by Danene van der Westhuyzen
The hum of the little plane went right into my bones. Every vibration felt magnified, every bump in the sky another reminder of how fragile we humans really are when the ground disappears beneath our feet. My husband sat at the controls, calm and steady, as he always is in the air, on the hunt, and in life.
I, on the other hand, gripped the seat so tightly my nails dug into the fabric.
Breathe, Danene. Just breathe.
Flying is my private battlefield. Each flight unleashes a storm of panic in me ‒ the spinning what-ifs, the pounding heart, the raw knowledge of just how unforgiving gravity can be. And yet here I was, forcing myself into that cockpit, because beyond the flight lay a hunt I dreaded but knew I had to face: a tuskless elephant cow.
I pressed my forehead against the cool Perspex window and looked down. The African bush stretched endlessly, a mosaic of thornveld and sandy veins, harsh and beautiful, unforgiving and alive.
Tuskless elephants are not just any elephants. They are legends, whispered about in camps and around fires. Unpredictable. Aggressive. Quick to charge. I had hunted dangerous game before, but this was different. This was Zimbabwe, and I was not licensed to guide here. For once, I was not the professional. I was a guest, reliant entirely on the PH, Keith, leading us. For someone used to carrying her own authority ‒ and my own rifle ‒ the vulnerability was crushing
“Hunting is at once raw and exalted, both primal and profound. It draws us back into the rhythm of the natural order, where life and death are not abstractions but realities woven into every step, every breath. Out there, stripped of distraction, we move closer to animalistic ‒ alert, vulnerable, alive.”
There is a particular kind of fear that takes hold when your mind and body refuse to agree.
Every second in that seat was an act of war with myself.
Rationally, I knew the plane was safe. Rationally, I knew the PH had the skill, the team, and the experience. Rationally, I knew the risks were calculated, that we were prepared. But fear doesn’t listen to reason.
Fear lodges in the body. It clamps your chest. It steals your breath. It whispers the same poisonous words again and again: You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t survive this.
And yet, beneath the fear, something deeper stirred. A recognition that this was not about planes or elephants at all. This was about life itself ‒ about choosing whether to keep shrinking from the things that terrify me or to move towards them and claim the clarity waiting on the other side.
Another voice rose up inside me ‒ one I had learnt to listen for in moments like this: Run towards the roar.
We landed on a strip of earth that looked more like a suggestion than a runway. Dust billowed, and the air hit me like an oven door opening ‒ thick, dry, merciless.
Some things in this world defy description, where language falters against the weight of experience and the complexity of emotion. Africa offers little middle ground. Its landscapes demand huge acceptance, to the extent that one would lose oneself, willingly and at times unwillingly. The vulnerability of it all steers us toward either elation or defeat. A love-hate relationship, which you either can’t endure, or the charms sink deep into your bones, never to leave.
And so, throat parched from dry air, I stepped into the bush. Hunting is at once raw and exalted, both primal and profound. It draws us back into the rhythm of the natural order, where life and death are not abstractions but realities woven into every step, every breath. Out there, stripped of distraction, we move closer to animalistic ‒ alert, vulnerable, alive.
The true gift of hunting is not only in the taking of game, but in the way it sharpens our vision for what lies beyond the obvious. It teaches us to see landscapes not merely as scenery but as stories waiting to unfold ‒ shaped by hidden tracks, fleeting signs, and the promise of unexpected encounters.
I carried the client’s rifle, far heavier than mine, its strap biting into my shoulder until it burned. Each day we walked farther than I thought possible, the sun punishing us relentlessly. My mouth dried until my tongue felt like leather, every sip of water rationed, savoured, and never enough.
And then there were the flies. The tse-tse and mopane flies descended in persistent swarms, biting with needle stings, crawling into ears, eyes and nostrils. They seemed designed to break your spirit as much as your skin.
The veld became a crucible for body and mind. Every nerve screamed: Turn back. This is too much. You don’t even have your own rifle. I felt naked without a gun of my own. Exposed. Stripped of the small thread of control I usually held. My survival was in the hands of another man, and my only choice was trust. That kind of dependence does not come easily. But in the bush, pride means nothing. You walk, you endure, you submit.
We tracked through dust and thorns, over ridges so steep and rocky I never imagined an elephant could climb them. The ground crumbled underfoot, the thorns tore at my shins, and each step felt heavier than the last. My legs turned to lead, my shoulders throbbed beneath the unforgiving weight of the sling, each step driving the burden deeper, as if the rifle meant to fuse with bone.
The tracks teased us again and again, drawing us on through shimmering heat until hope frayed thin. Time after time we came upon cows with dependent calves ‒ impossible. Other times the spoor ended at elephants with long ivory glistening in the sun, forcing us to circle back, to start again. Futility gnawed at me ‒ thirst rasped in my throat, sweat stung my eyes, the drone of tse-tse flies a merciless torment. Once, a young bull burst from the mopane scrub, mock-charging with a trumpet that split the air. He pulled up short, dust flying, but my heart slammed to a dead stop.
It was on one of those endless days ‒ when the sun sank too slowly, dragging out our exhaustion, and the dwindling path back to the truck twisted through suffocating jess ‒ that it happened. A massive cow, calf pressed tight to her side, stepped out ahead of us.
In that instant, the world changed.
The air grew thick, almost liquid. The bush went silent, sound sucked away until I could hear only my pulse hammering in my ears. She loomed there ‒ massive, restless, her hide grey and cracked, eyes glinting with a hot, unsettling fire.
This is it. You have children. You have responsibilities. You can’t outrun her. You can’t outfight her.
I felt smaller than I had ever felt in my life. Stripped bare. No authority. No weapon of my own. Just raw exposure, the heavy borrowed rifle biting into my shoulder, and the steady silhouette of Keith beside me. My life reduced to his judgment, his steadiness, his trigger finger.
Then the charge came.
The ground shook as if the earth itself recoiled from her fury. The air rushed forward, carrying her dust and musk, the guttural rumble of her rage.
Keith’s roar cut through it, his voice hurled like a weapon at the oncoming mass. It rolled out thunderous and desperate, yet threaded with a strange tenderness ‒ almost a plea, almost a prayer.
But she did not slow. She did not fear. She did not listen.
My chest locked. My heart battered my ribs so violently I thought it might burst free. My legs twitched to run. Every instinct screamed: Turn. Flee. Survive.
Don’t miss. Dear God, don’t miss.
Ten paces. Dust boiling in the air. My husband at my side, calm as stone. Me, lungs burning, every muscle strung tight between fight and flight.
Fear had never been louder.
And yet in that moment of terror, something broke open inside me. It is impossible to describe fully what it is like to stand in that space between life and death. The air itself is thicker. Every sound sharper. Every thought distilled into a single truth: you are alive. Terrifyingly, magnificently alive.
And in that moment I understood something I had only half grasped before: fear was not my enemy. Fear was my teacher. It stripped me to the essential, burning away the trivial and leaving only the raw, undeniable gift of presence.
It sharpened my awareness and left me face-to-face with the truth: life is fragile, fleeting, sacred.
I did not conquer fear that day. I carried it. I stood with it. And because of that, I walked out of the bush alive, whole, and strangely renewed.
When it was over, when the dust settled and the elephant moved away, I found myself shaking ‒ not with weakness, but with release. A laughter bubbled in me, shocking and bright, as though my body had to spill the excess of adrenaline somehow. Keith and my husband looked at me with quiet nods and small smiles.
I came back elated ‒ not because I was fearless, but because I had leaned into fear with every fibre of me. I had trusted where I could not control. I had walked through exhaustion, thirst, swarms of flies, and the crushing weight of doubt, and still I had come out on the other side.
I am embarrassed by my fear, yes. Humbled by it. But I am also grateful. Because it reminds me of the stakes. It reminds me that hunting, like living, is not about control. It is about surrender. About stepping into the roar, again and again, and finding in the chaos a kind of order that only the heart can recognise.
Fear had not left me, but I had carried it ‒ and it had carried me.
We live in a world that tells us safety is the ultimate goal. Stay home. Stay comfortable. Stay alive. But in the veld, comfort has no place. The sun burns. The thorns pierce. The elephant charges. And in those moments, you are reminded that the only thing worse than dying is not really living. To live fully is to embrace the unknown. To accept that death awaits us all, but that life is a gift only if we dare to live it vulnerably, fiercely and with faith.
We explore the marvellous reality of life and the unapologetic chances that we are not meant to fear, but bravely embrace. One which serves a purpose of connection.
Running from the roar may feel good at that moment. It may give you the illusion of safety. But in truth, it robs you of the chance to grow, to feel alive, to honour the dreams planted deep inside you.
I am not fearless. I am afraid. Often. Afraid in the cockpit. Afraid in the veld. Afraid when the beast turns and eyes lock on mine. Afraid when I walk kilometre after kilometre in the blistering sun with my shoulder burning and flies biting until I bleed.
This is it. This is madness.
And yet, another voice always answers: Move forward anyway.
Perhaps you have felt it too. Standing at the edge of something vast and uncertain, you have heard the roar and longed to run. And if you dare to step forward ‒ trembling, heart pounding, but unbroken ‒ you may discover, as I did, that fear is not the end of the road but the beginning.
Because you chose to run towards the roar
From the 2026 issue of Huntinamibia
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The hum of the little plane went right into my bones. Every vibration felt magnified, every bump in the sky another reminder of how fragile we humans really are when the ground disappears beneath our feet. My husband sat at the controls, calm and steady, as he always is in
