Written by Francois Botha // Images by Jim Klug
I first came to the Lower Zambezi National Park in 2007. As a passionate tigerfish angler, I had already explored much of the upper Zambezi River, which was becoming increasingly crowded, but the lower river was fabled for bigger fish and fewer people. My search for truly pristine water led me here — something that, at the time, felt like a Garden of Eden.
Today, it is still the same. The sheer density of game, and the calm, unpressured nature of the animals, is so immersive that at times it feels almost unreal. In the midst of encountering Africa's most sought-after fauna — elephants, lions, leopards, buffalo, hippos, honey badgers, and wild dogs — you are drifting through protected waters, along hidden channels, vast sandbars, and uninhabited islands, all while searching for the elusive tigerfish.
It is a place like no other.
On a recent expedition into the fishery, I wanted to take the tigerfishing approach to a new level. Tigerfish are predators of a particular kind — built around a hard, hook-shedding mouth, an explosive turn of pace, and the kind of violent, somersaulting jumps that most often leave an angler shell-shocked, wondering what just happened. The teeth are the first thing you notice — long, interlocking, and visible even with the mouth shut.
Tigerfishing on fly has never been easy, but it remains the ultimate freshwater gamefish.
However, a number of other factors have plagued fly fishermen on the Zambezi for decades. Outside of protected areas, expanding human pressure continues to impact the fishery. On the water, the story is much the same. Boats are often old, cumbersome people carriers, better suited to game viewing than serious fly fishing. More purpose-built options still lack the ability to execute controlled drifts in current and wind, while traditional dugout pirogues — makorros — simply don't offer the stability or range required. To consistently target tigerfish on fly, you need unprecedented access to their habitat.
The idea behind our 2026 expedition was to change that — to place a purpose- built powered drift boat, the first of its kind in a protected national park on the Zambezi, and to approach the fishery in an entirely different way. A boat with the range to reach unfished channels, the control to execute precise drifts, and the shallow draft to unlock water that has, until now, remained largely inaccessible. It took more than a year of planning — from boat design and testing to securing a suitable camp and location that could offer the level of exclusivity and operational support required. Eventually, it all came together.
Arrival
In April 2026, a group of intrepid adventurers — Jim Klug, Alec Gerbec, Jesse Colten, and Mimi Hillenbrand — arrived by plane at Royal Airstrip in the Lower Zambezi National Park, where I was waiting for them by the river dock. "Do you guys just keep elephants as pets or what?" somebody asked. I could see from their expressions that only fifteen minutes in the park had already left an impact.
The water conditions were reasonable, with good flow and temperature, although late seasonal rains had slightly discoloured the river. Visibility, however, remained more than adequate for tigerfish. There were plenty of 'tiglets' around, and we caught our fair share — encouraging signs of a strong spawning season and promising times ahead.
The boat performed like a dream. We were able to cover vast distances in a short time, and the shallow draft got us into some of the tightest spots. We also pushed into areas that I doubt had ever been fly-fished and, in some cases, it paid off with better-sized fish. There were tigerfish sitting in some of the most unexpected places, and they were definitely there to feed. The second our flies hit the water, the results were instant! We also had a lot of fun with some surface flies, and in some cases the tigers would batter the popper right up to the boat before getting hooked.
The Boat & The Fishing
Manase, a local guide, took to the oars like a duck to water. Jim, Alec, and Jesse leaned in with years of drift boat experience, and on day two, we were doing it all — crabbing, holding in strong currents, and working intricate drifts through some very fishy structure.
At one point, Manase became quite possessive over the oars, refusing to give them up. "I want to learn, " he said, plainly. That kind of hunger is rare — and it's the surest sign of a guide on a fast-track trajectory.
We had multiple encounters with trophy fish, but the outcome was consistent — smashing takes, blistering runs, aerial chaos, and no fish to hand. In the evenings after those encounters, the same conversations kept coming up — guys shaking their heads, trying to explain just how fast they were, how completely out of control the whole thing felt.
Other Species
The fishing produced a few other interesting results. One of the other prized gamefish, the vundu, is also present in the system. These giant catfish can reach extraordinary size, and their power rivals that of some saltwater species. Traditionally, they've been considered near-impossible to target on fly in this environment, yet Alec nearly coaxed a true giant into eating in a foot of water, while Jim managed to land a respectable specimen on a floating line with a fast retrieve. There's something there — something not fully understood yet.
Other species, such as bream and tilapia, were occasionally on offer, but we rarely diverted our attention. One particularly notable catch was the nkupe. These peculiar fish, with their small, delicate mouths, have never featured on a target list, yet we succeeded in what may well be the first recorded capture of one on a streamer fly. I'm not entirely convinced it's something we'll be able to repeat.
Camp
The camp felt like it was from a different planet — the simplicity, attention to detail, warm and genuine service, and impressive cuisine, all set within a refined, safari-styled setting, were unlike anything we had ever experienced. From the moment the chef announced the evening's menu to the last bite of dessert, no one could quite believe it all came from a bush kitchen.
Wildlife
Around the third day, we decided to break the rhythm and head out on a game drive — and that's when the floodgates opened. Within three hours, we had seen nearly every species on the list.
The standout moment was stopping alongside a pride of lions that had just devoured a waterbuck carcass. They lay sprawled in the open, interacting just metres from the vehicle, close enough that you could hear them panting in the heat. On the drive back, we even spotted a honey badger.
The following day, while on the river, we received word that the Mwambashi wild dog pack had been sighted. We made the call to head straight there while they were still inactive in the midday heat. It was another close encounter — but the real moment was still to come.
We chose to sacrifice the evening fishing session and return for their awakening. We sat with the painted dogs at dusk, in one of those suspended, almost surreal moments. Impala and waterbuck moved nervously through the surrounding bush, and there was a quiet sense that something was about to unfold. Then it did.
The alpha female rose, moved through the pack, emitting sharp, squeaking calls — an unmistakable signal. In an instant, the entire pack responded. They rose as one and launched into pursuit of a waterbuck. What followed was staggering. With relentless speed, they drove across the plains and into the thicket, coordinated and tireless. To witness that level of pace and endurance firsthand was something else entirely.
In forty years on safari, I had never seen anything like it. The next night, we saw it again.
On the final evening, Jim and Alec — having both landed good fish during the week — decided to commit to the holy grail: the leopard. By then, the sensory overload had reached a point where choosing one experience meant inevitably missing another. In many ways, that was exactly the dynamic I had hoped to create.
Mimi, Jesse, and I returned to the river for one last attempt at a trophy tiger. By evening, we were back at camp, two gin and tonics in, when the call came through: "We're on a leopard -- get here now."
Jim and Alec had witnessed the pinnacle — a female leopard taking down an impala ram at incredibly close range. The adrenaline and disbelief blended into yet another unforgettable moment on the Lower Zambezi.
Looking Ahead
The Lower Zambezi has always been extraordinary. What we set out to prove in April 2026 was simply that it could be experienced on an entirely different level — one where world-class fly fishing and an uncompromising safari exist not as separate offerings, but as a single, seamless thing.
The drift boat, the camp, the water, the wildlife — it all came together in a way that exceeded even our own expectations.
2027 will see us back on the water — a bigger fleet, the camp in full stride, and stretches of unexplored river still ahead. Two short seasons — April and November — and what is shaping up to be a particularly good year on the Zambezi. In 2028, the story continues — even more vast expanses of unfished water with big tigerfish lurking beneath it.
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