The vast plains and beautiful animals, wonderful people and an old friend for a hunting partner had tempted my mind to wander, but I was jerked back to clear focus when the tracker shouted, "Shoot him now, or he will kill us!"

In Namibia's Kalahari Basin, sand makes walking difficult, but an experienced tracker can use the soft soil to his advantage.

Such is Africa. One minute you admire a beautiful hornbill in a tree, and the next minute slams you with a reminder that, on this continent, you do not rank at the top of the food chain. It's one of the reasons we make the trip. It's different. Really different. For a hunter, it's addictive. It was for me, and it started long before I ever got there.

The tracker's warning? Oh, just a really mad leopard, which we had chased for a mile. It had tired of the fun and was ready to extract some serious payback. The strange part is, this was not supposed to be a leopard hunt. Again, it's Africa. Be flexible.

My love affair with Africa began forty years ago. Not long after I learned to read, I discovered outdoor magazines, then sporting books. Sports stars held no fascination for me. Instead, I knew the "stats" of O'Connor, Keith, Ruark and Hemingway. Use Enough Gun, Something of Value and other books on Africa kept me glued to the page and began my connection with the country.

Then, there was Dad. As a writer for the major sporting and gun magazines, Dad traveled the world hunting. Alaska, Montana, South America, Spain, England, the Yukon...he did it all. But it was always Africa that drew him back. Grits and Mary (my mother) loved Africa, making many trips there. She was as good a hunter--and a better photographer--as Dad.

This big stallion slipped up on the author and PH Jamy Traut while they watched a water hole. Gresham anchored it with one shot from his Kimber rifle.

When Dwight Van Brunt, my good friend at Kimber, asked if I wanted to go to Namibia with him, well...is this a trick question? The connections continue. Not only is Dwight a friend, but he and I have talked of hunting Africa together for a decade. He's a fan of my father and a student of African hunting. The names Rigby, Selous, Ruark and Selby roll from Dwight's tongue the way other men talk of cars, athletes or movies. I never got to hunt with Dad in Africa, and his traveling days are over. Still, this trip with Dwight linked the dots. That we were hunting in Dwight's favorite place on Earth built a new connection. While there, we would shoot an episode of "Petersen's Hunting Adventure Television." Ah, shades of the old "American Sportsman" series Dad appeared on.

It's a long way to Namibia. From my home in bayou country, I went through Dulles airport in Virginia, then direct to Johannesburg, South Africa, where Dwight and I changed planes and reversed course to Windhoek, Namibia. A final ninety-minute flight in a Cessna 210 brought us to Eden, the wildlife conservancy and hunting operation Dwight had been raving about for years. The operation's manager and professional hunter, Jamy Traut, met us on the dirt strip and escorted us to the shooting bench just off the runway. We ate, checked zero on our rifles, then our hunt began.

Dwight brought a Kimber 8400 in .300 WSM. I opted for the same rifle in .338 Winchester Magnum; we also had a third Kimber, in .30-06, as a backup. For optics we used Leupold scopes and binoculars, and we shot Federal ammo stoked with Barnes Triple-Shock bullets.