By the fourth day, Patrick and I were already a well-oiled team. I’d adjusted to the local environment; my attention filters had adapted to the new surroundings. I liked riding standing up, breathing in the scent of blooming acacias, even if the sweet air was sometimes broken by the stench of carrion or the sharp smell of animals.

We kept trying to reach the open areas with sandy soil, where the odds of seeing wild dogs were higher, but the water kept forcing changes to our plans. We had to make big detours, grabbing any shots we could along the way like ground squirrels, usually so quick, but in the mornings basking in the first rays of sunlight. We began to find wild-dog tracks! That was encouraging, but the first predators we met were others.

Hyenas often follow packs of wild dogs, especially if the dog packs are small. The larger, pushier hyenas count on being able to drive the dogs off fresh kills. In places like Nyerere, these species are frequently found close to one another. Hyenas are active hunters; carrion isn’t actually their main food source, but in the breeding season, when a clan is burdened with pups and pregnant females, robbery is the more efficient strategy.

We found the first hyena lying in the bed of a dry stream, blissed out with an expression of absolute serenity on its face.

A second had chosen a different strategy, tucked into a deep puddle beneath a tree, camouflaged with branches.

There we also discovered a grown pup — rather shy, but cute.

Another adult lay off to the side, lazy as well. The most it managed was to gnaw a stick like a dog and then lick its flank like a cat.

We parked the vehicle in the shade and prepared to wait for the adults to stir or for the pup to work up the courage to come out of the brush. The wait dragged on, but the hyenas were so calm, relaxed, even cozy that their mood rubbed off on me.

The happiness didn’t last. A single vehicle sitting still in a national park almost always means some animal has been found. Another guide spotted us and immediately floored it. He hadn’t seen the hyenas and barreled straight toward where the skittish pup was lying. I watched in horror as the bull-barred 4×4 hurtled right at the motionless youngster. The car braked hard a couple of meters away, and the pup’s nerves gave way at once. The adult hyena in the puddle lost it too. The whole clan jumped up and ran off, disappearing behind a screen of denser thicket.

Remembering how yesterday’s lioness abandoned nearly a whole giraffe, we decided to check whether such a delicacy had attracted other four-legged lovers of easy meals. Alas, vultures ruled there — and the stench was hellish.

Fighting the gag reflex and breathing only every other breath (or every third), I still managed to photograph the gathering of feathered scavengers. Without them, the picture of life in the bush would be incomplete — and they play a vital role. Plus, there were rare vulture species present.

By the way, three of the species here are on the brink of extinction (the first two being the African white-backed vulture and the hooded vulture).

Rüppell’s vulture (on the right) is the world’s highest flier — no joke. It holds altitude records and has been recorded at 11 km above sea level. The encounter was tragic, though: the bird was ingested by an aircraft engine over Côte d’Ivoire in 1973.

As for the palm-nut vulture (last), it isn’t in immediate trouble, but since it posed so nicely, I had to take its picture if only because it sat there swiveling its head like it needed an exorcist.

So, the fourth day wasn’t a failure, but I can’t call it especially productive either. Meanwhile, my trip was nearing its end, and still no dogs. We had tracks, we had evidence of prey and competitors — but not the dogs themselves. As an experienced traveler, I enjoyed the process fully aware that I might never find my target. We kept following the same plan: search for the main goal while collecting anything else that looked good. What happened on the fifth — penultimate — day, I definitely didn’t expect.

It started off relatively calmly. We met a female greater kudu with a calf and butterflies on her eyes. That’s not a metaphor — actual butterflies, sipping the salty moisture at the antelope’s eyes.

By the river, a hippo grazed peacefully while little cattle egrets snapped up the small creatures the giant stirred as he moved. I was surprised how often Nyerere’s hippos came ashore in broad daylight. You could even find them out in the savannah, kilometers from any water.

On the sandy banks of the rain-swollen river, buffaloes wandered.

Not far away, we were lucky to meet a second hyena family. The dominant female, swollen like a dirigible, was clearly at the very end of her pregnancy. She lazily opened an eye and decided we weren’t worth the effort of moving, then went back to dozing.

The dominant male fussed nearby — approaching his mate to sniff her face and bulging belly, then checking a potential den inside the hollow trunk of a fallen tree. The biggest fuss, though, came from a grown pup, weaving between the adults. He fidgeted underfoot, then suddenly bolted off into an odd solo dash. A few minutes later he’d return, dirty and agitated.

It turned out the rains had flooded the clan’s main den, driving them to higher ground. The pup didn’t like this one bit and kept running back to see whether he could get into the old den again.

After spending time with this sweet, even cozy family, we set off to look for our dogs. The sun climbed higher — hard to believe beneath the heavy clouds. Circling around, we eventually found ourselves by the river again. At one very picturesque spot we stopped, and Patrick cut the engine, suggesting we wait a bit. I didn’t object; it really was a lovely place.

Suddenly elephants appeared out of the forest — a whole family! The matriarch led the way toward the ford, moving with confidence. Calves of different ages tramped behind her, chattering to one another. A younger adult female brought up the rear.

It was a mesmerizing sight — these magnificent animals, this magical setting, their stately crossing of the river… I couldn’t look away. In my head, the Jurassic Park main theme started playing, and the scene before me was truly worthy of the big screen. Yes, for me this moment rivaled the first on-screen appearance of the brachiosaur!

The elephants waded into deeper water, quenching their thirst as they went, even playing.

The young ones came out on the far bank completely darkened by the water.

An adolescent bull, passing us, decided to scare us a bit, showing how fearsome he could be. He scrambled onto a little hummock, flared his ears, and made some sort of leg gesture the meaning of which, I suspect, eluded even him.

The family vanished into the forest fairly quickly, and Patrick and I, laughing with joy, shared our impressions. It turned out this was a known elephant ford, but Patrick hadn’t caught them crossing here in a couple of years. Our patience in simply standing in one place paid off a hundredfold. I’d barely said that even if I shot nothing else today, the day was already a success when a second elephant family appeared!

In composition and “order of march,” they were almost a carbon copy of the first group: matriarch in front, the youngsters behind, and a younger adult female in the rear guard.

This group, however, didn’t enter the river immediately. They paused on the bank, as if uncertain. The little ones began reaching out to the others. They weren’t playing — they were seeking contact, as though something had them worried.

Suddenly the elephants lined up and raised their trunks. The wind had shifted — they caught our scent but couldn’t see us, so they swept the air with their noses, trying to locate us.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp elephant call rang through the forest, and a female burst from the thicket, nudging a calf along. Just like a mom late for work with a first-grader! It became clear why the herd had been waiting — they were waiting up for stragglers.

The matriarch wasted no time and led the reunited family across the river.

These elephants splashed less and drank less. It felt like they were in a bit of a hurry. The adults watched the youngsters closely, gently urging them on.

Amusingly, this group also had a teenage bull who decided to bluff us — running past with ears flared and eyes bulging, though without the mysterious leg gestures.

Once the elephants disappeared from view, I sank into my seat and just sat there silently, smiling and hardly believing what had happened. I was overflowing with emotion — and so was my companion! We needed a few minutes to pull ourselves together and accept that it wasn’t a dream.

After lingering to review what we’d shot, we moved on. Turning away from the river, we passed an abandoned airstrip (parks often have airstrips for small planes) and headed deeper into the park, where the sandy-soil savannah began.

At the foot of a hill we stopped in an open, safe spot so my companion could step behind the vehicle. I was studying the hill, tracing our route ahead, when my eye snagged on a black spot on the road. Something fluttered inside me. I raised my lens and focused on the spot.

 “Patrick, a dog!” was all I could manage. I felt like a taut string from the tension.

He said he saw it too — but that it was a hyena. I insisted I saw a dog right on the road. It turned out we were looking in the same direction — but at different animals! There, ahead, a wild dog was sleeping on the road, and in the bushes a little off to the side lay a hyena.

I could hardly believe our luck! Such a spectacular elephant sighting and then the African wild dogs we had searched for so long and hard — all in one day! Now we just had to avoid spooking our good fortune.

TO BE CONTINUED...