The L word – a personal tale of animal obsession


“Hold on. I think I saw… Was that some kind of… Can you go back a second?”

It’s round 7.45am on Friday 18 August, 1989. The phrases, or one thing comparable, are my mom’s. They herald a second that I’ve been attempting to think about for a lot of my life. Forget house journey or scoring the winner within the FA cup closing. Forget Siberian tigers, blue whales, polar bears and different fantasy animal A-listers. One childhood dream has lengthy crowded out all others, and its realisation is now simply seconds away.

First, some context. This is day 4 of a safari in Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe. I’m sitting behind the wheel of a battered Mazda 323, my father beside me and my mom within the again seat. My dad and mom and youthful brother Nick are right here for a vacation, my first guests since I arrived within the nation a 12 months in the past. I’m working as an English instructor at a highschool in Bulawayo – as is my spouse: we bought hitched final summer time, when our contracts had been confirmed. A 12 months on, and I’ve thrown myself into all issues African, shedding my English Home Counties pores and skin – or so I think about – and reinventing myself. Now, my household is right here to witness the brand new me. It seems like a vital ceremony of passage.

But again to the story. This morning it’s solely the three of us within the automotive. After an early begin, we’re returning to camp by way of a dusty backroad referred to as the Salt Springs Loop. Mum, hampered by her place within the again, has thus far noticed little. Now, nevertheless, her urgency calls for consideration. I go searching to see her gesturing proper in the direction of a flash of water half hid behind the verge.

As I slip the automotive into reverse all of us concurrently lay eyes on what Mum has noticed: the lowered head and raised elbows of a giant cat, ingesting. Backlit by the early solar, the colors are laborious to make out however the form is unmistakable. At the crunch of tyres, it seems up. We have simply seconds through which to fumble with binoculars earlier than it slinks again into the lengthy grass, however that is time sufficient for me to deliver into focus the noticed disguise and white curl of tail tip. “Leopard!” I say, first to get the word out. “Shit!” A pause. “Sorry Mum.”

So that’s it, then. My life’s ambitions fulfilled in about six seconds and on the tender age of 23. Not a nice view – definitely no time for images – however a leopard, indisputably. What now? After this, issues can certainly solely go downhill.

That morning was now practically thirty years in the past. Since then, I’ve seen many different leopards, to not point out loads of different massive cats across the globe. I’ve had ample time to contextualise that childhood obsession inside broader frameworks of information and expertise.

As half of this maturing course of, I’ve discovered to rail in opposition to our anthropomorphic distortion of the pure world into some worth-laden hierarchy: the great, the dangerous and the ugly of wildlife. How can we anticipate to know nature, not to mention make a respectable stab at conservation, after we proceed to stereotype the likes of leopards as “magnificent” and hyenas, say, as “disgusting”? Can’t we settle for that each animal is solely tailored to satisfy the challenges of survival in its personal approach?

On a personal degree, I’ve additionally found that liking leopards is nothing very unique. The cat is close to the highest of most wildlife bucket lists, in any case, universally admired as lovely, enigmatic and so forth. In style phrases, it’s the animal equal of admiring David Bowie or Roger Federer: impeccable, however hardly area of interest. Indeed, when requested to call my favorite animal, I seldom fess up. Either I purport to reject the very notion, explaining how I choose to understand the pure world in all its holistic glory or, once I see eyes glazing over, attempting to defy expectations with a extra left-discipline candidate: dwarf mongoose, maybe, or dunnock.

What’s extra, the leopard has one other life as imagery, co-opted into common tradition as shorthand for the slinky and horny. Leopard print vogue – on, say, footwear or underwear – suggests the wearer shares the cat’s supposedly alluring qualities, whereas photos of the cat itself are used to intercourse up something from an insurance coverage advert to some dubiously ‘artistic’ film (Paul Schrader’s Cat People, anybody?). Either approach, this common industrial enchantment has at all times felt vaguely embarrassing to the wannabe naturalist; one thing from which to distance your self.

In quick, you’d assume that by now I might need bought over my leopard obsession; that I’d have rationalised away this romanticising of one animal species above the numerous others which can be equally deserving of consideration and respect. And sure, I’ve achieved my greatest. I’ve waxed lyrical concerning the bizarre critters and performed it cool concerning the ‘iconic’ ones. But nonetheless it comes again to leopards. Try as I would, I can’t get sufficient of them.

I can’t pinpoint the exact spark that first lit the leopard flame, however I do know it occurred younger. The influences are simply recognized. A junior ardour for wildlife, fed by a household curiosity in nature and nourished by a houseful of books, acquired a extra aspirational dimension by means of my grandparents, whose diplomat postings in Africa produced a wealthy crop of safari tales. Thus, whereas amassing caterpillars within the again backyard or seeing my first nice noticed woodpeckers on the native widespread, I used to be concurrently inhabiting a dream world of sport rangers and the African bush.

The first actual-life leopard story I heard was, certainly, from my grandparents. It was an archetypal encounter: the massive cat up a tree within the Serengeti. The story didn’t include photographs however the picture in my thoughts was indelible. For years, this was the one leopard encounter I heard described at first-hand and, to my information, it was the one leopard my grandparents ever noticed throughout their early Africa days. Tellingly, my dad and mom, who had additionally lived in Africa earlier than I arrived, had by no means seen a leopard. Thus, from the cat’s first look on my fantasy horizon, it carried an aura of elusiveness. Back then, seeing one for myself appeared no extra reasonable a prospect than setting foot on the moon.

Then there have been the books. Early favourites embrace the preposterous Willard Price Adventure sequence, through which American youngsters Hal and Roger Hunt roamed the world amassing animals for his or her father’s zoo and entering into varied inconceivable scrapes. Even on the age of eight I knew the tales to be nonsense. For a begin, the size of the animals had been at all times needlessly inflated – crocodiles had been thirty toes lengthy, elephants weighed ten tons, and so forth – and I used to be a stickler for correct statistics. Nonetheless, I devoured the animal motion because the gallant duo battled large pythons or enraged gorillas, and the leopards in these tales had been particularly compelling: not as massive as lions or tigers, however deadlier. “As every visitor to Africa knows, you may come within fifteen feet of a lion,” Price knowledgeable us in Gorilla Adventure. “But you take your life in your hands if you come that close to a leopard.”

Price’s hyperbole embellished a common picture of the leopard already established by way of The Jungle Book. “Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path,” wrote Kipling, about Mowgli’s leopard guardian. “He was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down.” Clearly, leopards had been the best animals within the jungle.

Jim Corbett’s Man-Eaters of Kumaon was much more thrilling as a result of his accounts of taking pictures rogue leopards in the course of the Indian Raj had been indisputably factual. I took the well-known hunter’s phrases as gospel. “Those who have never seen a leopard under favourable conditions in his natural surroundings,” he wrote, “can have no conception of the grace of movement and beauty of colouring of this, the most graceful and the most beautiful of all animals in our Indian jungles.”

To the boyhood naturalist, of course, crafty and savagery trumped grace and wonder. In The Spotted Devil of Gummalapur, by Kenneth Anderson, I learn how the leopard is “an engine of destruction quite equal to his far larger cousin, the tiger,” and that “in veritable demoniac cunning and daring he has no equal.” I lapped up these items – and I particularly beloved the concept a leopard might do you in. It was thrilling to be taught, for instance, that one of Corbett’s victims, the Panar Leopard, had killed over 4 hundred folks. The human tragedy behind this horror was misplaced on me.

I cringe now to recollect this lust for dying and glory, and may clarify it solely as half of the confused testosterone rush of early adolescence. In our household, my youthful brother Chris had already cornered the market in juvenile machismo by excelling at soccer and amassing toy troopers. My makes an attempt to compete concerned bigging up my information of lethal animals – as if by reeling off, say, the chew radius of a nice white shark or the pace of a charging black rhino, I acquired some of these animals’ powers.

In this respect, leopards ticked all of the containers. Though smaller than lions and tigers, they had been extra stealthy and agile, and appeared at all times to punch above their weight. “Pound for pound,” I’d learn, “the leopard is the most dangerous animal in Africa.” I used to be by no means completely positive what this meant however by some means it made leopards a sexier factor by which to be torn aside and eaten. I’d warn Chris, as he organized his miniature plastic paratroopers throughout the patio, that a single leopard might take out any of his troopers, neck damaged and guts ripped out earlier than they knew what hit them. Obviously, by some means, that leopard was me.

During my childhood, images of wild leopards had been a lot rarer than they’re at this time. This elevated the animal’s mystique: whether it is actually essentially the most widespread of the massive cats, I puzzled, why is it so laborious to {photograph}? I treasured the few, nicely-thumbed photos in my bookcase, decide of the bunch being the black-and-white leopard in Hugo Van Lawick’s Savage Paradise standing in a tree fork with an African wild cat dangling from its jaws. Film footage was even tougher to return by and, for me, any leopard on display screen was an occasion. It didn’t need to be wildlife programmes: even Grant and Hepburn romping with their pet leopard within the previous Hollywood traditional Bringing up Baby was price a pause and rewind – or would have been, had such expertise then existed.

All this fodder impressed my very own inventive output. For me, wildlife had at all times gone hand-in-hand with drawing, and leopards rapidly turned my default topic as I scribbled away, understanding find out how to deal with snarling faces, folded again legs and so forth. Leopards led to different cats: ocelots, lynxes, you title it. I even produced a Top Trumps “cats of the world” pack, with playing cards that includes every of the 37 recognized species competing with each other on such grounds as weight, size of spring and “ferocity factor”. {A photograph} from this era reveals our household gathered within the sitting room with the face of a leopard simply seen outdoors the window, as if peering in from the darkness. I had lower out the picture from a poster and caught it to the glass. It was the closest I might get to a actual-life encounter.

Leopards additionally stalked my juvenile prose. School compositions would describe some fantasy African situation, through which I tracked down the cat by its pugmarks or name, warning my companions that “pound for pound, it’s the most dangerous animal in Africa”. In one, I rescued a woman named Jenny (“pretty, but shy”) from an escaped circus leopard that appeared in a faculty playground. As snarling cat superior on helpless woman, and employees and pupils stood transfixed with worry, I stepped in, regarded the beast straight within the eye and talked it down in low, reassuring tones. It stayed there, tail twitching, till the sport rangers (in Epsom?) arrived.

For the true, dwelling animal, I needed to depend on zoos. Whatever qualms I’ll have at this time about holding giant predators in captivity, my youthful self was not about to move up any alternative to eyeball them within the flesh. I’d gawp by means of the bars on a chilly February morning at Chessington World of Adventures as their single male leopard padded the perimeter fence, hypnotised by his see-noticed shoulders, bristling whiskers and occasional rumbling growl. Though I attempted to satisfy his eye, he at all times appeared to look proper by means of me at some world far past. “Over the cage floor the horizons come,” wrote Ted Hughes in The Jaguar. It’s a disgrace he selected the unsuitable species of cat.

Meanwhile, I had a small leopard of my very own again house: a white-pawed tabby named, imaginatively, Catkin. Sprawled over the boiler in our kitchen, his tail dangling beside the fridge, I’d think about a scaled-up model of him draped over an acacia department beside a half-eaten impala. Pound for pound, I reckoned, Catkin was essentially the most harmful tabby in the entire of Epsom.

My childhood  obsession with leopards was not based mostly purely upon bloodthirsty derring-do, fictional or in any other case. Inside me, a would-be naturalist was additionally struggling to get out. I pored over encyclopaedias and would regale anyone who’d pay attention with chapter and verse on the leopard’s taxonomy, distribution, habitat preferences and so forth. I used to be a fund of information – weight, shoulder peak and tail size, for each female and male, and of every recognised subspecies – and I’d clarify, advert nauseam, that the black panther of Bagheera fame was merely a melanistic variant of the leopard, whereas, conversely, the snow leopard, clouded leopard and leopard cat – Asian species – weren’t leopards in any respect however had acquired their names purely on the idea of their spots. These final three I thought of rank imposters.

Some of what I discovered introduced me again all the way down to earth: as an illustration, that solely fifty per cent of leopard cubs survive their first 12 months, that 4 out of 5 looking makes an attempt fail and that regardless of all that “pound for pound” energy, a leopard will cede its kill to a single hyena somewhat than threat harm in a scrap. I accepted these deflating realities within the title of science. But the truth that leopards weren’t magic, that their battle for survival was as laborious as each different animal’s, additionally made them extra actual.

It wasn’t solely leopards, of course. As a junior wildlife fanatic, I devoured details about animals of all types, from the territorial calls of howler monkeys to the reproductive methods of hawk moths. Birds had been notably vital, being essentially the most readily accessible wildlife in my suburban existence. It was by means of birds that I entered the world of discipline guides, binoculars and lists.

As my curiosity and information grew, so I started to downplay my curiosity in massive cats. It appeared to me that the so-referred to as “charismatic megafauna” – the likes of tigers, polar bears, dolphins and so forth – weren’t for critical wildlife lovers. They had develop into public property, swooned over by ignorant individuals who, in the identical breath, reviled the snakes, vultures and stag beetles that I additionally beloved. The wildlife snob in me sought extra unique shops: if I needed to speak cats, then it was the likes of margay or marbled cat – small, obscure species, unknown to most individuals – that I’d witter on about; with birds, I’d eschew vulgar flamingos or toucans, say, for extra refined charmers equivalent to Dartford warbler or smew.

But, though leopards could have taken a again seat whereas I labored by means of my adolescent id points, they by no means went away. Somewhere within the tangled acacia thicket of my creativeness, the predator was nonetheless prowling round. Any passing point out of the massive cat in books or the information had me pricking up my ears, whereas even the tackiest picture on greeting card or T-shirt would at all times warrant a fast as soon as-over. (Is it a male or feminine? Asian or African? How massive is it, roughly?) The mystique and attract remained intact, as did the safari fantasies.

And so, once I left for Zimbabwe on the age of 22, my head could have been brimming with different weighty issues – the iniquities of apartheid; the lyrics of The Smiths; my doubts about travelling midway the world over for a job I knew nothing about and with somebody who, I suspected, didn’t wish to be there – I used to be nonetheless guarding a secret agenda. I needed to see a wild leopard. Just one. Was that an excessive amount of to ask?

After my first leopard sighting, others adopted. Over my 9 remaining months in Zimbabwe I noticed the cat on 5 extra events: 4 in Hwange and one within the Lower Zambezi Valley. Each stays engraved on my reminiscence with a precision absent from many arguably extra vital moments in my life.

The first two Hwange encounters had been within the firm of an previous household pal who was backpacking round Africa along with her boyfriend and had fetched up at our flat over Christmas. Both occurred close to a waterhole referred to as Caterpillar Pan: first, a night glimpse of a cub on the base of a camelthorn tree; then, the next morning, a longer take a look at a feminine and, presumably, the identical cub as they padded all the way down to drink in entrance of a line of sad giraffes. The latter was my first alternative to ogle a wild leopard at leisure. My company, I felt, weren’t sufficiently impressed, having already ‘done’ massive sport in East Africa. They’d additionally made a proper mess of the flat.

The subsequent three sightings got here in June 1990, when my old skool pal Simon joined me for a vacation on the finish of my contract. Hwange was our first cease, and on the primary evening we met a large male leopard padding down the street simply outdoors Main Camp. He sniffed our tyres and spray-marked the verge earlier than sauntering into the bush. Neither of us dared breathe. Then, close to Sinamatella Camp within the north, we watched a feminine half-heartedly stalking a a lot-too-massive waterbuck alongside the shore of Mandavu Dam. And lastly, a week later, whereas canoeing the Zambezi within the nation’s wild northeast, we glimpsed the journey’s third leopard sprint up the river financial institution in a blur of spots. Simon nearly misplaced his paddle as he grabbed, too late, for his digicam.

By the time I returned from Zimbabwe, I thus had the “see a wild leopard” field decisively ticked. Now, finally, I had some first-hand authority on the topic: I knew how the animal moved, behaved and appeared within the wild. I additionally knew the way it felt to see one. Today, reflecting on these early experiences, the depth that they nonetheless evoke, I realise that they had been greater than merely wildlife sightings. They had been deeply personal moments: pegs upon which I now hold total episodes of my life – the folks, the locations, the ups and downs. Rather as some could measure their life in jobs or vehicles, I gave the impression to be calibrating mine in leopard sightings.

Three years later, issues had moved on. My marriage was over (it turned out I used to be proper about her not desirous to be in Zimbabwe – amongst different issues), and again in London I had meandered from instructing into publishing. In September 1993, I discovered myself heading out to Africa once more. This time my vacation spot was the tiny, quirky kingdom of Swaziland (now Eswatini), the place I launched into what would develop into a 5-12 months stint producing faculty textbooks for the Ministry of Education. The expertise was somewhat totally different from Zimbabwe. Back then, on a native instructor’s wage and largely with out my very own automobile, safari alternatives had been restricted. Now, my new job introduced a home, a automotive and a cheap wage. With the cash and the liberty to do precisely what I needed, I took each probability to get out into the bush.

Swaziland itself didn’t supply reasonable hopes of seeing a wild leopard, though a handful wander the mountainous border areas and I did as soon as discover previous tracks alongside a path in Malolotja Nature Reserve. A mere forty minutes’ drive north into neighbouring South Africa, nevertheless, was the Kruger National Park. This was Leopard Central, and I racked up a regular drip-feed of sightings. Excursions elsewhere, together with longer safaris to Namibia and Tanzania, introduced a few extra. By the time I returned to the UK in December 2008, I’d managed one other seventeen encounters. This, added to my six in Zimbabwe, introduced a respectable lifetime complete of twenty-three.

As with Zimbabwe, I can nonetheless describe every of these encounters in exhaustive element. Suffice it to say for now, they took my leopard discipline expertise to a new degree. I watched leopards looking, leopards up timber and leopards at evening. I discovered to establish their 4-toed tracks – distinguishing them from a lion’s – and recognise the alarm calls they provoked amongst different animals, from the clucking of guinea-fowl and scolding of squirrels to the snorts of impala and shrieking pandemonium of baboons.

And, of course, there was the voice of the leopard itself. That resonant, rhythmic rasping, like a heavy noticed slicing by means of timber, appeared at odds with the animal’s modest measurement. As deep and menacing as a lion’s, it at all times appeared to begin extra unexpectedly and lower off extra abruptly, typically going unrepeated and leaving that backbone-chilling sense of an murderer transferring unseen by means of the darkness. For me, simply the sound of a leopard was typically extra highly effective than an precise sighting.

Best of all, although, was assembly leopards on foot. This twice occurred on guided wilderness trails within the Kruger, and the primary time was a actual thriller. Our small social gathering was taking a break overlooking a dry riverbed when the crunch of bone alerted our guides to one thing on the opposite aspect. Convinced the noise got here from lions on a kill, they led us all the way down to take a look. We had been crossing the sandy watercourse and clambering up the financial institution by way of the roots of a massive sycamore fig tree when the foliage rustled horribly shut overhead. There adopted a low growl, a snarling face at level-clean after which a thud, because the leopard dropped out of the again of the tree and vanished. One information, with admirable reflexes, had even swung his rifle off his shoulder. Once our coronary heart charges had slowed, we regarded round and spied the half-eaten bushbuck slung over the department. It was a veritable Jim Corbett second.

Today’s safari-goer would possibly marvel why I protect the reminiscence of these early leopard sightings in such loving element. After all, leopards are fairly commonplace fare on any fashionable safari package deal to the likes of Masai Mara or Okavango. Rarities like aardvarks would certainly make for extra attention-grabbing anecdotes.

At that time in my life, nevertheless, all my leopard sightings had been my very own. With the exception of the guided strolling safaris, it was I, or whichever pal of member of the family I used to be with, who had discovered and seen the leopard. This intensified the sense of discovery – and in addition of success: leopards had been a needle-in-the-haystack discover, I used to be informed, so how fortunate was I when a explicit particular person opted to cross the street proper in entrance of me?

Yes, there have been methods of enhancing the percentages. I’d exit at daybreak and nightfall, take evening drives, discover the places of latest reported sightings and comb all the usual hideaways: the granite kopjes, riverine loop roads and so forth. But leopards at all times appeared to interrupt the foundations: typically a sighting got here when least anticipated, in open nation or in the course of the center of the day.

Looking again, my hit price was not particularly good. The lists I nonetheless maintain from the Kruger reveal that I noticed a leopard roughly as soon as in each three and a half visits. And there have been many extra misses than hits. I’d meet folks again in camp who’d simply had a thoughts-blowing encounter alongside a street I’d taken earlier that very day, and would insist on exhibiting me their photographs. This punctured any delusion I harboured that my leopard information gave me some form of particular leopard-detector sixth sense.

The hit-and-miss nature of my expertise simply amplified the leopard fable: that these capricious animals obey no recognized legal guidelines of animal behaviour; that sightings come completely on their phrases. It was simple to develop into superstitious. I’d agonise over a fork within the street: do I flip left, the place I missed a leopard yesterday, or proper, the place I haven’t been earlier than? Perhaps it is aware of I’ve simply been watching wild canine so will really feel I don’t deserve any additional reward for the day. Or maybe it admires my dedication in stopping to look at a nest-constructing cisticola and can thus deign to disclose itself.

Either approach, I adopted my nostril and discovered as I went alongside. In the tip, my sightings – and people of fellow safari-goers I met – got here all the way down to probability: you place within the hours, scrutinised the bush till your eyeballs ached and generally you bought fortunate. This, I had concluded, was the leopard lottery.

Towards the tip of my time in Swaziland, nevertheless, one thing modified. I discovered that one other form of safari exists: one on which you’re pushed round by guides who know the place to seek out the leopards. Often, these guides are intimately acquainted with particular person cats – a territorial male right here, a feminine with cubs there – and may lead you straight to them; or if they’ll’t, will get on the radio to ask a colleague. What’s extra, the animals are sometimes habituated to folks, so you possibly can spend hours with them: watching them looking, mating, elevating cubs and maybe, when you ask properly, even enjoying scrabble. Seeing leopards, I found, will not be so troublesome.

I used to be shocked. Isn’t that dishonest? I assumed leopards needed to be earned; that you just needed to put within the laborious yards – over years, if obligatory. The sense of exclusivity behind my very own historical past with the animal, that lengthy journey from childhood dream to laborious-earned actuality, evaporated. Living and dealing in sleepy Swaziland, in search of wildlife by myself phrases, I merely hadn’t appreciated how the safari trade had bloomed; the way it now provided ever extra spectacular wildlife-watching alternatives to an ever-higher market.

Back in England, I discovered that leopards had been in all places: not solely the ornamental ones that had at all times adorned T-shirts and greeting playing cards but in addition tantalising photos of actual ones splashed throughout brochures and web sites for brand spanking new wildlife journey firms. Every different individual I spoke to had now been on safari, it appeared, and sure, that they had seen a leopard. (“At least I think so. Or was it a cheetah?”) Meanwhile, Big Cat Diary piped a leopard cleaning soap opera into our houses on prime-time TV. And espresso desk books equivalent to The Leopards of Londolozi had been filled with beautiful photos of the cats in motion, doing issues I’d as soon as thought unphotographable. Leopards had been now actually for everyone. To my disgrace, I hated it.

This response was, of course, egocentric and small-minded. I knew, deep down, that the democratisation of my favorite (OK, I admit it) animal might solely be a good factor. Not solely did it permit extra folks to share within the pleasure I felt, nevertheless it additionally opened extra eyes to the broader wonders of the pure world. The extra we see of leopards, I knew, the extra we study them. And the extra we study them, the extra we worth them and wish to shield them. In conservation phrases, the newfound accessibility of this animal might solely be a constructive factor.

I appreciated, additionally, that my tackle watching leopards was a very personal one. I might hardly anticipate others to observe the journey I’d taken. It was not my enterprise how folks bought to see a leopard, and whether or not that sighting meant the identical to them because it might need achieved to me. Others most likely bought issues out of their expertise that I didn’t; appreciated different issues that I ignored. It’s every to their very own, I realised. We can’t all be obsessed.

My ambivalence again then feels particularly hypocritical once I think about the route that my life has taken since my early leopard-watching days. Four years after getting back from Swaziland, now married for a second time and with a younger daughter, I left publishing to develop into a freelance wildlife journey author. This has enabled me to hitch guided safaris and wildlife adventures everywhere in the world. It’s been fantastic – of course! Private guides have proven me animals that, as a youngster, I couldn’t even discover in images: snow leopards within the Himalayas; harpy eagles within the Amazon. What’s extra, I now go house and make a dwelling writing about it.

And sure, I’ve seen extra leopards. Plenty. Those treasured first twenty-three sightings have lengthy since been overtaken, and I’ve now watched the cat in ten totally different nations throughout Africa and Asia. Zambia’s Luangwa Valley has been particularly fruitful. Here, each on project and through a volunteer stint with my household, I’ve – because of guides – been in a position to observe the cat at leisure by each evening and day. I’ve watched one looking guineafowl by means of the branches of a raintree and one other choking the life from an impala. I’ve seen the savage tryst of a mating pair and have sat beside my 4-12 months-previous daughter as a younger male spray-marked his territory round our open automobile. I’ve spent three hours with a single leopard and I’ve seen three separate leopards in a single evening.

I realise, nevertheless, that my relationship with leopards has modified. Much as I treasure every new encounter, I confess that I not maintain rely. Sightings not burn within the reminiscence with fairly such pin-sharp readability – certainly, a few latest sightings have even begun to mix into one another. Call it age, when you like. Yet these first twenty-three stay undimmed. They made their mark throughout one other life, when, for higher or worse, a leopard meant one thing to me that I do know I can by no means recapture.

Today, I’ve a extra balanced relationship with leopards. Seeing one is not the be-all-and-finish-all of a safari. And once I develop into diverted by another wildlife curiosity and overlook about leopards for a whereas, I not really feel as if I’m betraying some childhood crush.

Like any addict, although, I’m struggling to get clear. These days I expend an unjustifiable quantity of working time searching for out leopards on YouTube, the place I discover the tough-and-prepared novice video clips extra thrilling than any slick BBC documentary as they extra clearly evoke my very own early experiences. And once I see a leopard within the flesh – most lately this April: a younger feminine padding by means of the evening in Khwai Private Reserve, Botswana, the encompassing darkness exploding with impala alarm snorts – it nonetheless hits the spot. That similar rush.

As for my inventive output, I don’t draw as a lot as I as soon as did, however when a few years in the past I painted a mural in my daughter’s bed room there was just one contender for its topic. And you possibly can guess what featured on the duvet of my first printed e-book, the Bradt Guide to Southern African Wildlife, and what’s now looking at me from the display screen saver of this very laptop computer.

Meanwhile, I proceed to ponder that central query: why leopards? In some respects, the reply is self-evident. Clearly, we people are excited by killing – simply take a look at what we eat by approach of leisure, from Agatha Christie to, sure, The Killing – so it’s not laborious to know why the likes of eagles, sharks, tigers and wolves proceed to high the wildlife charts. Then, amongst all these predators, there’s that exact cat aesthetic: the seductive mixture of grace and energy with an apparently playful and capricious nature. And, lastly, even amongst cats, there’s the leopard’s personal uniquely alluring suite of qualities: the attractive patterning; the proper physique – not as worryingly slender as a cheetah nor as over-muscled as a jaguar; and the teasingly enigmatic character.

Any scientist can deconstruct all this in seconds. A leopard’s bodily attributes merely mirror how pure choice has outfitted it for survival. Its spots haven’t developed to be attractive however are merely camouflage. Its slinky movement will not be about model however is an adaptation for stalking prey undetected. Its luxuriant lazing round will not be the languor of a supermodel however the very important downtime of an animal that should protect all its vitality for these life-or-dying moments in a brutally aggressive pure atmosphere. All these qualities happen in lots of varieties all through the animal kingdom. The human values that we load on them – magnificence, grace and so forth – don’t exist outdoors our personal heads. To a warthog, a leopard isn’t any extra sleek than a hyena – and positively not as lovely as one other warthog.

It appears to me that we all know two leopards: one, the precise flesh-and-blood animal; the opposite, an concept. The first of these is simple to know. It’s labeled as Panthera pardus: a giant feline within the order Carnivora that developed in Africa about half-a-million years in the past; is tailored for looking, with binocular imaginative and prescient and a predator’s dentition; feeds largely on the bottom however habitually caches prey in timber; maintains a territory of something from 45 to 400 sq. kilometres, in response to assets; produces two to 4 cubs after a gestation interval of 90–105 days; is essentially the most versatile and widest distributed of any wild cat species, occurring in at the least 67 nations; and is at this time listed by the IUCN as Vulnerable.

The second leopard – the concept one – is a trickier beast to pin down. It has developed from a mixture of our fascination with killing, our admiration of kind and motion, our style for ornamental patterning and our worry of the darkish. And it appears to carry us in thrall. Even these communities who’ve good trigger to revile leopards as livestock predators – generally at the same time as a menace to themselves – have lengthy celebrated the animal of their tradition, its disguise a signifier of every part from the Aristocracy to vogue; its kind enshrined in emblems and idols.

Somewhere between these two leopards lies the idea of wilderness. Where I grew up, in leafy suburbia, we’ve by no means needed to fear about prowling massive cats. The biggest menace from wild predators comes from foxes raiding the wheelie-bins. The likes of bears and wolves disappeared centuries in the past, together with their forests. As the land has been divided, subjugated and anaesthetised, so we’ve misplaced any significant relationship with wilderness and harmful wildlife. And but a wilderness of the thoughts stays; a hankering to tear off the bubble-wrapping of civilisation and confront the untamed. Why else can we spend critical cash on travelling to the again of past so as to chase wild animals? What is it in ourselves that we try to re-awaken?

For me, I wish to assume that model one is now the leopard that I recognise and that I recognize it dispassionately, as a very important element of the pure world. But nevertheless a lot I study that world – about evolution, ecology and so forth – I do know that someplace deep in my psyche, slipped down the again of my psychological couch, there’s a hidden field labelled ‘wilderness’. Open it up, and inside you’ll discover an concept leopard prowling round.

Ultimately, my tackle leopards is as subjective as anybody else’s: a ragbag of emotions, ideas and recollections that claims extra about me than it does concerning the animal. So I’ll finish with one other of these recollections: a second the place the true leopard met the concept leopard, and I couldn’t inform which was which.

It’s August 2006, 17 years since that first Hwange sighting. I’m now in Zambia’s Luangwa Valley, the place my spouse, my daughter and I reside as volunteers within the employees quarters of a safari camp. A male leopard shares our territory. I haven’t seen him but however we hear him at evening and infrequently discover his tracks. Staff generally catch a glimpse. It’s thrilling to know he’s round.

Late one afternoon, after knocking off early, I’m hen-watching round camp once I hear our leopard shut by: urgh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, he calls. Blimey, I believe, he’s wandering about in broad daylight! Perhaps, finally, I’ll catch a glimpse. I head in the direction of the sound, following a path behind the workshop. Another name follows, from additional to the left: it appears he’s circling the camp on his territorial rounds. I proceed in his route. He calls once more, however now from nearer the doorway street. If I’m fast, I could possibly intercept him. Leaving camp behind, I step out alongside the dusty observe, digicam prepared, peering forward, ready for the subsequent name.

The subsequent name by no means comes. I cease within the center of the observe and wait. Silence. Five extra minutes move. Still no sound – aside from the bugs, now altering up a gear as nightfall approaches. The camp is out of sight. The comforting noise and voices from workshop and reception have died away. I’m alone on the street among the many dense mopane timber and the sunshine is fading quick. The hairs rise on the again of my neck as pleasure turns to menace. Where is he now? Has he doubled again behind me? Is he watching me? “Whatever you do, don’t run,” says the Jim Corbett voice in my head. I retrace my steps slowly, scrutinising the gloom, till, rounding the bend, I spy the autos at reception and pace up. Not fairly a run, however not likely a stroll.



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