Approaching Kenya’s wildlife via horseback makes you feel truly alive (if a bit nervous).

Ernest Hemingway said Africa was the one place "it pleased me to live, to really live. Not just let my life pass." I'm in East Africa determined to have a Hemingwayesque experience. Well, Hemingway minus the avid shooting and stuffing of wild animals to ship home to decorate the walls of a den. I want that connection with the primal self, being on the edge, completely alive and engaged in the moment. I've been to Africa many times, but I want something more this trip, more intense, something other than just sitting and watching wildlife from the safety of a vehicle.

That's why I've come to this wilderness practically smack in the middle of Kenya. "You've got our Honeymoon Suite," the manager of the Loisaba Lodge says proudly, despite the fact that I'm traveling alone. I gamely hang out the "Do Not Disturb" sign, then turn in early to rest up for tomorrow's big adventure: a wildlife safari—not by Land Rover, but on horseback.

Here's a tip: Never tell anyone you're from Texas before going horseback riding. Texans are inevitably given the biggest, most spirited (cowboy speak for uncontrollable) horse in the stable. Barrow Boy, which might as well be Swahili for Bad Boy, is so big he comes with his own set of steps to help riders climb into the saddle.

That brings me to the next problem: no handlebars. I'm a Western guy, and in Kenya they ride English. As if the British didn't do enough damage teaching millions of people to drive on the left side of the road, they also deprived their former colonies of saddle horns.

As we head out into the bush, Adam Dida, my guide, assures me: "You won't need to hang on for dear life, because these horses have been raised around wild animals, and they won't bolt at the first sign of an elephant or a zebra."

"Zebras? Lions eat zebras, don't they?" I ask in a voice I last used at age 12. Of course I know the answer. What I'm really asking is: "Aren't horses just zebras without stripes? Then why are we riding these meat treats into a herd of lion food?"

Dida brushes aside my concerns with a simple, "Lions have never come after the horses." Before I can ask why, he diverts my attention to a Hemingway moment, pointing out a group of elephants a hundred yards away. Slowly and quietly we ride closer. Elephants have poor eyesight, but excellent hearing and sense of smell. The wind is in our favor, and we maneuver into position for a good picture. Then, like Hemingway raising his rifle and carefully sighting down the barrel, I lift my camera and fire off three quick shots before the elephants ever notice us.