Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 11
Sirheni bush camp.
Morning broke with just a hint of mercy in it—a thinning of the rain that had drummed through the night on the thatched roofs of Sirheni. I remember lying there a moment longer, listening, as the last drops fell from the jackalberry leaves in slow, deliberate taps. When I stepped outside, the clouds were scattered—”four tenths,” as the old folks used to say—ragged and drifting, their bellies still heavy with what they might yet give. But between them, the sun pushed through in pale gold streaks, already carrying that unmistakable Lowveld promise of heat and humidity that settles on you like a second skin.
The air smelled alive—wet earth, wild sage, and that faint, metallic scent of the river running strong. The Sirheni River was still high from the rains, its brown water moving with purpose, murmuring and gurgling over the rocks in a way that felt fuller, louder than usual. You could hear it before you saw it, a steady presence threading through the morning.
The bush was waking up around me. A pair of hornbills clattered past, their wing beats loud in the damp air, while somewhere deeper in the riverine thicket a fish eagle called—clear and echoing, like the day announcing itself properly at last. Closer to camp, a chorus of smaller birds had already begun—waxbills fussing in the reeds, and a robin-chat delivering its liquid notes from a low branch, as if testing the morning.
Out across the clearing, a small group of impala moved cautiously, their hooves soft in the wet sand. The ewes grazed, heads down, while a young ram stood alert, ears flicking, every so often lifting his head to scent the air. Beyond them, half-hidden in the grey-green mopane, I caught the darker shapes of kudu—ghostlike in the morning light, their spiral horns catching the sun for just a second before they slipped deeper into cover.
Everything felt rinsed clean, but already warming. The sun climbed higher between those drifting clouds, and I could feel the day building—heat gathering, moisture rising from the soaked ground, the kind of Lowveld day that would press in on you by mid-morning. But in that early hour, there was still a softness to it, a pause between the storm and whatever came next.
I stood there a while longer, just taking it in—the river, the birds, the quiet movement of antelope—and thought how mornings like this don’t announce themselves loudly. They ease in, almost gently, even after a night of rain. And if you’re paying attention, you can feel the whole bush turning a page.
I caught it before I saw it—that unmistakable smell of coffee drifting through the still morning air, rich and dark, cutting through the damp sweetness of the bush. Breakfast was close behind it, something warm and promising, and from the kitchen hut a lazy curl of blue smoke twisted its way upward, unbothered by wind, blending wood fire and morning into a scent that felt like the bush itself was cooking.
Inside, Kait had staged a quiet overnight coup. At some point in the night she’d rolled clear across the bed and taken the blanket with her, leaving me negotiating the chill on my own. Not that I minded—it made getting up easier.
No great escape required, no careful untangling. I slipped out and stepped onto the stoep, the cool boards under my feet and the Lowveld morning waiting just beyond.
I stood there, soaking it in—the kind of moment that doesn’t ask anything of you except that you notice it.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Her voice came from behind me, soft and warm, and before I could answer she’d already wrapped herself around me, arms sliding around my waist, her head settling against my shoulder like it belonged there.
“Just enjoying the freshness of the morning...” I said, keeping my voice low, as if the bush might hear and decide to change its mind.
She was barefoot—I could feel it in the way she leaned into me, grounded and easy. We hadn’t even bothered changing the night before. Just talked and talked until the words ran out, then drifted off still dressed, tangled up in each other and whatever thoughts the day had left us with.
“But I hear thunder in the air?” she chuckled.
I smiled, looking out toward the trees. “That’s not thunder,” I said. “That’s the tiger inside me waking up to the smell of coffee and breakfast.”
She laughed, that quick, bright laugh of hers, and slipped away from me. “Then let me go get my boots and let’s go hunt breakfast,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway back to the rondavel. “Before that tiger escapes and has me for breakfast!”
“Hey!” I called after her. “Don’t I get a good morning kiss?”
She disappeared into the shadows inside, her voice floating back out to me. “Not until after breakfast! Otherwise we’ll never get to breakfast ... might even miss lunch too.”
I shook my head, grinning. “Oh no, that will never do...”
And with that, I turned and followed her inside—because some hunts, I’ve learned, are better not delayed.
The “tiger” inside me might have been growling for coffee, but as Kait brushed past me to grab her boots, a different kind of predator woke up.
It hit me all at once—a sudden, concentrated wave. That scent. Not damp thatch. Not woodsmoke drifting in from the kitchen. No ... this was something else entirely. The kind of fragrance that could charm a mamba out of a tree and make it reconsider its life choices.
In the small, humid space of the rondavel, it was downright intoxicating. Jasmine, maybe—crushed underfoot somewhere far too elegant for this place—layered with something darker. Musk. Vanilla. The sort of thing that had absolutely no business existing in a ranger camp at six in the morning.
“You’re smelling ... dangerously wonderful,” I muttered, my voice coming out a touch more gravelly than I’d planned.
Kait paused mid-boot, glanced back over her shoulder, and gave me a look that was pure, unfiltered mischief.
“I didn’t have time for a shower, Adrian. And since I’m officially a ‘Roman’ for the morning, I thought I’d better smell like one.” She slipped her foot in and tugged the boot snug. “Does the Pilot have a problem with the tactical aroma?”
“The Pilot,” I said carefully, watching her stand, “is currently struggling to maintain altitude.”
Kait chuckled, entirely too pleased with herself.
Outside, the morning had brightened, the clearing still muddy and shining from the night’s rain. A light breeze moved through just as we stepped out—and promptly betrayed me. It caught that scent and tossed it right back in my direction like it was part of the game.
Every turn of her head, every bounce of her step as she pointed out a hornbill or skirted a puddle—another faint wave of it. Subtle. Persistent. A full-blown sensory ambush.
Walking behind her toward the dining lapa became less of a stroll and more of a test of character. In the soft morning light, with the bush waking up and the river still pushing hard in the distance, she looked completely at home—boots muddy, hair just a little wild, moving easy and unbothered through it all.
And yet ... she smelled like she belonged at a high-end gala in Sandton.
The contrast was frankly unfair.
By the time we reached the long wooden table, where Spanner and Google were already hunched over their mugs, I was a walking collection of poorly managed impulses. I sat down next to her, and the warmth of her presence didn’t help matters—it just seemed to amplify that fragrance straight into my personal airspace.
Spanner looked up briefly, his nose twitching just a fraction as something clearly registered. His eyes flicked from me to Kait, lingering a second longer than necessary on her slightly damp, untamed hair, before he returned to his coffee.
He didn’t say a word—he was a professional—but the corner of his mouth twitched just enough to suggest he’d already drawn his conclusions.
“Coffee?” Google asked, sliding a tin mug toward me.
“Please,” I said, leaning in. I needed something strong enough to cut through jasmine and poor decision-making. If I didn’t get caffeine into my system soon, I was going to forget all about Michael Owen Delport and start suggesting we skip breakfast entirely.
Kait just smiled into her mug, the morning light catching that unmistakable “Roman” spark in her eyes.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Breakfast was just right to hit the spot. Not 5-star rated but good and filling. Scrambled eggs, bread with real butter and apricot jam, a few strips of bacon and sliced cheese. Coffee by the litres.
“Adrian,” Socks began, “what happens now? We’ve got two problems that need urgent attention ... the blocked drainage ditch and the ammo box?”
“I’ve seen enough,” Kait said, straightening slightly. “At least with the drainage situation. I need to get back to Skukuza headquarters and report properly—but the short version? Both the blockage and that dam wall have to go.”
She pointed toward the river.
“If you look closely, the river’s already trying to solve the problem. It’s carved a path around the wall—but the outflow is still less than the inflow. That wall is acting like a brake, slowing everything down and pushing water back into the drainage ditch. That’s what’s causing the pooling here in camp ... and why your road is now part of the river system.”
Socks, Google and Spanner all burst out laughing.
“I could’ve told you the blockage had to go,” Spanner grinned, “but the dam wall as a water brake? That’s a new one for me. So—what goes first?”
“The blockage,” Kait said without hesitation.
“That would drain this whole mess back into the river,” Socks nodded.
“Exactly. Drop the water level here first. Once the pressure’s off, you can deal with the wall properly.”
Spanner scratched his chin. “And the road?”
“If we can see the damage, we can fix it,” she said. “Cutting a new road through here will cost more and do more harm than good.”
Socks tilted his head. “So ... for the price of a few sticks of dynamite, we fix the problem?”
Kait shot him a look. “Not dynamite. KATROCK. It’s a non-explosive demolition agent. No bang, no shockwaves, no flying debris—just controlled cracking.”
Spanner raised an eyebrow. “Alright then, Professor. How does it work if it doesn’t explode?”
“You drill holes into the rock or concrete—about 30 to 40 millimetres wide, as deep as you can manage. Then you mix the compound with water and pour it in. After that...” she shrugged slightly, “you wait.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For it to do its thing. It expands as it sets—builds up massive pressure inside the rock until it cracks. Takes a few hours, sometimes longer depending on the temperature.”
“No bang?” Spanner asked again, sounding almost disappointed.
“No kaploeffie, no overpressure, no shockwave,” Kait smiled. “Just cracks ... and then, once the structure is weakened enough—” she gestured toward the swollen water behind the blockage, “—nature finishes the job. That’s when you’ll get your ‘gargle and whoosh’, and mother nature makes your problem go away. Softly, silently, and efficiently. The zebras won’t even stop grazing.”
Socks grinned broadly. “Adrian! Keep this woman. She’s a treasure.”
“I second that,” Google added, not even looking up from his mug.
Kait blushed and looked away, but under the table her hand found mine and gave it a quick squeeze.
I just sat there, watching her, quietly impressed. The way she broke it down, solved the problem, kept it practical—and still managed to outthink all of us before finishing her first cup of coffee.
Honestly ... she was wasting her time as a TV presenter.
“What about the box we found?” Socks asked.
“I’m taking it back with me to Skukuza,” I replied.
“Not giving it to the SAPS at Pafuri?”
“No. I suspect a high-level cover-up conspiracy here, so I will hand it to the SAPS at provincial level.”
“Ain’t they crooks as well?”
“Not the ones I am going to speak to. I trust them.”
“Why?”
“Because I worked with them before and know their integrity and how they operate.”
“Good!” Spanner replied. “In the meantime, being cut off from the outside world, and nothing to do, I’m going fishing in that drainage ditch pool. There are some nice big carps in there!”
“Oh no!” Google groaned. “Not fish again tonight!”
I checked the weather app early that morning, scanning the route south toward Skukuza. The map showed a promising picture—patches of cloud breaking up, the airways clearing as the day warmed. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough to work with. Still, I’ve learned not to rush these things. Weather has a way of humbling you when you get overconfident.
So I made the call to delay takeoff until around 10:00. Give the sky a little more time to sort itself out. Even then, I knew we might still catch a few bumps along the way—nothing unusual, just the kind of turbulence that reminds you you’re not in charge up there.
The preflight inspection was routine, but I took my time with it. Fuel tanks sat at about three-quarters full—more than enough for the hop. I drained a sample and held it up to the light. Clear. No condensation, no debris ... and definitely no tadpoles or goldfish swimming around in there.
That last part always makes me smirk, but it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.
I remembered a story about a guy down in Jo’burg who refuelled a Robinson R44 in pouring rain using a hand pump. Not his finest moment. Somewhere along his flight, the engine quit on him—catastrophically. To his credit, he managed to bring the helicopter down in one piece with a clean autorotation. That alone takes skill and nerves of steel.
The investigation, though, told the real story. Two key findings stood out. First, there was water in the fuel—enough to starve the engine. Second, that hand pump he used? It had been sitting on the back of a bakkie, soaking in rainwater during one of those classic Highveld thunderstorms.
You don’t need to be a genius to connect the dots. He’d essentially pumped water straight into his tanks.
Fuel floats on water, so everything looks fine—until it doesn’t. He flew for nearly two hours, gauges still showing about twenty minutes of “fuel,” and then the pumps started drawing in the water sitting at the bottom. Engines don’t run on water. Fuel gauges, unfortunately, can’t tell the difference.
That’s why you always use that little clear plastic thingamajig at the drain point—check properly before every flight. Not after. Not “it should be fine.” Every time.
I shook my head at the memory.
Yeah ... guess who’s never refuelling a bird in the rain with a hand pump? Me. I don’t have the luxury of pulling over onto a cloud and calling roadside assistance for a jerry can of A1-jet.
At 10:03, we lifted off from Sirheni, smooth and steady. The machine felt good—everything in the green, just how you want it. The bush stretched out beneath us, calm and deceptively quiet from above.
Well ... almost everything was in the green.
One “system” onboard clearly wasn’t comfortable, and it didn’t take long to notice. Kait shifted in her seat, fidgeting more than usual. At first, I thought maybe it was just the turbulence, but there was something else going on.
“You okay?” I asked, glancing across.
“It is something I can’t tell you...” she said, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll just have to suffer for the next fifty minutes.”
Then she blushed.
Right. Message received.
“I can put down in that clearing on your right,” I offered, nodding toward a decent-looking spot below.
“I’m not equipped for it ... and I did not expect it today...” she muttered.
“Oh.”
That was all I said, but I had a pretty good idea what she meant. No need to make it awkward. Some things you just leave alone.
She shifted a bit more, trying to get comfortable, then eventually settled. I figured the best thing I could do was get us there quicker. I trimmed the aircraft, eased in a bit more throttle, and pushed our effective airspeed up to around 148 knots. Not reckless—just efficient. That shaved a few minutes off the flight time. About the best I could offer under the circumstances.
The air stayed mostly cooperative, just the occasional bump to keep things interesting. I kept one eye on the instruments and the other on the horizon, letting the rhythm of the flight take over.
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