seeking-wonder, Author at Seeking Wonder

To Fish or not to Fish

Apr 3, 2022 | Fish River Canyon, Fly Fishing, Hiking, Namibia

To Fish or not to Fish, that is the question. This Shakespearean enquiry of self-motivation is usually applicable to angling-focussed adventures. But in this evaluation, the question is extended beyond face value and aimed at those considering to hike the famous Fish River Canyon hiking trail in Namibia. Why would one wander 65-90 km into a remote desert canyon completely unsupported? A strong case often made by them naysayers. We extracted a few pointers from our trip to help answer the question.

1. To plan

Originally a group of 14, we were whittled down to only 6 eager beavers thanks to a one-year Covid-postponement. More time to train and plan? Perhaps we should have. A few pre-hikes helped a lot, as did decent fitness levels to those who have it. Physical fitness aside, proper planning for the Fish is paramount. Personal anti-blister strategies, route plans, satellite phone setups and Weg/Go! article reviews are all part of the process. Decent minimalist menu and packing plans also go a long way, as Marc and Erhardt would attest to with their 20-odd kg bags filled mostly with alcohol.

2. To road trip

They say it is not all about the destination and, if you can make time, this is true for the Fish. Our group made the most of the long drive back by incorporating a spa-day at Ais-Ais and visit to Augrabies (Team Stocks & Snyman) and an ambitious Vioolsdrift detour to find some early season largemouth yellowfish (Team du Plessis). Side note: it was worth it.

3. To not die

Most folks believe The Descent into the canyon at the very start is the most difficult. Judging by the wobbly legs and a few curses along the way, this was true for some of us too. If you get over the fact that a misstep might well initiate an unpleasant and rocky plummet to an untimely death, it is in fact a beautiful winding trail with the dramatic landscapes towering above you. Upon reaching the river, a celebratory lunch served with a side of sand heightened our spirits for the first day.

4. To be awed

Everyone has their own reason for doing the Fish. Our personal highlight was the sheer awe-inspiring landscape that we found ourselves in. No photo or description can do it justice, and if the scale and majesty of the canyon does not humble you, nothing will. Although easy to sometimes overlook while focusing on the daily struggle of surviving, it was truly worth it to stop, look around and really take it all in every now and then.

5. To read a map

Planning the route for the day, and sticking to it, is crucial on a multi-day hike. After my slave-driving tendencies thankfully waned together with my energy levels, Marc realised his full potential as fearless explorer and sneakily managed the group’s daily expectations by stretching the fictitious daily distance goal beyond the real minimum. It also helps to combine map-reading with GPS tracking skills, as the intrepid family of Energiser bunnies we encountered would tell you after getting lost at, well, Lost Bend, and adding a casual 10 km in the midday sun.

6. To find joy

Everyone has their own thing that makes them tick. Although there are not heaps of downtime, it helps to make the most of your time on the Fish. Sonja took pro-level photos with her fancy mirrorless, Simoné sketched the beautiful landscapes in her journal, and I dabbled with a fly-rod in the pools of course.

7. To hydrate

It goes without saying that plenty of fluid intake is a good idea when slogging through a semi-desert. Luckily the river is close by throughout the trail. A word of caution though – make sure you have water purification methods and some Game (season to taste), and don’t drink from the river within a few kilometres downstream of Sulphur Springs. Both Erhardt and myself can testify that a very long night or day will follow if you do this.

8. To gaze

A paradox of wilderness hikes is often that the night sky will be spectacular beyond measure, but that you will be too tired to gaze at it for long. Nowhere else is this truer than on the Fish. Set that timelapse video, look up from the campfire, or fall asleep under at the Milky Way in all its wonderful glory.

9. To endure

Many folks do the Fish solely to test their physical and mental endurance. Although it was not the main priority in our group, tested thou shalt be. It is a peculiar feeling on the morning of day 3 to barely be able to move from the previous day’s rock scrambling, but knowing that you simply have no choice in pushing on to the next bend. The human spirit and all that. The star of our show was Carlien who, after some of us were silently contemplating calling for air evacuation on day 2, endured and finished day 5 like a slow-motion Comrades athlete to Chariots of Fire.

10. To celebrate

As the rock signs promising cold beer start appearing near the end of the trail, the prospects of shade, ice-cold drinks and saucy hamburgers inspire you to dig for that last bit of energy. Although our expectations of a finish line ribbon and a throng of spectators slow-clapping us into Ais-Ais were not entirely matched, the celebratory lunch more than made up for it.

For us it had been 5 days of survival-mode focus, of early morning starts in the shade of the silent cliffs, of wondering at the grand scenery of this ancient canyon, of red sunsets while preparing hearty trail dinners, of starry African skies, and of appreciating the environment and your place in it. Many hikers return multiple times, and we got our own glimpse as to why. So, in case there was ever any doubt, the answer will always be, To Fish.

A Kalahari Safari

Mar 17, 2022 | Birding, Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park, Overlanding, South Africa

Most visitors heading to the famed Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park stop in Upington for fuel and supplies. We added to this to-do list by having a tyre patched and, taking advantage of Tyremart’s complimentary coffees and Wi-Fi, phoning everyone we love to share the news of our hot-of-the-press engagement the day before. It was the least we could do before again disappearing off the grid for another week to celebrate our life event with the wilderness.

After a dryly unsuccessful attempt at an engineering joke with the fuel attendant at Twee-Rivieren about their sign requesting that tyre pressures should be deflated to 15 bar (instead of 1.5 bar), we entered the vast arid wonder that is the Kgalagadi. A national park requiring visitors to open and close park gates themselves score major brownie points with us – it is a definite sign of a remote wilderness.

We made our way northwards in the Auob river. Yes, in the river – in the Kgalagadi the main dust roads follow the two ancient and dry Auob and Nossob riverbeds as these present the firmest surfaces between all the sand dunes. The road up to Mata-Mata was a good initiation to a few things quintessentially Kalahari: long sinkplaat roads, soaring midday temperatures, cheeky ground squirrels everywhere, even more birds of prey and camel-thorn studded vistas as far as the eye can see.

The Kalahari Tented Camp was our first destination. An unfenced camp where one can enjoy an elevated waterhole view from one’s safari tent veranda meant that the appeal was strong to just laze in camp for a day or two. But YOLO. So we spent the days patrolling the riverbed road from dawn to dusk, and rich were our rewards. Cape fox pups playing animatedly next to the road at sunset, overheated male lions napping in the shade of the Cruiser, and a cheetah kill were only some of the delights we were treated to. At Mata-Mata, we slept under the watchful eye of a nesting African white-faced owl and watched the comical antics of the resident meerkat family from our hammock.

We visited Nossob camp next where we treated ourselves to a very touristy but informative night drive. Watching the ‘pro-photographer’ guests working their 600mm lenses at night with flash and auto-focus was almost as entertaining as the spotted eagle owls, barn owls, cape cobra and spring hares. Local field guide, gate keeper, fuel attendant and general all-rounder Anél shed very fascinating light on floral secrets of the desert such as the Swarthaak, Driedoring and Tsamma and showed us the nest of a black-tailed tree rat.

The next morning we chanced upon not one but two African wildcats taking advantage of the previous night’s rain flooding rodents from their burrows. Just north of Nossob we looked upon the road leading to Botswana’s remote Mabuasehube section with longing eyes (forthcoming attraction). Back at the camp’s fabled hide we enjoyed a pair of hunting lanner falcons, with one preparing an unsuspecting Namaqua sandgrouse as a flattie for brunch.

Behind the camp is a little locked gate leading to a jeep track with an inconspicuous sign reading Bitterpan 4×4 Trail. If they had our curiosity, now they had our attention. We took this one-way dune road to the charismatic Bitterpan – nothing more than four tents overlooking a very large and very isolated pan. Strange how far one will travel to experience true remoteness. An afternoon summer rainstorm electrified the endless horizon and ensured our lamb potjie was even more unforgettable – made indoors on gas between two beds.

Our last morning drive through the dunes involved fresh rooikat tracks, Kalahari scorpions, a Ludwig’s bustard, and a curious group of gemsbok. Upon reaching the main road, we realised it must have rained more than a little (remember what we said about the road in the riverbed…). Whilst the drive back to Twee-Rivieren was a 4×4 adventure in itself, we were left in awe at how there were suddenly water birds showing up, on a day’s notice, in the newly formed pans in the middle of the desert.

We left with our horizons widened, bird lists lengthened, appreciation for arid biomes deepened, and hearts filled. You don’t go to the Kgalagadi only for the fabled big cat sightings, the endless vistas, the sound of barking geckos, the treat of raptors and meerkats galore, the deep-red sunsets or the crackling campfires under a milky way. But if you do, it is very likely that you will return. We know we will.

Northern (es)Cape

Feb 28, 2022 | Augrabies National Park, Mokala National Park, Overlanding, South Africa

Holfontein. The appropriately named little derelict town marked our second hasty stop on what had been a less than comfortable morning’s trip. One’s stomach does not always consider one’s travel itinerary. Bowel issues aside, we were on the great escape from 2020. With the continually locked-in, locked-down and locked-up Gauteng population using the relative freedom of summer holidays to escape to the more popular havens of rest, we chose the road less travelled – as usual. Being the country’s least populated province, the Northern Cape’s horizons seemed like a fitting choice for a road trip at the end of this year of social distancing.

After a brief fuel stop in Kimberley, watching the shimmering pan of flamingos and attempting to convince the Engen car wax salesman that there really is no point in trying to brighten up the Cruiser’s façade at this point in our journey, we rolled into the nondescript entrance of the Mokala National Park. The Motswedi campsite provides welcoming exclusivity to people-shy travellers like us, and we set up our tent in the shade of one of the ubiquitous Mokala (Camel Thorn) trees before exploring this relatively new park.

Mokala is certainly no exception to our belief in ‘the more off the radar, the greater the reward’. The afternoon rewards us not only with beautiful landscapes of sweeping grasslands, thorn trees and rock-studded koppies, but also gives us glimpses of the rich biodiversity in the park. We quietly watch kudu at a waterhole hide, get close-up shots of roadside scaly-feathered weavers, and enjoy an embarrassed buffalo bull being startled by a starling. The golden hour of the day does not disappoint as a nervous francolin’s alarm call leads us to a well-camouflaged spotted (or was it a Cape?) eagle owl. We rush to get to the campsite on time, unceremonially dashing past a perplexed jackal pup, a rare pygmy falcon and a curious herd of gemsbok.

After an evening drizzle the morning is fresh and minty, and we make our way through some promising 4×4-only trails where, disappointingly, no low-range is needed. A yellow-billed hornbill shows us his carefully constructed and uniquely slitted nest through which he feeds his wife and chick inside. A cheeky mob of meerkats crosses the road and greets the sun with their yoga poses. We slowly rattle down to an isolated valley through which the gin clear Riet River slowly cuts. This national park allows catch and release fly fishing, and it is difficult to pretend it is not one of the main drawcards for us being here in the first place.

We spend the late morning prospecting the various pools on offer, and both of us are rewarded for our efforts. Simoné lands a beautiful smallmouth yellowfish in a small side stream where no fish should even be, and I convince a cruising yellow submarine that my muishond fly is the real deal. As the fish move into the faster rapids later in the day, we get broken off multiple times and get reminded of just how strong these amazing endemic species can be. After taking a midday swim to finally land a “sterk vis” on an ambitious run, we call it a day and decide to test the air conditioning provided in Lilydale’s chalets. That evening, an unhealthily rich but wonderful mosselpotjie paired with a naughty King’s Meat sweet chilli knoffelbroodjie rounds off what can only be described as a remarkable time in a remarkable park.

As we head to our next destination via dusty backroads, we are struck by the unpretentious beauty and simplicity of the Northern Cape. Stately quiver trees quietly stand guard in the searing midday sun. Basking sun lizards scurry away as we leave a dust track by the side of the untravelled roads. A shop assistant makes dry jokes when we buy Grandpa headache sachets in Douglas. A concerned farmer stops where we make a pitstop to check if we are okay and if we need directions. This is definitely not the inward-facing big city anymore.

Khamkirri, a lovely Orange-river campsite near Kakamas and alleged Place of the Leopard, is our oasis for the next few days. We laze the hot days away by engaging in intrepid activities such as wrestling mudfish from the rapids on fly (“that rock is moving!”), getting shoulder spasms from kayaking upstream to those perfect fishing spots (sorry Simoné) and field testing our new hammock in the cool riverside shade. We also found that the grapevine rumours of dried vine being the ultimate braai wood, are indeed true. Now here is truly an untapped market in a country of meat-turning braai lovers.

Just a few kilometres downstream we find our next stop, the Augrabies National Park, famous for its awe-inspiring waterfall and cheeky dassies. After a midday check-in, we explore parts of this beautiful arid park where it is so dry you can’t even drink it. With the ambient conditions being akin to an oven and we being unnervingly close to being the roast chicken in it, we abandon our ideas of hiking or fishing and, instead, join the local pale-winged starlings gasping in the shade of one of the only trees. As the sun lowers and starts draping the canyon in rich gold, we drive to Oranjekom, a lonely and dramatically beautiful view point over the Orange river canyon.

Just as we take the obligatory self-timed photo, I even present a trick up my sleeve (or rather up my pocket) and ask my beautiful adventure-buddy best half if she would seem it fit to do this kind of thing with me for the rest of our lives. After producing profoundly high-pitched squeals, her affirmative reply is confirmed and the heat stroke experiences of the day are long forgotten. We celebrate this pinnacle in our lives with a perfectly roasted lamb flatty washed down with Cederberg Cabernet from last year’s trip.

Tomorrow we head to the Kgalagadi, and similarly to our road trip, this is not the end but merely the beginning of a lifetime adventure, or perhaps rather an adventure lifetime. As we overlook the imposing canyon and listen to the whispers of the valley breeze with desert stars watching over us, we decide we will always like the Northern Cape.

Backwater Observations

Feb 5, 2022 | Fly Fishing

Move over fish-eyed wielder of the mighty fly rod. This one is for your significant other.

Disclaimer: This article may either inspire or dissuade you from joining a cult known as fly fishing.

It is most intriguing to go on adventures with someone who gets excited about 20 pounders, sight-casting at surface feeding fish, and who is on a mission to leave no body of water unexplored.

Here are ten things I have learned while spending time in the quiet side-line backwaters, observing a member of the cult of fly fishing.

1. ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Whatever you previously considered an appropriate time to get up for an adventure or mission – scratch that. These dawn-chasing nutcases are evidently no lovers of sleep and before long you will get used to 4AM wake-up calls – the fish are waiting. As I am not yet so heavily affected by the common fish-fever, this does not make getting up that early any easier.

Side note: Do not even try to convince them that if they can wake up at 4AM for this they can do the same for non-fishing trips – it is a lost case.

2. THE EVER-PRESENT TRAVELLING ROD

Don’t be fooled to think that fly fishing is a separate mission or occasion. Get used to the ever-present travelling rod that will always find its way into the back of your vehicle (or flight luggage). Who cares if you are attending a wedding, visiting friends or travelling for work – no self-respecting fly fisherman will let a prime fishing opportunity pass. So naturally, there can be no rod left behind.

3. A POD OF FLY RODS

In every cycle of twelve moon orbits, there are the well-known trips by the pod of fly rodders to go fish the unexplored. As there is a strict and sensible no-aanhangsels policy on these exclusive missions, I have only been able to draw some conclusions. Satellite maps get scoured, copious amounts of flies are crafted, pantry stock seems to disappear, coffee consumption is dangerously high and yes, fishing gear requires more than one suitcase. During these trips, I am usually the lucky winner of a camera roll filled with gnarly looking fish held proudly by grinning scruffy creatures in brommer-like sunnies as the boys live out their dreams.

4. THE LEGEND OF “ONLY ONE MORE CAST”

This is a common line that makes its appearance near the intended time of departure or when the sun starts fading into the dark horizon behind treelines or mountain scapes. At this particular moment on almost every single fly fishing mission, a hatch will appear on the surface, some activity will be spotted or the fish that was ignoring the fly the entire day decides to show slight interest. That is why I like to call it the legend of “only one more cast”. In these situations, you have two options – hope that the fish decides to take the fly or just embrace the legend, get comfortable and enjoy that sunset.

5. MASTERING THE OH-SO-FAMOUS FISH SHOT

The final reward of catching a fish, I have observed, is the photo they get to take of the majestic beast just wrestled from the deep as proof to the rest of the cult upon their valiant return. This is usually the part where they remember you tagged along on the mission and make use of your amateur photography skills. Gaze happily at the fish. Good natural lighting. Lucky cap well positioned. Shades off. Fly rod on the shoulders. Keep the fish dripping wet with a quick lift. Adventurous landscape in the background. Only a few tricks and tips I have been repeatedly reminded of when taking the oh-so-famous fish shot.

6. THE PECULIAR ART OF FLY TYING

Another term I quickly learned in my discovery of the cult, is the peculiar art known as fly tying. Hours and hours of intense focus and great care to craft a bug-like fly only for a fish to mangle, a tree branch to hook on to or for a riverbed rock to collect – all in a couple of seconds. Don’t be surprised about nail polish disappearing, dead squirrel tails in the freezer or the labrador missing a blotch of fur – these are all crucial components in the creation of a perfect fly. On the up side, this set of crafting skills can come in handy when you want a new pair of bohemian feather earrings. Just saying.

7. THE PERFECT PRESENTATION

If you love adventures and missions, you are usually the type of person who is game to try new things. So when the opportunity presented itself for me to hold a fly rod for the first time and attempt to cast my first fly, I didn’t hesitate. Similar to presenting a Parachute Adams in a drag-free drift, the oh-so noble intention of getting you to hook into your first fish is also a well-executed technique to lure you in for the take. If you can’t beat them, they will make sure you join them.

8. FLY FISHING BACKDROPS

But let’s be honest, fly fishing has never had horrendous surrounds that go with it. If you hang around long enough in the dreamy conversations about tarpon, golden dorado, arctic char, taimen and goliath tiger fish you realise these come with pretty spectacular locations. The local missions equally so. And if, like me, you really are not into adventure locations that attract the common flock of city dwellers, these fly fishing holy grounds will be right up your alley. Missions to hippo-hosting rivers in Africa, the jungles of Bolivia, mountain treks in Mongolia and ice-carved valleys in Greenland – they can fish all they want, I will be soaking in the wonders of the holy grounds with my camera and journal. And perhaps present a fly to a fish or two, you know?

9. THE HARDCORE STUFF

What I have discovered tagging along on adventures with my own cult-member and even attempting to fly fish myself, is a glimpse at the justifications for their blatant addiction to fly fishing. In my time spent in the backwaters, I realised why they keep doing it. It’s about losing track of time casting a line on porcelain waters, perhaps missioning for an entire day not catching a single fish, but concluding it was a spectacular day out. It’s the adrenaline rush pulsing through your veins when you tricked a fish into taking your imitation. I realised that the grin when you cradle a first-time species is inevitable. Nothing else matters in that moment. And that is just my perspective – imagine all the deep inner stuff real fly fisherfolk experience?

Side note: They probably won’t tell you all this – they are only about the hardcore stuff.

10. JOINING THE CULT

And then before you know it, you’re trying to perfect your double haul, your recommended videos tab on YouTube is filled with fly fishing propaganda, and you catch yourself scanning any water body for moving silhouettes. But above all, you discover the magic of fly fishing with someone you love. I do not see myself as a member of the cult (yet) and still fall under the category of a FlyNoob, but I appreciate the fact that I get to adventure with one of them anyways. The crazy early mornings with coffee mugs warming your numb fingers, the missions to under-the-radar landscapes, the shared joy when a fly line tightens and red-wine-in-enamel-mugs celebrations at the end of a day filled with fishy recaps and full hearts. You learn patience. You realise the importance of simple joys. You forget the fast-paced life waiting at home. And you discover that it is so much more than just fly fishing they love – and you get the opportunity to share in that.

Another day in Africa

Jan 23, 2022 | Birding, Hiking, Kruger National Park, South Africa

“Everyone get behind the marula – now!” shouted our guide. The buffaloes were coming. They say your life flashes before your eyes during such events. I do not recall this. What flashed before my eyes were, amongst others, an ill-positioned but suitably named wag-‘n-bietjie thorn bush, an anonymous man in his prime shamelessly leaving his fallen fiancé behind, and a jumbled herd of hikers hastily exercising preservation of the self. Incidents such as these can provide entertainment, excitement, adrenaline, or agony to hikers doing any of the guided backpack trails in the Kruger National Park, depending on your outlook on such things. They surely make for exciting stories afterward of just how you managed to survive the African Bush. But this is not such a story.

Kruger backpack trails are about much more than adrenaline-inducing elephant charges. Having done quite a few, but not nearly enough, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between specific trails. Memories seem to merge into a labyrinth of sights, sounds and smells like the confluence of braided river tributaries. These memories are weaved together in a rocky grid of trail routines – the whens, whats, and hows that might outline any of these bushveld adventures.

After hurriedly packing the previous evening, we finally look northeast and make a beeline for the hallowed gates of Kruger. Upon arrival we meander slowly toward the rest camp where we will meet the guides. With my invariably misjudged time-planning, we end up testing the speed limits to be on time and meet half the group already loaded and waiting on the bakkie with the guides. As we load our kit into the trailer, our guide chuckles dryly and advises that we can leave the tents behind for this trail. No problem – after all, what is life insurance there for? The drive to the drop-off spot is filled with the excitement of new adventure, premature campfire stories, and a general discussion about who is the group’s slowest runner.

The afternoon silence of the mopane veld deafens our ears upon being dropped off in the middle of nowhere. We adjust our packs and receive instruction in the matter from the guide. The walk-in may be sobering, the like of which is natural when a heavy pack combines with office-bound fitness levels and mercury pushing north of 40°C. It may also be amusing, such as when the guide is clearly lost and needs to maintain face so early in the trail. Most of all, the walk-in settles your rhythm. You eventually stop fiddling, and your busy thoughts slowly make way for an emptiness filled only with your senses and the next step.

Setting up the first camp can be an unnerving affair for the uninitiated. No fences, running water, or loos? While a small fire keeps the beasts at bay, we prepare dinner. The first-timers are known by their 2-minute noodles. The old hands know that night one means red meat, couscous, pepper sauce and chocolate for desert. Guides pleasantly make small talk, looking bravely enthusiastic when someone asks the inevitable “what close-shaves have you had on trail?” Those wishing to savour the bush night cannot wait for everyone to test their K-Way mattresses so that the real concert can get underway. The crickets maintain a pleasant counterpoint before a pair of pearl-spotted owlets welcomes you back with their echoing duet. My consciousness fades into the glowing embers of the remaining fire.

Waking up early is pleasantly refreshing and a lazy proceeding. There will always be someone up, brewing the perfect coffee. Henro and Suné is already skropping like francolins foraging between autumn leaves. Over to the side one of the guide’s wounded buffalo snore still resonates peacefully. No rushing things here. As we watch the African sun peek above the horizon (yes, cue The Lion King) we humbly beg Chrisjan for some of his treasured condensed milk – nectar of the heavens. Now the day can begin.

After packing up and making sure no teabag is left behind, we are ready to depart. Well, as soon as Declan finishes loading all his gadgets and the kitchen sink. As we walk in silence through a forest of ancient leadwoods, I wonder just what these magnificent trees have witnessed through the ages. Perhaps the camp of a big game hunter of old, searching for the tuskers of the lonely north. Over there, his canvas tent and gunrack, and there, the wagon, mules and dogs. A fish eagle announces the river is close by – then and now. Our guide shows us the padded pug marks of a leopard that passed this way shortly before, likely hearing us coming. A while later we freeze to watch a shyly inquisitive nyala bull evaluate us before calling our bluff.

A midmorning tea-break finds us thankful for a breather. I scan the tree foliage for the origin of that chirpy call – probably a bar-throated apalis. Simoné digs out the trusty journal and makes a magnificent in-situ drawing of the dry riverbed and treelines – I still maintain she will be able to retire well if she sells it. At the back, Willie Bono-shades and Mariette Yogapants has taken a keen interest in Armand’s love-life and is offering their advice to the poor man.

As we trample further along the dry riverbed, our footfalls in the sugary sand are hypnotic. Late morning is a fruitful time around water sources. Your ears might be filled with squeaky brown-headed parrots picking out juicy berries, chattering starlings showing off their glossy coats, or the bellowing laugh of a hippo bull making sure we know who is the boss of this pool. Your eyes might be treated with a tower of giraffes drinking dexterously, a kudu bull gracefully carrying his spiralled horns, or a small group of zebras timidly seeking shade nearing the heat of the day. The smells of dusty earth desperate for the rainy season might mix with ever-present musky elephant dung and the bovine aroma of buffaloes that must have slept here.

Lunch is traditionally an extended siesta somewhere shaded and beautiful. The soft hiss of various gas stoves singing the song of pasta surrounds us. While I try to recover some of our noodles I clumsily scattered in the river sand, Armand tries to call a fishing owl with a faithful imitation of a jackal on heat. Grant inspects a katvis carcass left by the resident fish eagle, presumably to gauge potential edibility. Someone shyly takes the ogre for a walk into no-man’s land, trying not to be self-conscious when nature calls. Bellies full, eyes closed is the modus operandi after lunch. We cherish these precious naptimes. The world is paused for a while, and all that truly matters here under the rustling jackalberry is whether or not the hovering pied kingfisher over there will succeed in its hunt.

On the afternoon hike we stop regularly to inspect the small miracles of nature. An ant-lion carefully crafting its conical sand trap. The magic gwarrie toothbrush – a firm guide favourite. The sharp flavourful scent of a handful of wild aniseed. A termite colony’s inner workings – enough to make you feel very small indeed. The tracks of an aardwolf, and why it can obviously not be confused with those of a hyena, wild dog, or civet.

Just before sunset brings the golden hour of the bush. Dappled sunlight casts long shadows across the riverbank. As guineafowls and francolins announce the end of day, I brew a strong late-afternoon coffee for us without straining it (another great use of teeth). A breeding herd of elephant joins us for sundowners at the waterhole and our guide assures us that as long as we sit still all will be okay. As the ellies drink they kick up dust to set the bush sky on fire with a thousand reds fading to hues of purple and pink.

After performing necessary camp duties such as digging for filtered water, looking for dry firewood, and watching Henro and Chrisjan return to their bushman firemaking roots, dinner is rustled up and marshmallows sacrificed brutally before everyone turns in early. Our watch-sitting slot tonight is the two bewitching hours just before sunrise. We warm our numb bodies by the cheerful little fire and cup our hands around scalding mugs of tea. The milky way watches over us and shines like never before. A fiery-necked nightjar punctures the absolute stillness and cues a far-off coughing of a leopard to remind us of our mortality. Time passes quickly as we whisper in hushed tones about the day’s events. As the eastern sky starts to pale into blue, a lion reminds us just how special this land is.