NathanOrszaczki
AH member
– Chasing Africa's Grey Ghost
Each morning I made sure I was awake, showered and ready before Mark. It wasn't about trying to impress anyone or prove a point—it was simply my way of showing how eager I was to get into the day's hunt. Every morning in Africa felt like Christmas morning, and I didn't want to waste a minute of it.
Over breakfast, Mark explained that we'd be heading to another free-range property not far from camp in search of one of Africa's most iconic antelope—the grey ghost, the greater kudu.
We loaded the ute before first light and made the short drive through the rolling farmland. I still remember that drive like it was yesterday. As we entered the property, kudu were everywhere. Cows and bulls drifted across the paddocks and disappeared into the morning shadows. I was like a kid in a lolly shop, struggling to know where to look first.
Mark explained that the kudu would feed in the fields overnight before making their way back into the steep ridges and thick bush as the morning warmed.
Ever since I was a kid, I'd wanted to hunt a kudu. My dad had taken a magnificent bull measuring over 50 inches on a safari before I was born, and hearing his stories had fuelled that dream for years. Now, every bull I saw was being judged in my mind.
"Too narrow."
"Not old enough."
"Nice bull... but not quite."
It probably sounded like I'd hunted dozens of kudu before. The reality was the complete opposite. I had never hunted one in my life, but I knew exactly what I wanted. I wasn't chasing the longest horns on the tape measure. I wanted a mature bull with beautiful width, heavy bases and the classic look that hunters dream about—a true wall hanger. Mark agreed, suggesting we look for an old bull with ivory tips and deep curls. I even showed him a photo from his own Instagram page of the exact style of bull I hoped to find.
That morning we spotted more than twenty bulls. Some were seen from the ute as we drove the tracks, while others were picked apart through binoculars as we glassed the surrounding ridges. Every new sighting had my heart racing, but none quite ticked every box.
Then everything changed.
I was glassing a thick patch of bush with Mark's tracker, trying to separate bulls from cows, when I heard Mark quietly call out.
"Nath... I've found your bull."
I hurried across to where he was standing and looked through the binoculars.
There he was.
He was almost an exact match for the bull I'd shown Mark earlier that morning. Wide, mature and carrying that unmistakable look I'd dreamed about for years. Instantly I knew he was the one.
Of course, being a kudu, nothing was ever going to be easy.
The bull was feeding along the face of a neighbouring ridge, weaving through thick cover. Mark studied the country and explained that if the bull continued further right, he might eventually step into an opening where we could take a shot from distance. If he stayed on his current line, the bush would swallow him completely.
There was only one thing to do.
We shouldered our packs and began the stalk.
Using every bit of cover the African bush offered, we carefully worked our way along the ridge, trying to keep above the bull while staying out of sight. The bush was incredibly thick, and every few metres we'd stop to glass before taking another careful step.
It became a game of cat and mouse.
Hours passed.
We walked, glassed, doubled back, climbed and searched every likely pocket of cover, but the bull had seemingly vanished.
After almost two hours, Mark suggested we head back to the ute and gamble that the bull had continued over the ridge without us seeing him. At that point I was willing to try anything.
We hurried back to the vehicle and drove around the property. Mark's knowledge of the country was incredible. He explained where he believed the bull would most likely reappear and suggested we leave the ute out of sight before making another careful approach.
With the wind in our favour, we slipped quietly along a fence line towards the ridge.
Mark was right.
The bull was exactly where he'd predicted.
He stood feeding in thick cover, offering no ethical shot. I settled the rifle onto the sticks and ranged him. Time seemed to stand still as we waited, quietly discussing where he might step and where the shot needed to be placed.
After what felt like an eternity, the bull finally turned broadside.
The rifle cracked.
I knew immediately the shot had landed a little farther back than I intended. The bull lunged uphill towards the crest of the ridge and, without hesitation, I chambered another round. As he paused for just a moment, I settled the crosshairs again and fired.
This time the bullet struck perfectly.
The great kudu collapsed where he stood.
For a few moments neither of us spoke.
Standing over that magnificent bull was one of the proudest moments of my hunting life. After years of dreaming, thousands of kilometres of travel and a morning spent searching through Africa's rugged hills, I was looking at the kudu I'd always imagined.
He wasn't simply the biggest bull we'd seen.
He was exactly the bull I'd hoped to take.
With no vehicle access to the ridge, the work was only just beginning. We dealt with the bull and carried it out, myself taking the bulls head and horns on my shoulders, along with the riffle and pack, I couldn’t have felt anymore at home if I tried. The walk back to the ute was long and steep, but it was the sort of hard work that every hunter appreciates. Every step reminded me that this was a truly earned trophy.
As we drove out through the property gates, I finally had a chance to let it all sink in.
I pulled out my phone and called Dad.
He answered almost immediately.
"I got him."
There was a brief pause before he asked the question he'd been waiting to hear.
"You got your kudu?"
"I got my kudu."
“How big is it”
“I think it’s 50”
Hearing the excitement in his voice made the moment even more special. Dad had hunted kudu before I was born, and ever since I was old enough to understand what one was, I'd dreamed of following in his footsteps.
The grey ghost had lived up to every expectation.
Elusive, intelligent and perfectly adapted to its rugged home, the kudu earned every bit of its legendary reputation. Taking that mature free-range bull, after hours of glassing, stalking and trusting Mark's experience, wasn't just another trophy on a wall—it was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream and a hunt I'll remember for the rest of my life.
Each morning I made sure I was awake, showered and ready before Mark. It wasn't about trying to impress anyone or prove a point—it was simply my way of showing how eager I was to get into the day's hunt. Every morning in Africa felt like Christmas morning, and I didn't want to waste a minute of it.
Over breakfast, Mark explained that we'd be heading to another free-range property not far from camp in search of one of Africa's most iconic antelope—the grey ghost, the greater kudu.
We loaded the ute before first light and made the short drive through the rolling farmland. I still remember that drive like it was yesterday. As we entered the property, kudu were everywhere. Cows and bulls drifted across the paddocks and disappeared into the morning shadows. I was like a kid in a lolly shop, struggling to know where to look first.
Mark explained that the kudu would feed in the fields overnight before making their way back into the steep ridges and thick bush as the morning warmed.
Ever since I was a kid, I'd wanted to hunt a kudu. My dad had taken a magnificent bull measuring over 50 inches on a safari before I was born, and hearing his stories had fuelled that dream for years. Now, every bull I saw was being judged in my mind.
"Too narrow."
"Not old enough."
"Nice bull... but not quite."
It probably sounded like I'd hunted dozens of kudu before. The reality was the complete opposite. I had never hunted one in my life, but I knew exactly what I wanted. I wasn't chasing the longest horns on the tape measure. I wanted a mature bull with beautiful width, heavy bases and the classic look that hunters dream about—a true wall hanger. Mark agreed, suggesting we look for an old bull with ivory tips and deep curls. I even showed him a photo from his own Instagram page of the exact style of bull I hoped to find.
That morning we spotted more than twenty bulls. Some were seen from the ute as we drove the tracks, while others were picked apart through binoculars as we glassed the surrounding ridges. Every new sighting had my heart racing, but none quite ticked every box.
Then everything changed.
I was glassing a thick patch of bush with Mark's tracker, trying to separate bulls from cows, when I heard Mark quietly call out.
"Nath... I've found your bull."
I hurried across to where he was standing and looked through the binoculars.
There he was.
He was almost an exact match for the bull I'd shown Mark earlier that morning. Wide, mature and carrying that unmistakable look I'd dreamed about for years. Instantly I knew he was the one.
Of course, being a kudu, nothing was ever going to be easy.
The bull was feeding along the face of a neighbouring ridge, weaving through thick cover. Mark studied the country and explained that if the bull continued further right, he might eventually step into an opening where we could take a shot from distance. If he stayed on his current line, the bush would swallow him completely.
There was only one thing to do.
We shouldered our packs and began the stalk.
Using every bit of cover the African bush offered, we carefully worked our way along the ridge, trying to keep above the bull while staying out of sight. The bush was incredibly thick, and every few metres we'd stop to glass before taking another careful step.
It became a game of cat and mouse.
Hours passed.
We walked, glassed, doubled back, climbed and searched every likely pocket of cover, but the bull had seemingly vanished.
After almost two hours, Mark suggested we head back to the ute and gamble that the bull had continued over the ridge without us seeing him. At that point I was willing to try anything.
We hurried back to the vehicle and drove around the property. Mark's knowledge of the country was incredible. He explained where he believed the bull would most likely reappear and suggested we leave the ute out of sight before making another careful approach.
With the wind in our favour, we slipped quietly along a fence line towards the ridge.
Mark was right.
The bull was exactly where he'd predicted.
He stood feeding in thick cover, offering no ethical shot. I settled the rifle onto the sticks and ranged him. Time seemed to stand still as we waited, quietly discussing where he might step and where the shot needed to be placed.
After what felt like an eternity, the bull finally turned broadside.
The rifle cracked.
I knew immediately the shot had landed a little farther back than I intended. The bull lunged uphill towards the crest of the ridge and, without hesitation, I chambered another round. As he paused for just a moment, I settled the crosshairs again and fired.
This time the bullet struck perfectly.
The great kudu collapsed where he stood.
For a few moments neither of us spoke.
Standing over that magnificent bull was one of the proudest moments of my hunting life. After years of dreaming, thousands of kilometres of travel and a morning spent searching through Africa's rugged hills, I was looking at the kudu I'd always imagined.
He wasn't simply the biggest bull we'd seen.
He was exactly the bull I'd hoped to take.
With no vehicle access to the ridge, the work was only just beginning. We dealt with the bull and carried it out, myself taking the bulls head and horns on my shoulders, along with the riffle and pack, I couldn’t have felt anymore at home if I tried. The walk back to the ute was long and steep, but it was the sort of hard work that every hunter appreciates. Every step reminded me that this was a truly earned trophy.
As we drove out through the property gates, I finally had a chance to let it all sink in.
I pulled out my phone and called Dad.
He answered almost immediately.
"I got him."
There was a brief pause before he asked the question he'd been waiting to hear.
"You got your kudu?"
"I got my kudu."
“How big is it”
“I think it’s 50”
Hearing the excitement in his voice made the moment even more special. Dad had hunted kudu before I was born, and ever since I was old enough to understand what one was, I'd dreamed of following in his footsteps.
The grey ghost had lived up to every expectation.
Elusive, intelligent and perfectly adapted to its rugged home, the kudu earned every bit of its legendary reputation. Taking that mature free-range bull, after hours of glassing, stalking and trusting Mark's experience, wasn't just another trophy on a wall—it was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream and a hunt I'll remember for the rest of my life.
