WALKING WITH LIONS — a real-life encounter
5am. The world is quiet. We’re wide awake, restless, excited (terrified). Rolling through the damp air comes the roar of lions, calling in the new day.
My partner and I have both walked with lions before, and we both remember how scary it was the first time around. We probably wouldn’t be doing it again at all except for the fact we’d won a voucher to do it for free. After all, lions are big, dangerous animals; apex predators of the first degree.
5:45am. We’re sitting in a high-roofed lean-to on low-slung wooden benches, listening to the guide. He’s worked here for years and has been involved in the care of these lions since their birth. He informs us that these ‘little’ guys are ‘only’ 16 months old.
(Big enough to take you out, in other words.)
They’re part of the breeding program and will be released into a semi-wild state on designated reserves at the approximate age of 20 months. Just to reiterate, they’re 16 months old NOW — only 4 months away from being classified as adults and set free to hunt and kill things all by themselves.
Great.
He wraps up the introductory chat and then holds out a barrel full of sticks — walking-stick length but not nearly so stout. He decrees we must each choose one to take with us on our walk, to ward away the three almost fully grown lions if they get smart-ass.
A stick.
A STICK.
6am. Suitably armed (apparently), we follow him out across the dew-slicked grass, squinting through the extremely misty morning. The sounds of the bush around us are dampened by foggy tendrils; there is no sign of life beneath the grey light of dawn, and a heavy melancholy hangs in the air.
We reach the enclosure where the lions lounge when they’re not out for exercise, and two other guides appear suddenly out of the mist. As we attempt to calm our erratic heartbeats, they inform us that today we will be walking with one male lion and two females, who are all siblings. One of the guides opens the gate. In a heartbeat the lions are among us, checking us out.
Sizing us up.
We hardly saw them coming, they were that quick. The main guide warns sharply to stand still, and after a long, stretching second, the adolescent cats lose interest. Luckily, there’s a whole world out there to explore, and they’re not hungry right at this moment. We release shaky exhales, and follow the guides out along a sodden game trail.
My partner and I are locals, but there are a couple of tourists on the walk, too — giggling, eyes shining, and completely oblivious to the power of the 100kg killing machines stalking through the bush around us. Of course, these particular lions are referred to as ‘cubs’ still, so maybe that explains the nonchalance — but one of these two females already took down her first wildebeest at the age of 14 months.
A wildebeest is a prey animal about the weight of two and a half humans, if anyone is counting.
6:30am. We’ve lost sight of the cats. My partner and I are standing practically back to back, clutching our feeble sticks, trying to see through the mist and the long grass. They’re out there, watching us.
We can feel it.
The lead guide barks a command to the cats through the fog, demanding their return to line-of-sight for safety reasons. The two females respond.
The male doesn’t.
All three guides exchange a nervous glance. We catch the exchange — the tourists don’t. The guides (unobtrusively, to their credit) manoeuvre us into tighter formation, leaving no one out on a limb as a lone target. The tourists are nudging each other, squinting happily into the mists, trying to make out the whereabouts of the male lion. The guides are trying to spot him, too, but with much grimmer expressions.
Suddenly, the mist swirls and he explodes into view, leaping for us with giant claws unsheathed. His savagely golden eyes are focused, deadly.
The guides have no time to react.
But a female tackles him mid-air, and his attention is diverted. They roll away, wrestling and playing. Our hearts hammer a million miles an hour, echoing the speed of the near-death experience. We re-adjust our grip on our sticks, feeling faint. The tourists are practically cheering with excitement.
They have no idea how close that was. When even the guides are nervous, better buckle-up, butter-cup.
6:45am. The mist is clearing, finally. Golden rays of sunlight burn the grey away, pushing colour back into the world. We can see the lions far more easily now, and we breathe a little easier, too. We get busy with the camera, snapping as the cats play.
7:30am. We’re heading back. The morning has turned glorious, the sky is bright blue and clean-washed above the glowing gold and greens of the spring savanna. The lions have burnt off some energy and relaxed, now walking gamely along with us. Or maybe it’s we who have relaxed. They really are magnificent creatures — beautiful, noble, proud. Every step is the step of royalty; they revel in their own strength and make no apologies for their instincts.
We’re on the last stretch, nearly back to their daytime enclosure, when a waterbuck bolts across our path. Instantly the two females leapt to the chase, and the guides’ calls fall on deaf ears. We’re dangerously close to the main area of the lodges, where the guests stay. There are also stables, housing trail horses, not far beyond — and directly in the path of the two hunting lionesses.
There is a crescendo of frantic radio calls back and forth from our guides to the main camp, shouts to close all the gates between here and there, and all of the safety protocol that goes with it.
We’re instructed to stay where we are, which is not far from the male lion. He hasn’t gone bolting off, because the way of the King is to lie back and wait for his lionesses to catch him breakfast. His damp mane is encrusted with dewdrops, like a coronet of diamonds, and he lounges patiently with an expression of mild interest on his regal face.
7:45am. The other two guides come trotting back with relieved faces and the two lionesses following behind. The waterbuck is long gone, the hunt luckily having petered out before it reached anywhere that could cause further ‘excitement’. We’ve had a good time photographing the male in the interim, and we’re sad to say goodbye despite being thoroughly aware of his capabilities.
The lions return to their enclosure and we stand for a moment more, musing on the sheer power and grace they possess. Even these three, young though they may be, are a force to be reckoned with, and as we depart we’re filled with a surreal sense of loss after the adrenalin-filled morning.
Would we do it again?
Hell no.
But would we recommend walking with lions?
Hell yes!
This is the kind of experience you HAVE to have at least once in your lifetime — you won’t regret a second of it. The guides are trained, the lions recognise them as senior ‘pride members’, and the guests’ safety is a priority (well, it is for the guides, at least).
If you ever have the opportunity to walk with the king of beasts, DO IT.
But if you do, please remember who you’re walking with. Have fun, but have some respect. After all, just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t watching you.
