Conversations with Claws and Whiskers

October 16 2025

For the Love of an Elephant - by Cathy Buckle "Letter from Zimbabwe" 8th August 2024

An elephant with a very swollen lower leg was standing in the hot, dry bush. Something was wrong, its foot was big and the skin peeling and Kelly watched for a few minutes, took photographs and then phoned Blake Muil. Blake, heading the Rukuru Conservation Unit, went into action immediately; after 30 years of living in the bush and working in the wildlife business, he knew time was critical.

From the pictures it looked like there were two snares on the elephant’s lower leg. They had probably been set near a waterhole where poachers set lines of as many as 100 snares attached to trees all around the water with thorn branches placed in between leaving animals no way to get to the water without getting caught.

The young elephant bull was on the boundary of Rukuru and another property in the Zambezi Valley and these cable snares had probably been on its leg for about two months, gradually going deeper and deeper into its flesh and eventually cutting off the blood supply to the elephant’s foot. Blake knew that intervention was needed urgently before this young bull would lose its foot.

Blake went immediately to the National Parks offices in Marongora to ask for help. A team of Scouts would be taken to the last known location of the elephant and they would start tracking from there. The young bull probably wouldn’t have gone too far with its limited mobility on a painful and very swollen leg. Checking water sources first, the Scouts soon picked up the elephant’s track in the soft sand; it wasn’t hard identifying the spoor which was scuffed and dragged. A few days after it had first been seen, the elephant was located by the tracking team and by then the National Parks head Vet was also available.

The young elephant was darted and the veterinary team got straight to work. There were two snares on the elephant’s back leg, deeply embedded in the flesh above its foot. Two big incisions were made and the wire cable snares exposed. The twisted wires were carefully cut and extracted and the wounds cleaned and sterilized. Antibiotics were injected, the wounds closed and packed and then it was time to administer the reversal drug.

The vet slipped the needle into one of the pronounced blood vessels in the back of the elephant’s ear and told everyone to start moving away. From a safe distance they watched and waited. For the love of an elephant had they all managed to save this young bull? This now was the critical moment. Would the elephant make it? The adrenalin was palpable. “How many minutes,” the vet called out? Someone answered. The tension was thick in the air, the seconds ticked past and they waited to see if the elephant would come round.

The first sign was a puff of dust as the elephant exhaled, its trunk lying flat on the ground. Then another puff of dust. The elephant’s head came up and flopped back down. Its trunk came up, slowly the elephant rocked itself and managed to sit up.

“Excellent,” the vet whispered. “So our boy is waking up nicely after about three or four minutes,” he said. “Up, up, up my boy,” he said, tenderness and emotion clear in his voice. The elephant struggled up onto its feet and there was an audible sigh of relief, a little nervous laughter, whispered chatter. “Well done guys,” the National Park’s head Vet said, “well done, well done.” Everyone shook hands; fantastic teamwork from everyone involved had saved this young elephant bull.

Wonderful work like this needs all our support. Support for transport and fuel, for food and allowances for the trackers; for the vet and the drugs he needs for darting and treatment and then of course for the follow-up monitoring in the weeks to come by Blake and his team and then for the next animal and the next.

This wonderful story from Zimbabwe highlights the fantastic response from National Parks: professional, dedicated and efficient. Blake Muil and the Rukuru Conservation Unit and their helpers need support to continue this critical work for the future of our Zimbabwe; they are there, out of the spotlight, boots on the ground, day after day, saving the wilderness for us and the generations yet to come. Please click this link to support this amazing work. https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=2TNMPJHYHN948

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If you would like to read more about Cathy’s work, please visit her website or subscribe to her letters. There is no charge for the emails “Letter From Zimbabwe” but donations are welcome: https://cathybuckle.co.zw/

Do they understand?

There’s one incident I’ll never forget. A fellow guide had mentioned that cheetahs had been seen in the area a few days earlier. Now, for your understanding Botswana is vast — about the size of France, but with barely two and a half million people. In the north, around the Okavango Delta, the land opens into national parks and wildlife reserves where animals roam free. No fences, no barriers. Only a handful of sandy tracks connect the lodges and official campsites, winding through woodlands, floodplains, and vleis.

Finding these vulnerable animals, as few as they were, could be a challenge. Encounters are generally rare, and for good reason – cheetahs are never abundant. Even in excellent habitat such as Moremi, their densities are naturally low, as they require vast territories to survive. Lions and spotted hyenas frequently kill cubs and steal their kills, forcing them to avoid areas with high concentrations of larger predators.

Navigating the wilderness was a challenge in itself. In those days, there were no signposts – only nature’s own landmarks: a distinctive tree, a bend in the river, a particular termite mound. Flat as the land was, even a slight tectonic shift could silently alter the course of a waterway, reshaping the landscape and erasing what had once been familiar. It was a wilderness that only experienced guides could truly navigate – ideally with the safety of a radio in case of emergency.

For visitors in 4×4 vehicles hired in Namibia (as none were available for rent in Botswana at the time), it could quickly become an unfathomable maze – a vast and confusing labyrinth that tested both patience and bush knowledge.

One evening, while driving through the Xakanaxa area in Moremi Game Reserve – incidentally one of my favourite safari areas in the Delta – I was reminded why I loved it so much. The landscape is riddled with water pans, mostly surrounded by shortly grazed grass and tall green trees, growing higher than usual thanks to the water table just below the surface. It actually looks like a golfers paradise – yet it’s a paradise for wildlife. And, if you can find your way around, it’s a truly exceptional safari area with a lot of game.

We hadn’t found the cheetah that had been reported, and as we were heading back to camp, a dusty 4×4 flagged us down. A group of weary self-drive travellers asked if I knew the way to Third Bridge – the crossing where the third wooden bridge spans the river, to the south-western of where we were. I assumed they were camped at the Third Bridge Campsite.

“Uff,” I sighed. “That’s still quite a distance — and the sun’s already sinking…” Navigating in the dark would be impossible.

I explained as best I could: “Follow this track until you reach a big Sausage Tree – you can’t miss it. At the tree, take the right fork and stay on the main track for about 15 or so kilometres. Don’t veer off, stay on the well-worn track. Keep heading south-west.. and you must hurry. Once it’s dark, it’ll be tough finding your way.”

They stared at me blankly for a moment, then their faces flushed with frustration and admitted that they had been driving around in circles all day, they had not been able to find the right track – they were basically lost.  I was just about to hop into my vehicle to guide them on to the right road, when, as if on cue, a rare national park’s Land Rover came roaring past.

“That’s your chance!” I shouted. “Follow them! At this hour, they can only be heading to Third Bridge — there’s nowhere else to go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. The engine roared, and off they went, chasing the Land Rover’s fading dust trail.

I could only hope they would make it before darkness swallowed the bush, and that the national park guys might notice their headlights and slow down so they could follow.  I had guests of my own to care for – we needed to return to camp before dark ourselves.

My guests murmured in the back – now realising how relieved they were to have booked a guided safari. Self-driving was not for everyone – not here in this vast, flat, and deceptively difficult-to-navigate wilderness.

As I drove, my thoughts drifted back to the cheetahs. We hadn’t found them. Where could these swift hunters be in this labyrinth of water and land? They move with the antelope, always on the trail of opportunity, and now they were probably miles away – somewhere deep in a completely inaccessible area.

Back at camp, the rhythm of the evening took over – preparing dinner, settling the guests, checking supplies, tending to the small rituals that end each safari day. Soon, thoughts of cheetahs faded into the background.

The next morning, we set out early.  “Come on, cheetahs,” I thought. “Show yourselves. Show us your beauty – those elegant bodies, your silky fur, the delicate spots. Show my guests what magnificent creatures you are – so smart, so graceful.”

My mind babbled on as the sandy track stretched out ahead of us… “Come on, I love you… please show yourselves.”

I believed that people witnessing these animals would help contribute to their conservation – that seeing them with their own eyes might inspire a deeper understanding of their plight, and a desire to protect them.

But they were nowhere to be seen.

Instead, we encountered a grazing herd of zebra, the ever-present impala, and stopped to admire some magnificent – yet usually shy – kudu browsing on some knobthorn bushes. I pointed out how effortlessly they were camouflaged, blending into the colours of the thicket, and shared more about their behaviour.

Gradually, my thoughts drifted away from the cheetahs. I found myself focusing on the animals we did encounter. Every drive brought something new – a reminder that nature’s traits and instincts are not all written in scientific textbooks. That is what makes a safari so captivating. Guests are fascinated not only by what they see, but by what they learn – and what they discover for themselves.

Later that morning, as we rounded a bend and entered an open vlei, there they were:

Three cheetahs, resting in the golden light against a termite mound.

They were exquisite – sleek and composed, their coats glistening in the morning sun, perfectly at ease in their realm. This was not a busy safari route; very few vehicles passed this way. The cheetahs were not accustomed to being watched, yet they lay there, calm and unbothered – as if posing for our cameras.

“Thank you, beautiful animals,” I whispered. “Thank you for this gift. It’s so important that these people witness your grace and understand what it means – the urgency to preserve this wilderness, for you, for all creatures, and for ourselves.”

And as we watched them – motionless yet alive with presence – I felt it again: that invisible thread, an unconditional love for these creatures. A connection that binds us to the animals, to the land, and to something far greater and more mysterious than we can ever truly comprehend.

Speaking to the animals – what some might call telepathy – I realised I had been doing it all along. Instinctively. Without even noticing.