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Unpacking Some Memories of Africa
By Gene Hill

Just about this time of year, a few years back, I was happily packing for Africa. After I got home I never really unpacked. I played at staying ready to return at a moment’s notice. I kept a few things in my little tin trunk and a lot of things in my heart. But now that my part of Africa is closed to hunting, I guess I might as well shake out most of the things I put away.

I wish I could tell you about the dawns and sunsets, but I can’t. I could attempt to describe the colors of the sky, the ways the light shifted from dark olive to orange to yellow to blue-white, and the way the air went from bone cold to suffocatingly hot, but I can’t really do them justice. I can close my and see the colors change, but I lose the intensity when I open them.

What I would like you to hear most are the sound of mourning—a pair of shrikes, a male and a female, calling so melodiously to each other that you cry from the beauty of it. The baboons setting up an early leopard watch with their angry, vicious backing. And until the morning heat sends everything into a modest quiet, the rising susurrus of sounds: an animal newspaper with everybody reading items aloud to everyone else.

And then evening comes on and the sun hangs there just the way Cezanne would want it to, framing a perfect acacia tree so long you’d think it was stuck. Then suddenly it’s dark and the night orchestra tunes up: one animal small-talking to others of its kind; another just bragging and shouting; others still going about their nightly business of getting supper and rounding up the kids.

But, as I said, I can’t do it justice and I won’t try. I can’t even get across to you one of the things that I still dream about. It’s a simple thing to say but something else to feel all around you. It’s space, or distance, or horizons, and it’s really no one of these things—it’s all of them; it’s Africa.

Perhaps more than anything I liked riding up in the back of the hunting truck with the trackers, trying each other’s tobacco and snuff. You’d look out in front as the truck topped a hill, and there was Africa everywhere—and you’d smile because that was just what it ought to be. You’d run around and there it was, even more of it, all spread out behind you. And no one was there, except for a few Masai or Wakambas who you didn’t see unless you went looking, or got on one of the real roads—the kind that didn’t have trees and brush growing up in the middle.

Off in the distance you’d almost always see something: a band of ostriches, giraffes, oryx, zebras, gazelles, or—where we were—rhinos. It was an experience just being there, being part of Africa, part of something so right, so big, so exactly what could never get enough of that I didn’t want the truck to ever stop. In my mind we just keep driving on and around forever… Katheka and Josie and me, poking each other in the ribs whenever we see something, or chucking a little snuff under our lip to make spit. Together we form a kind of Africa Flying Dutchman.

I can’t really explain how this vastness drew something out of me, rid me of some emotional paralysis and made me feel as free and as natural a part of that landscape as the Masai or the oryx or the impala. But I have never been happier.

Another of the memories I didn’t want to unpack was of lunch time: cold meat from yesterday’s supper, maybe a kidney or a Tommy liver, along with a chop or two, some sardines, a fresh-baked bread, and a semi-warm bottle of Tusker beer. I’d lie on my back and watch the clouds play through the leaves of fever trees, or the giant figs. I’d watch the weaver birds in their sort of upside down nests, or the blue rollers doing their aerial chandelles. Then I’d sleep in the heat until Josie work me up for a cup of tea, and we’d be off again, sailing over the sea of Africa.

In the evening, or more often well after dark, we’d spot our campfires and begin wondering what we’d have for supper, what the others had seen or shot, and whether to have a scotch or a gin. At camp a huge fire would be warming our canvas chairs. We’d have a quick drink and chat about the shooting, and then a hot bucket shower, clean clothes, a down jacket, and on or two more drinks before dinner.

It was always early to bed, snuggled under three or four blankets, wish-dreaming like a child for tomorrow’s lesser kudu or a better than 40-inch oryx. The now-familiar night sounds were a touch of home. It was always a great temptation, now and then indulged, to sit up and listen until the small hours and marvel that even the fire smelled like nothing else but Africa.

I would be up early with the ripping sound of my tent zipper being opened by one of the kitchen men bringing me my pot of tea. He’d light the gas lantern as he left so I could see to dress and shave. Then I’d have 15 minutes or so to lie in bed and drink my tea before getting up. No king ever enjoyed such luxury more!

Then breakfast: oatmeal, more tea, toast, and bacon. Afterwards I’d check the rifles and ammo and be off into the chill of a 6 o’clock African morning, my fluting shrikes going slightly off-key in the cold and dark. I would have given anything to be able to whistle just well enough to join them for a minute, but was never tempted enough to risk spoiling it.

A day’s note from the most inadequate diary typically reads: “Morning hunt was a five-hour walk. Perfect day to see top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Cannot believe I am camped virtually on a side of it. Never want to go home. Watched four kongoni who seem to be practicing sharp turns. Shepherd’s pie for supper. Up tomorrow at five as usual. A lovely day.”

My lovely days went into a notebook with a few words designed more to job the memory than to attempt to capture the uncapturable. There are little notes like, “Saw fourteen fine heads of different species today: rhino, elephant, eland, lesser kudu, etc., etc.” Already I’d gotten too blasé to finish the note. But now I remember some of the others: cheetah, a pride of five that we literally stepped on and flushed, like so many brown-spotted, golden, land-bound birds; a red-maned lion that was far too elegant to shoot—and too smart to come to our bait for a closer look: a leopard at mid-morning that sat a half-mile distant and coldly stared into my eyes until I flinched and looked away.

There are those who will go back without a rifle, but I am not one of them… no yet. I like to hunt. I like to stalk, the tracking mystery, the shot, and the skinning. I suppose I could go without shooting, but that’s a decision I can only make with the legal rifle in my hand. I want both the right to shoot and the privilege of not doing so. I could see Kenya again without my heavy rifles—but I couldn’t experience it.

What I ought to do is keep my tin trunk packed, after cleaning out the despair and the regret, with a fresh notebook and a new pen. Add a box or so of .375’s, my old walking shoes, some fresh chewing tobacco and snuff, and a few pictures to show Josie and Katheka when I get back.

An artist once said that his eyes were stuck to a point and would bleed if he turned away. Just so, my heart has been pierced by the turning of Africa, and bleeds for it.

Cant be said any better than that.

I agree 100%.

Thanks for posting that. I haven't read anything by Gene Hill in many years, going back to not that many years after his passing. He was always one of my favorite writers.

Back in 1985 I was privileged to enjoy one of the best weeks of sport in my entire life, in a group led by Gene and Marsha Hill. It was a red deer stalking trip in the Scottish Highlands based out of Major Neal Ramsey's estate. Jim Rikholff of the National Sporting Fraternity organized the trip, and the Hills were the trip leaders of about 8 or so couples. Stalking deer in the highlands by day, black tie dinner at night in grand settings.

Thanks for posting Mr. Hills writing, it reminded me of a wonderful time, one I'd love to experience again, but never can since he's gone. Time to break out the photo album...

It is always a good read. I never tire of re-reading that essay. I look up and sitting infront of me on the top of my desk is "A listening Walk". Gene most certainly had the gift! Comes as close to saying it all as most!Thanks for posting!

Rusty,
"A Listening Walk" and "Mostly Tailfeathers" are wonderful. I read an essay every day from these books and they always lift my spirits. The guy was amazing.

Sigh

To Gene Hill and may his words and thought live forever...

I have many fond memories from reading his stories, experiences, & thoughts...

Mike

I loved reading his monthly articles. I was saddened by his death, but his writings live on and that's a good thing for many of us.