Angel in a Thorn Bush

Not far into the walk, we came across one of the biggest conglomerations of breeding elephant I’d ever seen in the Matuse. More than one hundred. ‘We’re going to have to move out of their line of scent, guys, and smartly,’ I explained to my group. They nodded. Always trusting the guide. The breeze was pushing in from the lake behind us. We needed to get downwind. Elephant breeding herds are probably the most dangerous animals to encounter on foot. Their protective instincts are ferociously developed. The slightest whiff of man can turn a peaceful gathering into an angry, killing rampage. We aimed for a small plateau I knew of open ground a few metres above the Kanjedza spring, with a great view back down the river, and nicely downwind…. Not five minutes after we’d settled in, I heard a sharp crack behind us, a branch breaking, further up the hill, downwind. Nobody else paid much attention, but I instantly knew it was an elephant browsing. Almost certainly an ‘Auntie’, as we called the defending cows, posted as scouts on the outskirts of large breeding herds. The wise thing to do would be to withdraw, move further up the hill and hope to find a higher vantage point. Get more scratched, pant a lot more, probably lose our lovely open view, but, at the very least, put ourselves downwind of this elephant. I didn’t do a thing. Tired, too tired, from the long and continuous stint of guiding through the Christmas holidays, idiotically, irresponsibly, I continued to sit there without saying a word to anybody, hoping the problem would quietly disappear. Which, of course, it never does. Minutes later, the peaceful group of four cow elephants we’d been watching, calves at foot, drinking from the spring just below us, looked up the hill in unison. Straight at us. I knew they hadn’t seen, heard or smelt our group. Auntie behind had given our position away, transmitting our threatening presence in that low frequency communication they are known for, inaudible to the human ear and penetrating kilometres through the bush to other elephant. ‘Okay, guys, it’s only us. Don’t get in a tiz now.’ Our cover broken, I was gently letting the mums know where we were, hoping to avoid any last minute surprises. As often as not, they will move away on hearing human voices. On the other hand, they well might chase us off. Looked like they were ‘on the other hand’. A mini charge broke out up the short slope towards us. Shaking and lifting their heads and trunks as they came over the ridge, ears out, they were testing the ground – typical fear-inducing elephant tactics, always effective, but not too serious at this point... Thankfully, they turned and ran off along the ridge. Wiping my brow and turning to reassure my team that all was under control, I was greeted by a terrifying sight. A big, well tusked, determined cow elephant in full charge, head and trunk tucked in, coming down the mountain straight for us, was leaving a swathe of flattened trees and grass behind her. She was coming in for the kill. My team broke into a very understandable panic, bomb-shelling in every direction. Granny grabbing children, husbands clutching wives, every person on red alert escape mode. I knew I had to get to the place where the elephant was going to break out of the jesse surrounding us before she picked somebody up. Dodging fleeing bodies in between us, screaming like a banshee, I got ready to shoot. She broke out of the bush, all feet forward, skidding to a halt. Have we a ‘stand-off’? Might she also turn and run, after stopping? The last thing I wanted was to shoot our valiant old, grey friend. In the pandemonium, my rifle up and pointing at her head, we collided, knocking me back and causing a pull to the trigger by mistake. The round harmlessly grooved her forehead. Our world stopped for a millisecond following the deafening report, and for an embarrassing moment I was standing next to a large angry wild cow elephant with an empty rifle. Bad position to be in. The big hunting rifles require each round to be individually loaded. I leaped behind a nearby mopane to do just that, finding my trainee, John, shoulder to shoulder behind the same tree. Mrs Ellie was coming round. She knew who the troublemaker was. John ran off. In my frantic reload, the cartridge breached. Eject. Reload, walking backwards, watching elephant closing. I stumble in reverse over a rock, fall onto my back, dropping everything in the process. In an instant, the gigantic, roaring, slobbering, rough haired amazon was on top of me. Her strong scent, so peculiar to elephant, filled my nostrils and whole being…. I don’t recall blow for blow, but two incidents remain clear in my mind. The first when she must have tried another skewer job with her tusk, which ran along my shoulder blades while I was scrabbling on all fours, scooping me up through my shirt collar. Hoisted 3 metres above the ground, hanging by the scuff of my neck from the tusk, an angry elephant eye glaring next to me, all I can recall is how good the view was from this vantage point. My shirt collar finally broke, dropping me to the ground and back into the fearsome ‘dodge-’em-big-feet’ game, desperately still trying to get out through those hind legs. Her dragging back tactics were gaining ground, clearly leading towards a terminating squash any moment. Next remembrance was a tight squeezing around my waist, I couldn’t breathe. She had me in her trunk, from where I expected to be shortly flying through the treetops, or pulped against a Mopane trunk. Then, I found myself with both hands on her tusk, wrenching my way out of her grip, like some parallel bar exercise in the gym. An impossible feat. Elephants pick up 300kgs of log with their trunk. And superman Rob gives her the slip? I don’t think so. In actuality, I had reached the point where I simply had nothing left to do anything. Adrenalin all used up, like I remember in those wearisome rugby scrums or long uphill runs that just never stopped. ‘Be nice and quick, old lady… Now, that’s where you needed to be, Rob.’ I was thinking to myself as I looked at a dense caparis tormentosa thorn bush through her back legs, but having not an ounce of oomph left to do anything about it. I’m not sure what happened next. Whether Mr Angel gave me a flick, or Miss Ellie did with her trunk, I flew into that spiky bush like a human cannonball, thrust deep into it, thorns in my mouth and face, arms pinned back, waiting for the coup de grace]. I waited… and I waited… and I waited. But nothing happened. Slowly and painfully I extricated myself. There was no more Mrs Ellie. She’d run away. Unheard of, normally squashing their victim into strawberry jam. Well, she’d gone.