A wave of wind sweeps across the hill and cools the moist brow like a camphor compress.

An instant later the sun is out again and the land lies swimming in the shimmer of heat waves.

Distant hills swim on miragic lakes, and if we are in plains country the mirages appear upon all sides.
We rarely shot while on a march from camp to camp.

We walked or rode along, watching the swarms of game that slowly moved away as we approached.

The scenery was beautiful.