Geoscience Reference
In-Depth Information
Ears thrust outwards, making the great head seem monstrous. This, I dimly recalled, was the elephants'
universal warning signal. “Ears back: good. Ears forward: very bad.” I froze.
African elephants are immense creatures—they weigh up to six tons and stand some eleven feet
tall. They're fabulous, viewed from the window of a safari truck. But between me and this tusker lay
just fifty yards of bare, scuffed sand, flanked with thorn bushes. I had found no trace of my compan-
ions in two hours of hard hiking. The camp was further still—direction unknown. I was lost and alone.
I was also—now—in big trouble.
This predicament was partly my fault, but not entirely. Paul Hoffman had invited me to see his
field site in Namibia, and I'd been counting on him to see me safely through. A few hours earlier he
had laid out the plan for the afternoon. Five of our party were to squeeze into a vehicle and negotiate
the wide sweep of the Huab River's dried-out bed, while the remaining four of us hiked to meet them
across a sandy basin, carpeted with thorn scrub and occasional groves of acacia trees. We all knew
where we were heading. Paul had pointed out a rich red outcrop of rock, standing against the skyline
a few valleys away.
So I was frustrated but not unduly alarmed when I realized that—characteristically and without
warning—Paul had charged off into the bush to begin the hike some minutes before, without checking
to see who was following. His two harassed field assistants, more accustomed than I was to this habit
of his, had apparently grabbed their packs and plunged after him. Hastily, I picked up my camera and
ran, calling as I went. No sign. Back I went to the vehicle to check the final destination. But the vehicle
had gone.
Of course, I could have walked back to the camp—a mere thirty minutes or so away—and spent
the afternoon in craven contemplation. But I could see the outcrop quite clearly from where I stood.
Nothing was stirring—even the air was still. I couldn't resist. This was my chance to show Paul how
well I could manage alone in the bush. (Why did I want to? I don't really know. Paul has that effect on
people.)
The day was beautiful. Though the rains were long gone, there were still green patches of grass,
crowned with a silver-gold sheen where the tips had begun to dry. Between the grass and twisted black
thorn trees were bare patches of sand spattered with mustard-coloured mosses. I even felt a frisson of
delight when I came upon old elephant dung—cannonballs of dried grass and mud that marked a net-
work of tracks winding through the tough, thorny scrub of the river valley. “Elephants make the best
paths,” Paul had told us, and it's true that the trails they blaze are easy to follow—wide, sandy and
obstacle-free. My chances of spotting an elephant were remote, but at least I could use their tracks,
taking my bearings from the jagged outcrop of rocks on its distant hillside.
After more than an hour of hard walking, I finally reached the dry Huab riverbed. There on the
sand were two sets of vehicle tracks, but both looked old even to my inexperienced eye. There was no
sign of human footprints. The elephant track cut diagonally across the river, heading in the direction
of the outcrop. I followed it.
I was hot and tired by now, and increasingly discouraged. But then, in the distance, I saw a distinct
brown shape—an elephant—loping across the sand. Enchanted, I stared as it crossed the river and
began to climb the far slope. I followed as closely as I dared, watching in delight as it found shade
under a large tree and began lazily twitching its ears. Then, planning how I'd boast about my sighting
to the rest of the crew, I marched on.
My new enthusiasm didn't last. The outcrop was getting no closer and I had still seen no human
signs. Relief when I heard shouts of “Oi! Oi!” evaporated when I realized they weren't human voices
but those of baboons, barking warnings from up on the hillside. In the distance I saw another elephant
