Sixty meters off that point was one and a half meters of the reason I’d run the war gauntlet. It lay suspended in an enormous current line that the GTs in these parts seem to gravitate towards. Vertical striations across its flank, dark and dramatic like the graphite faces below me and intimidating for I knew it’s power and temperament. Teaser was the first thing that popped into my head. I tried a cast, but even wind assisted I was at best half way there.

I was truly alone. Not just by distance to my fellow anglers or skippers or even the fisherman in the bays towards Kilmia, but alone in consequence. The surge teasing me with each pull that uncovers those critical few meters that mean so much to a fly angler, but at all cost.

And so I waited, an impossibly long time for the shot at my Kudu, or perhaps never.  I’d been tempted by the prospect of using current, I’d been tempted by return by boat, but somehow the ridiculous set of ethical criteria we measure ourselves against in this strange sport held me in restraint. I would get my chance. It had been years already, but it will come and it will feel right and my own and I may not share it and just simmer in the pride of accomplishment and secret.  The single victory from a war of a thousand losses will be enough for my ego.  It was however not that day, and, although smarts may bring the day closer and increase the frequency, it’s just not the way that hunting should be.