TOWARDS THE END OF that summer I went to Botswana, met up with Teej and Mike. They’d recently done masterwork on the David
Attenborough series Planet Earth, and a few other BBC films, and now they were shooting an important film about elephants. Several herds, stressed by habitat encroachment and drought, were stampeding into Namibia in search of food, running straight into the arms of poachers— hundreds, armed with AK-47s. Teej and Mike hoped their film might shine a light on this rolling massacre.
I asked if I could help. They didn’t hesitate. Course, Spike.
In fact, they offered to hire me as a credited, though unpaid, cameraman.
From Day One they talked about how different I seemed. Not that I wasn’t always a hard worker, but clearly I’d learned from the Army how to take direction. They never had to tell me anything twice.
Many times during that shoot we’d be riding around the bush in their flatbed truck and I’d gaze off and think: How bizarre. My whole life I’ve despised photographers, because they specialize in stealing your freedom,
and now I’m a working photographer, fighting to preserve the freedom of these majestic animals. And feeling freer in the process.
More ironic, I was filming veterinarians as they put tracking devices on the animals. (The devices would help researchers better understand the herd’s migration patterns.) Until now, I didn’t have the happiest associations with tracking devices.
One day we filmed a vet dart a big bull elephant, then wrap a tracking collar around his neck. But the dart only nicked the elephant’s tough skin, so he was able to gather himself and charge away.
Mike yelled:Â Grab the camera, Spike! Run!
The elephant was tearing through thick bush, mostly along a sandy path, though sometimes there was no path. The vet and I tried to stay in his footprints. I couldn’t believe the animal’s speed. He went eight kilometers before slowing, then stopping. I kept my distance, and when the vet caught up, I watched him put another dart into the elephant. Finally the big fella went down.
Moments later Mike came roaring up in his truck. Good job, Spike!
I was panting, hands on my knees, bathed in sweat.
Mike looked down in horror. Spike. Where are your shoes?
Oh. Yeah. Left them on the truck. Didn’t think there was time to grab them.
You ran eight kilometers…through the bush…in no shoes?
I laughed. You told me to run. Like you said, the Army taught me how to take direction.
