The packs were hauled across a long pier-like bridge to the other side of the river. Planks laid down across pylons in a haphazard fashion usually not respected by gravity and weight. Green braided river grass swayed back and forth like calling hips in the thick slow moving water.
Naked boys laughed and swam, splashing about as their clothes baked on the riverbank green.
The smell of dry branches in the siege of morning dew filled the air. A peep show between the planks moved with my walking feet and I looked up, watching Tharu women in their proud colored saris carry huge head-held loads.
As we loaded our packs the jeep driver looked up towards the sky, “The monsoons will be here soon. We badly need them this year. This will probably be the last week, most tourists have already left.”
We drove down dirt roads and I reclined on makeshift backrests with the Terai air flowing through my hair like a lover’s hand. The jeep slowed and turned after about 20 minutes.
A man selling mangos from his bicycle waved and smiled at the driver. The road pulled into a little lodge with decorative gardens, just a walk away from the border of Chitwan National Forest in Southern Nepal.
We woke early the next morning. Our guides, Syam and Nagari, were dressed in green and wielding large bamboo sticks.
I asked “for tigers?” as I pointed towards the stick.
Syam replied, “Oh no, for sloth bears. They are very aggressive when surprised, but this will beat them off. A stick will do nothing tiger, only praying to your God will help you with that.”
I said, “Oh” and asked what Chitwan meant in Nepali.
“It means, uh . like a picture forest.”
We were briefed on what to do when faced with certain animals. Run zigzag from rhinos and find a tree, throwing your shirt or backpack in another direction will also disorient them. Stay together and shout with your arms up for the sloth bear. Crocs would be in the water so not swimming would be a good idea, and once again for tigers – pray.
The hike started as soon as the old man with dark sinewy arms poled us across the river. On the bank, high green grass stood as sentries to the shy horizon. A dirt road went on and on through the 5-6 foot tall grass. Small trails had us tiptoeing through the brush and into the tropical hardwood forests that mix with those grasslands.
Big thick fruit bearing trees rose high in those woods. Gnarled arthritic fingers of vine and underbrush dotted the panorama through the trees and shade of brown patchwork ground.
Syam picked up one of the miniature lime green fruits and held it up, “Rhino apples. The rhinocerous like these.”
We periodically picked out forest edges that overlooked the flowing savannahs.
I saw something, then I didn’t, then I did again. A sauntering gray back moved through, the spine and horn rising above that high grass, then disappeared as the rhinoceros bedded down.
My heart pumped with excitement while we waited to get another glimpse. I realized how big that animal must be to have a back a good foot or two higher than the top of my head.
As we continued, sounds clued me and my feet were moccasin quiet. Syam seemed to be tracking another rhino through an area of shaded pools.
Fresh tracks pointed their three-pronged way through the mud, then disappeared again where dry land stood. A steaming pile of dung brought hope back after the trail had grown cold. Syam pointed and whispered, “See . rhino apples.” He was right.
From there, mud, still wet in the blazing sun hung and dripped from green palmetto-like fingers of grass. More tracks were found, big and heavy in the ground.
I stooped and looked at the nether water puddled in the three-toed bowl. It seemed like we were beginning to walk in circles, and then we were, and then the trail was lost. No more hints, no more clues.
“Grass is too high.” Syam said.
In our search we did find, the markings of a young tiger trying to claim some of his first territory.
The big thick scratches dug into the cedar tree, shavings lying on the ground like a benevolent sacrifice. The small drops of sap just coming out, the thick blood in no hurry, the damage had just been done a few hours ago.
Later, we ate and rested in the heat of the day, taking naps at the foot of 100-foot trees bordering the grasslands. I wondered about that.
Syam shook his head, “Ohh, it is so hot now, only humans are foolish enough to be out. Every other animal is napping, noon is the safest time of day.”
I lay there but couldn’t nap. The wind echoed through the grass and sounded such a hymn.
A bird or two could be heard calling from afar. I just closed my eyes and smiled and it was much more enjoyable than any old nap.
After the sun had sat down enough to bear its rays, we started tracking again.
A sloth bear’s trail had led us to sandy banks and a loud shallow river tumbling over itself. Suddenly, Syam stopped and backed away after a noise. A hole with shadows dug in a dune is what we were looking at. “It has gone in its den. I do not wish to make it mad.”
From there, the river below held a good safe view of a large gharial crocodile.
Its body flowed in the water like grass without a conscious, the big long cigar nose slightly raised from the water. The croc grew wary of our presence and thrashed before swimming off.
We got closer and closer to being back, the sun setting and setting. I talked with my guide about things as the thunderstorm rolled in.
“Not many people like to do this hike at this time of the year, he said.”
“Yeah, I guess the grass is just too high for good pictures.” I said.
“Well, that too, but also, it is also the most dangerous time of year.” I said “Oh.”
The skies opened up and Syam said to us, “Monsoons, maybe only days before they are here now.”
The next few days were enjoyable as well. An elephant ride got us close enough to see the black of rhinos’ eyes. We rented a bike and rode out to the area called 20,000 lakes and saw beautiful birds swooping and diving in Crayola colors.
A fishing cat darted through our path on the way back that day, it’s leopard like skin flowing into the brush.
Looking back, there were many events in the jungle that I will remember as great, even the simple riverbank dusk with a few not-so-finely crafted Nepali ales or riding on riverside trails with three Nepali boys holding on for dear life as we headed to a gharial nest site.
There was nothing though, that compared with smelling, being in the vacinity of those tiger scrathes that could’ve been your flesh or walking back in those jungle sized rain drops falling on me and that picture forest.

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