National Geographic: Last Feast of the Crocodiles Page #3

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the mother ranges up and down

the pool, calling.

A hungry warthog roots around for

choice pieces of rotting catfish...

while a kudu, heedless of

the crocs, drinks the mud...

The baboons didn't keep his kill

to himself for long.'

Yet the contest seems to be

as much about male dominance

as ownership of a carcass.

Meanwhile the warthog sees

a good opportunity.

She's little slow and no match

for an agile baboon.

As their pool dies around them

the hippos and crocs

lie marooned on the mud,

like creatures made of clay,

half-formed and waiting for

their creator to complete them.

A baboon risks all

on a thin crust of mud

as she searches

for puddles on the surface.

While all around her lie more than

a hundred crocs,

indistinguishable from the mud.

The mother is brave but the life and

death struggle is between these two.

If baboons have nightmares

this is surely one of them.

Torn between terror

and wanting to help,

the mother is unable to

rally any support.

She has escaped with muddy legs...

a sore face and,

possibly a haunting memory.

Right now she needs

some hands on grooming;

but there is none to be

had just a curious stare.

When everything seems to have reached

the end of endurance,

the sky fills with clouds,

and relief seems at hand.

The spell of the drought is broken.

The crocs return to life

and begin immediately to devour

the ripe remains of some old feast...

that was locked in the mud.

But the rain was just a fleeting

reminder of better times.

It does not break the drought.

The withering heat returns and draws

all remaining moisture from the pool.

The last hippo has moved on

and will probably die in

a hopeless search for water.

Only one old crocodile is left.

He was the largest,

the dominant croc.

He shows no signs of leaving.

He remains in his empty pool

like a stranded nightmare.

The other crocs have taken shelter

from the scorching sun

in the vegetation around the pool.

They lie motionless in the shade,

surviving on their last reserves.

The old male croc only

pushes deeper onto the mud,

covering himself

with the remains of his pool.

Six weeks later,

in the center of the pool,

at the place

where the water was deepest,

lies the skeleton of the big male

croc, dominant to the end.

Close by, are the bodies of

more than thirty baboons,

who succumbed when temperature

reached nearly 120 degrees.

And in the surrounding bush,

where they had sheltered from the sun,

are the desiccated remains

of the crocodiles.

But there are survivors.

In holes, dug deep into the riverbanks,

there are a few crocs.

Entombed in the cool dark,

they're able to conserve moisture

and wait for the return of their river.

For some day, beyond the distant hills,

where the weather is made,

it will rain again...

and the end of the drought will come

trickling down the riverbed.

No wild calls will welcome this sight,

but, as the river surges...

And flows deep enough to swim in,

who is to say that

the crocodiles won't rejoice...

and the birds won't revel

in that first flooding.

In nature there are few happy endings...

instead there is a continuing.

When the river returns...

survivors will replenish its banks

and the great cycle of life

and renewal will begin again.

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