From Australia to the Bushveld, and How I Got There”
By Tracey Lee
I recently received a phone call from some lifelong friends with whom my husband and I have travelled the world. The first thing they said was, “Let’s go to Africa!”
Africa had always been on my to-do list, but I’d never made it there. Lately, it had been on my mind more than ever, as all three of my fellow travellers had officially visited every continent. But as for me, Africa was still outstanding. The idea of finally ticking that box and getting those “every continent” bragging rights was enough for me to say, without hesitation, “Yes, let’s do it!”
Our friends love cruises, my husband loves travel in any form, and I just wanted to stand on that seventh continent and perhaps see a Warthog. So, we quickly booked a five-star cruise around the Cape of Africa, followed by a week at a resort at Victoria Falls. We thought we might go on some kind of animal safari at the end, but we couldn’t decide which one. We figured we’d circle back to that later. Everything was pretty much planned—until my husband said, “It would be a shame to go all that way and not go hunting.”
And there it was—the moment I had to compromise.
How could I not go hunting with a guy who gets seasick but still agrees to cruise? He had been so agreeable about every part of the trip, I felt I had no choice. We agreed he should do some investigating, and he decided to contact a company called Bayly Sippel Safaris. He sent them an email, asking if by some miracle they had any availability for a hunt during the last week of February. Anywhere, any length of time, whatever they could manage on short notice. I figured it was a long shot. Outfitters usually book out years in advance. I assumed they’d tell him to try again in three years, and that would be that.
But in an unbelievable twist, they agreed. They offered to start their hunting season a week early just to accommodate us. A kudu hunt in the bushveld was my husband’s dream, and they said, “Sure, let’s give it a shot.” I was sceptical that something pulled together so quickly could be anything but ordinary.
After a group discussion, our friends decided they’d rather do a non-hunting elephant safari. So, we completed the unforgettable 2-week voyage around the Cape on a luxury ship, spent a magical week at Victoria Falls, and then parted ways. Our friends headed to their peaceful, non-hunting lodge, and we boarded a plane bound for Johannesburg to meet our hunting guide.
By this point, I already felt thoroughly satisfied with my African experience. We’d done so many amazing things, and I had seen a warthog, so my life felt complete. I assumed this final segment of the trip would be something I’d tolerate more than enjoy. I had deliberately chosen not to pack appropriate boots or clothing for hunting, wanting to leave space in my suitcase for gifts for my 12 grandchildren. I figured I’d make do—and I did.
Hunting has always been part of my husband’s life. He has hunted since he was a child, and through the years I’ve accompanied him on quite a few hunting trips although I didn’t grow up hunting or shooting. I’ve been lucky to have the opportunity to shoot many different guns but only at targets. Our home is filled with trophies from his many hunting adventures, and I love the stories that accompany each mount. I’ve never opposed hunting; it just hasn’t personally appealed to me like it does to him. It always seemed like a lot of money to spend if you’re not passionate about it. So, I’ve always preferred to be a spectator.
When we landed in Johannesburg, I still didn’t know exactly where we were going. My husband had handled all the arrangements for this part of the trip, and he’s not big on details. All he heard was “kudu,” and that was all he needed to know.
While waiting to disembark, I glanced at my phone. Our friends had sent through photos of their new lodge, and it was stunning. Deep down, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I knew from experience we’d likely be “roughing it” for the next week, and I suddenly wished I was with them.
I brushed those feelings aside, gathered my things, and walked off the plane.
That’s when we met Dempsey Bayly, co-owner of Bayly Sippel Safaris. He greeted us warmly, took our luggage, and led us to the awaiting vehicle, where two more staff members stood ready to help. We climbed in and started driving… somewhere. Even now, I couldn’t tell you exactly where, all I knew was we were heading into the bushveld.
During the four-hour drive, we talked, laughed, and got to know each other. That’s when I realized the man sitting beside me was the chef. That certainly got my attention. I love cooking and I love good food, but in my past hunting camp experiences, meals were always the same: game cooked the same way, every day, with equally unappealing results. I still remember chewing on a chunk of moose tongue in Canada for so long, I thought I’d have to apply for citizenship. I thought to myself, A chef? This is different. This is nothing like the hunting camps I’ve been in before.
Something about this trip began to feel different about half an hour from camp, when we stopped to let half a dozen giraffes cross the road in front of us. Maybe this hunting trip would be different after all. I decided to keep a positive attitude, participate a little, read a few books, relax… and see what the bushveld had in store for me.
We had a long day of travel and finally arrived at camp around 10 p.m. As I stepped out of the car, it hit me—we weren’t going to be “roughing it” at all. The accommodation was every bit as luxurious as the one our friends had chosen for their non-hunting safari. This was such a wonderful surprise. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. I began to realize that I was about to have an experience I hadn’t planned for, maybe this hunting trip was going to be fine after all.
So, when they told us we’d be starting early and that breakfast was at 5:30, I didn’t even mind. Normally, I’m not a fan of early mornings, but this place felt magical. I found myself looking forward to exploring.
When my alarm went off the next morning, I rose without hesitation. I got ready for our first day of hunting—the sun hadn’t yet risen, and I was eager to see this place in daylight. As I opened the door of our beautiful accommodation, there on the path was a snake. It felt like a perfectly timed scene from a movie, as if the snake had taken its cue just right.
In that instant, it struck me: though this trip was planned, nature is utterly unpredictable, anything could happen. I felt a confusing blend of fear and awe—were we safe? I wasn’t sure anymore. And with that, the real African journey had truly begun.
By 6:00 a.m., we were out on the shooting range. The guys were sighting in their rifles while I wandered and took in the surroundings. I spotted a hornbill, Zazu from The Lion King! which kept me amused for quite some time as he fluttered around, seemingly trying to sabotage my perfect shot (a photo shot, that is).
Soon, we set out on our first hunt for the week. My husband had a few other animals on his list, but the main goal that morning was to find that perfect kudu, this was a matter of unfinished business with from a previous trip to Africa.
As the day went on, we ended up stalking a group of zebra. I was assigned photo and video duty, not exactly my area of expertise, but I committed wholeheartedly.
We walked, scrambled, and crawled for hours. I filmed and took photos of the entire hunt, all while trying to keep up, stay quiet, avoid falling over, and—most importantly—capture award-winning footage. It was much harder than I’d expected, especially in the tall grass.
The general idea seemed simple enough: find the herd, study them, figure out if there was a trophy animal among them, then close the distance without being seen or heard. After doing this repeatedly, shooting skills started to feel less important. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure we’d get that far—there were so many other factors at play. I had my hands full just trying to keep up with Steve and Dempsey as they moved like ninjas through the beautiful bushveld. I couldn’t believe they were still holding onto hope that they’d get a clean shot, this was beginning to look incredibly difficult and near impossible.
With a lot of commitment and skill, my husband ended up shooting a Zebra that first day, and a Waterbuck, and an Eland on other days. My original plan was to stay back after the first day, relax, and read—but that was quickly derailed. I ended up going on all the hunts and stalking with the guys and had become the official photographer. To my surprise, this hunting trip ended up being right up there with some of the best experiences of my life.
We saw so many beautiful animals, including more warthogs than I could have imagined, exotic trees, countless types of thorns, and incredible rocks. I couldn’t believe how much I was enjoying this hunting trip. It had become my favourite part of our time in Africa. I felt incredibly privileged to have had this experience. I didn’t think it could get any better—but somehow, it did.
We had been out since dawn looking for that elusive Kudu, the one with the 2½ twists in his horns, I think it was being referred to as a “figure 8.” We’d seen quite a few Kudu, but not that one. Tired and hungry, we decided to head back to camp for lunch.
Afterwards, as we were sitting at the table chatting, Dempsey looked at me and asked, “Why don’t you shoot something, Tracey?”
I just laughed. “No, I’m not a hunter.”
“Why not?” he asked.
I could tell by the looks on everyone’s faces that this was a serious question, and I wanted to give a thoughtful, honest answer, something that would be satisfactory and intelligent. But the truth was, there wasn’t one. The only thing that came to mind was, I can’t shoot. I’ll probably miss. It’ll be embarrassing, didn’t seem satisfactory even to me so I stayed silent.
Stephen chimed in, “Why don’t you get Dempsey to show you how to use a scope?” He and I had talked about this many times, he knew what I was thinking.
I’ve always struggled with scopes. Everything just ends up swallowed in a big black dot. I know that doesn’t make sense to experienced hunters, but that’s how it is for me—and I’d made my peace with it long ago, much to my husband’s dismay.
Dempsey pulled up some shot placement diagrams on his phone and showed me the best spots to bring each animal down. I like information, so I couldn’t help but take it all in. Then he said, “We have some cull Impala out there. Maybe you’d like to try hunting one?”
I went to brush my teeth while I contemplated the hunting question, then headed over to the vehicle where the guys were waiting. Steve said, “If you’re going to hunt, you need to take a shot with the rifle first, just to get a feel for the trigger.”
I reluctantly agreed. “Why not? I’ll take one shot—and if I’m terrible, that’s it, I will not be signing up for this ridiculousness.”
Dempsey gave me a quick lesson on the gun and coached me on using the scope. I stood there, ready to pull the trigger, and said a little prayer—the last thing I wanted was to be the only person in a hunting camp who couldn’t shoot. I pulled the trigger. We walked to the target… and to my immense relief, while I hadn’t hit the bullseye, I was close. That was good enough for me.
“Want to try another shot?” someone asked.
“No thank you. Not a chance I can do that twice,” I thought.
And so, with that, we got in the 4WD and my hunt began.
We spent the better part of the afternoon driving and walking, doing that ninja thing repeatedly—But this time I carried a very heavy rifle not a camera. I had the opportunity to take a shot or two, but the impala moved so quickly out of my view, I just wasn’t fast enough. I was nervous—terrified of wounding an animal and causing it to suffer. That would be horrible.
It was getting late when we came upon another herd of impala. We drove ahead about a kilometre and then proceeded to stalk them on foot. We circled wide so our scent wouldn’t be carried on the breeze, darting between trees and bushes in silence. My heart was racing. I wanted to ask a million questions I already knew the answers to—but in the moment, I couldn’t remember any of them. The only thing I could hear was my own pulse.
Just a few hours earlier, I’d been so nonchalant about hunting. Now, I was crawling through the bushveld like my life depended on it.
We stopped behind a tree, and we all stood motionless for about 5 minutes observing the Impala, then I knew the moment had arrived. The cull impala was in sight. I felt like I was in another world—my watch buzzed. I quietly lifted my sleeve—actually, my husband’s sleeve; I had borrowed his shirt—and saw a high heart rate alert: 150 BPM.
I tried to slow my breathing. Dempsey gave me the nod. I positioned the gun on the hunting sticks, got the impala in my sights, and followed him as he moved from right to left. I waited for him to stop—but that was the wrong decision. He sped up faster and faster until he had disappeared.
He was nothing but a long-gone memory.
I felt devastated.
But then, in the distance, I saw the most beautiful impala moving toward us in a small herd. I took my eye off the scope and whispered, “Can I shoot that big one?”
Dempsey said, “It’s not a cull, but you can—though it’ll cost more.”
By that stage, I was all in. I put my eye back on the scope, found the impala, and aimed at the spot on his shoulder Dempsey and I had discussed. But my breathing was too rapid to steady the gun. Then, a song lyric popped into my head: “I let out my breath and coupled with death.” It was the only thing I could think to do.
I took a big breath in, exhaled slowly, and when all the breath was gone and my gun was still—I pulled the trigger.
Everything went loud in my head. I heard the bullet hit—but the impala was gone.
Oh no. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of.
We called on the radio for Big John to bring the vehicle to us, Dempsey said we might need to track the Impala and that is Big John’s specialty.
When he arrived, we followed him to where the impala had stood. I saw blood on the ground I felt sick that this impala had run off and was likely suffering because of me. Then Dempsey called my name. He was standing with Steve and Big John. They were all smiling, looking toward a tree.
And there, lying peacefully under an Acacia tree, was the most beautiful impala in the world.
I knelt beside him. I had hit exactly where I’d aimed. Who would have thought?
I knelt and touched his skin. In that moment, a surge of emotions overwhelmed me—I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was what I imagined winning gold at the Olympics’ felt like, like something monumental had just happened. I couldn’t explain it, but the world felt different, I felt different.
Am I a hunter now? I’m not sure. But I did go back the next day and get a cull impala. And yes, it was just as magical.
I understand the concept of a trophy and that is why both those Impala will hang on my wall. When I look at that one-horned impala on the wall, I won’t see an imperfection, I’ll see the most unexpected, perfect week in the bushveld.
Could anything make this trip better?
Yes—Impala Panini’s cooked by Chef. They were delicious. Maybe that’s how it feels when you hunt the food yourself, combined with a gourmet chef—a completely new experience for me.
Africa gave me so much: It wasn’t just a hunt it was an overall life changing experience. I’ve seen and done a lot of amazing things in my life but hunting in Africa was an experience like non other, and for now number 1 on my list of most memorable experiences.
Did my husband get the Kudu? No, he didn’t, but there’s always next time.
I walked into that hunting camp one person and walked out another.
Thank you, Africa. You’ve changed me and I’ll be forever grateful.
