A man injures his leg during the hunt. He's in the middle of the savannah, with no means to treat the wound. The leg rots and death approaches. The last minute he's picked up by an airplane. He looks down and sees a land of pure white below him, glistening in the light. It's the summit of a snow-capped mountain, the mountain is Kilimanjaro. As he gazes down he feels the life flowing out of him and he thinks, 'That's where I was headed... I hate stories like that. Men only think about the past right before their death. As if they were searching frantically for proof that they were alive.