They had come to the reserve from Pretoria, South Africa, during the early spring following the 7 hot summers. Two full days of rugged travel by bus and jeep.
And now, although the distance short, the hike had taken more than 90 minutes. There were no trails, only a mixture of desert sand and a very fine dust. The day was hot and, the sun very bright. The wind whistled and blew desert heat. The reddish dust was all around them. Their lips were wind-cracked and their faces coated with the dust. They squinted against the brilliance of the sun. The father placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and they paused.
“Just over there,” the guide pointed to an area just beyond a small rise in the ground. They looked in the direction the guide had pointed and saw a dust cloud dancing in the heat shimmer. Both father and son took a drink of hot water from their canteens. The father looked at the temperature reading on his watch. “109,” he said as he shook his head just slightly. He screwed the top back on his canteen and looked over to his son.
“Good to go?” he asked.
The boy nodded and lifted his hat off of his head momentarily to let the heat escape. The boy looked tired. His face was covered with the red dust, dark and dirty, streaked where his sweat ran down. His khaki shirt was drenched and the dust had begun to settle into the fabric, mottling the shirt a wet, reddish tan.
The guide started to walk in the direction he had pointed. Each step caused a cloud of very fine, red dust to lift into the air where it seemed to hang briefly before being pushed by the wind. The father and son followed behind, the dust again, already in their throats. They watched the dust explode with each step of the guide.
They climbed to the top of the rise and stopped. They could see the corral perhaps 300 yards ahead of them on the plain. The corral area shimmered in the heat. The dust appeared to thicken around the corral. They could see a few people milling about the perimeter of the corral, frozen lethargic by the heat. Most wore dull colors. There were a few tents and sunscreens about 100 feet away from the corral. A man in a non-descript, tan uniform slumped behind a sunscreen, slowly waving a fan. Two older jeeps sat alongside the tent area. The guided started to walk down the back of the rise and the father and son followed.
At first they didn’t see the rhino but as they drew closer they could see him. The rhino lay, almost half submerged, in a shallow puddle of mud and appeared motionless. His skin was the same color as the mud and from a distance the rhino seemed part of the landscape. When you stared for a while you could see his body swell and compress from breathing. The rhino’s eyes stared at nothing and did not blink.
A uniformed caretaker climbed over the fence of the corral with a bucket of water and walked over to the edge of the puddle and threw the water directly on the rhino’s back where it ran down into the mud. The rhino didn’t move. The caretaker took a step into the mud and patted the rear flank of the rhino and then backed away carrying the bucket.
The father and son walked up to the fence of the corral. The father leaning on the top rail, while the son rested on the second rail from the top. They stared at the rhino. They could see some type of large beetle crawling on the skin of the rhino. There were many beetles.
“Is that him?” the boy asked, sounding disappointed.
“Yes,” said the father, “that’s him.”
“Is he sleeping?”
“Maybe.”
“I think he’s sleeping.”
“Maybe.”
The father took a deep breath and softly added, speaking to only to himself, “Dying.”
The boy didn’t hear.
The father could still remember the reporter, on the television, dressed in khaki with the pith helmet, standing right over there at the corner of the corral. Speaking into his microphone about the last, black rhino, the last of the species, standing in a mud puddle in a wretched part of Zimbabwe. The camera zeroed in on the rhino’s face, the eyes looked weak. The father remembered the last words the reporter spoke. “I won’t ever forget this. I can’t express how terribly sad I feel. We are soon to be less.” The camera pulled away from the reporter and panned over to the rhino in the puddle. A caretaker was seen splashing water from a bucket onto the rhino’s back and the picture faded out. A chord was sadly struck, and was compelling enough, to lead them here.
And now here they were, in a wretched part of Zimbabwe, looking at the very last, black rhino, dying in the puddle. The father felt vacant.
They watched the rhino for 20 minutes or so without speaking, occasionally rubbing their eyes to clear dust and sweat. Their breathing was fast, with shallow breaths of hot air.
“I feel sad,” the boy said to no one. He pushed himself back from the railing.
The father turned away from the rhino and looked back over his shoulder toward the direction they had come from. He could see nothing but scrub plants and reddish earth. The wind swept dust clouded the view toward the rise in the land. He turned back to the rhino and leaned on the rail. He stepped back to open his canteen and have some water. His son saw this and did the same. The water was hot as they drank.
The sun was searing. Both could feel the grit in their nose and mouth. Both were still breathing quickly from the exertion of the walk. They watched as the caretaker again walked back toward the puddle with another bucket of water to pour on the rhino.
The father spoke quietly to the boy. This was the last. The father’s eyes welled as he spoke but did not tear. He used the heel of his hands to rub each eye. He had stopped speaking and was breathing heavy. The boy watched his father. The boy heard another bucket of water being thrown on the rhino and turned to look. The father looked as well.
The caretaker looked over, pointed to the son and waved. He was inviting the son to come in the corral. The boy looked again at the rhino and then at the caretaker. He shook his head no. The boy placed his hand on top of his father’s on the top rail. The caretaker shrugged his shoulders and looked away. A couple of other people leaning on the rail turned and briefly looked at the boy.
“Go on,” someone yelled.
The boy shook his head. The father lifted his hand from under the boy’s hand, grabbed the boy’s hand and squeezed. He looked over at the person who had yelled and then looked down at his son.
Everyone had turned back toward the rhino. Everyone was dirty from the heat and the dust. Everyone was squinting.
The boy tapped his father’s hand and looked up.
“Can we go now?”
“Yes,” his father said without any thought. He looked around for the guide and heard the sound of a splash in the corral. The father turned back toward the sound and as he did the boy grabbed his hand and gave it a weak pull.
The father and the boy both looked over at the rhino with the expressionless eyes.
The guide tapped the father on the shoulder and the father turned to see the guide jerking his head in the direction that they had come from. The father looked at his son and nodded.
The father looked back at the rhino and thought that this was the last one. The last one was dying in a muddy puddle in a wretched part of Zimbabwe.
The guide began to walk towards the rise and the heat shimmer and they followed.
And now, although the distance short, the hike had taken more than 90 minutes. There were no trails, only a mixture of desert sand and a very fine dust. The day was hot and, the sun very bright. The wind whistled and blew desert heat. The reddish dust was all around them. Their lips were wind-cracked and their faces coated with the dust. They squinted against the brilliance of the sun. The father placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and they paused.
“Just over there,” the guide pointed to an area just beyond a small rise in the ground. They looked in the direction the guide had pointed and saw a dust cloud dancing in the heat shimmer. Both father and son took a drink of hot water from their canteens. The father looked at the temperature reading on his watch. “109,” he said as he shook his head just slightly. He screwed the top back on his canteen and looked over to his son.
“Good to go?” he asked.
The boy nodded and lifted his hat off of his head momentarily to let the heat escape. The boy looked tired. His face was covered with the red dust, dark and dirty, streaked where his sweat ran down. His khaki shirt was drenched and the dust had begun to settle into the fabric, mottling the shirt a wet, reddish tan.
The guide started to walk in the direction he had pointed. Each step caused a cloud of very fine, red dust to lift into the air where it seemed to hang briefly before being pushed by the wind. The father and son followed behind, the dust again, already in their throats. They watched the dust explode with each step of the guide.
They climbed to the top of the rise and stopped. They could see the corral perhaps 300 yards ahead of them on the plain. The corral area shimmered in the heat. The dust appeared to thicken around the corral. They could see a few people milling about the perimeter of the corral, frozen lethargic by the heat. Most wore dull colors. There were a few tents and sunscreens about 100 feet away from the corral. A man in a non-descript, tan uniform slumped behind a sunscreen, slowly waving a fan. Two older jeeps sat alongside the tent area. The guided started to walk down the back of the rise and the father and son followed.
At first they didn’t see the rhino but as they drew closer they could see him. The rhino lay, almost half submerged, in a shallow puddle of mud and appeared motionless. His skin was the same color as the mud and from a distance the rhino seemed part of the landscape. When you stared for a while you could see his body swell and compress from breathing. The rhino’s eyes stared at nothing and did not blink.
A uniformed caretaker climbed over the fence of the corral with a bucket of water and walked over to the edge of the puddle and threw the water directly on the rhino’s back where it ran down into the mud. The rhino didn’t move. The caretaker took a step into the mud and patted the rear flank of the rhino and then backed away carrying the bucket.
The father and son walked up to the fence of the corral. The father leaning on the top rail, while the son rested on the second rail from the top. They stared at the rhino. They could see some type of large beetle crawling on the skin of the rhino. There were many beetles.
“Is that him?” the boy asked, sounding disappointed.
“Yes,” said the father, “that’s him.”
“Is he sleeping?”
“Maybe.”
“I think he’s sleeping.”
“Maybe.”
The father took a deep breath and softly added, speaking to only to himself, “Dying.”
The boy didn’t hear.
The father could still remember the reporter, on the television, dressed in khaki with the pith helmet, standing right over there at the corner of the corral. Speaking into his microphone about the last, black rhino, the last of the species, standing in a mud puddle in a wretched part of Zimbabwe. The camera zeroed in on the rhino’s face, the eyes looked weak. The father remembered the last words the reporter spoke. “I won’t ever forget this. I can’t express how terribly sad I feel. We are soon to be less.” The camera pulled away from the reporter and panned over to the rhino in the puddle. A caretaker was seen splashing water from a bucket onto the rhino’s back and the picture faded out. A chord was sadly struck, and was compelling enough, to lead them here.
And now here they were, in a wretched part of Zimbabwe, looking at the very last, black rhino, dying in the puddle. The father felt vacant.
They watched the rhino for 20 minutes or so without speaking, occasionally rubbing their eyes to clear dust and sweat. Their breathing was fast, with shallow breaths of hot air.
“I feel sad,” the boy said to no one. He pushed himself back from the railing.
The father turned away from the rhino and looked back over his shoulder toward the direction they had come from. He could see nothing but scrub plants and reddish earth. The wind swept dust clouded the view toward the rise in the land. He turned back to the rhino and leaned on the rail. He stepped back to open his canteen and have some water. His son saw this and did the same. The water was hot as they drank.
The sun was searing. Both could feel the grit in their nose and mouth. Both were still breathing quickly from the exertion of the walk. They watched as the caretaker again walked back toward the puddle with another bucket of water to pour on the rhino.
The father spoke quietly to the boy. This was the last. The father’s eyes welled as he spoke but did not tear. He used the heel of his hands to rub each eye. He had stopped speaking and was breathing heavy. The boy watched his father. The boy heard another bucket of water being thrown on the rhino and turned to look. The father looked as well.
The caretaker looked over, pointed to the son and waved. He was inviting the son to come in the corral. The boy looked again at the rhino and then at the caretaker. He shook his head no. The boy placed his hand on top of his father’s on the top rail. The caretaker shrugged his shoulders and looked away. A couple of other people leaning on the rail turned and briefly looked at the boy.
“Go on,” someone yelled.
The boy shook his head. The father lifted his hand from under the boy’s hand, grabbed the boy’s hand and squeezed. He looked over at the person who had yelled and then looked down at his son.
Everyone had turned back toward the rhino. Everyone was dirty from the heat and the dust. Everyone was squinting.
The boy tapped his father’s hand and looked up.
“Can we go now?”
“Yes,” his father said without any thought. He looked around for the guide and heard the sound of a splash in the corral. The father turned back toward the sound and as he did the boy grabbed his hand and gave it a weak pull.
The father and the boy both looked over at the rhino with the expressionless eyes.
The guide tapped the father on the shoulder and the father turned to see the guide jerking his head in the direction that they had come from. The father looked at his son and nodded.
The father looked back at the rhino and thought that this was the last one. The last one was dying in a muddy puddle in a wretched part of Zimbabwe.
The guide began to walk towards the rise and the heat shimmer and they followed.
â“’FredGustafson2010 All rights reserved