Pink Boots and a Machete (17 page)

Bruce was so absorbed in photographing the frogs in his tent that he barely noticed it was slowly starting to float away. He came out, drenched and shivering, with an aluminum blanket draped over his shoulders, and said, “Last thing you want
to do is drown in a tent.” The river was rising and the camp flooding. The torrential downpour went on for more than 16 hours. It was the worst storm I had ever experienced.

That night Eldon took a turn for the worse. We also officially ran out of food. If the helicopter didn't manage to get in, we'd have to start walking back, storm or no storm. Also out of food, the trail cutters were stranded on the other side of the river. It was running rampant and had risen too high to cross without technical gear. Jesus had rope and a harness. He rigged a line, and the trail cutters began to cross. One false movement, and they would have been over and under and gone.

One by one, the guys held on to the line. Every one of them went under the current but still managed to pull his body across. Once they had all made it, we spread blue tarps and lit fires, hoping the climbers would spot us from the air. Unbeknownst to us our smoke signals were fruitless. There were little pockets of steam that looked like smoke signals coming up from the forest everywhere.

By then the rain had stopped, but the expedition still hung in the balance. I went to the edge of the river and noticed that one of the Amerindians had carved MIREYA'S FALLS into a boulder. I smiled. Then, suddenly, I heard a chopper.

The helicopter flew overhead and missed us again and again. It finally spotted the camp just as our hope was running out. The climbers were completely unaware of the drama that had been unfolding below them. We ran out to clear off the tarps. The entrance was perilous, to say the least. Bringing a chopper in there is extremely dangerous, as forceful down-
drafts make holding it steady nearly impossible. There was also not much clearance for the rotors. Unable to land, the helicopter hovered low, and the climbers jumped out. Gear and food supplies were thrown off, scattered in every direction on the jungle floor. My hair flying in the wind, I exclaimed, “You boys sure know how to make an entrance!”

With ropes, we got Eldon onto the chopper before it pulled out. Sucked down by the same forces that made it impossible to land, it appeared as if it might not have enough power to lift out. As it ascended, it was repeatedly pulled down by gusts of wind. We watched in terror, but the winds finally died down and the chopper pulled out, lifting into the sky.

The climbers had not brought in as much food as we had hoped.

We struggled across the river, holding on to ropes, and the going just got harder. As the climb became steeper, the jungle closed in around Roraima's base, creeping up its sides as if it was trying to strangle the rock. Clinging to a rope, the four or five line cutters in front of us had to cut every branch to clear the path. Finally, we stood below the cliff we'd be exploring over the next couple of weeks. Mark, the most expert climber, led off, with Jared setting the ropes. For those two the climb was tough but not desperate. For me, it was a totally different story. In the two-hour class I took in Maryland, I'd climbed no more than 50 feet above a padded floor. Now I was going to do what most world-class climbers wouldn't. And, as I mentioned, I'm afraid of heights.

There were other risks. To be bitten or stung by a venomous
snake or insect up there could be fatal. Although ropes would prevent us from plummeting to the ground, getting bitten and falling away from the wall posed serious risks. You could easily break a bone or hit your head. If the bite was bad enough, the victim would have to be lowered, itself a long, laborious, and high-risk task. Snakebites can kill in hours.

Difficult as this climb was, we were doing it in the most benign way possible, so as not to mar the cliff face. No pitons hammered in, no bolts drilled. As we moved up the face, we tried to leave no sign we'd been there.

Because the climb was so slow and arduous and our time getting short, Bruce, Jesus, Peter, and I called for the chopper to pick us up in a clearing and take us to Weiassapu, a neighboring tepui, while the climbers continued setting the ropes at Roraima. Weiassapu had once been connected to Roraima, but time and erosion had separated the two. The animals on Weiassapu might have developed differently from their relatives only a few miles away.

The helicopter dropped us on the barren, windswept top. Bruce found more carnivorous plants than we'd ever seen anywhere. Because the soil is so poor, plants have found a way of surviving by trapping insects inside “bladders.” Bruce also found a carnivorous bromeliad, a long tuberous plant with a slick, waxy surface on the inside, making it impossible for captured insects to climb out.

Meanwhile, Jesus and I took on a much more dangerous mission. We would rappel into an enormous vertical hole called a chasm (technically not a sinkhole but similar) that is hun
dreds of feet deep. What its bowels contained was completely unknown, and we hoped to find more new species. The longer I looked down on the hundreds of feet under me, the more I resisted, so I tried not to look down. If anything went wrong—if the anchors came out or the ropes frayed—we'd be dead.

Before the climb I called my mom on the satellite phone to let her know I was OK, thinking it could be the last time I talked to her.

Hooking my belt to the rope on the chasm's edge, I longed for those cushy mats and padding I had trained on. Most unnervingly, you must immediately put all your weight on the rope, and just trust that everything is tied up correctly. Thankfully, the rope passed the test. I yelled to Jesus that I was coming down, mainly to tell myself I was going through with this. I don't know why I kept looking down, but I did. Reaching bottom, I stood in a forest and ventured into some rocky caves, knowing I was probably the first to do that. Looking up, I saw a giant chimney of vegetation and moss. It was humbling and breathtaking. Once there I knew I would have regretted not doing this. With my headlamp, I found a huge spider and got tangled in its web. I put several spiders in canisters. Then I found a strange-looking toad and included that, too. I wondered if it had ever seen a human before.

Now we had to get out of the chasm. To get back up we had to jumar. Jumaring is the art of ascending a slope by rope, using a toothed, metal clamp. It is murder on your arms and legs. I began ascending and decided to take it slow. But, then, hanging hundreds of feet in the air, I looked up and noticed
that my single, fixed rope was rubbing against the edge of the rock.

The rope had frayed. So had my chances for survival.

I was still quite far from the top, and my arms were giving out. I stopped to rest, feeling I could go on no longer. I was an insect trapped in a bromeliad. But I'd seen the fray in the rope, and a sudden burst of energy propelled me on. Somehow I made it back—in what had to be record time!

Bruce and I were absorbed by our discoveries. We took detailed notes on the specimens, drying and packing all the plants. Bruce was especially excited about the toads. They would test the theory of continental drift on animals, as each tepui is like an island, on which species have followed independent evolutionary paths. The camera's flash never paused in his tent. Then one of the guides brought us a
big
worm. It weighed a third of a pound and looked like a weird tube. I could only begin to imagine the size of the fish you could catch with it. Bruce made me lick it. He said it excreted a horrible-tasting substance that kept it protected from predators, and he was so right. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Back at Roraima, nearly 2,000 feet above, the ropes had been set. It was time to hook up with the climbers. The chopper delivered us back to a clearing, from which Jesus and I would climb to a camp established on the rock face.

Crude ladders, spindly ropes, and log stairways were the only ways to the barren cliffs above. We were back on a “trail,” and climbing would again be very dicey. Most of it would be spiderlike. Only Jesus and I were going up. I was
scared and excited but still noticed how grimy my nails were. No question, I needed a manicure.

Mark greeted us and hooked our daisy chains to the wall. All I could think is, “What a room with a view!” Then I saw where we'd be living for the next few days—a hanging “hotel.” A three-foot-wide ledge, with a precipitous drop below. We would have to stay tethered to the wall. Accidents happen when you get comfortable, careless, or lazy and neglect to keep yourself hooked up at all times. Same goes for gear. Basically, anything you don't want to lose, including your backpack and camera, must be hooked to the rope. Jesus' very expensive camera fell, never to be seen again.

Mark and Jared had rigged up the “portaledges,” hanging tents we'd sleep in that night. These accommodations were a flimsy sheet of nylon attached to the rock face by a single, six-inch steel pin. There was no privacy whatsoever. As I saw one of the guys unzip his pants and pee off the ledge, it occurred to me that at some point I would have to “go to the bathroom,” too. What if I had to, you know, do more than pee? I decided to skip meals and drink minimally. I would pee only when everyone else was asleep.

As night began to fall, the reality of our low-impact style of climbing really hit me. Normally, on a huge wall like this, climbers would drill bolts into the rock from which to suspend the hanging tents. Those bolts can hold thousands of pounds each. But we would be entrusting our lives to “bat hooks,” tiny metal hooks that simply hang over small flakes on the rock face. They'd be backed up by “friends,” cam
ming devices that Mark would slip into the little crevices. They expand and grip the rock. We hoped.

I lay in my hanging tent exhausted but unable to sleep. I kept staring at the tiny pin that was supposed to hold up both me and Jesus. My first thought was that we should have had less dinner. Then I noticed a spider the size of a dinner plate inside the tent. I was
not
going to sleep until that spider was out. I shined my light so as not to lose track of it. Then I called for Jesus. He asked if I had it cornered. “No. It has
me
cornered,” I replied.

After very little sleep, I awoke at dawn and lifted the nylon sheet. The view was breathtaking. Above the clouds were the most incredible shades of yellow, orange, blue, and purple emanating from the sun. To this day, I have never experienced a more beautiful sight.

We still had to move up the ropes, and my fingers were seriously blistered. On the midline of the cliff, more than 8,000 feet up, was a hanging garden that might harbor species never seen before. Like everything on this trip it was risky. Just overlooking one basic step could cost you your life. At these heights you make only one mistake. You don't get the chance to make two.

Trying not to look down, I concentrated on the beauty that surrounded us, such as the colorful green bird that perched at eye level. His wings under the sun's rays were iridescent. Wedged into the rock wall, we found a scorpion with all her babies molted on top of her. The contrast was spectacular: the female, black as night, against her clinging, glow
ing white babies.

We continued on, and soon the summit of Mount Roraima, Guyana's Empire State Building, loomed in front of us with all its hidden treasures. It was unbelievable that we'd finally arrived. The place looked completely forbidding, with fantastic black rock formations. We all had chills, not from the cold, but because we knew the significance of where we were standing. We had the feeling we had discovered a missing place. I had never seen or even imagined anything like this: a landscape laid down long before the dinosaurs, even before there were fish in the seas. It was primeval.

In this veritable lost world, hot water had pushed its way up through this rock and crystallized, creating a garden of jewels in curved and haunting shapes. These diamondlike stones covered the floor and were striking against the black rock. Every few hundred yards, a massive waterfall poured over the rim, and geysers of water burst from holes in the sides of the cliff amid the surrounding electric green jungle. To our collection we added more plants and animals that had developed in complete isolation. A cute little pebble toad, resembling a small dinosaur, crawled on the palm of my hand.

As scientists we are trained to think in concrete terms. But when you go to a place like that, you
feel
the ghosts, the spirit of things that lived there eons ago. It's not something you see. It was nearly impossible to comprehend just how old this place was.

As we explored the top of this Jurassic Park, a storm moved in. We took cover in tents, but I worried for Mark and Jared,
who had gone off on another climb, one none of the rest of us could have handled. They were too far to get back to beat the storm. Looking into the mist, it struck me that most climbers couldn't make that climb even when it was dry. Fortunately, they made it back.

The expedition was over. Although I was anxious to get home to my family, I was also sad to be leaving this extraordinary place. We heard the chopper overhead and quickly broke camp. I took one last moment to absorb my surroundings, trying to commit every detail of this lost world to memory. Once again, the view took my breath away.

Perhaps discoveries had been made and papers would be published. Regardless, as the clouds reclaimed the summit, time would just move on. Meanwhile, I had caught a glimpse of eternity.

The halls of National Geographic headquarters are filled with energy. At any moment, you might expect showgirls to burst from the cubicles and go right into a full-blown routine on creativity and adventure. These are no ordinary office workers. The corridor walls are lined with nameplates that read like a who's who of the explorers, filmmakers, and photographers who made National Geographic the most recognizable name in exploration and adventure. But sometimes those walls come alive. Bumping into one of the legendary Cousteaus, Leakeys,
or Jouberts in the hallway reminds you that this isn't regional dinner theater, it's the Broadway of exploration. Then again, standing in front of the bathroom mirror retouching my lipstick alongside renowned oceanographer Sylvia Earle has also reminded me that my heroes are human, just like me.

Only days before a giraffe nearly kicked me in the ribs, I was looking out my office window over M Street in Washington, D.C., wondering just how it was I had gotten so lucky. On my office walls were masks from different parts of the world I had traveled to and a map reminding me of all the places I had yet to go. Second only to the African skies and stars, it was under this roof that I had come to feel most inspired and humbled.

It was also under this roof that I first met filmmaker Eric Cochran. More than a cameraman, Eric looked part bodybuilder, part surfer. Blond, fit, tan, and a native Californian, that description was no stretch. But he was also a well-seasoned shooter-producer, which meant that besides producing films, he was an accomplished cinematographer. He had spent years working in Africa and was back at headquarters to pitch a story I immediately wanted to be a part of. He was working on a project in Namibia involving wildebeests, giraffes, and leopards. It was a project so alluring that I was soon packing my bags and heading back to the African continent. Namibia would be the next stamp on my passport.

A country in southern Africa as big as Texas and Louisiana combined, Namibia has a population of about 1.8 million, making it one of the least densely populated countries
on Earth. Dominated by the inhospitable Kalahari and Namib Deserts, it is also one of the most arid. Cars are few and far between on its smooth, tabletop roads, one of the happier results of brutal German colonialism and apartheid-era South African control, the latter of which ended with independence in 1990. German influence may also explain Namibia's relatively superb infrastructure compared to other African countries. If there's one thing Germans can do, it's organize. I should know, I'm married to one, and I envy his side of the closet.

 

In Namibia we were to meet up with Ulf Tubbesing, a pioneer veterinarian who works with wild animals. When I first met Ulf, he was stepping off a helicopter toting a rifle on his shoulder and trailed by a bevy of German beauties. Who is this character? I thought. He was not your typical lab coat–wearing vet, but the babes were his students. You might say he was the James Bond of the veterinary world. He makes “house calls” from his Namibian clinic, tending to the needs of the continent's wildest animals, facing danger every time. When Ulf makes a house call, the patient isn't usually cooperative, and the location is almost never a house. He might be responding to a report of a baboon wreaking havoc in Windhoek, Namibia's capital, or tracking and tranquilizing a leopard that's raiding a farmer's crops. The animals often need medical attention, as well. We hadn't been in Namibia very long when he got a call requesting him to tend to a wild cheetah that had been attacked by a leopard. His work can make a real impact on seriously depleted animal populations like
that of the cheetah—and every animal counts.

The wild animals Ulf treats are in trouble less because they've been attacked by other animals than because they've come into contact with humans. Namibia has very little habitable land, which poses a dilemma for both animals and people. What little there is is fenced in, so many of the nation's leopards and cheetahs are forced to live on farmland. Those predators see a free meal and go for it, killing livestock and creating an economic problem for landowners. In light of that, Ulf spread the word among farmers that he was prepared to remove animals that ignored their “No trespassing” signs. Whereas previously ranchers and farmers would shoot to kill, now many of them called Ulf to move the animals off their land.

Treating and working with wildlife or, more specifically, problem animals is incredibly challenging. Five minutes with Ulf, and you know he's doing it for love. But he told me that as a fifth-generation Namibian, he learned his marksmanship by watching wildlife through a scope. In Namibia love of wildlife usually coincides with hunting.

But Ulf was now a changed man, trying to save Namibia's heritage. Against the odds, he was fighting to give the wild animals a sanctuary where they could recover and roam free. He and some partners had recently established a 10,000-hectare (25,000-acre) preserve, whose goal is to restore the thriving ecosystem that once existed here but was hunted out. He was just beginning to relocate many of his patients to the area. He called it the Ongos Project. Because of several close shaves I
had while there, I called it the End of Me.

There is no instruction manual on how to convert barren African land into a perfectly balanced wildlife preserve. But even without an exact blueprint, you know that the land must sustain predator and prey. A little leopard with some wildebeest sprinkled in would be a good start. How hard could it be?

So first on our agenda was to
get us some wildebeests
. The wildebeest is a mammal whose name comes from the South African (Afrikaans) word for “wild animal.” It has a large, box-shaped head; sharp, curved horns; shaggy hair around the neck; and a pointed beard. Wildebeests are typically gray or dark brown with black stripes, tails, manes, and faces. Although heavily built in the front of their bodies, they support their weight on long, thin legs like their gazelle relatives. They are members of the antelope family, but they look more like oxen or bison than they do a springbok. Measured against the rest of the animal kingdom, they're not the most attractive. But don't tell them I said that.

Wildebeests have been the subject of many wildlife documentaries and are well known for their annual migrations to new pastures. It is an epic spectacle in which vast numbers of wildebeests cross rivers, such as the Mara, and die by the dozens as they attempt to reach the other side. Many are eaten by crocodiles, and others simply drown. That was the extent of my wildebeest knowledge. I didn't have the first clue how you might go about herding them, but I imagined myself riding horseback old-fashioned cowboy style.

No cowboy hats. No horses. No lassos. Modern-day wildebeest herding is done with helicopters.

But this wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill helicopter. This helicopter looked like a death trap. Small and light, it could maneuver lower and faster than any other type of aircraft. My fear was that it didn't look strong enough to sustain heavy winds. Eric didn't seem upset that there were only two seats, none for him. I introduced myself to the pilot, certain he would offer me some reassurance. He didn't. On the contrary, he said he was nervous. What? You can't begin to imagine how nerve-racking it is when you're about to put your life in the hands of a pilot who tells you he's nervous. According to him, wildebeest herding is one of the most dangerous jobs in existence. Much to my horror, he confided that in trying to beat the odds, he herds only a few times a year. All I could think was that when the pilot tells you he's scared, there's probably a good reason for it.

Before I could change my mind, we were in the air. We flew high and then dangerously low above the Namibian desert. Then we began trailing wildebeests at a relatively comfortable distance. Once the helicopter's noise got them moving, we started diving at the ground, herding them into an enclosed area with a police siren. From the sky, the glossy backs of the wildebeests spread out, stampeding in every direction.

It felt like we were doing air gymnastics, or riding a roller coaster without tracks. It was intense and exhilarating. As we flew right over the trees, it struck me that one slight mistake could end in disaster. The pilot was so strongly focused on
the animals that it was a wonder he didn't brush the treetops. Airborne, herding wildebeests, there is absolutely no room for error. In this profession, crash and burn is not a figure of speech. On the bright side, if we did take a nose dive, the helicopter's glass front would enable me to watch every harrowing second of my earthbound plummet.

The siren continued to blast across the desert, and the herd obediently thundered into the trailer that was being manned below. All wildebeests inside, my feet finally back on land, I was very proud not to have puked on the pilot. We drove four hours to Ulf's land, where we opened the back of the trailer, and one by one the large creatures ran past us without looking back. Ulf's dream of creating a safe haven for these animals was slowly being realized. The release was a beautiful sight.

No question, the wildebeest mission was a wild chase. Now that I had helped with one capture, it was time for another. Giraffes were next on the agenda. I was really excited about this for two reasons. The first was that giraffes are some of my favorite animals on Earth. With their sleek, long necks and spotted patterns like a leopard's, I also think they are some of the most beautiful. A giraffe is conspicuous like no other animal—long in the extreme, from its legs to its neck and head, from its tail hairs to its eyelashes. Standing between 16 and 18 feet, a giraffe could go eyeball to eyeball with a second-story window. They tower proudly over the dry savanna and thorny thickets. Nothing compares to seeing a giraffe in its natural habitat. But truth be told, the main reason I was happy about the giraffe capture was that you don't herd giraffes. No death-
defying helicopters. What I didn't realize was that it would not be any less stressful, or dangerous.

It was painful to know that these giraffes could have been fated to die at the hands of hunters. Giraffes are hunted for their tails, hides, and meat. The tails are used as good luck charms, thread, and flyswatters. But it wasn't poachers who would kill these giraffes if we didn't get them out. The fatal bullets would be wholly legal, delivered by paying customers who had bought tickets to take aim at these incredible creatures. We had come to a game reserve that had more giraffes than it could possibly support. Hunting is actually a conservation measure to ensure healthy and genetically balanced herds. Regardless, if Ulf didn't shoot them with a tranquilizer gun and transfer them to his preserve, it would be a hunting gun that took aim at them.

In the midday sun, the giraffes waited anxiously for a turn to quench their thirst at the watering hole. We in turn were in the back of a pickup truck waiting anxiously to dart the giraffes. We trailed them nearly an hour waiting for the right moment for Ulf to shoot. Tension ran high.

A lone giraffe bull stood at the edge of the scrubby bush forest that opened onto a grassland. The grasses were yellowed and brittle. We approached to within 150 yards of the animal. It didn't seem bothered by our presence. Ulf adjusted the air rifle and tweaked the scope to get it into sharp focus. Sweat streamed down his face. Neither excited nor aggressive, the giraffe watched us calmly from its haughty perch, brown eyes bulging. We could see the fine, curving eyelashes framing its attentive eyes.

Ulf took a shot. He missed. The giraffe ran off and rejoined the herd, making it hard to get another clear shot. We kept after the giraffes as they ran, sun glowing on their backs. Giraffes have an unusual gait, in which the front and back legs on one side move forward together, then the two legs on the other side move forward. Because the animals are so large, the motion of their legs seemed almost in slow motion. With their center of gravity so high, they seemed to sweep along, hardly touching the earth. They were virtually floating. It was breathtaking to watch.

With a bang, my romanticized moment out on the African plains ended. Ulf had taken a shot and this time hit his target. This is the point when things can get hairy. The gunshot sent the animals running, and giraffes are extremely fast, capable of speeds between 30 and 50 miles an hour. Ready to jump into action, we had to wait until the sedative kicked in before going after the animal but not a moment longer. The drug was so strong that Ulf had to counteract it with a second drug. He had only minutes to inject the antidote before the giraffe would die.

A rhythmic dance ensued, animals and truck constantly starting and stopping. It was more mosh pit than samba. I was crammed into the back of the small truck with eight other people, trying to stay upright and slamming into every bump in the Namibian desert. Within minutes, the giraffe was showing signs of the drug. Its run was becoming sluggish, its head beginning to sway. We had to get to it immediately. We managed to get closer and Ulf, some of his assistants, and I jumped
off the back of the truck carrying a coiled 100-foot rope. I was running at full speed. This was the most dangerous part of the capture for both us and the giraffe. Two of us extended the rope in front of its legs to slow it down and then trip it so the antidote could be administered.

Watching this soaring creature fall to the ground was not a pretty sight. It was like watching nature's version of the Eiffel Tower crumble. The giraffe looked nothing like the picture of grace it had embodied only minutes before. But there was no time to pause. Hearts pounding and completely out of breath from the chase, we had to quickly elevate the animal's head, or it would choke to death. It took all eight of us to lift the 6-foot neck, which alone weighed about 600 pounds. That's more than two linebackers.

Ulf prepared the drug, while I covered the giraffe's eyes and someone else inserted earplugs. Covering his eyes and reducing the noise would help calm him when he regained consciousness. Each person had a job to do, monitoring the animal's breathing, heart rate, temperature, and respiratory oxygen. After taking blood, Ulf injected the antidote, reversing the immobilizer drug and bringing the animal back to consciousness. It was difficult for me to take in the scene. There I was holding a rope attached to a giraffe wearing earplugs and a blindfold. That had to be about as surreal as it gets.