Where the Weather Tries to Kill You, but the Wildlife Saves the Day
This week’s write-up comes to you from a very wet, very humid, very “why did I bother doing my hair” corner of Black Rhino Game Reserve. The weekend’s weather was fantastic — right up until this morning, when the sky remembered its job description and dumped just enough rain to cause panic, slide a few roads into retirement, and make management sigh deeply into their radios.
I rolled back into Pilanesberg last Wednesday, stopped for a quick social visit with the ladies of Shefari Safaris, and — in typical Shefari fashion — immediately got treated to a cheetah sighting before the game drive even happened. Before the guests even arrived.
Thanks, Debbie — and sorry your guests missed it. I did clap quietly for them.
From there I headed into Black Rhino, the place where I spent most of my mid-twenties and probably developed 80% of my personality flaws. A week of guiding lay ahead… followed by another week… followed by, well, all of December really. You see, in this industry, December is what we affectionately call silly season. I haven’t been home for Christmas in three years, and this year will be no different. Santa knows where to find me: somewhere between a lodge and a broken Land Cruiser.
But the week has been good — suspiciously good.
Tale (yes, spelled like that, no I don’t make the rules) decided to grace this side of the reserve with her presence again. We had brilliant sightings the afternoon she arrived, doing her usual routine: checking sign cairns, scent-marking like she’s approving Instagram posts, and generally behaving like the paid actor she is. The next afternoon she perched herself on a termite mound with the sunset behind her like she was filming a shampoo advert. Magical.
After months of bouncing around the country and seeing everything except cheetahs, it was genuinely great to see her again.
Then came the western breakaway males — the new Black Rhino boys.
(Sorry, Debs. I said it. Again.)
I’ve had many sightings of them, but this one was different. They gave me a walk-by so close it felt personal. They’ve grown since I last saw them, and when they passed the vehicle with that deep, slow, deliberate eye contact, it was almost intimidating. Not “I’m going to eat you” intimidating — more “I know what you did last summer.”
Then they flopped down in the road and vocalised. The sound echoed through the wilderness valley. Goosebumps. Actual goosebumps.
My guests, keen observers of the finer things in life, also noticed that my sock game is exceptionally strong. As a thank you for the sightings, they gifted me some truly brilliant secret socks — one pair in particular with cheetahs on it. Those are now my lucky charms.
Which brings us to Saturday afternoon.
I put on the lucky socks, fully committed to finding Tale again for the new guests. Instead, the universe — bless it — overcorrected. A leopard.
On Black Rhino.
The mythical unicorn.
The sighting wasn’t the best, but it was good enough for proof: Gosebo, a male pushed out of the park and now residing here like a disgruntled uncle. Still — a leopard is a leopard, and on this side, it’s practically a religious experience.
All in all, it’s been a fantastic return. The new impala lambs are everywhere, wobbling around like freshly stocked supermarket shelves, the predators are showing off, and December is promising to be full of chaos and charm.
Assuming we don’t drown.
I may invest in life jackets for the game viewer.
Catch you in the next one.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 