Nature Is Awesome Without Us

The young leopard walked through the bush, her head turning this way and that, and if her paws made any noise in the grass, it was drowned out by the evening chorus of insects. Occasionally, she’d stop and take a long look, or sniff a scent, and her tail would drop, but when she walked again it would rise above her back like the flourish at the end of a signature. Just three years old, the leopard had recently left her mother’s territory and struck out in search of her own, a dangerous proposition, as this was yet another female’s domain.

The setting was Kruger National Park in South Africa, an evening game drive conducted in an open Land Rover. Our guide, Murray, knew all three of the cats well; he’d known the three year old since birth. He also knew the only reason she could trespass was because the third cat was laid up in a den, having just given birth herself. Was the young female aware of that and thus emboldened? Or was she just lucky?

She sat atop a small hillock for a minute or two, then descended and walked past my side of the Land Rover, close enough nearly to touch. Her shoulder muscles bulged with every step, and there was a notch in her right ear. Now she moved away from us with purpose—there, across a field, barely visible in the last bit of light, was a herd of antelope. Murray whispered, “Look,” and then shined a spotlight into the near-dark. Trailing the leopard was a hyena.

Leopards are solitary cats, he explained, and this one faced a decision. If she attacked and caught an antelope, the hyena and its unseen comrades would likely assault her, try to steal the kill, and perhaps leave her maimed and unable to hunt. Unlike injured lions, whose pride will attend to them, if hurt she would be on her own. Should she risk death or go hungry? Alas, darkness fell completely and we headed back to the lodge. For me, the tableaux remains as it was, suspended.

I’ve seen plenty of wildlife, from bears to mountain lions to coyotes, but South Africa was the first time I viscerally experienced creatures as unique individuals navigating their own complex worlds. The idea is so basic it shouldn’t need to be said, but numbed by wildlife shows where the action seems to take place more on a screen than in the real world, or lacking the depth of relationship with one place, as Murray had, animals were just…you know, animals. Cool, beautiful, wild—but kept at emotional and intellectual distance. Seen, yes, but not known. There in Kruger, though, I caught a glimpse of the divine complexity that is life in its natural state, at the specificity of the daily struggle, and I’ve never looked at another animal the same.

Like a lot of people, over the last few months I’ve stayed at home or within walking distance of home, and I’ve gotten my fix by observing nature rather than riding through it as fast I can, and it’s funny what you see when you stop and look. Two broods of fledglings were born in trees next door, and baby mountain bluebirds have been testing their wings in my yard. A red-shouldered hawk has been hunting overhead and freaking out the local crows. I’ve come to recognize the bunny with a big chunk out of its ear and the two hummingbirds that spar like Road Runner and Coyote.

For all my attention devoted to things like the texture of local dirt on the third day after a rain or the difference in the water content of snow between the top and bottom of a mountain, much of my time has been spent with nature as backdrop or playground, but recently, sheltered down, my focus has turned to careful observation in service of understanding the natural forces unfolding around me. This is, I know, what naturalists and scientists and deep ecologists do, but it has not been at the center of the traditional adventure narrative, or at least not at the center of mine. And what I’ve seen are miracles unfolding every day, like a new generation of finches being born or a pollinating honeybee spreading plant life. What I’ve seen, as I did in Kruger, is the magnitude and awesomeness of the natural world existing without need or regard for us. What I’ve been reminded, in really powerful ways, is that the earth is so much more than human, and despite our efforts, it goes on without us. I find this to be profoundly comforting, as well as the answer to so many of the questions we keep asking.