IN A HELICOPTER OVER KRUGER one morning, we flew in long loopy circles, searching for the telltale signs. Suddenly I spotted the most telltale sign
of all.
There, I said.
Vultures.
We quickly descended.
Clouds of vultures took flight as we touched the ground.
We jumped out, saw frantic footprints in the dust, shell casings glinting in the sun. Blood everywhere. We followed the trail into the bush and found a huge white rhino, a gaping hole where her horn had been hacked. There were wounds all along her back. Fifteen craters, by my count.
Her six-month-old baby lay beside her, dead.
We pieced together what had happened. Poachers had shot the mother. She and her baby had run. The poachers chased them to this spot. The mother was still able to defend or shield her baby, so the poachers hacked her spine with axes, immobilizing her. While she was still alive, bleeding out, they’d taken her horn.
I couldn’t speak. The sun beat down from a hot blue sky.
My bodyguard asked the ranger: Which was killed first, the baby or the mother?
Hard to say.
I asked: Do you think the poachers are close by? Can we find them? Impossible.
Even if they were in the area—needle, haystack.
