Leopards Are Fond Of Sabiepark! That's How Operation L Begun in Sabiepark

Operation L

The abundance of game is ideal for hunting. Fresh water is plentiful. The veld is thickly wooded. By day, the bush, offers lots of hiding-places. The leopards seem to have an affinity for Tarlehoet too; after our initial fright on 16 March 1998, leopard activity on our doorstep has increased.

We have become very conscious of this, probably because the radar of our senses has been tuned in well. That photo opportunity I squandered in 1998 was like a critical missed catch in a World Cup cricket final. I’ll never be able to forget it. We were set on expunging that disappointment from the record books and our memories. It has become a virtual obsession to look into the eyes of panthera pardus on our own erf. To be geared for such a photo, had become a mission.

A heartfelt project was born: Operation L.

That L did not designate lark or leguan, or even lion. Our target was only one single thing in Sabiepark: one of six or so local or visiting leopards. Nothing more and nothing less.

Our appetites were whetted by news told us by John Isaacs, a local builder. He was contracted to build a small lapa near our front stoep. On the last morning of this project – one of our most brilliant ideas – he drove slowly, with his building team, up the driveway of Tarlehoet. When he stopped, a leopard leapt over the stoep wall and disappeared into the tall grass. Could it be that our stoep was this leopard’s regular sleeping place when we were not home? One can only guess. But that building team was wide awake that day!

Johan and Mariza were also fortunate. When they arrived home late one evening, they surprised the elusive animal at the new lapa. Mariza managed to take a photo from behind. Not very sharp, but at least irrefutable evidence.

A wide-awake Sabieparker, on his way to the picnic spot, met a leopard in Wildevy Avenue, close to Tarlehoet. It trotted across the road from the direction of the river. This provided a clear photo for the notice-board.

Tokkie and I kept on searching. Griet, however, vowed she had seen a large leopard prostrate on our back stoep in the bright moonlight. At first she thought it was a spotted genet, a larger edition of the one which had visited earlier that evening. When she peeped outside, she saw the huge cat lying stretched out in front of her. A while later it walked past her bedroom, while she hung halfway out of the window. “Why did you not call us?” She explained that she had used a broomstick against the wooden ceiling of her room, but we were obviously already in dreamland.

MIDNIGHT SNACK. This blue wildebeest was killed close to our TV room by a leopard. The author is crouching at the carcass.

On our arrival for the winter holidays of 1999, Tokkie and I received bad news. A waterbuck bull had just been killed by a leopard. Soon afterwards it killed the ewe. An attempt at resettlement of waterbuck met with limited success and, at the best of times, these “kringgatte” (circled backsides) were rather scarce in Sabiepark. The next victim was an old, toothless blue wildebeest cow, directly in front of our TV room. That’s where we saw that leopards are really gourmets. No tough meat for them, thank you; they only took of the juiciest leg for a midnight snack. Tokkie and I used the rest of the carcass as a background for photos of one another. In contrast with the waterbuck, the choice of prey this time was considerate. The victim was old and decrepit. In addition, the blue wildebeest population had to be decreased. Just the previous evening, Tokkie saw at least 30 of them, at the corner of Wildevy and Maroela Avenues.

The following L-episode happened a few days later.

The cell phone rang. “Come quickly,” urged dear Pally van der Walt from the office. It seemed a leopard was trotting up and down along the fence, next to the road to the Kruger Park, near the place where one of its ancestors was run over while chasing an impala. (The skin of the road victim can be seen at the office, mounted on the wall.) Too late again! But our anticipation increased. The trail was hotting up.

The leopards, in turn, were becoming cheekier. One arrived at 07:30 and paraded up and down at the entrance to the picnic spot. Albert Sibuyi and Roger (a former assistant at the picnic spot) were enjoying a cup of tea; then they saw it at the parking area. It calmly strolled around; then disappeared into the thickly wooded erf 281, alongside the river. Tokkie discovered its tracks in Wildevy Avenue. Nobody would have argued about those tracks. Only a leopard could have made them. Its route was probably the same as the one we follow on our daily walk to the river!

The holiday sped past, but Operation L remained unfinished business. Fortunately, we were scheduled for a spring vacation. Only two months later, on Thursday, 23 September, we returned to a Sabiepark covered in a soft green sheen, thanks to welcome rain in late winter.

On Wednesday, 29 September, Tokkie was alone at home, reading. Not a very exciting literary book, just a rather boring old magazine, allowing her to visit the fridge from time to time. At about 11:45 she went to the fridge, cut a piece of cheddar, placed it on a Pro-vita wafer, took a bite and returned to her chair. Through the sliding door of the dining room she saw movement.

She halted and had another look. It was a leopard. High and dry. It just sat there, twitching its ears. Woman and beast made eye contact, barely five metres apart. Tokkie ducked behind the trunk of a knob-thorn tree. The leopard also ducked, as if it wanted to do the same. At that moment, Tokkie gulped down the Pro-vita. A small piece dropped from her hand. Then she slipped behind the curtain – a more effective shelter – and made 100 percent certain where the leopard was.

She hooked her camera closer, and pulled the long lens out to its full extent. Halfway up the stairs, she removed the lens cover. She counted on being in a better position for a good photo. Taking a photo from above, seemed to her less of a risk. She didn’t want to “spook” the leopard.

Fortunately, it was a different window from the one that had previously frustrated me. Still, she was disillusioned. Although the window opened effortlessly, the big cat had disappeared. Suddenly it struck her how close it had been. She surveyed the surrounding area, came down the stairs, and peeped through every window and glass door. But she saw nothing – nothing at all. Carefully, she opened the sliding door, and peeped out onto the stoep, the camera still in her hand. She made quite sure she was not followed; then moved stealthily to the corner of the house. She peeped around the corner. A few steps away, the leopard trotted into the grass, and disappeared behind a bush. For a long time, Tokkie stood and looked at the veld, crestfallen. How she could have trumped me, if she had a photo. (Truth to tell, she shivered so that a good photo was out of the question, she later divulged in a moment of candour.)

Inside the house, she searched for the lens cover. She found it on the floor, as well as a small piece of Pro-vita and cheese. She measured the distance to where the leopard was. Only five metres from the house – much closer than the previous encounter. On the driveway, she searched for tracks. She found nothing; that part of the driveway was too hard. She waited outside to tell me of her adventure. When I stopped, it bubbled over: “I swear to tell you only the truth!” She surprised me with her story, but I believed her – we don’t joke about such serious matters.

“Come over here and crouch where the leopard sat,” I proposed. Then I took a photo of her, but it was far removed from the first prize. Almost, again, but still not the real thing. We resolved we would get that photo. We promised one another: on our next holiday…

One marginal note would be not out of place: that is what a wonderful cure such excitement is for those small, niggling incidents which pop up in the best of marriages. Since the previous day, the Van Deventers were communicating through “smoke signals” (Manie Steyn’s coinage) over a misunderstanding around the campfire. After the leopard’s visit, however, she waited for me, bubbling, as in the days of yore when we were young. In such moments, one discovers, you are not really angry at one another.

In June 2000, Operation L was continued. Loud grunts (groans?) had us up and about in no time just before 06:00 one winter morning. Lion? I did not think so, even though we had noticed lion tracks a few days before at erf 161, and even though three strays were seen at the Lisbon Estate on the western side. Leopard? That was more probable. The “scarlet pimpernel” of Sabiepark was seen the previous evening at 22:00. The sighting was near erf 232 on the corner of Wildevy and Apiesdoring Avenues, just a little distance from us. Those grunts, deep and guttural, made us grab our torches and rush outside. When day dawned, Tokkie went outside to search the bushes behind the waterhole. She was so certain of the place where she heard the “thing”, that she was quite surprised to find nothing. I was just as puzzled, but I had to scold her for being so impetuous.

On a Friday afternoon, two weeks later, I noticed a Land Rover parked in Wildevy Avenue, near Tarlehoet. I was preparing a venison “potjie” for our godchild, Jaco van Wyk of Pretoria, and his wife, Lientjie, who were coming to visit us. Later I noticed that more cars had arrived. I grabbed my camera and trotted down the gravel road. The news was devastating: it had been the leopard. The Big Prize had been sitting for at least ten minutes on an ant heap in front of the Van Heerden neighbours (erf 155), as if posing for photographs. Now it was gone. The crunching sound of my sandals on the gravel must have chased it way, I thought, and cursed myself.

In adverse situations like these one often makes new friends. At his invitation, I scrambled onto the bakkie of Nic de Jager, brother of Xander of Ghwarriebos Avenue. With him was Frik Steenkamp (erf 289, off Appelblaar Avenue), their wives and children. We formed an impromptu search party. In vain.

Later that evening, Griet saw two glowing eyes near the ground behind our house. Perhaps the leopard? No-one knew. But my “trigger finger” was itching, more and more. The camera was always at my side.

On Sunday, 16 July 2000, at exactly 16:15 the Canon flashed. The result may not be a winner in a photo competition, but what the heck? There in the veld, surrounded by branches and tall grass, sat His Worship (Her Worship?), head held proudly high, with its tawny skin and black rosette-shaped spots, well camouflaged by the shade patterns of marula leaves. A few moments before, Tokkie and I started walking down to the river, our basket packed for a picnic. Suddenly impala east of the house scattered in two directions. Loud explosive grunts indicated their great anxiety. We looked around. Then my eyes fell on the chunky head, just visible above the grass.

We jumped into the Honda, which I tried to manoeuvre to give us an unobstructed vantage point. Then I wormed my way through the sun roof, camera in hand. I aimed and “shot” again and again. It wasn’t easy, as my object was close to the ground, and the 30 metres between us wasn’t exactly open. But I had been chasing this photo for a long time. There had been disappointment, misfortune and frustration. Now, at least I could smugly claim: mission accomplished (well, almost).

The leopard sat still, while I clicked and clicked

After a few minutes, it stood up, stretched itself, looked at us, and disappeared, like a phantom, in the direction of Apiesdoring Avenue. Or so it seemed. The Honda glided above the road humps, up and down Wildevy, Apiesdoring, Ghwarriebos. We found nothing. After half an hour we returned. Then I saw it from afar, at exactly the same spot – it had really taken us for a ride, as it were. Darkness fell. We heard something crackling, certainly not only branches. In the light of a powerful torch, we saw fiery eyes glowing.

Early next morning, we hurried to that area. We found impala hair, bits of intestines, manure and a few spots of blood. A pathetic little heap. The crackling sound was the leopard’s dinner – within hailing distance of our barbecue fire.

When was the kill? Before or after our discovery the previous day? Reconstructing events was difficult. And what had happened to the carcass? Probably it was dragged deeper into the bush. Handa Zeller was of the opinion that there was a cub to be fed. That would explain the snoring sound that we heard that morning, and also the uneasiness of the kudus that came to graze, while I went to Hazyview to have the film developed. Tokkie, “Ouma Marietjie” and Griet were in agreement: the hoarse barking of those kudus was the loudest they had ever heard. It indicated terror. Like troops reacting on a military command, the animals suddenly decamped, however, just like the impala the previous day.

Give or take 72 hours later, the Canon flashed again. At 17:45 on 19 July 2000, to be exact. Tokkie and I were driving home slowly from the picnic spot, our eyes searching. Just on the other side of a little drift, in front of Marten and Teresa van Breda’s rondavel home (Thula Thula, erf 231 in Wildevy), the lights of the Honda picked up a dark silhouette on the side of the road. No doubt, it was the leopard! Our shrieks of discovery (not too loud) sounded on the night air.

It, judging by the size of the head, probably a she, fortunately did not take fright at the sudden company. She kept on approaching with the grace of an athlete. Her tail twitched. She seemed to be smacking her lips. I grasped my Canon, focussed, and pressed the shutter as though my life depended on it, never mind the windscreen. “Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha,” I shouted, flashing flash- flash-flash.

Tokkie waited patiently with her automatic Pentax, which was specially at hand for “emergencies”. The moment the magnificent animal moved in on her side, she also let go. But at 18:10 in July, three days after full moon, Sabie was pitch-dark. This was trial-and-error photography.

Sportingly, the wild lady gave us a second chance. She trotted through the drift, swerved back towards the road, and turned in at Izak Fick’s driveway (erf 230 in Wildevy Avenue). There she stood for a few moments in the strong lights of our vehicle, like a statue, yet fiery and challenging. Flashes again. I with my Canon, Tokkie with her Pentax.

Home, I pulled the cork of a bottle KWV Roodeberg to drink to Operation L. Only my very best red wine was good enough to toast such a never-to-be-forgotten Sabiepark experience. Wine in hand, the reality sank in. We walk that way every day. On some days we walk it twice, once in the morning, once in the late afternoon. Fortunately, we were not on foot when our paths crossed with that of the leopard. Operation L could have had a less jubilant ending. And Next door to the Kruger could never have seen light of day.

GOTCHA! The elusive leopard walks past my camera in the lights of my vehicle.

Epiloque

The only drawback about Sabiepark is saying goodbye every time.

Your belongings are stored – as Mariza puts it, like eggs in maize flour. Late afternoon on the last day the hiking shoes are laced up. You take a last crunch-crunch walk to the picnic spot. Alongside the Sabie River you linger a while. Shading your eyes, you stare across the water, hoping to see some form of life hiding in the thick wood.

Later a farewell fire is lit, flat on the ground between a few loose bricks. The grids have been hanging since the morning, scrubbed shiny clean, on the wall of the store room. A special treat is laid out for the bushbabies: a few extra slices of banana. The duiker receives a large portion of pips. The animals walking across the yard, are greeted one by one: “Goodbye, look after yourself.”

The lanterns are extinguished. In the dark you wonder at the clusters of bright stars. In bed, you listen to the night sounds. Your ears are finely tuned. Maybe zebras or wildebeest will come tonight to have a drink.

Time flies, you think. Tempus fugit. Another bush holiday has come to an end. Marked off. Full stop. So the weeks flash by. The months roll along. The years come and go. The slope downwards becomes steeper. And what the future will bring, nobody knows.

The knowledge of not knowing, gives wings to thoughts of transitoriness. You silently wonder: how many more times will I be privileged to wake up here, with the trees almost creeping through the sliding doors?

Early the following morning , you leave the gate, and turn left on the road to Hazyview, the first shift of the long journey to the south. Your heart is filled with gratitude for another blessed holiday in your beloved wild. Together with the gratitude comes a lingering feeling of sadness. The farewell causes a nostalgia that brings a sudden moistness to you eyes.