Africa always ends with a story: This one is mine.

September 25, 2022—Dropped at a blind with my tracker, Eric, we crawled into our 5-by-7 tomb swallowed by the earth. I sat looking out beyond the peephole of the sweltering hotbox. My last three Africa hunts, the blue wildebeest had eluded me. The welcomed African summer breeze whistled a leafy song through the trees. The melody cooled my sticky body. I imagined the feeling of the breeze whipping through my sweat-soaked hair, instantly drying it, ending the unrelenting stream of salty liquid trickling from the base of my scalp, down my shoulder blades, and shamelessly parading between my cheeks. I wiped the sweat that had been building off my nose.

I love African blinds. They’re the closest thing to a true-to-life Jurassic Park experience on the big screen with full CGI. Every noise and darting shadow could be a female pig overseeing offspring chasing each other through mud while scaring off the Triceratops peacefully enjoying a drink, or a venomous snake slithering through the slit of the blind window.

We got the call. The Cape buffalo we’d been searching for had been spotted, and they're coming to rescue us from our sunbaked oven. Yesterday, I saw a picture of the old prince of the African plains who no longer runs with the heard; every day he lumbers is a gift and simultaneously a torture. His body and hide told stories of a lifetime of fierceness.

In an African blind, clothing is optional. I appreciate some clothing: a tank top, my light Sitka jacket, shorts, and boots. In my bag, I had water, fruit, ChapStick, a flashlight, a book, sudoku, a notebook, a pen, and my Maven rangefinder. By my side is my Mathews Triax bow, release, and my Ted Nugent Zebra arrows—filled with sugar for extra punch in case of a buffalo.

My trusty Frye boots—broken in perfectly after two decades of living as full as this boot inhabitant could afford to dream—I’d forgotten in Colorado. I found myself hunting two miles up a mountain, wearing Old Gringo dancing boots with absolutely no traction, built for the slide of the dance floor. Straight from Billy Bob's in Fort Worth to Pongola, South Africa. Ridiculous.

My first walk and stalk, my dance with this old bull, and Cap'n Jack Sparrow would’ve stumbled more gracefully. With each step I took, I did the "electric slide” half-step backward. My stomach was flipping, my heart racing.

Early summer, late morning, dancing boots, the smell of defeat was leaking from my pores, and I had no water to wash away the impure thoughts of quitting. I was parched, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, but I couldn't form the words, "I quit." My tongue had no freedom.  My husband saw the defeat in my eyes. I wanted to cry, but my eyes refused to extinguish the pain of this hunt by relinquishing tears. I was an overused rag wrung of moisture, weave weakened, dry and tattered.