Sometimes, we don’t see much in Kruger National Park…
We know the feeling well. The early-morning alarm rings, and with the same groggy enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, we shuffle into our clothes, pour water into our mugs, avoiding coffee so we don’t have to pee, and head for the Crocodile Gate entrance. There’s always that buzz of anticipation; today might be the day, “safari luck” might prevail: lions on the hunt, a leopard sprawled on a tree limb with a kill, or even a parade of elephants crossing the road. But sometimes, the bush has other plans.
Sometimes, we don’t see much in Kruger.
We’ve had drives where, after hours of slow rolling and peering into every shadow and thicket, we’ve come up with little more than a distant impala or the flick of a warthog’s tail as it scurries off. Very few elephants, if any, are crashing through the mopane trees. Few, if any, giraffes are elegantly gliding across the road. Just the dry rustle of leaves and the hypnotic rhythm of the gravel/dirt road under the tires.
And yet, we return. Again and again.
It’s easy to forget, especially when we’ve been spoiled with incredible sightings in the past, that nature doesn’t perform on demand. The bush works on its own time. Animals don’t pose for our cameras or show up to fulfill our safari checklist. And that’s part of what makes it so magical. The unpredictability is what keeps us coming back—the possibility.
Often, we equate visiting Kruger to fishing…the anticipation is palpable. It’s that hope that keeps us returning.
Still, there are days when even our usually unshakable optimism dips a little. We glance at each other and try to joke: “Well, the impala were particularly majestic today,” or, “That squirrel stole the show.” But underneath, we feel the quiet disappointment. We want that thrill. That excitement. That feeling of sharing a brief moment with something wild and untamed.
Yesterday, we saw very little.
There was one day in particular, not too long ago, when we drove for five hours without a single big sighting. Not a single elephant, buffalo, or cat. The sun was already climbing high, casting its hazy shimmer over the road, and we were starting to accept that this was going to be one of those days. We pulled into a picnic spot, slightly deflated, when a couple nearby casually mentioned they’d just seen a pack of wild dogs minutes ago, not far from where we’d driven. We smiled and nodded, but we could feel it… We’d just missed it.
That moment—the one that could have changed the whole day—had come and gone without us.
But that afternoon, after stopping at the Mugg & Bean, we took a different loop. It was a road we’d rarely traveled, one with nothing “guaranteed” on it. And as we rounded a bend, there stood a dazzle of zebras bathed in golden light—no roaring lions. No drama. Just peace.
It reminded us that beauty isn’t always loud. The bush isn’t only about the “Big Five.” Sometimes it’s about the quiet things: the sound of a Burchell’s coucal after rain, the shimmer of a lilac-breasted roller in the sun, or the comical way a dung beetle wrestles its ball across the road. These moments, often overlooked, are just as much a part of Kruger’s magic as a pride of lions or a charging rhino.
There’s a kind of humility the park teaches you. You’re not in control here. You’re a guest in someone else’s world. And like any good guest, you learn to be patient, respectful, observant. You learn that not every day brings drama, but every day brings something, even if it’s only the reaffirmation that nature owes you nothing and yet gives you everything.
Some of our favorite memories aren’t about what we saw but how we felt. Like watching the sunrise over the Sabie River, the sky painted in pinks and oranges while hippos yawned below. Or stopping at Sunset Dam and just sitting in silence, miles away from the modern world, letting the bush speak in its own soft language.
Of course, we’ll keep hoping for those extraordinary sightings. We’ll still wake up early, still peer into the shadows, still hold our breath every time a shape appears in the distance. That’s part of the adventure. But we’ve learned not to measure the success of a drive by the number of animals we tick off a list.
Kruger has its quiet days. But those days aren’t empty. They’re filled with reminders…of stillness, of patience, of wonder.
And sometimes, just sometimes, on the way out of the gate after a long, uneventful drive, a leopard will step out of the bush, pause for a heartbeat, then vanish again. And just like that, the whole day shifts. Because in Kruger, you never know.
And that’s exactly why we love it.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, August 7, 2015:
