I received a radio call from Johan, informing me that he was sitting with Rivala and asking if I would like to come and join him. How could I ever turn down the opportunity to sit with such an incredibly breathtaking leopard? As I joined the sighting, Rivala was resting in a thicket and starting to groom herself, her rosetted coat barely visible in the tree line along the edge of the airstrip. The timing seemed almost too perfect; as we settled into position, the sun started slowly dropping down towards the horizon, framed by that beautiful Drakensberg backdrop. No sooner had we started to take in her elegant presence than her attention was drawn to a herd of impala grazing on the flat and open airstrip, completely unaware of what was unfolding nearby.

She moved with remarkable patience. Slipping from the trees, she dropped low to the ground and began to quite literally leopard-crawl forward, inch by inch. From the vehicle, we watched in silence as she closed the distance, the tension building with every slow movement.

Twice during the stalk, the moment was almost ruined—not by the impala, but by two hyenas. On separate occasions, they wandered nonchalantly across the open ground, strolling straight between Rivala and her intended dinner. They never broke stride, never acknowledged the leopard, and somehow never betrayed her presence. Rivala froze, utterly still, her focus unbroken as the hyenas passed through the scene like indifferent ghosts.

The impala would pause every now and then, lifting their heads, sensing that something was amiss but never quite noticing her.

As the light faded, the bush seemed to hold its breath. This wasn’t a moment for engines, radios, or spotlights. When Rivala eventually disappeared into the darkness, still stalking and unseen, we chose to let the night take over rather than interrupt the hunt.

We never saw the outcome, and that felt right. What we were privileged enough to witness wasn’t a chase or a kill, but the quiet precision of a leopard at work, exactly as nature intended. As we drove back under a darkening sky, I knew we had shared something special: a fleeting, respectful glimpse into the wild at its most authentic.

As the year draws to a close, moments like this remind us why we keep looking forward, even after seasons filled with heartbreak and loss. This image of a rhino cow calmly guiding her calf along a dusty track is far more than just a beautiful wildlife sighting — it is a quiet declaration of resilience.

For years, the shadow of poaching has hung heavily over our wild places. Each loss felt personal, each empty stretch of road a painful reminder of what was being taken from us. Rangers, conservationists, guides, and nature lovers alike have carried that weight, hoping that our efforts were not in vain. Seeing a rhino calf again — small, curious, and staying close to its mother — feels like a long-awaited answer to those hopes.

This mother and calf represent continuity. Life persists despite the odds. The calf’s presence tells a story of protection, vigilance, and countless unseen hours spent safeguarding these animals so that they can breed, thrive, and reclaim their space in the wild. Every new calf is a victory — not just for rhinos, but for the ecosystems they shape and the people who fight for their survival.

There is something deeply grounding about watching a young rhino walk confidently beside its mother. No awareness of statistics or threats, only trust. It reminds us why conservation matters at its core: so future generations of wildlife can exist without fear, and future generations of people can experience moments like this with the same sense of awe.

As we reflect on the year behind us, this sighting stands out as a true highlight — a silver lining after years of uncertainty. A sign that protection works, dedication matters, and hope is not misplaced. May the coming year bring more tiny footprints on sandy roads, more mothers leading calves through the bush, and more reminders that nature, when given a chance, knows how to heal.

Ending the year with baby rhinos back.

The morning began with quiet focus. We were tracking wild dogs, relying on the skill of our tracker, Ronald, as he read the ground ahead of us. As we moved towards the area where they had last been seen, we found fresh tracks lying in the sand, sharp and clear, telling us the dogs had passed not long before.

Wild dogs are always exciting and challenging to track. They are highly intelligent, fast, and constantly on the move. Unlike many predators, they hunt during the day, covering huge distances as a pack. Every track and every change in direction tells part of their story.

We followed the tracks slowly, scanning the bush on both sides of the road. Then, without warning, the bush ahead came alive. The wild dogs appeared, running straight towards us along the road. We quickly pulled the vehicle to the side and switched off the engine. Just under twenty dogs streamed past us, their movement smooth and purposeful. The alpha male stopped briefly next to the vehicle, a serious, focused look on his face. Their energy was incredible — lean bodies, big rounded ears, and each coat marked with a unique pattern.

The pack was clearly on a mission. They left the road and ran straight towards an elephant herd ahead.

The herd had young calves with them, and the reaction was immediate. The adult elephants closed ranks, forming a solid wall around the babies. Calves were pushed into the centre, completely hidden by the larger bodies. Dust rose as ears spread and trunks lifted. It was a powerful display of protection and family bonds.

The wild dogs slowed, assessed the situation, and quickly realised this was not an opportunity. Elephants are not prey, and a herd protecting calves is one of the strongest forces in the bush. Without panic or chaos, the dogs turned away and disappeared back into the vegetation, moving just as quickly as they had arrived.

Moments like this remind you why wild dogs are so special to see. They are not just hunters, but smart decision-makers, constantly weighing risk against reward. At the same time, it showed the strength of elephants — calm, organised, and fiercely protective of their young.

It all happened in a matter of minutes, yet it felt timeless. A raw, unscripted moment where different worlds collided, each animal playing its part exactly as nature intended.

There are sightings that you expect as part of everyday life in the bush – and then there are those rare drives that stay with you long after the dust has settled. This particular summer evening at Leopard Hills began quietly enough, with two familiar male lions doing what lions do best in the heat: absolutely nothing. None of us knew that within the hour we would be left shaking, teary‑eyed, and completely in awe of what we had just witnessed.

The afternoon started out as one of those classic “flat cat” sightings – two big male lions sprawled in the warm dust, bellies full, golden light only just starting to soften the heat. As we edged the vehicle into position, the Plains Camp males barely lifted their heads, the picture of dominant males with nowhere urgent to be.

For a while, it felt like it would stay that way. The air was still heavy, the sun not yet dipped low enough to truly wake the bush. Guests settled back into their seats, cameras resting on laps, and conversation dropped to hushed whispers as the day began its slow slide into evening.

Then, without warning, everything changed.

Both males sat up in perfect unison, bodies tense, eyes locked to the east. Their entire focus shifted, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as they listened to something we could not hear. In that moment the mood in the vehicle flipped from relaxed to electric. These were no longer sleepy lions; these were territorial males on alert.

After a long, loaded pause, they rose and moved with purpose to the nearest waterhole. We watched them drink deeply – slow, deliberate laps of the tongue, muscles rippling under their coats with each shift of weight. It felt like the quiet before a storm, as if they were preparing themselves for whatever had called their attention out there in the darkening bush.

When they turned away from the water, the real show began.

Without hesitation, both males broke into a determined trot, then a steady run, cutting through open clearings with startling power for such heavy cats. We followed at a respectful distance, keeping to the roads where we could, and soon found ourselves in a rhythm with them – move, pause, listen, roar.

More than once, the terrain allowed us to wait ahead of them rather than follow from behind. The vehicle stood quiet in an open clearing or along a sandy road while the Plains Camp males materialised out of the dusk, trotting straight towards us with their heads low and shoulders rolling. Every few minutes they stopped, drew in deep breaths, and unleashed their roars into the evening, the sound pouring over us as they passed by and continued on their patrol.

Having them come towards us like that – first through the open clearings and then straight down the road – made the whole experience feel even more intense. With nothing between us and the night but the open air of the safari vehicle, guests watched two dominant males close the distance, their calls vibrating through the seats and right through our chests, close enough to feel every note.

We stayed with them for well over half an hour, moving from clearing to clearing as they ran, stopped, listened, and roared again. Each bout of vocalising felt like a line drawn on an invisible map, reinforcing boundaries guests could not see but could certainly sense. The bush around us seemed to pause every time they called, as if the entire landscape was listening.

Eventually, the terrain closed in and we could follow them no further. We stopped the vehicle, switched off the engine, and sat in complete darkness. For fifteen more minutes, nobody spoke. We simply listened.

As the last roars rolled across the darkness, we stayed where we were, engine off, simply listening. The night felt wider, deeper, as if the whole reserve was holding its breath with us.

When the sound finally faded into the distance, it took a moment to come back to ourselves. As the spotlight clicked off and I turned back to the vehicle, the scene behind me said everything words could not. Guests sat in absolute stunned silence, mouths slightly open, eyes shining. A few fought back tears; others simply stared into the dark where the lions had disappeared, trying to process what they had just experienced.

It was one of those rare moments where nobody reached for a camera. There was nothing more to capture – the memory was already written in.

Only once we turned the key and started to roll away did the tension begin to release. Someone let out a shaky laugh, another wiped at their face, and suddenly the whole vehicle erupted into relieved chatter. We were all a little shaky, all a little breathless, and then the adrenaline hit properly – cheering, laughing, replaying our favourite parts of the sighting over the sound of the engine and the crunch of tyres on the road.

What began as two sleepy male lions in the late‑afternoon heat had turned into a full‑body experience: the sound in our chests, the vibration under our feet, and the shared realisation that we had just witnessed dominant males actively claiming their kingdom. It was the kind of drive that reminds you why you get up before sunrise every day, and why no two evenings in the bush are ever the same.

As another year draws to a close here at Leopard Hills, moments like this stand out among countless sunrises, shared coffees, quiet tracks in the sand, and roaring fires under the stars. To everyone who has joined a drive this year – whether it was your first time in the bush or a long‑awaited return – thank you for sharing these sightings, the quiet moments, and the big adrenaline rushes with me. Wishing you a safe and restful festive season wherever you are, and we hope to welcome you back to the Sabi Sands for many more wild stories in the year ahead.

WATCH VIDEO HERE.

As most of you know, it’s summer here in South Africa, and we are absolutely loving the long-awaited change in season. With this beautiful shift comes a lot of rain, attracting so much new life – flowers, insects, different migratory birds, and all sorts of lovely fruits. But my personal favourite? Frogs!

There are so many different frog species all over the country. In fact, there are 177 species in southern Africa. One of the common ones we see often in the Sabi Sands is the Bushveld Rain Frog. They can be recognised by their short head and legs, and we usually find them in sandy and semi-arid habitats.

On a recent afternoon drive, we had the pleasure of doing some frogging. Although this is not an activity for most of the “normal” world, for me – a little bit of a nature freak – I find way too much pleasure in catching these awesome creatures and observing them…

This is a picture I captured that afternoon. Their adorable faces never seem to disappoint anyone who looks their way…

As we wrap up another incredible year at Leopard Hills, our guiding team would like to extend our heartfelt thanks to all our guests who joined us on safari and shared in the wonders of the bush. Every sighting, every laugh around the fire, and every story told under the stars made this year unforgettable. From all of us here, we wish you a joyful Christmas and a New Year filled with adventure, peace, and connection to nature. We can’t wait to welcome you back to the wild for more unforgettable moments in 2026

If you’re interested in experiencing an awe-inspiring South African safari, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with our reservations desk at book@leopardhills.com.

Alternatively, click here and make use of the quick and seamless online booking process and start planning your ideal vacation today.

We look forward to welcoming you to Leopard Hills Private Game Reserve.