ON PHOTOGRAPHY: Maximising the Odds of Photographic Expression – 1. Being a Black-backed Jackal

At the end of this year (2020), I will have pursued my singular passion for photography for a full five decades. Although my focus as an exclusively environmental photographer (as I call it) is very narrow, I would like to regard myself as a serious photographer first, and then as a crafter of images of the environment, its flora and its fauna.

My second great passion, which has compelled me for almost as long as photography has, is the experience, exploration and research of the interplay between organisms (especially animals) and their environment. In my view of the natural world, individual beings fit into their species-specific habitat much as a hand occupies a glove – except that in this instance the ‘glove’, the environment, is immeasurably larger than the organism itself is. There is also interaction and exchange of vital information and substances between the organism and its environment. It is this sense of the embeddedness of individuals within their habitat that I wish to explore and capture in images.

As a photographer, I consider myself as an explorer, not of reality, but of light and shadow, line, shape and form, texture and tone, pattern and rhythm, and of how these visual elements will contribute to the expression of my intention in the final photograph. Most importantly, as a photographer I am a surveyor of the Self, an explorer of my own, unique internal world of the imagination.

Photography is a most demanding craft to master. To capture the compositions and the quality of light in images that will complement your projected visual communication always requires forethought, skill and hard work; your success also depends greatly on chance if you work outdoors. Photography becomes even more serendipitous when the subject is an organism (or many) that can not be controlled. All photographers appreciate a second bite at the cherry (as they say), or, at least, they would hope for an extended episode during which they can explore several different compositions of the same setting, the identical subject, to maximise the chances of capturing at least one exceptional image. Such repetition of opportunity is especially rare when photographing fauna, flora and the natural environment.

I search actively for images. I am not inclined to sit in a hide for hours, waiting and hoping for the arrival of an organism in a scene that I can not change. On foot or from a vehicle, I hunt for and pounce on special light or a photogenic sighting of my intended prey. However, when the prospect arises, two different, yet related circumstances afford me the greatest opportunity to delight in, observe, mull over, explore and toil at photography of the interplay between organisms and their habitat. Both situations, if available to me, provide several separate chances for capturing images of a particular subject. One approach, more difficult to seek out and to explore, involves the repeated sighting of a particular individual or a group of animals (the subjects). The alternative setting (which I will discuss in a follow-on blog) involves travelling to and spending time repeatedly in the same small locality (the place).

The intentions of animals are unknowable by definition. At best, we may conclude from the current behaviour we witness what action is likely (usually hopefully) to follow; at worst, the behaviour of individuals or groups of animals is unpredictable. By spending some time in their presence, on several separate occasions, I can at least observe a number of episodes of behaviour. While not necessarily the same actions are ever repeated, at least different encounters allow me to observe the animal or group more attentively and to identify any patterns in the coming-and-going and their manners. Thus I can familiarise myself slightly with the animals’ environmental setting and their response to it. Their behaviour may remain unpredictable; at least the likelihood of me bagging a splendid photograph becomes marginally more probable. 

Constantly I am on the lookout for burrows and nests to which animals will return regularly. I may not intend to photograph aspects of their reproductive behaviour, but I am a tad more confident that I will be able to spy (not necessarily photograph) my intended prey. During the heat of late mornings and early afternoons, waterholes or riverbanks will also attract animals – not necessarily the same individuals, however. In addition, speaking regularly to rangers or even tourists who have remained in an area for quite a while is useful. Most often, such people possess a wealth of knowledge of the area and its game, or, at least, they are wildlife enthusiasts and will share willingly any information they have about the localities that will proffer my best prospects of encountering certain species of animals. Even in the absence of burrows, nests, waterholes and informants, I have had many opportunities of spending some time in the company of particular individuals, getting several bites at digital photography. (Hehe… I apologise!)

By now it is public knowledge that rain follows me wherever I happen to go on photographic trips. One April several years ago, Jacqui and I had splurged out to visit Tamboti Camp in the central region of the Kruger National Park, South Africa. Predictably, the rain pelted or drizzled down for more than a week – the light was less than ideal and sightings that could be worked and photographed were rare.

Nevertheless, on our first morning drive, we spotted a single Black-backed Jackal male running through a sizeable open area. Upon our return from our first drive, a beautiful young female jackal had joined the male. This pair entertained us with their antics most mornings and most evenings, performed as a duo or singly. Knowing of their presence reduced the need to pursue sightings and capture images of wildlife in the gloomy and wet conditions. When the jackals decided to show themselves, we simply spent the morning or evening in their presence; when the pair had gone into hiding or were traipsing around further afield, Jacqui and I continued with an extended drive.

Not much happened; we did not get to see unique or impressive jackal behaviour that week. Yet, being afforded the opportunity to concentrate on capturing this pair of jackals, I managed to collect several images – together they do reveal, at least, an inkling of what it takes to be a Black-backed Jackal.

ABOUT THIS IMAGE… ‘ ‘Predator’ on Predator’ and ‘Wild Eye’

Since the vagaries of the market place ensure that a few select individuals are rewarded for their work much more handsomely than the majority are, I have been able to afford only very few longer photographic trips. On only three occasions, I have managed to spend a significant time in the Kruger National Park, attempting to capture and express the passion that I feel for this awesome reserve. All three opportunities were washed out completely – rain or drizzle rinsed the Lowveld clean, every day, morning and evening, leaving only the midday hours on a few days with harsh, uninspiring sunlight.

My last wet and grey sojourn to Kruger took place in February 2017. (This was the last time a long Kruger trip was hampered by continuous rain, not the last occasion during which the rain-gods blessed me with an unwelcome present. That happened in March of this year, on my last pre-lockdown photographic trip.) In 2017, I had planned to spend sixteen nights in Kruger, for once swapping my favoured northern regions for an exploration of the central and southern sections of the park.

I was nearing the end of this marvellous trip, despite the constant heavy rain. I had booked the last three nights at Pretoriuskop, a camp in the southwestern sector of Kruger, and one that I had last visited as a very young child. In general, I avoid the southern regions of Kruger – they are too crowded for my liking. I loathe even more having to travel long distances between camps, so I was not looking forward with any glee to the 140 kilometres or so from Satara to Pretoriuskop. Using the morning hours to travel slowly, to spot, to investigate and to work any potential sightings photographically, this trip would take a minimum of eight hours to complete.

So far, the trip had been a mixed bag of bad lighting, meagre photogenic sightings and, by now, a small, wet and somewhat musty tent. Worse still, I was heading into an area of the park that I could remember only vaguely. I would be working for two days in an environment that I was struggling to previsualise. Nevertheless, I trundled off down the main tar road towards my next accommodation.

Along the way, I stopped at the ‘city’ of Tshokwane. Gone was the intimate picnic spot in the bush that I remember from childhood. Now, several restaurants were vying for the attention and the tourist dollars/pounds/euros. I fled as quickly as I could squeeze out a long-overdue personal pit-stop.

I confess that my mood at this point was sombre to say the least. The crowds, the traffic in southern Kruger do not agree with this old codger. I rattled on down the tar road. At midday, as I rolled over a blind rise, I spotted a massive male leopard ambling along the tar road, also heading south, some 200 metres in front of me. I slowed down immediately to follow this magnificent beast. I was hoping that he would soon leave the road so that I could get closer without spooking him. As I snapped off a record shot through the rain-spattered windshield to show the folks back home that I indeed had seen a leopard on this trip, I caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of a jeep-jock safari-vehicle motoring over the rise behind me.

For me personally, these are the worst moments in any game park. I will always share sightings – after all, all visitors spend time in Kruger or another game reserve precisely for the unexpected encounters with game. Yet, a sighting of game ambling along the road inevitably draws a mini-traffic-jam, a circumstance that I will avoid at all cost.

I could not change lenses and I was trapped with long focal-length lenses on all cameras. Moreover, game on a road is not my game as a photographer. Perhaps I could overtake the leopard slowly and very carefully; then, as he ambled past my window, I could possibly snap a portrait of this walking cat. Everything worked out according to plan: I passed the leopard, pulled over to a stop on the opposite side of the road, switched off the engine and the leopard kept on walking towards me. As I peered through the viewfinder, I realised I could not get a shot of the head of the leopard without the road being included in the frame. As he got closer, I spotted an engorged tick on his lower lip – this was it, this could become the focus of a very different portrait, not of a leopard, but of a parasite on a leopard: ‘‘Predator’ on Predator’.

After a single exposure, I fired the ignition to continue following the leopard. By now, the jeep-jock behind me had almost caught up. Ahead of me, still at some distance, I saw two more jeep-jocks pelting towards the leopard from the south. I knew that the leopard would bolt, so I followed it slowly at some distance. As soon as the safari-crowd pulled alongside my vehicle and accelerated, the leopard vanished in a streak, off the high embankment and under a dense thicket of low scrub. The jeep-jock had overshot the mark in his haste to deliver a leopard to the wildly gesticulating and very noisy crowd perched atop his vehicle. I pulled onto the oncoming verge and chose a spot where I could see the entire thicket into which the leopard had vanished. I used my longest lens to scan the undergrowth for any sign of the leopard. Very occasionally, I could glimpse through the dense twigs, leaves and tall grasses, only a few long, white whiskers whenever the leopard yawned.

Obviously, I was swamped by the inevitable southern Kruger traffic-jam. I could not move my vehicle at all, so I decided to wait it out as patiently as I could do. If the leopard moved out of the thicket, I might be able to snap off a shot. I picked a very small opening in the undergrowth, just in front of the hidden head of the leopard, pre-focused my lens on this tiny gap, and waited.

After 40 minutes or so of loud shouts, revving engines and even much hooting, the leopard had had enough. Suddenly he sat up inside the thicket, still concealed behind impenetrable twigs, leaves and tall grasses. He must have been a proponent of telepathy; he must have picked up my loud thoughts of ‘Only one look!’. As if he understood my mental entreaties, he leant forward and granted me just one momentary glance with one eye through the tiny aperture in the bush on which I had chosen to focus, spun around and crashed out of the back end of the thicket.

Gone. Yet he had given me a special present: a single frame, a single photograph: ‘Wild Eye’.

Since that trip, I have revisited the southern sections of Kruger on several occasions. The noise, the hubbub and the traffic – particularly of the jeep-jocks and their safari-crowds from the countless ‘game lodges’ that border the south of Kruger – still let my hairs stand on end. Yet the southern part of Kruger – not visited and experienced since childhood days – has crept into and lodged itself permanently in this old heart of mine.

REMINISCENCES: Sojourn in the Mountain-Lands of Kruger

In a previous blog, I mentioned and explained my devotion to the central and northern regions of the Kruger National Park, South Africa. I also pointed out several reasons why I had neglected the southern sections of this magnificent park during the past decades. Yet, following a very brief trip to the southwestern region of Kruger in early 2017, I had vowed to return before long to the previously shunned expanses of the park.

So, towards the end of 2018, Jacqui and I set off to spend a week at Berg-en-Dal Camp. This camp had been built in Kruger long after my childhood. It also featured a different style of architecture of the buildings, a shape and layout that was very different from the quaint rondavel circles of the older camps. Several other factors that impinge significantly on my enjoyment of the wilderness and any chances of snatching good photographs had kept me away from Berg-en-Dal previously.

I spent quite a while mulling over the pros and cons of such a visit, before I finally resolved to stay over at Berg-en-Dal for a week. The camp is stationed very close to the entrance gate into Kruger at Malelane, which itself is very close to countless ‘safari lodges’ (without game!) crowded along the southern border of the park. Moreover, Malelane Gate is only a short drive away from the bustling city of Mbombela. This combination of circumstances ensures that throughout the day all the roads in the immediate vicinity of Berg-en-Dal carry heavy traffic – trucks carting supplies to the park’s southern camps, buses conveying staff into and out of the park, and day-visitors who are eager to traverse the greatest distance possible in limited time. Of course, my nemesis, the presence of countless safari lodge jeep-jocks and their noisy guests required exacting consideration.*

Besides, the location of Berg-en-Dal Camp at the edge of the Malelane Mountain-land restricts the choice of any visitor (leaving the camp or returning to it) to a single decision – whether to turn left or to turn right at the camp’s entrance gate. Therefore, traffic close to camp is concentrated and increased dramatically in the earliest and latest hours of the day – precisely the time that is ideal for photography.

Despite grave reservations, I decided that I could not delay the opportunity to explore the hills and kopjes in this part of Kruger. For too long, I had abandoned the scenery, the many distinctive species of plants that grow in this region and an enjoyment of a different part of the Kruger National Park.

Inevitably, I had packed some rain amongst our camping equipment – luckily, this time, a few mornings and afternoons remained clear enough for some splendid play of light and shadow. Notwithstanding the crowds and the rain, we enjoyed a most wonderful trip. Our luck with photogenic sightings was astonishing – no doubt, the presence of my lucky game-spotting charm bolstered our luck; my youngest sister, Bärbel, joined us on this trip. Each day confronted us with exceptional sightings of game and photographic opportunities. Our short trip was so packed with excitement that we even forgave the camp’s resident baboon troop after it had ripped through (not opened) our tents – one side wall of our two, small tents each were aerated by metre-long tears, despite us storing all food safely inside our locked vehicle, day and night.

The roads through the mountain-lands were fabulous. The numerous densely-vegetated gullies between smaller hills, the narrow expanses of flat land bordered by the boulder-strewn slopes of some kopjes across which the roads threaded their way, and the many views of majestic hills and a few mountains enthralled us. Each drive along these steeper, winding sand roads provided large herds of buffalo and elephant. The recent decline of the lion population in the southern section of the park meant that we could not travel without lurching into leopards along the bases of kopjes and along the many smaller rivers and vleis on the flatter plains around Berg-en-Dal.

The assortment of stunning sightings of game in the picturesque landscape that surrounds Berg-en-Dal kept me quickened and very busy every day. Animals, plants and the landscape enveloped me. For once, I trundled across several photographic opportunities that I could work earnestly to capture in images at least a few impressions of this splendid environment. I even managed to spend twenty minutes or so in the company of a young honeybadger that was busy excavating a large dung-pile for juicy beetle grubs.

A hefty storm that showered Berg-en-Dal for an hour one night, caused runoff from the slopes of the hills to start flowing down smaller gullies and rivers. From a bridge, we spotted a huge crocodile fishing below the low wall of an overflowing weir. Regularly, Sharp-tooth Catfish and minute Barbs attempted to leap up the rushing water to get over the river blockage to a fast-filling pool upstream of the weir.

At very early dawn and late dusk, Lesser Galagos (bushbabies) vaulted through the vegetation, tree-to-bush, bush-to-tree, past our camping spot to entertain us daily. At dawn on the morning of our last full day in the park, I spotted an adult bushbaby perched on a sturdy branch of an old dead tree. This parent was calling softly to a youngster that was still hiding in a very dense shrub. I backed off and waited patiently at some distance until I had seen both bushbabies entering a hollow of the dead tree. That evening we returned to camp slightly earlier than usual – I desperately wished to photograph these mini-humans as they left their hollow tree trunk to forage the night away out in the dark bushveld. I managed to snap only a single exposure.

I remain convinced that I will not be able to put up with the traffic and the crowds of the southern Kruger for an extended time. Yet, I have decided that the areas and camps that I have avoided for so long must be included from now on, albeit only for short visits.


*   Perhaps I need to explain why I loathe much (not all) of the so-called safari and purported conservation ‘industry’ in South Africa. The most significant source of my boundless detestation of this ‘industry’ is the unacceptable attitude of the majority of citizens – South Africans are renowned for exploitation of the wilderness. If money is to be made, all thoughts and considerations of conservation and ethics evaporate. There are countless examples that populate a list that is too long to discuss here in its entirety. Well documented examples include: the illegal import and export of rare and endangered species (animals and plants), the deliberate breeding of colour morphs of various species (primarily antelope) for hunting clients (individuals whose egos have become satiated by the slaughter of the available ‘common’ game, so that they now covet a unique, special victim), canned lion hunting, many other questionable hunting ethics (such as allowing clients to shoot game at waterholes or salt licks, the use of hides or vehicles from which to blast forth), ad infinitum.
 
One of the less offensive, yet equally questionable practices involves the concept of game and safari lodges and reserves. There are laudable proprietors who are indeed sincerely concerned and immersed in efforts of conservation of the total environment. However, the majority of ‘reserves’, ‘parks’, ‘zoos’, ‘lodges’ are frankly money-generating endeavours in a country that believes generally that ‘ecotourism’ is a valuable, honourable and necessary facet of the economy. This is an ‘industry’ that does not add value to a product of human intellect, discovery, manufacture and labour – rather, this industry simply affixes a spurious price tag to the rapacious exploitation (most often detrimental) of the environment and its inhabitants. There is simply no understanding that the wilderness has existed for millennia, without human assistance, despite ceaseless abuse by humanity. The wilderness exists; it is not a product of human ingenuity, skill or exertion. The smidgeon of wilderness that remains must continue to exist – to ensure that the planet remains habitable for a sizeable fraction of the biosphere (including humans), not for trade by a single, self-elected, self-aggrandising, renegade pest species.
 
The ‘safaris’ on offer usually do not provide an experience of wilderness; nor do they provide for an adequate understanding of the necessity of conservation. Rather, they are glorified, glamourized and pared down rattles through the ‘wilds’, hollow attempts at completing a tick list of game sightings, not filled out by a slow, deliberate and untiring search of the environment, but by travelling at the highest speed possible from one incident to the next, following the instructions of a radio operator. This is not game-spotting; this is not an experience of wildlife and the wild. Worse still, the running commentary provided by ‘expert guides’ in the majority of cases is based entirely on providing info-bites enclosing a certain wow-factor, using outdated and faded information, much of it false.
 
There! I shall stop now.
 

A SENSE OF PLACE: Kruger National Park’s Mopane Country

The Kruger National Park, South Africa, remains my favourite destination for wildlife photography. In particular, I am enthralled by the more densely vegetated central and northern regions of this vast, magnificent reserve. From the middle of the park northwards, the vegetation quickly becomes dominated by mopane (Colophospermum mopane) on the flatlands. Three large rivers, flanked by thick riverine bush, cut across the flat plains. The rivers and their numerous smaller tributaries allow the growth of dense woodlands and scrublands in this part of the park.

Many of the roads in the northern half of Kruger travel along the large rivers and their branches. These rivers are often dry, with wide sandy riverbeds, except after very good rainfall – sadly in more recent decades, these rivers have flooded much more frequently than customary in the past, causing extensive damage to the riverine bush flanking their banks. The gravel roads in the central and northern sections, particularly, are often narrow. They wind up-and-down through large gullies; they wind along twists and turns, following the snaking courses of the rivers. All along the way, even narrower, more hidden little loops extend from the roads to the banks of the rivers – here you get spectacular views of the wide rivers and their often high riverbanks. The roads also frequently skirt small kopjes and rock-outcrops. All-in-all, the roads of central and northern Kruger offer privacy and add a sense of mystery to any game-viewing drive.

While game sightings with photographic potential are far more rare in this part of Kruger (rather than the grassy plains and more open bushveld of much of the south-central and southern sections), when I do stumble upon a sighting, it is usually brief, intense and intimate – the way I like it. Moreover, sightings of game often happen at very close quarters – that is, if you are lucky and the game is not spooked by your approach. The winding roads, the small lookout loops and the dense vegetation always heighten my sense of anticipation. You have to scan the terrain very thoroughly – anything could be hidden behind the thick bush, massive tree-trunks, dense reeds in the riverbeds and large boulders of the kopjes. Just possibly, some spectacular animal could stroll out into the open at any moment to afford me the briefest of glimpses.

Since good sightings are infrequent and the vegetation is very dense, many photographers find the environment of the central and northern sections of Kruger less-than-ideal for wildlife photography. However, I thrive on the numerous challenges set by this part of the park. The greatest challenge is to get it right; to achieve your photographic goals here takes concentration, a lot of very hard work and time. I get much greater satisfaction if I capture just a few photographs that are good (for me, not necessarily for the ‘experts’ on social media), rather than returning with hundreds or thousands of clicked-off images of a sighting of game that lies exposed before a crowd of game-spotters and me for hours. For me personally, the greater the challenge, the more I have to work at photography, the better. It is in short, intense interactions with game that my instinctive reactions (of camera settings, composition and visualisation) allow me to attempt to capture a unique photograph.

I also relish the challenge of shooting in an unpredictable environment that shields my ‘prey’. For me, the challenge is always to show an animal in its environment; it is never the animal on its own that is important to me as an environmental photographer. To me, a successful photograph must express the ‘being’ of my ‘prey’ and must not simply be another documentary portrait of a particular species.

The numerous layers of vegetation – grasses (short and tall), shrubs, bushes, trees (the stained-glass mosaics of leaves and branches) – always test my skill at composition too. I have to consider the lines, shapes, positive and negative spaces, patterns and rhythms, and perspective – always subtle, never obvious in the bushveld – while attempting to get a complimentary composition of a subject that I am interested in photographing, a subject that invariably has no intention whatever of obliging my photographic aspirations. Add to this often cluttered, three-dimensional environment the different textures and hues of the vegetation and the ever changing fall of light and shadow. For any photographer interested in chiaroscuro (as I am) the dense bushveld of central and northern Kruger is a paradise.

In Kruger, the seasons are defined less by the calendar, more by the presence or absence of good rainfall. The bushveld-palette of the northern half of this national park changes dramatically with the seasons. Spring is a time of recovery, mixing fresh new greens of short grasses and young leaves with the bone-white of the remaining straw of the previous summer and the browns of winter. In years of good rains, summer can be overwhelmingly green throughout, until flowers and fruit appear later in this season. The colour palette of autumn is the most spectacular – the grasses attempt to out-compete each other with their display of the range of yellows; trees and bushes along the rivers compete with greens; while the mopane outshines all other vegetation with its hues of green, lemon-green, yellow, orange and deep-red. For all plants and animals, the winter is the harshest season, often extended for several months during times of drought. On the flat plains, almost all of the plants are deciduous, dropping their desiccated dark-brown leaves, and leaving behind only their twisted, tortured stems and branches to form brown-black skeletons reaching towards the cloudless sky, like supplicants, with arms raised, begging the deities for mercy.

Irrespective of the season, a host of animals are thrown into the mix of colours of the vegetation – the Big Five, the Tiny Five, the Magnificent Seven (or Eight), depending on the conversation of whichever particular crowd of game-viewers to which you are subjected. When it comes to wilderness – and only then – I am catholic. To me, Kruger is home to the Awesome Twenty-Thousand at least, and then there are still the waters of streams, rivers, pans and mud-puddles; the endless morphing realm of the clouds; the infinite earthly landscape of sand, soil, rocks and boulders of the riverbeds, riverbanks and kopjes. How could any photographer, obsessed with capturing and expressing in images the patterns and processes of our planet and its inhabitants, not fall in love with the central and northern sections of the Kruger National Park in South Africa?

Of the several million sightings of the tremendous variety of the landscape, the plants and the animals that I have been privileged to witness, the majority are recorded only in my memory. Very often – most often, in fact – I could not record on camera a fraction of beauty, a sliver of action. The moments were too sudden and too fleeting; the sightings were impeded by the dense bushveld of the central and northern Kruger; or, I simply failed to find a composition that was worth seizing.

And, it is precisely these ultimate of challenges to my own photography, my own vision of wilderness, that draw me back, again and again. The central and northern sections of Kruger hold on to their treasures; it is not easy working in this environment. Nevertheless, you can (with a bit of luck, with patience and with very hard work) be offered a very special gift – that feeling of the ethereal, that image of the fleeting moment, and that sense of place.

ABOUT THIS IMAGE... ‘Death in the Long Grass’

Whenever I visit the Kruger National Park, South Africa, or any other destination for that matter, bad weather will accompany me. It has become standard upon my return for my family and friends to ask, “How many days of rain did you experience?” (They have suggested that there may be a lucrative future for me as a rainmaker – I know my own luck though, and the day I set forth to bring rain to parched areas of the subcontinent, the bad weather will leave me high-and-dry.)

Jacqui and I had spent a week and a half with incessant rain and skies blanketed in thick grey clouds at Tamboti Camp near the western border of Kruger. Despite the bad weather, our stay at Tamboti had so far been delightful – as any time spent in Kruger always is. I had kept busy with photography throughout, focussing especially on the antics of a resident pair of black-backed jackals that kept me occupied for a large part of our stay. So far, however, the wet weather had kept the larger predators skulking in thick bush – not a tail, not a whisker, had been sighted on this trip.

I avoid long trips on photographic adventures. I travel an average of between 10 to 20 kilometres in the early morning and a similar distance in the late evening. Midday hours are invariably spent in camp. However, on this occasion I relented – it was the last full day we were to spend in the park and we were in desperate need of some supplies (tea and tobacco, as one of my favourite songwriters sings). I decided that a day trip to a different part of the park, albeit in near-constant drizzle was necessary and bearable.

The tar road between Tamboti and Satara camps is just over 50 kilometres long, a good three hour drive excluding any time spent at sightings of game along the way. Just eight kilometres out of camp, two massive hyaena females loped across the road in front of us at speed. They were visibly nervous – while travelling quickly, they kept on stopping to approach dense bushes with caution, heads kept low and backs kept high. On several occasions, they leapt sideways (and even backwards) from single bushes, always resuming their hasty trot across the veld almost immediately. Within minutes, they had vanished over the visible horizon. An all too fleeting, yet mesmerizing, encounter. The rest of the trip to Satara proved to be uneventful.

At Satara, we completed our necessary shopping as quickly as possible. After a mid-morning snack and a relaxing saunter around camp, we set off to head back to Tamboti just after midday. Four kilometres outside of Satara camp, the road was blocked completely by traffic. In the midst of the chaos stood at least half a dozen ‘safari vehicles’ with jeep-jocks and clients. A little further along the road from this heap, the front portion of a dead Impala ram, wedged in the fork of a tree 40 metres from the roadside, indicated what everyone was hoping to spot.

I loathe such Kruger traffic jams. Usually I wend my way through the chaos and continue driving. Revving engines, the chatter of people and the inane lectures and inevitable bad jokes of the jeep-jocks make the hairs on this old dog's neck rise. However, on this one occasion, we decided to hang around. We had dipped out on cats this trip, it was drizzling and we were heading home the following morning. It took me a while to manoeuvre through the knot of vehicles. Once we had left the gridlock behind us, I picked a spot from which we could watch the tree at some distance away from the rumpus. Let's give it an hour.

The coffee (tea for Jacqui), rusks and tobacco had relaxed me. I forgot about time. Now and then shouts from the knot down the road indicated that someone had seen the flick of an ear, the twitch of a whisker, among the dense shrubs and tall grasses. Suddenly the traffic jam roared into life; engines revving, hooters tooting, it came hurtling towards Jacqui and my parking spot. Within half a minute 30 or more cars had engulfed us.

With that, a leopard cub started hauling itself up the vertical trunk of the tree. The effort to do this was massive for such a young animal. At times the cub stuck to the side of the tree-trunk like a flat wall-spider to a rock. The cub made the climb and started sniffing and licking at the dead impala ram whose tongue was still protruding from between tightly clenched lips. All youngsters love to play and this leopard cub fitted the mould perfectly. As if used to star performances, the cub strutted along the big boughs, staring out at the bushveld while standing or perching, then circling its prey at some distance. After a few minutes the cub’s performance was complete – it slipped down the trunk of the tree and vanished.

I turned to look at Jacqui. The delight at her first sighting ever of a young leopard was obvious – her eyes switched from expressions of deep thought to squints of inner laughter. Jacqui then looked at her watch. “You know we have just over an hour to get back to camp?”

It took me more than a quarter of an hour to navigate through the tangle of steel that had surrounded us. This left exactly the time required to get back to Tamboti at the maximum speed limit allowed. I had broken the rules of photographic outings and would now have to travel in a manner that I did not agree with – speeding through a most magical park at 50 kilometres per hour during the last hour of the day. I was disgusted with myself. To make matters worse, the light was fading rapidly because of the dense cloud cover. There was no time for game watching or sightseeing. Both Jacqui and I peered straight ahead into the gloom that stretched out in front of us, concentrating on every dark blob and blotch beside the road, knowing that at the speed we had to travel and in this light an elephant stepping into the road would prove disastrous.

Eight kilometres from camp, as we slid over a rise, the car’s headlights picked up a shape on the road. A very large male leopard sauntered along in the same direction we were travelling. I slowed immediately, allowing the leopard to move at his own pace. As we neared, he decided to head into a thick clump of grass.

I stopped the vehicle some 15 metres ahead of the leopard and set up my camera. I knew from experience that I had an extremely slight chance of making the shot. I knew too that if I could pan the camera at a very low shutter speed (1/5^th of a second in this case) and track exactly the movement of the beast, the dense grass in front of the leopard would be blurred to non-existence. With a bit of luck leaving an outline of the beast sufficiently well-defined on the exposure. I took five shots – only one proved useful in the end: ‘Death in the Long Grass’.

We made it to camp just on time, despite the five-minute stop for this most majestic of old hunters. Never again have I travelled like this.