Another Snared Mountain Gorilla, Part 3

I kept looking at the cloud-choked sky as we hiked through the farmland on our way to the forest. It had poured rain overnight, and I could only hope it wouldn’t start again until after I’d had a chance to dart Nyandwi. Pablo Group had moved up to the area known as Bikereri (as high as 3300 meters); it would be cooler there. When it rains at that altitude, my hands turn numb, no matter how many layers of clothing I’m wearing.

By the time we reached the area where the gorillas were foraging, the skies were brighter, my eyeglasses were fogged, and I was dripping with sweat from the climb. Though the sun looked as though it might win out over the clouds, the air was damp. I quickly exchanged my wet hiking jacket for a dry one, first putting on a wool turtleneck and fleece pullover. I would have added my fleece hat except that Elisabeth thought Nyandwi might recognize it. The trackers smiled as they watched me get ready, wondering, no doubt, how many more articles of clothing I had stashed in my bag.



Ten minutes later we were with the gorillas. As planned, the darting team (two trackers, Elisabeth, myself, and Jean Felix) entered the group first in order to check on Nyandwi — or rather to check on her reaction to me. She was eating celery, and barely glanced in our direction as we approached. I didn’t think she’d seen my face or the dart gun the other day, as I’d been well hidden behind by the trees. If she remembered anything it was more likely to be the fact that something scary had happened while a cluster of people stood nearby. When she finished her meal, Nyandwi flopped down on her back for a rest. Clearly we were not making the patient nervous.

Next we held our briefing, as planned, for the trackers. There would be two lines of defense this time: six trackers ready to enter the group and make calming gorilla vocalizations (ah-hum, ah-hum) if Nyandwi screamed — as we expected her to do — and six more armed with wooden sticks to follow behind in case it was necessary to scare off the silverbacks. If the gorilla didn’t scream, Elisabeth would call for help only if we needed it. The protection team would stay together, led by Bosco, keeping as close as possible to the darting team without disrupting the gorillas. I’m not sure just how many teams we’d ended up with earlier in the week, but on this day we had just two. Elisabeth and Bosco checked that all radios were set to the same channel, and we were off.

Nyandwi had moved closer to the main group while we were made our final preparations, so much so that we walked right by Cantsbee on our way to find her. He and most of the group had just settled down for a rest. This was fine as long as Nyandwi kept moving, which she did. We followed her as she continued slowly down a steep slope into even thicker vegetation. One other silverback passed by to our right; then a blackback to our left. We needed to wait until she gained some distance from them as well. After almost an hour, Nyandwi crawled into the middle of a dense thicket of thorny bushes and sat down to eat berries and leaves. With branches screening us from her view, knowing we were a reasonable distance from Cantsbee, I was ready to dart. Elisabeth checked with Bosco. His team was ready, too.



I didn’t consciously think, "Okay, now Nyandwi is about to scream," but in the back of my mind I was sure this would happen, given her reaction two days earlier. At least we were ready for it. I pulled the trigger, the dart hit as intended on her left thigh, and she took off running uphill — without a sound!

Nyandwi knew, of course, where Cantsbee and the rest of the family were resting, and that’s where she headed. As we struggled up the hillside after her, I was pretty certain she’d fall asleep before she got all the way back to the group. But I worried that she might meet another gorilla along the way and that our mission would no longer be a secret to the rest of the group. Elisabeth immediately called Bosco and asked him to send the first six trackers quietly to help us look for Nyandwi — as well as protect us in case Cantsbee figured out what was happening. At one point, I climbed up a small ridge, expecting to find vegetation in front of me, and instead found myself looking up at one of the other silverbacks. He was yawning and stretching. He had no clue.

After ten minutes, we found Nyandwi lying under a clump of bushes. She was heavily sedated but still moving a little. I gave her a supplement of anesthetic, using a syringe, then asked for help to position her on the tarp and move her out into the open. I couldn’t believe we were going to get away with doing the procedure right under Cantsbee’s nose. But we did.



Concerned that moving our operation to a flatter, easier place to work (with fewer thorns) would alert the group, I decided to make the best of where we were. It was uncomfortable and awkward working on the hillside, yet the next part was the easy bit. I monitored anesthesia while Elisabeth and Jean Felix removed the snare and collected the usual set of blood samples. It rained lightly for a little while but stopped before we got too wet. Then Nyandwi began to wake up. Unfortunately, we hadn’t weighed or measured her yet. Given the difficult circumstances, I chose not to give her more anesthetic. We were done. The snare was off. Her group wasn’t far away.



I gave Nyandwi the anesthetic reversal that would help her wake up faster and more completely, and watched as she tried to stand up, only to tumble downhill a short distance, right into a thicket. Given the steep slope, the berry bushes were now a blessing; they’d kept her from rolling more than a few feet. She pulled herself to a sitting position, obviously trying to focus on all the people in front of her. Suddenly we were rushing again, to clean up and move our medical bags before she woke up enough to be afraid — and scream.



Now we were at the point in the intervention where it’s easy to become complacent. The patient appeared fine, she was only 70 meters from her group and almost fully awake. But everything could change if she went the wrong way, or hurt herself by falling farther downhill. For the next half hour, we stood quietly in the bushes to one side, waiting for her to become alert enough so that we could encourage her to return to the group.



Finally we decided to help her move. She might simply have been waiting for us to leave, but we couldn’t take the chance that she’d go downhill instead of up. Sure enough, when the trackers approached her, she got up, found a recent trail, and followed it downhill. We formed a half-circle below her so that she was forced to stop and think about which way to go. Our strategy worked. Soon we were following her uphill, all the way back to the group. Not a single gorilla seemed to notice that she’d been missing. They were scatted over the hillside in front of us, and in contrast to the other day, seemed indifferent to the fact that there were a dozen people watching them. Whew! Mission accomplished.

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