True Story: Lion at First Light

Before dawn, the lions called from three directions around Tshokwane River Camp. It was still dark, the air cool and heavy. Their roars came low and steady, pulling me from sleep in the tent I shared with Renias. He woke too, shifting in his duvet. “Something’s happening,” he said, with a groggy morning voice. “A territorial dispute?” Then hyenas started up, their whoops cutting through the night. Could be a kill out there, scraps being fought over.

Renias sat up. “We need to get out as soon as there’s light.” He unzipped the tent and went to wake the guests. I pulled on my boots, stepped into the chill, and joined them on the deck with coffee in tin mugs. The lions kept at it, their roars rolling in from all sides. Elephants trumpeted then, sharp and close. One of the guests, a woman with a weary gaze, asked if they might be after a baby elephant. I didn’t think so. The roaring moved northeast, male and female lions, shifting through the dark.

We loaded into the vehicle as the sky lightened. Not fifty meters from camp, lion tracks crisscrossed the road, going every way. We picked a couple spots where the roars had seemed strongest. The guests leaned out, scanning the bush, pointing at scuffs on the ground. They were into it, more than I’d ever seen before. We drove slowly, scanning intently, but turned up nothing. The roaring drifted north now, over a vast area with no roads. Only way in was on foot.

We stopped, got out. Tracks showed fresh, heading straight north. I gave the group a briefing—stick close, don’t run, we don’t know what’s ahead (with a bit more detail). They nodded, some already crouching to study the clear lion prints. Renias let one guy, a tall man, take point for a bit, then eased him back when the bush thickened. “This is what I came for,” he said to me, grinning.

Then the tracks doubled back, odd and sudden. We spread out a little, told the group to wait. No more calls—no lions, no hyenas, no elephants. Just quiet and those tracks, splitting off in all directions. A clash between prides? A hunt? Couldn’t tell.

Two hours later, the guests were dragging. One hung back, kicking dust, and it slowed us all. I felt it gnawing at me—a lion had roared right by my tent, and now it was like it had never been there. Renias called a halt. We stood, listened hard. Nothing.

The heat was building. Some pulled water from their packs, others stood with hands on hips, looking worn. The tracks hit a rocky ridge and faded out. Ren stayed steady, said he still had a feeling. One of the younger men mentioned breakfast, half-serious. Renias shot him a look—sharp, no words. I thought I’d ask the group for a bit more time when Renias raised a hand. “Quiet,” he said.

He stared across the valley, borrowed binoculars from a guest. “There he is.” A male lion, alone, lay under a low bush 200 meters off. I took the ‘binos’—saw fresh blood on his bottom lip. He stared back, chest heaving and clearly exhausted. We shifted to higher ground, keeping our distance. He didn’t stir. There was a hush among the guests—tired, yes, but smiles unmistakeable. I looked again through the binoculars. Scarred, still, holding his ground. Whatever had happened out here, he’d come through it.

This is tracking—raw and uncertain. You rise before the sun, step into the dark, take your chances on a trail that might lead nowhere or right to the heart of it. The bush doesn’t promise answers, only signs, and you follow them into the unknown. You never know what waits—a fight’s survivor, a fleeting shadow, or just silence. This is what we do at Kruger Untamed, reading the earth, pursuing what’s wild, finding what we can.

Read how we do it: Tracking at Kruger Untamed.

Photos of lions by the legendary James Tyrrell.