Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Photography, Travel

Elephant Encounters

photograph by Cheryl Merrill
photograph by Cheryl Merrill

I rock back and forth, toe to heel, toward the fire and away from it. My boots touch coals while stars crowd close around, peering over my shoulder, whispering ancient stories in my ears. Only moments earlier giraffes reflected the setting sun, but now their silhouettes fade, blur and disappear. Soon, out there beyond this fire, hyenas will make short work of bones.

In the darkness elephants are on the move, and almost without sound, except for the occasional rifle shot of a cracked branch. I wish I could hear condensed air – infrasound – soft rumbling kisses brushing my cheek. The compacted silence is completely full of presence, of huge milling bodies on padded feet. A herd of mountains relocates during the night while my thoughts swirl, embers stirred by wind.

Suddenly to my right, trumpeting, perhaps furious at being left behind, an elephant thunders by, an outraged trombone blowing past. I lift my head to follow the sound, but it’s my ears, not my eyes that see.

In the morning, no more than a half-mile from camp, we encounter a herd of sixty elephants. Nervous mothers guide their newborns away with their trunks, shield them from us with their bodies. Young punk males show off for each other, make small charges to see if our vehicle will bolt. Huge bulls, intent on mating, barge past like runaway cement trucks.

We sit in the middle of a herd. Two males give us a rear view of old men in baggy pants. A jumbo-jet sized matriarch leisurely crosses right past our front bumper. Her ears are perfect replicas of the map of Africa. Like fingerprints, no two elephant ears are the same. As pliable and soft as worn canvas, their leading edge is often caught and torn on branches and scrub. Hers has a neat, perfectly round hole near the bottom of Africa, right about where we are in Zimbabwe.

A young female strolls by, scans us as if we’re department store mannequins. She’s so close all I can do is snap a picture of her eye. She stops, blinks, and regards us with the air of a disinterested shopper. I look down at her feet, round in front, oval behind. The round one is about the size of a medium pizza pan. I glance back up, directly into her eyes. She stares back and shakes her head so hard that her ears flap. A great cloud of dust rises from them. Then she moves on.



Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Photography, Travel

Your Daily Elephant: Mud in her Ear

Plus a small pebble on top of her head.  She’s at a mineral lick in Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe, home to the Presidential Elephants.  There are eight elephants in this picture; they fill the entire background.  What looks like a small bite is gone from her ear.  Elephants often have ragged edges on their ears, torn by branches and thorns.

photograph by Cheryl Merrill
photograph by Cheryl Merrill
Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Photography

Your Daily Elephant

Continuing a photographic series in the daily lives of elephants.  And playing with the watercolor mode in Photoshop.  These elephants are part of the endangered Presidential Elephants of Zimbabwe.  Endangered by the very government that decreed them “Presidential.”

photograph by Cheryl Merrill
photograph by Cheryl Merrill


Posted in Africa, Elephants

A Sea of Elephants

Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe, 1996

Parked at the lip of the waterhole, seven humans sit in a roof-less, side-less vehicle, eggs in a carton without a lid.  Earlier, at dusk, giraffes reflected the setting sun, but now icy stars stare down at us with chilled, blue eyes.  Somewhere, out there beyond this waterhole, hyenas will make short work of bones.

An elephant appears.  And then another.  Gray wave after gray wave surges out of the bush in small herds of twenty or less, flooding the huge hollow in front of us.  Dust rises in the air, a potent blend of manure, dried grass and sand.  The backwash swells in our direction.  Soon a sea of elephants surrounds us.

sea of elephants

Snorts, grumbles, trumpets, growling bellies, and gargantuan belches resound.  Some of the vibrations are too low to hear, but I feel them as they pass through my body, reverberate in my chest cavity, squeeze my heart.  Eye after eye inspects us as eddies of elephants swirl past.

An old world laps at the foot of our memories, extinguishes centuries of communal fires.  The ropes that tether us loosen.  We slip away from the familiar shore and set off.  We look around with wild hearts.  We have become part of the herd.

Behind us, close enough to touch with an outstretched arm, a huge female chuffs and huffs at regular intervals, locomotive-style.  Hunched and folded, I turn my head slowly to look into her left eye.  Her trunk periscopes into an s-shape, swivels, and tests the air in my direction.  Her massive body blocks our only way out.  She rocks back and forth, side to side, grows quiet.  Small and cold, I drop my head, totally at her mercy, if she knows such a thing.

Suddenly, from a crush of rumbling bodies, a baby elephant squirts out and heads straight in our direction.  Right behind is her mother.  Even our guide quits breathing.

The baby elephant stops less than a foot from our left front wheel.  Her mother looms over us, illuminated by our parking lights.  With just one step she could snatch any of us right out of our seats.

A small, short elephant trunk reaches out, touches the tire and a collective inhale is heard, as if the vehicle itself is trying to shrink away.  Behind us, the huge matriarch chuffs rapidly, building up steam.

Then the tiny trunk jerks back, blasts a bubbly snort of air, and the baby’s face contorts into an expression that can only be translated as Yuuuuck!  The mother shifts into an I-told-you-so attitude.  Her trunk relaxes, blows small puffs in the sand.

Carefully, I turn to look the matriarch in the eye.  She blinks once, twice, emits a large exhalation Whooooff, and turns her back on us.

The baby charges our vehicle, flaps her ears, and trumpets like a bicycle horn, causing a gust of giggles in return.  Her mother rumbles, pivots from us peons and makes a regal exit, strolling off in a stately manner no human monarch could ever attain.  The baby twirls several times, then follows her mom in a quick side-to-side rocking gait reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin.

Singly, and by twos and threes and tens, massive silhouettes disappear into the darkness.  A young female strolls by, scans us as if we’re department store mannequins.   And then, they are all gone.


The Face