Not 20 minutes after my arrival at Kutali Camp on the Zambezi River in Zambia, a large bull elephant strode through camp, walked up to the lunch table, and sampled—then summarily rejected—the cucumber salad that was due to be my lunch.
Two mornings later, I woke to find him outside my tent at 4 am, walking right past the tent door (door? It was a screen with a zipper). Lying in bed, wearing neither a stitch of clothing nor the prosthetic leg that I’d need to make any kind of getaway, I felt a little more vulnerable than usual. More exhilarated too! The morning before, I woke to find adult leopard prints outside my tent. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but I was beguiled from the beginning!
I’ve been guiding safaris in Africa for over 15 years now, and not until I started coming to Zambia has it felt this adventurous—this wild. These were not the only encounters. That same bull elephant was often seen in and around camp, a constant reminder that the place was untamed and belonged to someone else. At one point, I was putting my camera bag into the Land Cruiser when the same resident bull quietly appeared at the back of the vehicle, silently and with no warning. There he was, just calmly browsing away. One of my favourite images was made without even leaving camp.
Another vignette, this time at Musekese, a camp in Kafue National Park, one of the largest and oldest parks in Africa, and also one of the most empty of humans. During the six nights I spent there, I only saw one other vehicle. But I was there at the end of the rainy season, which can be challenging for encountering wildlife. The grasses were over 6 feet high in places, the roads were deeply rutted from elephants who walked them while they were still sticky black mud, and the wildlife had plenty of options for water. That changes as the dry season progresses, but during my visit, it was challenging. So when a young leopard jumped out of the grasses into the road in front of us, my heart jumped, too. We followed him not far to the base of a sausage tree, where he lay down and gave me yet another version of my hundreds of “leopard in the grass” photographs.
But then he looked up at the lowest branch, and I barely had time to think, “Will he?” before he leapt into the tree. That brought the scene closer to interesting, as he sat about eye level with me. But then he started playing with the sausage fruit in the tree. Think heavy white dangling cucumbers (hmmm, on second thought, don’t think too long about that). And he just played. Like a kitten, he batted at them, tried to catch one, then batted at them again. Over and over. And when he tired of that, he knocked one to the ground, followed it down and, with the heavy fruit in his mouth, walked off very pleased with himself. I named him “Sausage,” and so far the name seems to have stuck. What he did with that sausage fruit is anyone’s guess. Never in my wildest dreams did my imagination conjure a scene like that.
You hope against hope for sightings even half as extraordinary as this. Something different. Something no one else might ever have seen. Even better, something no one has photographed. I was the only one there, just me and my guide, and these pictures thrill me for how unique they are. Actually, they also thrill me because the quality is as good as it is. The light was still quite low, so I was shooting at high ISO and pretty low shutter speeds, so the whole drive back to the camp later that morning, I was as nervous as I was excited about seeing the images on a larger screen. Would they be sharp in all the right places?
One more. When I booked the trip, a bit of a last-minute lark, one of my hopes for the adventure was time to spend with painted wolves, but with the grasses as high as they were and painted wolves already incredibly elusive, I kept my expectations low. There are only about 6,600 of this species still on the planet, so the odds aren’t great that you’ll even see them. But we got lucky, and we spent about an hour with a pack of eight dogs, backlit as the sun crept down, and they relaxed and played together. At one point, already marvelling at my luck, my guide handed me a cold gin and tonic. Painted wolves at sunset, my camera in one hand, and a G&T in the other? I felt like the luckiest man in the world.
This was the first solo trip I’ve done truly alone for a long time. Just me and a guide. It was more challenging than most, too. But where there’s challenge, there’s growth. I learned more about tracking. I asked more questions about species I knew nothing about. I grew as much as a naturalist on this trip as I did as a photographer, and that will serve me well. I took some photographic risks that I’ve been excited to try, and learned from those, too. Like my last trip to Kenya, I treated this trip as a Hail Mary of sorts and gave myself permission not to make the same images I’ve made before. I gave myself permission to wait out scenes for longer than I felt I had the patience for. To really stretch. I played more than I sometimes do, and I could feel the joy flooding back.
After 15 years focusing on wildlife, I now feel like I’m really making progress; that there might just be hope for me. It was a good reminder that the path towards mastery is a long journey, but a thrilling one if you don’t tie your hopes too tightly to specific outcomes and give yourself the permission you need to be a perpetual student. And time. You need time. Not the little fragments we give ourselves between other moments in life, but real time that we carve out for ourselves to do the things we need to do, to focus, to get into flow.
Here are a couple more.
This feels like a bit of an aside, but it’s very much on point, so bear with me. My mother is declining in health and mental acuity. Her butter is sliding off her biscuit a little, if you know what I mean. We spent the last month cleaning out her old apartment and getting her into a home where she’ll have the care she needs. What I found as I cleaned things out was a lifetime of memories she’d stashed away. Some we kept, many we could do nothing with but discard. A wedding dress. The baby bunting she brought me home in as a newborn. I saw my mother’s life reduced to a couple of banker’s boxes of memories, and a trailer of garbage bags, some donated, most to be taken to the dump. A few pieces of furniture that went to new homes.
I love my mother. She is becoming more and more just a fragment of the person I knew her to be, and it’s heartbreaking. She’s not making new memories, and she’s slowly forgetting the ones she had. I’ve never been more aware of how brief a lifetime is—how quickly it all goes by. And never so sure that all we have is now and the experiences with which we fill the present. They don’t have to be in the bush, but make them big. Make them count. Make them experiences that take your breath away and fill your soul with wonder. Don’t wait to live every moment.
Want to join me on one of my adventures? You can join my Adventure List here and be among the first to get details.
For the Love of the Photograph,
David
Comments
Dear, David…thank you for sharing so much and deep thoughts and feelings with us…your words touched me….I still remember exactly the moment my mother called me ” Mom” and asked me few minutes later, where Inge was…loosing a person you relayed on your whole life…you asked for help…fades way in front of your eyes…that is real heard….Yes we should fill ourselves with gratitude and joy, with good thoughts and leave anger and bad feelings behind us…so If we once should loose controll about our memories, there should be a deep satisfaction inside our soul…my mother was 17 when the war reached her…she never told me all things happening to her…all this tried to reach the surface when the was’t able to keep it down….we are lucky to be grown up in peace …Till now….Wish you a blessed time with your mother…it sure will be sometimes harder to handle than an elephant in your tent…but at least…even If she will forget your name…deep inside she will feel the loving heart inside of you…. .I did’t use Google translater this time…Hope you can understand my broken English…but I wanted to show you my heart too. Yours Inge
It is painful to accompany loved ones to watch them slowly fade away. But this time is an opportunity to remember—to remember the times of life: the strength, the warmth, the discussions, the joy, the experiences, and the events. In the contrast between the present and the past, an awareness emerges of what one had taken for granted. The inevitable end turns into pain—yes, and gratitude. And gratitude is very precious.
Thank you, Steve, for the kindness. And the high praise, too – to have anything of mine remind someone of Ernst Haas just makes my day! Let me know when you decide to come experience it for yourself. Life is short! 🙂
Dear David,
Let your mother’s health condition stabilize and, if possible, improve.
Thank you for all the amazing photos you showed us. I would especially like to read about how to make textured fur like on the last one.
Thank you so much or that, Anna.
Beautiful on every level. Thank you.
God bless you and your mom and family. Precious are the days…
Very kind of you. Thank you, Eileen.
Forward prgoress and growing indeed, lol! If David DuChemin can still learn and grow, we all have a long way to go. But the journey is sure to be worth it. Currently facing a similar parental struggle, I am sorry to hear about your mum. You had some great luck with you on this one! There is a lot of wisdom in this piece.
I remember once when nightly, an elephant would come to sniff out and drink any water left in the shower bucket hanging only a few feet away. The grumble talk they make, mixed with the awoooo’s of the hyenas as you walked back from the dinner tent, knowing they were just outside the reach of the torch lights certainly made for some stories at breakfast. And nothing beats a G&T at a waterhole with elephants strolling toward their own sundowner. As you know, and they say, Africa gets into your blood. Once you go, you simply cannot continue to explore and experience all the magic this continent has to offer. Kudos on all the sweet pix, love the Sausage 🙂
Thanks, Jon. I think growth is less about how far we have to go than it is about the direction. If I stop growing and evolving, then I’m no longer worth listening to or learning from. 🙂
I’m sorry to hear you’re facing similar issues. I wish you love, courage, and patience as you and your family go through it.
“Grumble talk”! I love it. You’ve given me a new expression. I head back in 5 weeks and I’m holding my breath until I’m back in the wild.
David, thanks for sharing your hair-raising adventure and the gorgeous photographs! I feel like part of a privileged few to have vicariously experienced the leopard in the sausage tree and the youngster barely tolerating his mother’s bath. That second bath image captures a conflict universally played out among so many species! Love it!
Thank you as well for your sensitive and loving thoughts about your mother. My heart goes out to you and her both. My mom is also battling dementia–it’s very hard. You are so right about making our experiences and days count. This is such a good reminder; thanks for that!
Rose-Marie, it’s a tough age isn’t it? To become a parent to our parents. Might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s made easier because it’s fueled by love, but I think that’s what makes it hard as well. Wishing you courage and love and all the patience in the world.
Hi David
Great photos and story telling. Not sure I want the experience of the elephant being so close! Reading about it and seeing the wonderful pictures is a god second option!
Dementia and other decline diseases ravaged us – hopefully when we’ve lived a while but not always. It’s sad seeing loved ones in this situation – sharing their journey is important for them and us. There can still be important memories to be made and good times … even if brief. I hope your mother’s journey in this stage of her life goes as well as it can – and the same for all those caring for her.
Regards
Mark
Thank you, Mark. A hard time in life, for sure. My mother still has life in her, but I’m finding it hard to recognize. It sure has made me grateful for the time we’ve had. She was an incredible mother. I guess it’s my turn to play the parent now.
Beautiful pictures, wonderful words. By the way, that tree is found in southern India too and is called the sausage tree. So, the leopard’s name is appropriate. Loved the photographs, especially the leopard and cub ones. There’s something magical about shooting through foliage with a long lens and a wide open aperture. Still hoping to be able to join you on one of these trips someday.
Thanks, Sid! When the time is right i would love to have you with us. We’ll finally share a gin & tonic (or 2, or…) in person.
Thank you as always for sharing your photos and the stories behind them. Thank you for sharing about your Mum too – so sorry to hear about her decline. It is so hard, but there are still memories to be made on the good and the bad days.
All the best
Nicola
Thanks, Nicola. So many of us at this age are wrestling with this. There’s just no handbook for this stuff, but an abundance of love makes it easier.
An abundance of love really does make it easier.
Take care
Nicola
My dad is on the decline as well, and was recently moved into my brother’s house. His struggle with all the “stuff” and reliving past memories (ones he insists he will never “do” again) has made this move more bitter than sweet for him.
Knowing that carting around a bunch of stuff that ultimately needs a place- whether it’s a garbage bin or a donation one-I started in on a small box of my own this morning.
Lo and behold, I found that group photo from my very first trip as deckhand on the OL II with you, Jon, Jason, Ian, JP…the memories flooded me with warmth and happiness.
Much like your playful leopard, a feeling was captured and that, friend, will live on. Oh, the power of the photograph! I love yours.
All the best,
Jen
Jen, So good to hear from you. I just had dinner with JP last month on one of his family visits to the island. We were reliving some of the memories. It’s a hard time of life, isn’t it? And one no one seems to be prepared for. Makes me realize how precious our memories are. Sitting beside me now is a box of photographs from my mother’s place – many of them of me as a kid, and the memories they bring back. The photographs are nothing special and yet they’re worth the world to me. I hope you’re doing well, and thriving. Sending love.
It’s tough losing parents watching my mum lose herself and decline was heartbreaking but losing my dad suddenly was in many ways worse so I’m thinking of you and sending warm thoughts. The images you shared here are better than ever and I didn’t think that was possible!
There’s no good way to lose the ones we love, is there? My mom is the last of our parents and I dread the day when she’s gone, but watching her leave so slowly is painful.
Thanks for the kind words about the pictures. I keep thinking I might be getting better at this! 🙂
I recently lost my Mother in April David. I empathize with your feelings on observing a parent decline. My faith kept me grounded in those moments where she could not remember my name or something we were discussing. Just being there is the greatest thing we can do for them, just a as they were for us growing up. I am glad you still have time with her. Cherish them!
What an adventure! Your photographs are incredible! You certainly accomplished your goal of not taking shots you had taken before. I loved many of them, but specially the leopard with the sausage. He looked like a spotted kitten in a tree playing with a toy.
I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Patrick. You’re right though, the greatest joy she seems to have is when I walk through the door. It doesn’t seem like much to me, but to her its everything. I know if I’m not careful I’ll wish I made more of this time while we still had it. Thank you for the reminder.
What incredible photos and memories from your trip. Sounds like you learned a lot as well from your experience. It’s very tough going through those changes with your mom. I went down the same road with both of my parents. Really difficult seeing them decline into unknown versions of themselves. I can relate to with the emptying of their residence. We left with a few mementos but the rest went to donation or trash. Just another reminder that the memories are in our heart and with us always 💜💜.
Thank you, Nikki. It means a lot to me to know I share this experience with so many others, makes me feel less alone in it.
David, I hope every moment with your Mom counts. Even if she won’t remember, you will. 💕
Your solo trip to Zambia sure filled my soul with wonder…and an aching to return! I absolutely love the leopard holding the sausage and looking straight at you. Talk about seeing his personality play out in front of you. What a capture! And your writing always captures me too. Thank you!
Lindsey, the day you and your charming husband tell me you want to come back will be a happy one for me. I’ll be back at Kaingo in 6 weeks or so and will be thinking of you both. What a trip that was. Sending love! xo
Hi David…first and foremost, sorry to hear about your mother. Witnessing that can be painful to the soul. You must have nerves of steel because if I experienced what you described in your first paragraph I have no doubt I would have had a bladder (and perhaps a bowel) accident.
The images are all fantastic but I’m especially drawn to the one of the closeup of the elephant tusk and the gazelle (not sure if I have that one right) as they both have that “Ernest Haas” look to them and of course the playful leopard and the low POV of the elephant (yawning?). Perhaps one day I will experience one of these safaris directly rather than just living vicariously through your words and images.