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  Steve and I discussed the situation. We were willing to give it a try. Our major concern was that we lacked an essential tool: a team of trackers. Our philosophy had always been that if you can’t find your elephant after you have anesthetized it, you shouldn’t anesthetize it in the first place! The Pygmy people of central Africa have exceptional tracking skills. During our earlier elephant work, we’d been assisted by a team of BaAka Pygmies, but there was no way to reassemble them quickly enough for this patient. Fortunately, we found two Gabonese guards working for the World Wildlife Fund who agreed to help with tracking. Without them, I doubt we would even have tried to dart the elephant.

  We flew to the coastal town of Gamba, set up our gear at the building that would serve as our home and laboratory, and met with local people to hear what they knew about the lame elephant’s condition and current whereabouts. In late afternoon, the team started its search; several hours after sunset, we caught our first glimpse of the injured elephant, limping across the savanna about thirty feet from where we stood. Using our flashlights, we could see he was a beautiful adult bull elephant in the prime of life (we estimated him to be in his midtwenties), standing approximately eight feet at the shoulders with short, straight tusks. More important, we could see a band of constricted skin and muscle around his lower left front leg.

  I knew instantly that we didn’t have much time before the animal would develop a bone infection, osteomyelitis, or irreversible tissue damage to the foot from lack of blood flow. At that point, treatment would be futile. As soon as possible, I had to get in a position where I could safely dart this elephant.

  We spent our second day searching for him. As night fell, he reappeared, walking out from the forest into the savanna. He was almost within range, in a clear area, and my dart gun was loaded. All I had to do was get a bit closer. I felt incredibly lucky. Just twenty-four hours after the search began, we’d soon have our patient on the “operating ground,” anesthetized for snare removal and wound treatment. Or so I thought.

  Unfortunately, the elephant saw us and limped away as quickly as his painful leg would allow. The remaining daylight was fading fast. Though I knew my position now was less than ideal, I fired—and missed. At that point, I had no choice but to accept the fact that evening conditions were not safe for either people or elephants. I elected not to shoot again. It was a blow to our team. No one spoke as we walked back to the truck; I wondered if the others were thinking, How could she miss a target the size of an elephant?

  During the next four days, we covered a great deal of ground on foot and by truck, hoping to find the elephant again so I could safely dart him, ideally in a clearing away from water during daylight hours. We followed tracks and various leads given to us from people living in the area. We looked specifically for signs of our lame bull. From the size and spacing of the footprints, we could differentiate a forest elephant with a normal gait from one with a limp.

  On several occasions, we sat for hours near patches of forest where we had calculated that the elephant had entered, or where we thought he would exit. Despite our efforts, we could not find him. Maybe he wouldn’t give us that second chance. Frustrated, tired, and worried, we knew we were running out of time. We had lost our elephant.

  On the evening of the fifth day, the elephant found us. Limping badly, he walked out of the forest and through a clearing about one hundred feet from our truck, just as the team was preparing to end the day’s search. I had been standing, ready and waiting with my dart gun, near this spot for hours prior to the elephant’s bold move. As he walked past me in the fading light, we all knew there was no chance of safely darting him. Thirty seconds later, he had entered the forest on the far side of the clearing and again disappeared from sight. I disassembled my gun and packed up my equipment; this was the end of yet another frustrating day. Could the elephant be smarter than our entire team?

  The elephant must have been waiting among the dense trees, watching us. Maybe he chose that particular time to cross the clearing because he knew that as darkness fell, I would not again attempt to dart him. Maybe he knew that we could no longer follow his tracks for the rest of the night. Did he also know that my gun and anesthetic drug were part of a plan to help, rather than cause him harm? I wanted to believe that this animal understood—on some level—what we were trying to do for him. Maybe he’d come out from the forest to let us know he was still alive. Or maybe he was simply ready to walk from one side of the clearing to the other, and our presence had nothing to do with it. We resumed our search the next morning.

  Two days later, we closed in on our patient once again. His movements had slowed, and he now spent most of his time in, or near, a small lake. I sat for hours on the water’s edge watching him from a distance. He would swim into the center, presumably to take weight off the painful leg. Then he would return to the shore, fill his trunk with lake water, and squirt it over the wound, cleaning it—his own method of administering hydrotherapy. He repeated this treatment many times throughout the day. I watched in amazement and admiration. The elephant showed me something we very rarely observe: self-treatment by an animal patient. Sadly, he couldn’t remove the metal snare on his own. It was also obvious that his lameness had worsened and that the swelling had increased significantly in the area around the snare. I was determined to help him, no matter what it took.

  We could no longer wait for the perfect opportunity; there might never be one. After much discussion, Steve and I decided that darting the animal on the lake’s edge was our only option. Our biggest concern was that, once darted, the elephant would immediately rush into the center of the lake. If this happened, we would have to somehow force him to change course before the anesthesia took effect. Otherwise, he would surely drown. We would need to devise a plan.

  The following day, with Steve and one of the trackers, I moved into a patch of forest on the lake’s edge. There we sat and waited, watching the elephant resting in the lake as he had the day before. After several hours, he moved to the bank and began to feed on the vegetation within reach of his trunk. We knew this was our best chance. I would have to take this shot if we were to have any chance of saving our patient’s life.

  Slowly advancing along the edge of the lake, using the trees for cover, I cut the distance down to about 175 feet. Not ideal—half that distance would have been better—but good enough, I hoped. The elephant looked in my direction; he sensed my presence and seemed almost as nervous as I felt. It was time to pull the trigger. I fired and the dart hit him in the middle of the left thigh muscle. From where I stood, it appeared that the anesthetic had been injected. A perfect shot!

  Now my mind was racing. We had to track him from a safe distance, but close enough to ensure we could reach the elephant soon after the drug took effect. Most important, we needed to keep him out of the deep water. The elephant ran straight toward the center of the lake, just as we’d anticipated. But Steve had devised an ingenious plan the night before. He radioed the second tracker, who was waiting in a small motorboat around the bend in the lake. As the boat sped out into the open lake, the elephant changed his course and swam away from the boat, toward the forest edge.

  We struggled to keep up with him, running in hip-deep water, our adrenaline pumping. When he disappeared into the trees, we raced after his footprints. The next forty-five minutes felt like hours and seconds all in one. Without Pygmy trackers, Steve and I had worried that our own tracking skills would not be sufficient to lead us to the elephant. We ran through the thick forest unable to see our patient, sweat blurring our vision, branches cutting our faces and limbs. It was only from the sounds of breaking trees and rustling bushes ahead that we knew he was not yet anesthetized.

  Most forest elephants we’ve darted go down under the effects of the drug within twenty minutes. Thirty minutes into the chase, I decided to make a second dart, concerned that the first one might not have injected the drug properly and that we were in fact chasing a fully awake, injured elephant. Standing
in a small clearing as I prepared my equipment, I could hear him moving just inside the forest cover. Then there was no sound. Had he moved on? Was he standing there by the forest edge waiting for us to come in after him? Was he okay? Why hadn’t they taught me this in vet school?

  When the second dart was ready, we all headed back into the trees. The elephant had disappeared once again. We raced after his footprints. Forty minutes after I’d fired the first dart back at the lake, we heard heavy breathing and the rustling sounds of branches just a few feet ahead of us. Then we spotted the elephant lying down but attempting to stand. It appeared that the anesthesia I’d used was not a high enough dose. The elephant was fighting the effects of the morphine-like drug. Severe pain combined with high levels of stress can override this anesthetic. His adrenaline levels—like ours—must have been off the charts by this time.

  Cautiously, I approached the elephant from the rear and hand-injected a second dose of anesthetic. Two minutes later, our patient was finally ready for treatment.

  We removed the snare, cleaned the wound, applied topical antibiotic, administered a tetanus vaccine, and gave him an elephant-sized injection of long-acting antibiotic. His foot appeared viable: the tissues bled easily and there was no bone exposed—both excellent signs. I also collected a blood sample that we later analyzed to assess his general health. Once the team was a safe distance away, I gave the elephant his anesthetic reversal.

  Three minutes later, he was standing and walking away from us. For the first time, he was doing exactly what we wanted him to do.

  Had my patient been in a zoo, I would have scheduled twice-daily treatments and daily antibiotic injections. But of course, elephants don’t run into poaching snares in zoos, nor do they require their doctors to track them for eight days in the jungle. Here we could only rely on a onetime dose of medicine, the elephant’s self-treatments, and time. With the snare off, at least he had a chance. I’m thankful that my veterinary skills could help save at least one animal from this terrible and cruel fate.

  The elephant, whom I’d named Tobbie Deux after my twenty-one-year-old three-legged cat, was seen later the same day of treatment as well as many times since. He no longer has a limp, but the scar remains, a reminder to him—and to us—of the snare that could have killed him. When he looks at the scar, I wonder if it reminds him of the humans who set the snare, or the four-person team who chased him for eight days and saved his life. I’d like to believe it’s the latter.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sharon L. Deem has conducted conservation and research projects for captive and free-ranging wildlife in nineteen countries around the world. Dr. Deem received her bachelor’s degree in biology from Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, her doctorate in veterinary medicine from Virginia–Maryland Regional College of Veterinary Medicine, and her PhD in veterinary epidemiology from the University of Florida, where she also completed a three-year zoo and wildlife medicine residency. Dr. Deem is board certified by the American College of Zoological Medicine. Her interests in wildlife veterinary medicine focus on the spread of disease between domestic animals and wildlife and the impact of environmental changes and human contact on the health and conservation of wild species. She is the author of over fifty journal articles, ten book chapters, and numerous other papers. Dr. Deem currently works for the St. Louis Zoo’s WildCare Institute as a veterinary epidemiologist. She; her husband, Dr. Stephen Blake; and their son, Charlie, recently moved to the Galápagos Islands for their next adventure.

  Partners in the Mist: A Close Call

  by Christopher Whittier, DVM,

  with Felicia Nutter, DVM, PhD

  Few people are fortunate enough to realize their dream jobs. Even fewer are able to do so in partnership with their spouses. When Felicia and I were given that opportunity as field veterinarians for the Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project (MGVP), we knew there was more than enough work for us both, but we weren’t sure exactly how we would divide it.

  Our second case in the field, just three weeks after Felicia joined me in Rwanda in December 2002, proved a major test of our teamwork. It involved a young adult male gorilla that had recently been forced out of his group. Ironically, he was named Joliami, the French translation of “nice friend,” something he turned out not to be.

  There are no books on gorilla medicine. Because they are so similar to humans, and such valuable members of any captive collection, most zoo gorillas receive cutting-edge treatment from highly specialized human and veterinary medical experts. In the wild, gorilla medicine is more like giving first aid on a battlefield, usually in the rain.

  The mandate of MGVP is to intervene with wild gorillas only when cases are life threatening or human-induced. The biggest threats to their health include injuries to hands or feet from poachers’ snares and exposure to human infectious diseases, particularly flulike respiratory disease, introduced by park visitors. But sometimes even minor injuries can develop into serious conditions. This leaves a fair amount of ambiguity and interpretation in deciding whether to treat the animal or not, a situation that can be both good and bad from the field veterinarian’s perspective.

  In this case, Joliami had suffered many severe cuts and lacerations all over his body. The cause of his injuries was unknown, but they were most likely the result of a fight with one or more gorillas, a circumstance that normally does not warrant intervention. There was a remote possibility that he had been caught in a vicious type of poachers’ trap used to maim and capture wild buffalo, but this scenario seemed less likely.

  We discussed the situation with the park staff, the government officials who oversee the Parc National des Volcans in Rwanda, and other conservation partners. Ultimately the decision to intervene was based on the fact that Joliami had such severe wounds on both hands that he was unable to walk or to eat properly. We feared he could lose multiple fingers, perhaps even most of his hands, which would doom him to starvation and death. Additionally, the population had recently suffered the poaching deaths of almost a dozen healthy gorillas. The stakeholders felt that saving one young silverback (adult male gorilla), even if endangered only by natural injuries, would be worthwhile.

  Felicia made the initial solo check after the report of Joliami’s injuries. He was in such a miserable state that she immediately administered antibiotic treatment with darts. On her return, she raised the possibility of intervening surgically to deal with his wounds. We discussed the issue and decided to mobilize a full intervention team for the following day, which happened to be New Year’s Eve.

  We gathered our backpacks full of medical equipment and started early in the morning, with the famous Virunga Volcanoes still draped in mist. The team included the two of us, along with the Rwandan park’s veterinary technician, Elisabeth Nyirakaragire; an Australian behavioral research intern, Graham Wallace; and several of the most experienced of the gorilla park staff, including the highly respected Faustin Barabwiriza from the Karisoke Research Center.

  Barabwiriza had been hired by Dian Fossey as a young camp assistant before rising through the ranks to become the leader of the team that followed Joliami’s group. He was invaluable for his familiarity with the individual gorillas, including Joliami, but not easy for us to communicate with because he knew no English and only a little French. It had been years since Felicia or I had studied Swahili, and we struggled to learn Kinyarwanda. Still, we could usually muster enough common language to communicate during our field days with Barabwiriza, if only because when at work he was a man of few words. Much of his communication was via nods and gestures, and sometimes a disappointed shake of his head when we misidentified an individual gorilla that was as familiar to him as a member of his own family. At parties, after downing a giant Primus beer, a different Barabwiriza emerged, this one often first onto the dance floor, a huge grin on his face as he performed one of the traditional Rwandan men’s dances, stomping along to the drums in his knee-high rubber boots. This dichotomy, along with his history
and experience, had already endeared him to us.

  Although we were hiking up to Joliami’s vicinity fully prepared for immobilization and treatment, we needed to reassess his condition first before making a final decision to intervene. One of the nice aspects of working as a team was that Felicia and I could discuss such cases and make our decisions together. In this instance, she elected not to influence my impressions of Joliami’s condition, saying I should have a first look at him with Graham and Barabwiriza before comparing notes with what she’d seen the previous day.

  The three of us found the injured gorilla about twenty meters off the trail, sitting with his hands tucked into his chest and licking his wounds. I knew Joliami from previous years but had not seen him for a while. Like most male gorillas approaching adulthood, he’d been something of a prankster, liking to show off his bravery and strength by toying with human visitors—pushing them around, trying to remove their backpacks. Of course, this degree of contact is discouraged for both human and gorilla safety, but it’s not always easy to follow the rules in the home of a three-hundred-pound gorilla intent on doing as he pleases. Though these encounters could sometimes be dangerous, it was hard to take Joliami very seriously, in part because he had oversized, prominent ears that gave him a cartoonish, goofy look.

  But he was no joke on this visit. The previous day, he’d been so miserable that he’d sat and let Felicia shoot two darts into him without resistance. He’d simply groaned as the first dart hit his right thigh, then feebly moved about six feet away. At the sound of the soft pifft made by the CO2 gun as it fired again, he’d turned his head to follow the flight of the second dart as it landed in his left thigh. Usually the injection of ten milliliters of thick penicillin from each dart stung enough to elicit a response from the patient, but Joliami remained listless.