The first time my Frye boots settled into rich, red African soil was in Limpopo, South Africa. My eyes were heavy from the flight from Denver to Johannesburg, or “Joburg,” South Africa.

Stopping for a brief layover in London, I’m sure it was my husband who suggested, “When in London, one must find an official English Pub.” Anyway, if it wasn’t him, it sounds like him so, he gets the credit.

Decidedly.

Like lost little ducklings in single-file order, my parents and I followed the behemoth of a man who is my husband out of the hive-feeling airport with the hustle and bustle of bees buzzing around with their khakis and coffees, spouting out different languages over their cell phones without noticing our little parade of poultry exiting the airport. We quickly found a double decker bus (because “when in London…”), hop right on, and make our way to the top of the moving tourist trap in search of the best vantage point to scope out a pub.

We turned a corner and there it was: Harrods of London.

There was no turning back or talking my mother out of a quick run through the magnificent 7 stories of shopping bliss in the heart of London. I got sucked into Harrods while the blokes we were with made their way to the nearest pub and guzzled a few pints with the other chaps, entertaining themselves while their wives shopped away their travel budget.

Three hours later my mother and I joined our swaggering husbands and made our way back through London airport security. We landed in Joburg and were gathered by the hunting outfitters for a 4-hour trek to Limpopo where we would hunt on an archery-only ranch.

For 4 months before our excursion, my husband had been teaching me how to shoot a bow. On paper, I was deadly. I had slain numerous origami creatures. Had the targets been formed into animals, I’d have had a license for open season.

I’d become so comfortable with my Hoyt bow that sometimes I was able to outshoot my husband—an archer of more than 2 decades. God didn’t bless me with many natural talents, but this may be my gift.

I was surprisingly gifted at archery, or maybe I was Cupid in another lifetime. Either way, I’ll take it.

I enjoy the serenity, concentration, and relaxation of drawing my bow. Focusing on my breathing, chasing all thoughts from my mind, stretching my posture—I enjoy being in that moment. Shooting gives me a certain degree of calmness that my everyday life seems to euthanize on a daily basis.

Of all the types of hunters in the world, archers may be the quirkiest. I’ve heard archers described as purists; they have a reputation for stubbornness and are often unwilling to change or try new things. This might be why a bow feels so right in my hands—I am stubborn, slow to entertain change, and quirky is my middle name.

As my family exited the side door of the van, from the third row I stuck my legs out the door and stretched my entire form before allowing my boots to touch the red velvety dirt carpet we drove in on. It was before dawn, and there was a crisp chill in the air—the early morning birds had just begun the chorus that they would sing for hours.

It was relieving to finally arrive. Our travel was over. My heart was happy. I WAS IN AFRICA!

Once arriving at an outfitter, all work, short of shooting, was done. If a hunter is on a good property, the accommodation includes everything from five-star meals to turn-down service. And we were on a good property. I’m sure there would have been someone available to brush my teeth if needed, but I hadn’t asked.

I joined my husband in collecting our luggage from the van. He handed me my bow case. My SKB travel bow case is on wheels and weighs about 30 pounds.

As I dragged it around the front of the van, I heard who I soon found out were my PH’s, my professional hunters. They were not expecting an archer aside from my husband and my father.

They asked about the case I was lugging around. Finding out it belonged to me, a woman, their disappointment was evident.

The camp mostly hosted male archers. My journey as a female archer in Africa was in its infancy. I learned that the African archery world was mostly untarnished by the female touch.

I just stepped into a men’s club without an invitation, and I was about to burn down their camp and belly up to their bar.

To Be Continued…