Page 20 - African Safaris eBrochure by Bushtracks
P. 20
The Lugenda River in Niassa wanders across a plain studded with inselbergs, or granite mountains.
As Keith and I paddled a canoe down the
Lugenda River, the chance of spotting a lion was
minute—Niassa is vast, and its lions are shy. The
chance of bumping into this particular lion was
infinitesimally small. Yet there he was, lounging
on a sand bar. Through binoculars we could see
the satellite tracking collar we bolted around
his neck three nights before, fifteen miles away.
“Do you know who that is?”
whispered Keith, incredulous. “Samora,” I
answered. My skin prickled. We let the canoe
drift. The lion strolled up the sand bar, then leapt
up the riverbank. He dropped to his belly and
draped a forepaw over the bank’s edge.
Watching Samora drowse in the setting
sun, I felt awe. This unlikely meeting seemed
fated, full of significance. I felt connected to
this lion. I hoped one day to hear that Samora
had established a territory and sired cubs, and I
feared learning that he’d been shot, or snared.
“Go well, Samora,” I wished silently as we pushed
the canoe off the sand bar. He acknowledged
our departure with a flick of his tail.
18 Samora on the riverbank, three days after we collared him.
As Keith and I paddled a canoe down the
Lugenda River, the chance of spotting a lion was
minute—Niassa is vast, and its lions are shy. The
chance of bumping into this particular lion was
infinitesimally small. Yet there he was, lounging
on a sand bar. Through binoculars we could see
the satellite tracking collar we bolted around
his neck three nights before, fifteen miles away.
“Do you know who that is?”
whispered Keith, incredulous. “Samora,” I
answered. My skin prickled. We let the canoe
drift. The lion strolled up the sand bar, then leapt
up the riverbank. He dropped to his belly and
draped a forepaw over the bank’s edge.
Watching Samora drowse in the setting
sun, I felt awe. This unlikely meeting seemed
fated, full of significance. I felt connected to
this lion. I hoped one day to hear that Samora
had established a territory and sired cubs, and I
feared learning that he’d been shot, or snared.
“Go well, Samora,” I wished silently as we pushed
the canoe off the sand bar. He acknowledged
our departure with a flick of his tail.
18 Samora on the riverbank, three days after we collared him.
