok. As we drove toward the ranch where we would hunt, a large herd of long-horned oryx appeared in the distance, their silhouettes standing proudly against the Namibian landscape. It was tempting to switch our attention to them, but we had a plan. The oryx would have to wait for another day.
Soon we located a herd of springbok. The challenge became apparent immediately. With dozens of sharp eyes constantly scanning the countryside, the animals seemed to sense our every move. Time and again they slipped away before we could get into position. Several stalks ended in frustration as the herd bolted just when success seemed within reach.
But persistence finally paid off. After another careful approach, we spotted a mature trophy ram. Using the terrain for cover, we closed the distance to 120 meters. Isaac set up the shooting sticks, and I found the ram in my scope. The springbok stood among other animals, forcing us to wait patiently for a clear shot. Finally, he stepped into the open.
The trigger broke. The shot was not exactly where I intended, but it struck a major artery. The ram sprinted away before slowing, stumbling, and collapsing less than a hundred meters from where he had stood. The hunt was over almost as quickly as it had reached its climax.
After taking photos and admiring the beautiful animal, we headed back to the lodge. As I looked at the growing list of trophies, it dawned on me that I had already collected three of my five target species. Even more remarkable, I still had four and a half days remaining in the hunt.
My wife began talking about the possibility of finishing early and spending extra time on the coast. I wasn't convinced. One challenge still remained, and it was the one I feared most. The Hartmann's mountain zebra. That animal had earned its reputation, and I knew the hardest test was still ahead.
The afternoon brought a new adventure. Years earlier in Limpopo, I had taken an ancient oryx whose horns had been worn down by age. It was a rewarding trophy, but traveling all the way to Namibia without pursuing one of the country's iconic gemsbok seemed incomplete. We agreed to dedicate the afternoon to finding a mature trophy bull.
Before long, Juan and Isaac spotted exactly what we were looking for. The old oryx was feeding in difficult country, and the only way to get within range was to climb yet another rocky hill. The plan meant a steep ascent over loose stones and jagged outcrops, but the effort would provide a shooting position overlooking the animal.
We climbed steadily until reaching the top. From there, Isaac relocated the oryx and pointed him out below. "One hundred and fifty meters," he whispered.
The only available rest was a large boulder. I slid into position and settled the rifle on the rock. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get perfectly steady. The sight picture drifted slightly, but the wobble remained small enough for a shot. The angle was awkward. The position was uncomfortable. The opportunity was now. I squeezed the trigger. The oryx dropped instantly. "Stay on him!" Isaac called. I kept my eye glued to the scope while we watched for any sign of movement. "Spine shot," Juan said. Not wanting to take any chances, I quickly placed a second shot into the animal. The old oryx never recovered.
With the hunt finished, we began the descent down the rocky hillside toward the trophy. It was not my finest shot, but the outcome was certain, and the old warrior had been taken cleanly.
As we reached the oryx, a sense of accomplishment settled over me. Number four of my five target species was now secured. And it was still only the third day of a seven-day safari. The realization was hard to ignore. Four trophies were already in the salt shed, and only one species remained between me and a perfect hunt. The legendary Hartmann's mountain zebra.
The adventure was going better than I had ever imagined, but one of the toughest challenges in Namibia still waited somewhere among the mountains. The hunt was far from over. In many ways, it was only just beginning.
That evening, as the sun disappeared behind the rugged peaks and the sounds of camp settled into the cool African night, Juan and Isaac began planning the next day's adventure. The final prize on my list was the Hartmann's mountain zebra, an animal famous for living where few hunters were willing to follow. These were not creatures of open plains. They ruled the mountains.
Hartmann's mountain zebras preferred the steepest, most unforgiving terrain in the region. Reaching them would mean hours of hiking over loose rock, climbing brutal slopes, and navigating narrow ledges where every step required concentration. If we were successful, the challenge wouldn't end with the long shot. The zebra would still have to be recovered and carried by hand down the mountain. It would be one of the most physically demanding hunts of the safari.
Because we still had several days remaining, Juan and Isaac decided to begin in a less extreme area. Their thinking was simple. If we could locate a herd in more accessible country, we might save ourselves a grueling climb while still getting an opportunity at a mature zebra. If that failed, the higher and rougher mountains would still be waiting. The plan was set.
As we sat around camp discussing the next day's strategy, I couldn't resist having a little fun. "Tomorrow," I said confidently, "we'll drive out, locate the herd right away, make a short stalk, and I'll shoot a zebra from less than one hundred meters." The table erupted with laughter. Juan grinned. Even my wife laughed.
Everyone in camp understood exactly how unrealistic my prediction was. Hartmann's mountain zebras had built their reputation by making hunters work for every opportunity. Nothing about hunting them was easy, and certainly nothing about it happened quickly.
The amused expressions around the table made it clear that nobody believed it for a second. As the laughter faded and the evening drew to a close, excitement began to replace the joking. Tomorrow would be different from every hunt that had come before it. The warthog, springbok, klipspringer, and oryx were already secured. Only one challenge remained. Somewhere in the mountains, a Hartmann's mountain zebra was waiting.
Whether my prediction would become reality or turn into the joke of the safari remained to be seen. One thing was certain: When the sun rose the next morning, we would be heading into zebra country. And in zebra country, the mountains always have the final say.
September 12, 2026
The climax of the hunt had finally arrived. The target list that had seemed so ambitious only a few days earlier was now down to a single animal. The warthog was in the salt. The springbok was in the salt. The klipspringer that had redeemed an old disappointment was in the salt. The oryx was in the salt. Only one challenge remained. The legendary Hartmann's mountain zebra.
Early the next morning, we drove to a farm only a few miles from the lodge. As we approached the hunting area, I couldn't help but think back to the conversation around the bar the night before. I had joked that we would quickly find a herd, make a short stalk, and I'd take a zebra from less than a hundred meters. Everyone had laughed.
Hartmann's zebras weren't supposed to be that easy. We arrived at the area frequented by zebra and quietly climbed out of the truck. The engine was shut off, rifles were loaded, and we began preparing for what we expected to be a long day in the mountains.
Then everything changed. Without warning, a herd of Hartmann's mountain zebras exploded across the road only a few meters in front of us. For a split second, nobody moved. Then Isaac grabbed the shooting sticks. "Let's go!" We rushed forward as the herd disappeared into a nearby ravine. Based on every previous encounter, I expected the zebras to race up the mountain, disappear over the ridgeline, and force us into a grueling chase through the rocky terrain. Instead, something unexpected happened.
Isaac spotted them. The entire herd was standing in the valley below us. Distance: seventy meters. I could hardly believe it. Working quickly, Isaac positioned the sticks while I settled the rifle into place. I carefully disengaged the safety and searched through the scope. The ravine seemed packed with zebras. Stripes crossed stripes in every direction, and animals were already beginning to move uphill. "Which one?" I asked. Isaac's answer came immediately. "Anyone."
The opportunity was slipping away. I picked the closest broadside zebra, steadied the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked. The zebra lurched and began climbing the hill with the rest of the herd. "Should I shoot again?" I asked. "No," Isaac replied calmly. "He's going to go down. Good shot."
Moments later, the stallion stumbled and collapsed. The hunt was over. I stood there for a moment, almost laughing at the unbelievable turn of events. Somehow, against all expectations, the hunt had unfolded almost exactly as I had jokingly predicted the night before.
A quick hunt. A short stalk. A shot inside one hundred meters. It seemed impossible, yet there it was. The final animal on my list was down.
As we walked toward the zebra, a wave of gratitude settled over me. The trophy was special, but what I felt most strongly was appreciation for the people who had shared the adventure. My wife had been there to witness the journey. Isaac and Juan had guided every stalk with incredible skill. Jason had spotted animals that others would have missed. Philip had shared in the excitement and celebration of each success.
Together we had experienced an unforgettable Namibian adventure. Now, as I looked back across the mountains, all five target species were accounted for. The salt shed was full. The goal had been accomplished. And suddenly a new question appeared: What does a hunter do when the adventure he came for is already complete with days still remaining?
The answer, of course, was simple. In Africa, there is always another valley to explore, another mountain beyond the horizon, and another adventure waiting just around the corner. Maybe, just maybe, we could upgrade the warthog. They are a fun and exciting animal to hunt. I asked Juan if we could look for another warthog during the afternoon hunt. He was immediately excited, as warthog hunting is one of his favorite pursuits. A plan was quickly made. Now, all that was left to do was enjoy my daily afternoon nap.
The afternoon hunt was on. After a quick nap and a hearty lunch, we climbed back into the truck and headed into the Namibian bush. The plan was simple: find an old warthog with a character-filled smile worthy of ending an incredible safari. As we bounced along the dusty two-track roads, our eyes scanned every opening, creek bed, and patch of brush for a glimpse of curved tusks.
Then, without warning, the truck came to an abrupt stop. High on a hillside above a dry creek bed stood a lone warthog. One look through the binoculars and we knew he was special. A mature old boar, exactly the kind of trophy we had been hoping to find. Unfortunately, he seemed to know how the game was played. He had positioned himself perfectly, keeping a tree squarely between himself and my rifle. The stalk was on. We slipped quietly from the truck and began working our way toward him. Every step was measured. Every movement deliberate. The old boar remained hidden behind his tree as if he had done this a hundred times before. Then, just as we thought we were closing the distance, he vanished. We hurried to the edge of the dry creek bed and searched every thicket and shadow. Nothing. The old warrior had disappeared.
For several minutes we combed the brush, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but the ancient boar seemed to have melted into the landscape. Reluctantly, we admitted defeat and made our way back toward the road to wait for the truck. As we casually strolled along the road and climbed a small rise a few hundred meters beyond the creek bed, the mood was relaxed. We chatted about the encounter and wondered where the crafty old boar had gone. Then everything changed. Standing broadside on the hillside was the same warthog. For a moment, all of us froze in disbelief. Somehow, the old boar had slipped away unseen and circled around ahead of us. He was completely exposed, offering the shot we had thought was gone forever.
Issiac reacted instantly. In one smooth motion, he set up the shooting sticks and guided me into position. My rifle settled onto the rest. The crosshairs found their mark. The shot rang out across the valley. The old boar dropped where he stood. As we walked up to him, the years of his life became immediately apparent. He wore a good smile, though one tusk was partially broken from a lifetime of battles. His hide was nearly hairless, and his frame was thin from age. Every scar seemed to tell a story. He looked like an old prizefighter, battered and worn, long past his prime but still standing until the very end.
It was impossible for the guys not to admire him but not my wife she declared that he was plain ugly. This was not the biggest warthog in Namibia, nor the most impressive by measurement alone. But he was exactly the kind of trophy I wanted. An ancient survivor that had endured countless droughts, predators, and rival boars. A fitting trophy to close out an unforgettable hunt and another chapter of adventure in Africa.
That evening, as we gathered around the dinner table, the conversation shifted from hunting to travel. The safari might have been ending, but the adventure was far from over. Plans were made to cross the vast Namib-Naukluft National Park on our journey to the coast. Ahead lay Swakopmund, Walvis Bay, the legendary shipwrecks of the Skeleton Coast, and the remarkable Cape Cross Seal Colony. The hunt was finished, but Africa still had stories left to tell.
September 13-14, 2026
The next morning, our adventure took a different turn. The rifles were put away, and we set out on a journey across the vast Namib-Naukluft National Park toward Namibia's legendary coastline. What a drive it was.
Hour after hour, we crossed a landscape that seemed untouched by time itself. Towering mountains rose from the desert floor, their jagged silhouettes fading into endless horizons. The colors shifted constantly, from deep reds and browns to golden sands that stretched farther than the eye could see. It was a reminder of just how wild and remote Namibia truly is.
The wildlife was everywhere. Meerkats stood sentry beside their burrows, watching our vehicle pass through their kingdom. Ostriches raced across the plains while kudu and springbok appeared like ghosts against the desert backdrop. Bat-eared foxes darted through the brush, and groups of oryx stood proudly on the horizon as if posing for photographs. We spotted jackals, warthogs, and countless other animals as the miles rolled beneath our tires.
Eventually, the dry desert gave way to the cool air of the Atlantic coast. The contrast was remarkable. One moment we were surrounded by endless sand, and the next we were looking out over the ocean.
Along the coast, nature provided an entirely different spectacle. Thousands of pink flamingos lined the shallow waters, creating splashes of color against the gray-blue sea. Pink-backed pelicans drifted gracefully offshore.
Our next destination was the famous Cape Cross Seal Colony. No photograph or travel guide can truly prepare you for the overwhelming odor. Juan had warned us about the smell. It was, without question, one of the most foul and powerful smells I have ever experienced. Yet despite the assault on the senses, the colony was fascinating. Tens of thousands of seals crowded the shoreline, barking, fighting, playing, and sleeping in a chaotic scene that was both noisy and unforgettable. It was one of those places that is impossible to describe adequately but absolutely worth experiencing.
The next morning, we spent a little time exploring the coastal town shops, picking up a few souvenirs and enjoying a slower pace before beginning our journey back to the lodge.
For the entire two-day excursion, Juan served as our guide, driver, storyteller, and occasional comedian. His knowledge of the country and enthusiasm for sharing it made the trip even more enjoyable. What began as a hunting safari had evolved into a true Namibian adventure, giving us a glimpse of landscapes and wildlife far beyond the hunting concessions.
One of the highlights of the trip came during our evening in Swakopmund. Juan joined us for dinner aboard The Tug, a unique restaurant overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The seafood was exceptional, the conversation flowed easily, and the wine flowed even more freely. By the end of the evening, there had definitely been more wine than initially planned, but plenty of laughter to go along with it.
As we returned to the lodge the following day, it was hard not to reflect on everything we had experienced. In just two days we had traveled from the heart of the Namib Desert to the Atlantic coast, seen incredible wildlife, explored some of Namibia's most famous destinations, and shared unforgettable memories with good friends.
For anyone fortunate enough to visit Namibia, I cannot recommend the journey enough. The hunting may bring you there, but it is the country's breathtaking landscapes, remarkable wildlife, and unforgettable adventures that will keep calling you back.
September 15-16
Back at the lodge, we decided that if our Namibian adventure was coming to an end, we were going to make every minute count. Instead of chasing antelope across the mountains and valleys, our final days would be spent pursuing something entirely different: ducks, Egyptian geese, guinea fowl, and francolin.
At first light, we headed into the field with shotguns in hand. Or, more accurately, I headed into the field carrying a beautiful old sidelock 16-gauge side-by-side shotgun. It was the kind of firearm that seemed to belong in another era, a classic piece with plenty of history and character. Unfortunately, the shotgun was far more impressive than the person pulling the trigger.
As the birds flushed from cover and streaked across the sky, I quickly discovered that my wing-shooting skills were nowhere near as polished as I had imagined. Feathers remained firmly attached to many birds that should have been easy targets. More than once, I found myself wondering if the birds were laughing as they disappeared over the horizon. Still, accuracy was beside the point.
The morning and afternoon hunts were filled with action, laughter, and friendly teasing. We worked fields and water holes, jumped flocks of guinea fowl, and watched Egyptian geese soar overhead. Some birds escaped unharmed, others found their way into the game bag, and every moment added another memory to an already unforgettable safari. By the end of the day, we had collected a variety of birds that would become part of our final feast at the lodge.
That evening, everyone gathered around the table for what I affectionately called "the last supper." The meal was outstanding, featuring the guinea fowl we had harvested during the day's hunt. Stories flowed as freely as the drinks as we relived missed shots, great stalks, lucky breaks, and all the adventures that had unfolded over the previous week.
As the evening wore on, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the reality that our journey was coming to an end. The trophies were impressive, but they were only part of the story. What made the trip truly special were the friendships that had been forged along the way. The guides, trackers, and lodge staff that had started as strangers but now felt like old friends. Saying goodbye would not be easy.
Of course, every ending brings with it the possibility of another beginning. As we talked into the evening, future adventures were already being planned. Perhaps in a few years, I would return to Namibia in search of one of Africa's smallest and most elusive antelope, the dik-dik. There were still plenty of animals on my wish list and countless valleys, mountains, and horizons left unexplored.
The following day, we made our way to Windhoek for one final night in Namibia. Before departing, we enjoyed lunch at the famous Joe's Beerhouse, sharing one last meal and reflecting on everything we had experienced.
Soon it was time to head for the airport and board our flight to Cape Town. As the aircraft lifted into the African sky, I looked down at the landscape disappearing beneath the clouds. The safari was over. The hunting was finished. Yet the memories of Namibia would remain long after the trophies had been mounted. Africa has a way of doing that.
Just when you think the adventure is over, it leaves you dreaming of the next one. And as the miles passed beneath us on our way to Cape Town, I already knew that someday I would return. There were still new tracks to follow, new friendships to make, and new adventures waiting just beyond the horizon.
September 17-18
Before our African adventure finally came to an end, we returned to Cape Town and spent one last night at Afton Safari Lodge. After weeks of hunting, exploring, and traveling across Namibia, it felt almost strange to slow down and enjoy a final day without a schedule or destination.
With a few hours to spare, we headed to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront for some last-minute shopping and lunch. The harbor was alive with activity, framed by the towering backdrop of Table Mountain. We wandered through the shops, picked up a few souvenirs, and enjoyed one final taste of Africa while reflecting on everything we had experienced during the journey.
Cape Town proved to be the perfect place to end the trip. The city had captivated us from the very beginning with its stunning scenery, excellent food, and relaxed atmosphere. Looking back on the entire safari, my wife declared it her favorite hunting trip yet. The lodge, the people, the food, and the pace of the adventure had combined to create an experience unlike any other. Most importantly, it never felt rushed. There was always time to enjoy the landscape, share stories around the table, and appreciate the people who made the journey special.
In perhaps the strongest endorsement possible, she announced that she would gladly return to Namibia. There was only one condition. The next trip would need to include a few days in Etosha National Park. That sounded like a pretty good deal to me.
After all, Africa has a way of leaving you with unfinished business. No matter how much ground you cover or how many animals you see, there is always another destination to explore and another adventure waiting beyond the horizon.
Eventually, our time had run out. We said our final goodbyes, gathered our luggage, and made our way to the airport. As the plane lifted off and Africa slowly disappeared beneath the clouds, I found myself reliving the past weeks in my mind. The mountain stalks, the old warthog, the coastal journey across the Namib Desert, the bird hunts, the laughter shared with friends, and the countless unforgettable moments all blended together into one incredible adventure.
The flight home was long and exhausting. By the time we finally walked through our front door, the reality of the journey's length had caught up with us. Even now, I am still recovering from the miles traveled and time zones crossed. But some trips leave more than just jet lag. They leave memories that grow stronger with time, stories that become better with every retelling, and a desire to return before you've even unpacked your bags.
Namibia gave us all of that and more. As this chapter comes to a close, I already find myself thinking about the next safari. Perhaps it will be a hunt for a tiny dik-dik. Perhaps it will be a journey through Etosha with my wife. Whatever form it takes, I know one thing for certain: Africa is not a place you simply visit once. It is a place that gets into your soul, calls you back, and reminds you that the greatest adventures are not the ones you have finished, but the ones that are still waiting to begin.
My wife and I began our long-awaited African adventure aboard a Delta flight bound for Cape Town. The journey had been a year in the making, delayed by our daughter's wedding and a series of unexpected obstacles. Through every change of plans, Philip graciously helped us rearrange our dates, always communicating clearly and keeping our dream alive.
Although this was my fourth trip to Africa, it felt like the beginning of an entirely new expedition. I had never ventured beyond South Africa, and Cape Town promised fresh discoveries. On previous trips, we had flown from Dallas-Fort Worth through Atlanta to Johannesburg. This time, I was eager to avoid Johannesburg, while my wife had one mission in mind: to see the penguins.
Still recovering from our daughter's wedding expenses, we chose economy seats to conserve our travel funds. The flight to Atlanta was smooth and uneventful, but the long haul to Cape Town became an endurance test. Cramped into economy for hour after hour, we arrived feeling as though we had survived the first major trial of our adventure.
Fortunately, I had brought along a Firefly device, which stimulates the nerves and causes gentle muscle contractions. Somewhere high above the Atlantic, it became my secret weapon. By the time we landed, I felt less fatigued and recovered more quickly than I expected. First-class seats might have made the crossing easier, but for two travelers balancing adventure with a wedding-depleted budget, the Firefly proved to be the more practical solution.
Exhausted but triumphant, we stepped off the plane in Cape Town. The difficult flight was behind us, a new continent-spanning adventure lay ahead, and somewhere along the coast, the penguins were waiting.
September 6-7, 2026
We landed in Cape Town at around 6:00 p.m., exhausted but eager to begin the next chapter of our journey. After struggling to find our pre-arranged ride to Afton Safari Lodge, we decided not to waste another minute at the airport. Neither of us sleeps well on planes, and after the long flight, all we wanted was a warm bed. We summoned an Uber and set off into the evening.
The ride was short and easy, with the setting sun casting a spectacular glow over Table Mountain. It felt like the perfect welcome to South Africa. When we reached the lodge, our host greeted us warmly. We unloaded our bags, paid the driver, enjoyed a much-needed beverage, and settled in for the night.
Then came an unexpected twist. Later, I discovered that I had been charged more than $1,000 USD for the brief ride from the airport. Somehow, in our exhausted state, we had fallen victim to a scam. It was a costly and unsettling start to our Cape Town adventure, but we refused to let it overshadow everything that lay ahead.
After a wonderful night's sleep, we awoke refreshed and ready to explore. The lodge was quiet, warm, and cozy - exactly the retreat we needed. We spent the day on a private tour of Table Mountain, Boulders Beach and its famous penguins, and the rugged beauty of Cape Point. From sweeping mountain views to penguins waddling along the shore, every stop felt like another scene from an unforgettable expedition.
We returned to the lodge just in time for a wonderful meal with our host. Over a few beverages, we shared stories and lively conversation about the day's discoveries before turning in for another well-earned rest.
The following morning began with another delicious meal. Then it was time to pack our bags and head back to the airport for the next stage of our journey: Namibia. Despite the costly surprise at the beginning, Cape Town had given us breathtaking scenery, remarkable wildlife, warm hospitality, and memories we would carry with us.
Our excitement grew as we prepared to add another country to our expanding map of adventures - bringing our total to 54 countries and counting.
September 8, 2026
Namibia greeted us with our first test of patience. After stepping off the plane, we crossed the tiny airport and joined a long international passport line. We had traveled extensively, but this was the slowest immigration process we had ever encountered. Each traveler seemed to require 10 to 15 minutes to clear, and the line crept forward at an almost comical pace.
At last, our passports were stamped and our visas approved. We entered the reception area, where a man immediately greeted us by name. It was Juan, the camp manager and our tracker for the week. We were puzzled by how easily he had picked us out of the crowd until we learned that he had copies of our passport photos. The mystery was solved, and our Namibian adventure could officially begin.
We loaded our gear and set off on the 45-minute drive to @KHOMAS HIGHLAND HUNTING SAFARIS. Before long, the pavement disappeared beneath us, replaced by a rough, unpaved road that bounced and twisted through the rugged landscape. The ride gave us our first real taste of the country, but the best part was getting to know Juan. As the vehicle rattled onward, he patiently answered our many questions and outlined the plan for our seven-day hunt.
When we finally reached the lodge, the Khomas Highlands team welcomed us warmly - along with a cold beer on tap. I rarely drink unless I am on vacation, but during this adventure, a beer after each day's hunt became a welcome tradition.
We settled into the lodge and met the people who would share the journey with us: Philip, the owner; Retief, one of the professional hunters; Issiac, our professional hunter; Jason, our driver; and the talented kitchen staff who kept us well fed. That evening, we gathered for an incredible meal, exchanged stories, and began to feel at home in the Namibian wilderness.
After dinner, Juan briefed us on the following day's plan. Our first stop would be the shooting range, where I would practice using the shooting sticks and become comfortable with the rental rifles selected for the week. We chose two suppressed rifles: a .243 Winchester and a .338 Winchester Magnum.
The anticipation made it difficult to contain my excitement. Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin. I did not know it yet, but before the week was over, the powerful .338 Winchester Magnum would become my trusted rifle of choice.
September 9, 2026
The next morning, our Namibian hunting adventure began at the rifle range. It did not take long to become familiar with the rifles and shooting sticks, but Juan wanted our first morning to unfold at a leisurely pace. There was no need to rush. This was our chance to establish a routine and review the essential details: how they wanted me to carry the rifles, when to chamber a round, and when it was safe to shoot.
With the range session complete, we climbed into the vehicle and began exploring the ranch. As we traveled across the rugged terrain, Juan and Issiac carefully scanned the hills and valleys. Game seemed to be everywhere. We spotted warthogs, steenbok, Hartmann's mountain zebra, and many other animals moving through the vast landscape.
Our target species for the week included warthog, klipspringer, springbok, oryx, and Hartmann's mountain zebra. I had originally planned to hunt dik-dik, but a recent fire had affected the area where they were found, so I changed that hunt to klipspringer. Still, one animal stood above all the others on my list: the warthog. It had eluded me during three previous hunts in South Africa, and I hoped Namibia would finally bring that long pursuit to an end.
Before arriving, I had been warned that game could be sparse in Namibia and that patience would be essential. Our first drive told a very different story. We encountered more wildlife than I had expected, including numerous warthogs. Several had tusks extending about two inches beyond their mouths - what Juan called a good "smile" - but none were mature enough to be considered true trophies.
We also examined many representative klipspringers, though none were quite what we wanted. A few kudu appeared in the distance, along with several impressive trophy hartebeest. Every sighting added to the excitement. By the time we turned back toward the lodge, I could hardly wait for the afternoon hunt.
Lunch proved to be an adventure of its own. We sat beneath the covered patio and enjoyed an incredible zebra schnitzel. It was the first of many memorable meals prepared during our stay. Over the next seven days, we sampled zebra steaks, zebra burgers, oryx cordon bleu, mincemeat pies, kudu meatballs, oryx spaghetti bolognese, and delicious guinea fowl appetizers. The food became one of the week's unexpected highlights, with the mountain zebra dishes topping my list.
After lunch and a short nap, I was rested and ready to help the kitchen restock its meat supply.
That afternoon, we returned to the field beneath the warm Namibian sun. Once again, animals seemed to appear around every bend. We spotted a kori bustard, numerous warthogs and steenbok, and groups of mountain zebra. Juan and Issiac studied each animal carefully, judging its age and determining whether it was appropriate to harvest.
As the day faded, a soft sunset settled over the rugged hills. Then everything changed. On top of a steep, boulder-covered slope, we spotted a group of warthogs. Among them was a large boar with an impressive smile. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for. Led by our sharp-eyed professional hunter, Issiac, we carefully climbed the hill. Jagged rocks shifted beneath our feet as we worked our way upward. The boar disappeared over the ridge, but Issiac soon located him only a few yards below us, digging in the earth and unaware of our position. "Shoot offhand," Issiac instructed. I raised the rifle, found the warthog in the scope, steadied myself, and squeezed the trigger. The boar bolted away.
I had missed cleanly, and I could not understand how. The distance had been short, and the shot had seemed easy. Later, when we reviewed the video, we discovered what had happened: the bullet had struck the edge of a boulder directly in front of me. The rock had not been visible through the scope.
The hunt was not over. Issiac quickly relocated the boar and set up the shooting sticks for another attempt. This time, I settled the rifle, focused on the target, and fired. The shot was perfect. The great boar fell where he stood.
We climbed down from our perch and were greeted by my wife and our driver. After three unsuccessful hunts in South Africa, the warthog that had eluded me for so long was finally mine. We celebrated with fist bumps, hugs, broad smiles, and plenty of photographs before loading the boar into the truck.
Even then, the day's adventure had one final surprise. On the drive back to the lodge, I made a long shot on a large baboon. It was an exciting conclusion to an already remarkable first day. When we arrived at camp, Retief and Philip came out to inspect the warthog and congratulated me on the long-awaited trophy. At last, my elusive warthog was "in the salt."
That evening, we gathered for another outstanding meal. The conversation flowed as freely as the stories, and we relived every moment of the day's hunt - the abundant wildlife, the rugged climb, the mysterious first miss, and the perfect second shot. It had been only our first day in the field, but Namibia had already delivered an adventure I would never forget.
September 10, 2026
The first afternoon of the hunt felt like the beginning of a great adventure. Around every bend in the rugged landscape, a new opportunity seemed to appear. We spotted several impressive kudu, countless klipspringers balancing effortlessly on the rocky slopes, and even a massive baboon making his way up a distant hillside.
As we watched the baboon, Juan quietly instructed me to aim his head to allow for his movement. The baboon was approximately 210 meters away and moving steadily uphill, putting more distance between us with every step. I settled behind the rifle, steadied my breathing, and carefully placed the crosshairs on the crown of his head. When the moment felt right, I squeezed the trigger. The baboon dropped instantly.
Excitement built as we climbed the hill, already imagining a magnificent skull mount for the trophy room. We approached cautiously, but as we reached the animal, our anticipation quickly turned to disappointment. The shot had struck higher than intended, leaving the skull unsuitable for a trophy. The old baboon had been moving just slowly enough to change everything. While we could not recover the trophy we had hoped for, it left us with another reason to return to Africa one day.
The adventure continued as we spent much of the afternoon pursuing mountain zebras. Time after time they slipped away before we could close the distance. Their seemingly endless movement across the mountains began to wear on my confidence, and I started to wonder if a mountain zebra would remain out of reach.
As daylight faded and we finally turned back toward camp, one last opportunity emerged.
The team spotted an outstanding klipspringer standing proudly on a rocky outcrop roughly one hundred meters away. After a quick evaluation of his size, we quietly left the truck and moved into position. Before I could prepare for a shot, the little antelope disappeared farther up the mountain and out of sight.
For a moment, it seemed the opportunity had vanished. Then Jason, our sharp-eyed driver, spotted him again just a few meters higher on the rocks. Isaac quickly repositioned the shooting sticks, and within seconds the klipspringer appeared in my scope. Knowing the opportunity might disappear again at any second, I took a quick shot. The klipspringer collapsed where he stood.
Now came the hard part. The rocky outcrop was extremely steep, and both Jason and Juan had to climb carefully to reach the animal. From below, I could do nothing but wait. Those minutes felt far longer than they really were. Ever since taking the shot, I had been filled with the familiar anxiety every hunter knows, the uncertainty that lingers until the animal is recovered.
The wait was especially difficult because of a memory that still haunted me. Two years earlier in Limpopo, I had shot a klipspringer that disappeared into a maze of giant boulders. Despite our efforts, it vanished into deep crevasses between the rocks and was never recovered. It remained the only animal I had ever lost in Africa.
Then, at last, relief washed over me. Far above, I saw Jason and Juan descending the rocks, carrying the klipspringer. The animal was recovered, and with it came redemption. The disappointment from Limpopo was finally behind me.
Back at camp, the excitement only grew. As the team examined the klipspringer, everyone became increasingly enthusiastic about the trophy. The horns were exceptional, and the secondary growth was unlike anything most of them had seen. Philip confidently predicted it would rank among the finest ever taken. He was right.
While I was still in Africa, the official measurements were completed. The klipspringer ranked as the number three klipspringer ever recorded in Namibia, placing it firmly among the top ten all time. The remarkable secondary growth made it a truly extraordinary specimen and one of the highlights of my hunting career.
It was a day filled with challenges, disappointment, redemption, and triumph, the kind of day that reminds a hunter why Africa continues to call them back.
September 11, 2026
By the dawn of the third day, the hunt already felt like an incredible adventure. I had taken an elusive warthog, redeemed myself with a magnificent klipspringer after the disappointment of losing one years earlier, and even helped thin the local baboon population. My confidence was growing, but I knew the hunt was far from over.
That morning's mission was a springbok. As we drove toward the ranch where we would hunt, a large herd of long-horned oryx appeared in the distance, their silhouettes standing proudly against the Namibian landscape. It was tempting to switch our attention to them, but we had a plan. The oryx would have to wait for another day.
Soon we located a herd of springbok. The challenge became apparent immediately. With dozens of sharp eyes constantly scanning the countryside, the animals seemed to sense our every move. Time and again they slipped away before we could get into position. Several stalks ended in frustration as the herd bolted just when success seemed within reach.
But persistence finally paid off. After another careful approach, we spotted a mature trophy ram. Using the terrain for cover, we closed the distance to 120 meters. Isaac set up the shooting sticks, and I found the ram in my scope. The springbok stood among other animals, forcing us to wait patiently for a clear shot. Finally, he stepped into the open.
The trigger broke. The shot was not exactly where I intended, but it struck a major artery. The ram sprinted away before slowing, stumbling, and collapsing less than a hundred meters from where he had stood. The hunt was over almost as quickly as it had reached its climax.
After taking photos and admiring the beautiful animal, we headed back to the lodge. As I looked at the growing list of trophies, it dawned on me that I had already collected three of my five target species. Even more remarkable, I still had four and a half days remaining in the hunt.
My wife began talking about the possibility of finishing early and spending extra time on the coast. I wasn't convinced. One challenge still remained, and it was the one I feared most. The Hartmann's mountain zebra. That animal had earned its reputation, and I knew the hardest test was still ahead.
The afternoon brought a new adventure. Years earlier in Limpopo, I had taken an ancient oryx whose horns had been worn down by age. It was a rewarding trophy, but traveling all the way to Namibia without pursuing one of the country's iconic gemsbok seemed incomplete. We agreed to dedicate the afternoon to finding a mature trophy bull.
Before long, Juan and Isaac spotted exactly what we were looking for. The old oryx was feeding in difficult country, and the only way to get within range was to climb yet another rocky hill. The plan meant a steep ascent over loose stones and jagged outcrops, but the effort would provide a shooting position overlooking the animal.
We climbed steadily until reaching the top. From there, Isaac relocated the oryx and pointed him out below. "One hundred and fifty meters," he whispered.
The only available rest was a large boulder. I slid into position and settled the rifle on the rock. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get perfectly steady. The sight picture drifted slightly, but the wobble remained small enough for a shot. The angle was awkward. The position was uncomfortable. The opportunity was now. I squeezed the trigger. The oryx dropped instantly. "Stay on him!" Isaac called. I kept my eye glued to the scope while we watched for any sign of movement. "Spine shot," Juan said. Not wanting to take any chances, I quickly placed a second shot into the animal. The old oryx never recovered.
With the hunt finished, we began the descent down the rocky hillside toward the trophy. It was not my finest shot, but the outcome was certain, and the old warrior had been taken cleanly.
As we reached the oryx, a sense of accomplishment settled over me. Number four of my five target species was now secured. And it was still only the third day of a seven-day safari. The realization was hard to ignore. Four trophies were already in the salt shed, and only one species remained between me and a perfect hunt. The legendary Hartmann's mountain zebra.
The adventure was going better than I had ever imagined, but one of the toughest challenges in Namibia still waited somewhere among the mountains. The hunt was far from over. In many ways, it was only just beginning.
That evening, as the sun disappeared behind the rugged peaks and the sounds of camp settled into the cool African night, Juan and Isaac began planning the next day's adventure. The final prize on my list was the Hartmann's mountain zebra, an animal famous for living where few hunters were willing to follow. These were not creatures of open plains. They ruled the mountains.
Hartmann's mountain zebras preferred the steepest, most unforgiving terrain in the region. Reaching them would mean hours of hiking over loose rock, climbing brutal slopes, and navigating narrow ledges where every step required concentration. If we were successful, the challenge wouldn't end with the long shot. The zebra would still have to be recovered and carried by hand down the mountain. It would be one of the most physically demanding hunts of the safari.
Because we still had several days remaining, Juan and Isaac decided to begin in a less extreme area. Their thinking was simple. If we could locate a herd in more accessible country, we might save ourselves a grueling climb while still getting an opportunity at a mature zebra. If that failed, the higher and rougher mountains would still be waiting. The plan was set.
As we sat around camp discussing the next day's strategy, I couldn't resist having a little fun. "Tomorrow," I said confidently, "we'll drive out, locate the herd right away, make a short stalk, and I'll shoot a zebra from less than one hundred meters." The table erupted with laughter. Juan grinned. Even my wife laughed.
Everyone in camp understood exactly how unrealistic my prediction was. Hartmann's mountain zebras had built their reputation by making hunters work for every opportunity. Nothing about hunting them was easy, and certainly nothing about it happened quickly.
The amused expressions around the table made it clear that nobody believed it for a second. As the laughter faded and the evening drew to a close, excitement began to replace the joking. Tomorrow would be different from every hunt that had come before it. The warthog, springbok, klipspringer, and oryx were already secured. Only one challenge remained. Somewhere in the mountains, a Hartmann's mountain zebra was waiting.
Whether my prediction would become reality or turn into the joke of the safari remained to be seen. One thing was certain: When the sun rose the next morning, we would be heading into zebra country. And in zebra country, the mountains always have the final say.
September 12, 2026
The climax of the hunt had finally arrived. The target list that had seemed so ambitious only a few days earlier was now down to a single animal. The warthog was in the salt. The springbok was in the salt. The klipspringer that had redeemed an old disappointment was in the salt. The oryx was in the salt. Only one challenge remained. The legendary Hartmann's mountain zebra.
Early the next morning, we drove to a farm only a few miles from the lodge. As we approached the hunting area, I couldn't help but think back to the conversation around the bar the night before. I had joked that we would quickly find a herd, make a short stalk, and I'd take a zebra from less than a hundred meters. Everyone had laughed.
Hartmann's zebras weren't supposed to be that easy. We arrived at the area frequented by zebra and quietly climbed out of the truck. The engine was shut off, rifles were loaded, and we began preparing for what we expected to be a long day in the mountains.
Then everything changed. Without warning, a herd of Hartmann's mountain zebras exploded across the road only a few meters in front of us. For a split second, nobody moved. Then Isaac grabbed the shooting sticks. "Let's go!" We rushed forward as the herd disappeared into a nearby ravine. Based on every previous encounter, I expected the zebras to race up the mountain, disappear over the ridgeline, and force us into a grueling chase through the rocky terrain. Instead, something unexpected happened.
Isaac spotted them. The entire herd was standing in the valley below us. Distance: seventy meters. I could hardly believe it. Working quickly, Isaac positioned the sticks while I settled the rifle into place. I carefully disengaged the safety and searched through the scope. The ravine seemed packed with zebras. Stripes crossed stripes in every direction, and animals were already beginning to move uphill. "Which one?" I asked. Isaac's answer came immediately. "Anyone."
The opportunity was slipping away. I picked the closest broadside zebra, steadied the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked. The zebra lurched and began climbing the hill with the rest of the herd. "Should I shoot again?" I asked. "No," Isaac replied calmly. "He's going to go down. Good shot."
Moments later, the stallion stumbled and collapsed. The hunt was over. I stood there for a moment, almost laughing at the unbelievable turn of events. Somehow, against all expectations, the hunt had unfolded almost exactly as I had jokingly predicted the night before.
A quick hunt. A short stalk. A shot inside one hundred meters. It seemed impossible, yet there it was. The final animal on my list was down.
As we walked toward the zebra, a wave of gratitude settled over me. The trophy was special, but what I felt most strongly was appreciation for the people who had shared the adventure. My wife had been there to witness the journey. Isaac and Juan had guided every stalk with incredible skill. Jason had spotted animals that others would have missed. Philip had shared in the excitement and celebration of each success.
Together we had experienced an unforgettable Namibian adventure. Now, as I looked back across the mountains, all five target species were accounted for. The salt shed was full. The goal had been accomplished. And suddenly a new question appeared: What does a hunter do when the adventure he came for is already complete with days still remaining?
The answer, of course, was simple. In Africa, there is always another valley to explore, another mountain beyond the horizon, and another adventure waiting just around the corner. Maybe, just maybe, we could upgrade the warthog. They are a fun and exciting animal to hunt. I asked Juan if we could look for another warthog during the afternoon hunt. He was immediately excited, as warthog hunting is one of his favorite pursuits. A plan was quickly made. Now, all that was left to do was enjoy my daily afternoon nap.
The afternoon hunt was on. After a quick nap and a hearty lunch, we climbed back into the truck and headed into the Namibian bush. The plan was simple: find an old warthog with a character-filled smile worthy of ending an incredible safari. As we bounced along the dusty two-track roads, our eyes scanned every opening, creek bed, and patch of brush for a glimpse of curved tusks.
Then, without warning, the truck came to an abrupt stop. High on a hillside above a dry creek bed stood a lone warthog. One look through the binoculars and we knew he was special. A mature old boar, exactly the kind of trophy we had been hoping to find. Unfortunately, he seemed to know how the game was played. He had positioned himself perfectly, keeping a tree squarely between himself and my rifle. The stalk was on. We slipped quietly from the truck and began working our way toward him. Every step was measured. Every movement deliberate. The old boar remained hidden behind his tree as if he had done this a hundred times before. Then, just as we thought we were closing the distance, he vanished. We hurried to the edge of the dry creek bed and searched every thicket and shadow. Nothing. The old warrior had disappeared.
For several minutes we combed the brush, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but the ancient boar seemed to have melted into the landscape. Reluctantly, we admitted defeat and made our way back toward the road to wait for the truck. As we casually strolled along the road and climbed a small rise a few hundred meters beyond the creek bed, the mood was relaxed. We chatted about the encounter and wondered where the crafty old boar had gone. Then everything changed. Standing broadside on the hillside was the same warthog. For a moment, all of us froze in disbelief. Somehow, the old boar had slipped away unseen and circled around ahead of us. He was completely exposed, offering the shot we had thought was gone forever.
Issiac reacted instantly. In one smooth motion, he set up the shooting sticks and guided me into position. My rifle settled onto the rest. The crosshairs found their mark. The shot rang out across the valley. The old boar dropped where he stood. As we walked up to him, the years of his life became immediately apparent. He wore a good smile, though one tusk was partially broken from a lifetime of battles. His hide was nearly hairless, and his frame was thin from age. Every scar seemed to tell a story. He looked like an old prizefighter, battered and worn, long past his prime but still standing until the very end.
It was impossible for the guys not to admire him but not my wife she declared that he was plain ugly. This was not the biggest warthog in Namibia, nor the most impressive by measurement alone. But he was exactly the kind of trophy I wanted. An ancient survivor that had endured countless droughts, predators, and rival boars. A fitting trophy to close out an unforgettable hunt and another chapter of adventure in Africa.
That evening, as we gathered around the dinner table, the conversation shifted from hunting to travel. The safari might have been ending, but the adventure was far from over. Plans were made to cross the vast Namib-Naukluft National Park on our journey to the coast. Ahead lay Swakopmund, Walvis Bay, the legendary shipwrecks of the Skeleton Coast, and the remarkable Cape Cross Seal Colony. The hunt was finished, but Africa still had stories left to tell.
September 13-14, 2026
The next morning, our adventure took a different turn. The rifles were put away, and we set out on a journey across the vast Namib-Naukluft National Park toward Namibia's legendary coastline. What a drive it was.
Hour after hour, we crossed a landscape that seemed untouched by time itself. Towering mountains rose from the desert floor, their jagged silhouettes fading into endless horizons. The colors shifted constantly, from deep reds and browns to golden sands that stretched farther than the eye could see. It was a reminder of just how wild and remote Namibia truly is.
The wildlife was everywhere. Meerkats stood sentry beside their burrows, watching our vehicle pass through their kingdom. Ostriches raced across the plains while kudu and springbok appeared like ghosts against the desert backdrop. Bat-eared foxes darted through the brush, and groups of oryx stood proudly on the horizon as if posing for photographs. We spotted jackals, warthogs, and countless other animals as the miles rolled beneath our tires.
Eventually, the dry desert gave way to the cool air of the Atlantic coast. The contrast was remarkable. One moment we were surrounded by endless sand, and the next we were looking out over the ocean.
Along the coast, nature provided an entirely different spectacle. Thousands of pink flamingos lined the shallow waters, creating splashes of color against the gray-blue sea. Pink-backed pelicans drifted gracefully offshore.
Our next destination was the famous Cape Cross Seal Colony. No photograph or travel guide can truly prepare you for the overwhelming odor. Juan had warned us about the smell. It was, without question, one of the most foul and powerful smells I have ever experienced. Yet despite the assault on the senses, the colony was fascinating. Tens of thousands of seals crowded the shoreline, barking, fighting, playing, and sleeping in a chaotic scene that was both noisy and unforgettable. It was one of those places that is impossible to describe adequately but absolutely worth experiencing.
The next morning, we spent a little time exploring the coastal town shops, picking up a few souvenirs and enjoying a slower pace before beginning our journey back to the lodge.
For the entire two-day excursion, Juan served as our guide, driver, storyteller, and occasional comedian. His knowledge of the country and enthusiasm for sharing it made the trip even more enjoyable. What began as a hunting safari had evolved into a true Namibian adventure, giving us a glimpse of landscapes and wildlife far beyond the hunting concessions.
One of the highlights of the trip came during our evening in Swakopmund. Juan joined us for dinner aboard The Tug, a unique restaurant overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The seafood was exceptional, the conversation flowed easily, and the wine flowed even more freely. By the end of the evening, there had definitely been more wine than initially planned, but plenty of laughter to go along with it.
As we returned to the lodge the following day, it was hard not to reflect on everything we had experienced. In just two days we had traveled from the heart of the Namib Desert to the Atlantic coast, seen incredible wildlife, explored some of Namibia's most famous destinations, and shared unforgettable memories with good friends.
For anyone fortunate enough to visit Namibia, I cannot recommend the journey enough. The hunting may bring you there, but it is the country's breathtaking landscapes, remarkable wildlife, and unforgettable adventures that will keep calling you back.
September 15-16
Back at the lodge, we decided that if our Namibian adventure was coming to an end, we were going to make every minute count. Instead of chasing antelope across the mountains and valleys, our final days would be spent pursuing something entirely different: ducks, Egyptian geese, guinea fowl, and francolin.
At first light, we headed into the field with shotguns in hand. Or, more accurately, I headed into the field carrying a beautiful old sidelock 16-gauge side-by-side shotgun. It was the kind of firearm that seemed to belong in another era, a classic piece with plenty of history and character. Unfortunately, the shotgun was far more impressive than the person pulling the trigger.
As the birds flushed from cover and streaked across the sky, I quickly discovered that my wing-shooting skills were nowhere near as polished as I had imagined. Feathers remained firmly attached to many birds that should have been easy targets. More than once, I found myself wondering if the birds were laughing as they disappeared over the horizon. Still, accuracy was beside the point.
The morning and afternoon hunts were filled with action, laughter, and friendly teasing. We worked fields and water holes, jumped flocks of guinea fowl, and watched Egyptian geese soar overhead. Some birds escaped unharmed, others found their way into the game bag, and every moment added another memory to an already unforgettable safari. By the end of the day, we had collected a variety of birds that would become part of our final feast at the lodge.
That evening, everyone gathered around the table for what I affectionately called "the last supper." The meal was outstanding, featuring the guinea fowl we had harvested during the day's hunt. Stories flowed as freely as the drinks as we relived missed shots, great stalks, lucky breaks, and all the adventures that had unfolded over the previous week.
As the evening wore on, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the reality that our journey was coming to an end. The trophies were impressive, but they were only part of the story. What made the trip truly special were the friendships that had been forged along the way. The guides, trackers, and lodge staff that had started as strangers but now felt like old friends. Saying goodbye would not be easy.
Of course, every ending brings with it the possibility of another beginning. As we talked into the evening, future adventures were already being planned. Perhaps in a few years, I would return to Namibia in search of one of Africa's smallest and most elusive antelope, the dik-dik. There were still plenty of animals on my wish list and countless valleys, mountains, and horizons left unexplored.
The following day, we made our way to Windhoek for one final night in Namibia. Before departing, we enjoyed lunch at the famous Joe's Beerhouse, sharing one last meal and reflecting on everything we had experienced.
Soon it was time to head for the airport and board our flight to Cape Town. As the aircraft lifted into the African sky, I looked down at the landscape disappearing beneath the clouds. The safari was over. The hunting was finished. Yet the memories of Namibia would remain long after the trophies had been mounted. Africa has a way of doing that.
Just when you think the adventure is over, it leaves you dreaming of the next one. And as the miles passed beneath us on our way to Cape Town, I already knew that someday I would return. There were still new tracks to follow, new friendships to make, and new adventures waiting just beyond the horizon.
September 17-18
Before our African adventure finally came to an end, we returned to Cape Town and spent one last night at Afton Safari Lodge. After weeks of hunting, exploring, and traveling across Namibia, it felt almost strange to slow down and enjoy a final day without a schedule or destination.
With a few hours to spare, we headed to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront for some last-minute shopping and lunch. The harbor was alive with activity, framed by the towering backdrop of Table Mountain. We wandered through the shops, picked up a few souvenirs, and enjoyed one final taste of Africa while reflecting on everything we had experienced during the journey.
Cape Town proved to be the perfect place to end the trip. The city had captivated us from the very beginning with its stunning scenery, excellent food, and relaxed atmosphere. Looking back on the entire safari, my wife declared it her favorite hunting trip yet. The lodge, the people, the food, and the pace of the adventure had combined to create an experience unlike any other. Most importantly, it never felt rushed. There was always time to enjoy the landscape, share stories around the table, and appreciate the people who made the journey special.
In perhaps the strongest endorsement possible, she announced that she would gladly return to Namibia. There was only one condition. The next trip would need to include a few days in Etosha National Park. That sounded like a pretty good deal to me.
After all, Africa has a way of leaving you with unfinished business. No matter how much ground you cover or how many animals you see, there is always another destination to explore and another adventure waiting beyond the horizon.
Eventually, our time had run out. We said our final goodbyes, gathered our luggage, and made our way to the airport. As the plane lifted off and Africa slowly disappeared beneath the clouds, I found myself reliving the past weeks in my mind. The mountain stalks, the old warthog, the coastal journey across the Namib Desert, the bird hunts, the laughter shared with friends, and the countless unforgettable moments all blended together into one incredible adventure.
The flight home was long and exhausting. By the time we finally walked through our front door, the reality of the journey's length had caught up with us. Even now, I am still recovering from the miles traveled and time zones crossed. But some trips leave more than just jet lag. They leave memories that grow stronger with time, stories that become better with every retelling, and a desire to return before you've even unpacked your bags.
Namibia gave us all of that and more. As this chapter comes to a close, I already find myself thinking about the next safari. Perhaps it will be a hunt for a tiny dik-dik. Perhaps it will be a journey through Etosha with my wife. Whatever form it takes, I know one thing for certain: Africa is not a place you simply visit once. It is a place that gets into your soul, calls you back, and reminds you that the greatest adventures are not the ones you have finished, but the ones that are still waiting to begin.
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