It is ancient wisdom that a leopard cannot change its spots. But after a stunning encounter in the heart of one of Africa’s last great wild places, I no longer believe this to be true.
Under the starlit skies of the iconic Gorongosa National Park in Mozambique, my job, assisted by five specially trained scent-hounds and their expert handler, was to locate a female leopard, tranquilise her and fit her with a new radio-collar. A blend of modern science and the ancient art of tracking prey on foot, all in the impenetrable inky blackness of the African night.
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We were interested in this particular female because we had some shaky footage and a few photos, captured more than a year ago, of her interacting with a pride of lions. But that was all we had. To find her, we had to rely on more old-fashioned methods – the dogs’ superb sense of smell and evidence of tracks on the ground.
The consensus was that the behaviour was a one-off, unlikely to signify a lasting bond. While in the planning stages of our operation we had predicted that, even if the leopard was still interacting with the lions, this fragile inter-species link would break when she realised she was being followed.
Leopards climb trees to avoid danger, whereas lions flee on the ground. And under pressure, wild animals typically revert to instinctive behaviours. Despite its liquid grace and ability to run, surely a leopard cannot slip off its spotted cloak?
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Yet, as we crouched our way through a riddle of narrow, mazy tunnels in the thickets of a dry riverbed, we were hit by a terrifying realisation: our leopard had led us straight to the lions.
Fear is, of course, a feeling. But in this case, it was also a smell: the pungent, acrid odour of lions that hung heavily in the oppressive stillness of those narrowing, clawing tunnels.
Some things happen slowly, and then all at once. We had been following this leopard over four long, painstaking nights, and evidence had slowly been mounting that she was not behaving as expected. But it was over the course of just a few seconds, as she led us into that nightmarish maze, that everything changed.
Operations such as this are about calculated risk. Following a lone leopard in the dark carries significant dangers but, under the supervision of professionals, the risk is acceptable. We had pushed as hard as we could, but the level of danger had now crossed a threshold.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
The hunters had become the hunted. We had to back out, and we had to do it fast. Hearts racing, we retreated, our eyes and ears urgently scanning the thicketed blackness for a dreaded ambush. I have never known fear like it.
Thankfully, as we made our getaway, the pungent smell of those fearsome cats faded and we reached safety. But ever since that night, my mind has been pursued by a restless stream of questioning.
Why would this leopard join forces with lions, and how long has this extraordinary coalition been together? When they hunt, do they hunt as one? When they kill, how do they divide the spoils? Does she still sleep in a tree like her ancestors, or on the ground beside her new-found comrades?
The mystery of the leopard who thinks she is a lion may be solved another day. Yet despite these tantalising questions, much of me hopes that it is not. Because part of the magic and the restorative power of nature lies in the unknown; that awe-inspiring feeling when we shake our heads and admit that we just don’t understand.
And what could be a more spine-tingling thought than this: somewhere out there, in the shadows of this beautiful and wild land, is a leopard who has changed her spots.
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Top image credit: Beto Tenente/Gorongosa Restoration Project
