A Forest in the Clouds

by John Fowler

  Peter and I needed to get out of there, but we were then in the middle of the herd. We wanted to rejoin Group 5, but there were elephants between us and them. Within moments, a gorilla screamed. An elephant answered with an angry roar, and it sounded like a gorilla-elephant interaction was taking place ahead of us near the Porter Trail. Icarus hooted and beat his chest, pokka pokka POK! Elephants charged through the forest, the rancor punctuated with more of their loud roars. Seeing a large hagenia tree, Peter and I climbed its wide trunk to get above the fray. Icarus sounded again, his chest beats answered with more elephant trumpet blasts. The two of us remained treed, out of harm’s way, as we saw and heard that the herd was moving collectively again, rushing to regroup in a southeasterly direction.

  Only when the last trumpets and roars faded far enough away to our southeast did Peter and I feel it was safe enough for us to leave the security of our tree. On the ground again, we soon picked up the trail of Group 5, which led us uphill to them near the Porter Trail. There they fed again in more vernonia trees, as if all was well, except Icarus, who was gallantly bringing up the rear, like a soldier coming home from battle. Eyeing a tree, Icarus climbed its trunk and snapped it down effortlessly to reward himself with a cluster of the favored bulbs. We saw elephant footprints scattered all about as we reached the Porter Trail, but not without flushing a buffalo from a thicket, just to add one more rush of excitement. After Icarus depleted the last of his vernonia bulbs and moved across the trail to join his group, Peter and I called it a day. I call it a most memorable one.

  As our days at Karisoke drew to a close, Peter and I talked about leaving. Peter, who had been there a year longer than me, felt saddened by the very thought, but I looked forward to it with longing, and Christmas at home.

  “I hope it fucking rains like hell the day I leave,” Peter said. “That would at least make me feel better about it.”

  “Really? Not me,” I said. “I want it to be a beautiful, clear, warm, sunny day, so I can remember this place at its best.”

  There had been too many mixed emotions for me, starting with Dian. I wanted the experience to end the way I had dreamed it would, wonderful, exciting, and beautiful. It had been all that, but in a much more complex way than I could’ve ever imagined. I had become, in many ways, a different person. Not jaded, but aware and wiser in the ways of the world.

  Out with gorillas, we had many hours staring at the scenic vistas before us. I never tired of the views, always taking delight when the clouds cleared. Once, as Rwanda’s short rainy season began, the young tracker Toni and I could see fourteen waterfalls cascading from the slopes of Karisimbi after we sat through a downpour with Group 5. I was mesmerized by the stark white cascades, falling from the velvety green, lit by the bright sunlight in the rain-washed air.

  Each Virunga volcano was beautiful in its own way, but Karisimbi dominated the others in sheer height of its symmetrical cone as one of Africa’s tallest. Its visage was a textbook illustration of altitudinal zones, and volcanic geology up its slope, from the hagenia-hypericum tree zone below, all the way up to its alpine region and barren cinder cone. As our departure dates neared, Peter and I vowed to climb to its summit. Our new friend and neighbor, Conrad Aveling shared our enthusiasm, and opted to join in.

  “If nothing else, I’m up for the camaraderie,” Conrad said, joining in our plans.

  Karisoke’s peak was a place even few Rwandans had ever been, but when we told our accomplished tracker Nameye of our plan, we were a party of four. Enthusiastic Nameye knew of a route, and would be our guide. When the rains of the little rainy season had abated, and we were into the short dry season, we would climb. That way, we would ensure not only better weather for climbing and camping, but a good view from the summit. Once again, Peter, through his study of Group 5, had forecast another baby. There was a good chance Pantsy would give birth while we were up on Karisimbi, but Peter doubted his own predictive skills just enough. Although he had a one hundred percent accuracy rate so far, Maggie’s birth had been his sole sample size of one. The doubt was just enough to go through with our plan. Besides, we would only be gone one night.

  The climb took us two days. One long day’s hike marked the first leg of our journey through thick Virunga forest—not steep, but ever an upward climb. Nameye led our way, hacking through the undergrowth with his knowledge of the region. We traversed a long expanse of rising land to Karisimbi’s foothills, just to get to the base of its steep slopes, and there were no tourist trails. Finally, where thick brush gave way to a high plateau of boggy alpine meadow, we set up camp. With my small camp stove, I treated everyone to my Karisoke Soufflé. Each ate it with gusto. Under the circumstances, who among us could complain? There the air was cold and damp, but the little dry season held for us, keeping the rain and hail at bay. The night was clear, and the stars, already dazzling from Karisoke, seemed that much closer on the base of Karisimbi.

  In the morning, thick frost lay all around us. We warmed ourselves with fresh coffee in the thin chilly air, and scrambled up some eggs against the backdrop of what struck me as a surreal wet desert. The tussock grasses and high altitude lobelia dominated the landscape much like the few specialized plants of America’s Mojave Desert. From there it wasn’t much more than just another climb up Mount Visoke, for which we seasoned gorilla trackers had developed the wherewithal. Still, the air was yet thinner, but by then, rich red blood cells pumped through our veins. We traversed a great expanse of giant senecios and towering high-altitude lobelia, before we were where only thick grasses grew, then the barren rock and ash of our final ascent.

  Reaching the dark, stony summit, Rwanda and Zaire fell at our feet in a tumble of grays and saturated greens. Mount Visoke took on a new look from our perspective, no longer towering above us, it stood slightly below us, more stunning than ever, with its side crater clearly visible. I could see that spot where I had sat months before above the Big Hole, charmed as I was upon finding it myself. Looking southeast of where we had camped on the climb up, we could see that our flat, expansive meadow fell into a large side crater of Karisimbi that rivaled Mount Visoke’s caldera. Likewise, at the bottom lay a serene hidden lake. From the lands below, you wouldn’t know it was there.

  Vast Lake Kivu, where Peter and I had done our “Spring Break” shimmered and vanished into distant haze, and we looked for Ros Carr’s flower plantation between us and Gisenyi, only guessing at which farm it might be. Most moving to me, on Karisimbi’s opposite side to the southwest, and at the base of striking Mount Mikeno, l could finally see a clear view of the famed Kabara Meadow from above. There Dian had first begun her studies, and Carl Akeley’s love for the beauty of the Virungas had taken hold of his heart. A green cabin, much like Karisoke’s, was visible from where we stood, the prototype for Karisoke. Jean-Pierre had told us that Akeley’s grave had been recently disturbed by grave robbers looking for valuables, and his remains had been dug up and secured in the cabin. Through my binoculars, I could clearly see the raw exposed dirt of the disturbed grave.

  We debated about heading down to Kabara—it had been a tentative plan—but with our climb up, and our lingering on Karisimbi’s summit, such a trip would have made a timely return to Karisoke before dark unlikely. And so we began our descent with gravity in our favor, running down the western side of Karisimbi in a wild, unfettered release of energy, hooting and hollering, the descent always so much easier than the climb. Just below the summit on the western side lay a deep field of volcanic ash we traversed. Dashing downward, our legs sunk up to our ankles, then our knees, and all we could do was stumble and fall as if in deep powder snow, rolling and laughing in the soft gray depth of volcanic particles that slid and gave way beneath our weight.

  Reaching solid ground, Nameye took the lead again, guiding us downward, back into thick forest where we hacked and whacked our best possible route through the rich undergrowth of the saddle area back to camp.

  When Peter and I visited Group 5 the next day, Pan
tsy had given birth, as he had predicted, while we were on Mount Karisimbi. Only a bit of uncertainty had afforded him the leeway to climb the great volcano when we did. Hoping we had a shot at witnessing a gorilla birth, we were both disappointed to have missed the exact day of the blessed event. In his nearly two years at Karisoke, observing the females of Group 5 almost daily, he had gone two for two at predicting births. This time Peter wanted to choose the name again. He liked the name “Josie.” I liked the sound of it, but wanted to give it at least an African spelling, and advocated that we spell it “Jozi,” the Swahili word for “pair.” With Maggie, little Jozi would be the other half of the newest pair of infants in Group 5. The name and its spelling stuck.

  Little Jozi and her mother Pantsy fared as well as Maggie and Effie had, adding another novelty to the group for the adoration of Group 5. Observing these new babies with their mothers, I could see how baby gorillas learn what foods to eat by the time they’re weaned off mother’s milk. Even while still on breast milk, they had a front row seat to their mother’s feeding, eventually mouthing and nibbling on the bits and pieces of plant material that fell onto them or their mothers’ arms. They were naturally curious, and as they got a little older, they would reach out and grab a piece of what their mothers were eating, and place it their mouths, thereby sampling their parents’ foods, and developing a taste for them.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  GRAY WINTER HOME

  I remained at Karisoke for my full commitment of one year. In my final week, Judy Chidester came to camp, and Peter and I took her out to Group 5, low on the slopes of Mount Karisimbi, where the gorillas gave her a deservedly warm welcome. It was fair trade for all she had done for us, and I made my last trip back into Kigali with her. Peter, the only other student still remaining at the time, would leave as planned a few weeks later.

  Peter and I had talked at length about our pending departures. Mine would come in the short dry season. I wanted my last day with gorillas to be sunny and warm, with clear views of the surrounding volcanoes, reminding me of all the best days I had spent there. It was. Peter, by contrast, wanted his last day to be cold, wet, and miserable, to dampen his inevitable feelings of loss at leaving what he described as the best thing that had ever happened to him. I envied his appreciation of the place. For me, the experience had been a dream fulfilled, but far too complicated by Dian and her personal struggles—much more than I bargained for. With the Mountain Gorilla Project in full swing, and Sandy Harcourt’s pending return to manage Karisoke, there was much happening in support of the gorillas. It felt like a good time to go.

  Banking to the left as the pilot circled Atlanta’s airport on our descent, I was struck by the gray winter landscape below. Already I was longing for Rwanda’s endless green. Taking in the bleak view out my window, I was chilled too, by the notion that I was once again in the same country as Dian, that somehow the U.S. was not big enough for both of us.

  Back home in Virginia, that nagging fear would prove justified as I settled into the mundane routine of being a college kid home on break.

  “John!” my mom called to me from downstairs, “Someone’s on the phone for you. I think it’s Dian Fossey.” My stomach sank. I knew intuitively that there was no interaction for me with Dian that would not be on her terms, and with her goals in mind.

  Her voice was as flat and charmless as I remembered when she was holding back her irritation. There were no pleasantries.

  “Uh, John, I need to get some information on camp,” she began, “and the gorillas.”

  “Okay, is there something in particular?”

  “I heard from Peter, and you know, the Nagra was stolen.”

  Dian was referring to her sound recording equipment, and no, I didn’t know it had been stolen.

  “Do you remember me asking you to take that with you down to the embassy when you left?”

  “Uh, no . . . the Nagra?”

  “Ugh . . . you forgot!” Dian sighed, with exasperation.

  “I’m sorry, Dian, I really don’t remember that.”

  “Well, it’s gone now. Peter said someone cut a hole in my bedroom wall to get inside and take it.”

  The idea that someone would do that gave me chills, especially considering how remote camp was. The rest of the conversation was about the gorillas. I knew she was working on her book, and another National Geographic article, and she wanted updates on Peanuts and Bonne Année, and the births of babies in Nunkie’s Group, so I filled her in on everything as it was when I left. I had never expected her to track me down at home, so I was anxious to end the conversation, which felt more like an inquiry with one terse question after another from her.

  “I need your notes.” Dian said finally.

  I had dutifully left copies of my notes in camp as was her rule, so I really wasn’t feeling obligated to make additional copies to ship to her.

  After a standoff of chilly evasiveness and long silent gaps, Dian finally said goodbye.

  “Send me your notes.” Dian said, as we ended the conversation.

  Over the next few weeks, Dian made repeated calls to me, her voice always without emotion, flat and dry. Under pressure to finish her book, Gorillas in the Mist, she needed more details, like what were the new gorilla baby’s names, why were they named that. I had named Nunkie’s newest baby Shangaza, which means surprising in Swahili, because while being out of the study range for so long, none of us knew that her mother, Papoose, was pregnant. Another of Nunkie’s females, Augustus, gave birth to another female I named Ginseng, simply because I was intrigued by the plant of the same name, due to its scarcity and mystique, and its reputed health benefits. Mostly, I just liked the sound of the word. I had to give Dian some other relatable reason, so I reminded her that as the Japanese film crew had informed us it was because 1980 was the Year of the Ape and Monkey in Asia, and ginseng was a popular health tonic there. Dian was unimpressed, but didn’t argue.

  “Send me your notes,” she’d demand at the end of each inquisition. Her serious tone and commanding demeanor still held sway over me, and I had to shake it off after each call. I was not at Karisoke anymore.

  In later phone calls, she got to her other questions: What was Sandy Harcourt’s visit like? What did he do there? What did he say? Unhappy with my uneventful story, she soon abandoned any semblance of tact, “I know that bastard’s got a conspiracy going against me!”

  She strategically left a pause after statements like these, putting me in a position to show her which side of the fence I was on—to defend or not to defend. Finally, I felt squeezed into a corner.

  “Dian, I just can’t be a part in your battles with people,” I said as nonconfrontationally as I could. With that, Dian grew silent, and we ended the call.

  Soon after my return, Terry Maple had taken the position of deputy director of New Orleans’s Audubon Zoo, and with his wife Addie, and baby daughter Molly, had moved to New Orleans. After settling in, he gave me yet another opportunity, this time to begin a career at the Audubon Zoo. Establishing a new address in New Orleans, and setting up my home phone, I intentionally listed my number under “JDFowler” among the few Johns and other J-named Fowlers, in my surname’s column. I was hiding from Dian.

  A little put off by all the ego, territoriality, and competition I had so far observed among primatologists, I choose to work in the bird department. Besides, having spent so much time with gorillas in the wild, working with them as captives, even in a vastly improved modern zoo, felt pale by comparison.

  I was completely caught up in my new career direction among these like-minded animal enthusiasts of the zoo world. And zoos were changing dramatically: the bars were coming down, and soft naturalistic spaces were being created for zoo animals as ambassadors to their species. Education was moving ahead of entertainment as a mission, in a subtle but determined way, and science was moving in. Terry Maple linked academia and science to the zoo. It was a creative movement, and I enthusiastically became a part of it. There wa
s a great movement afoot! The experience supplanted my aspirations for vet school, which I had once seen as the only career with animals.

  Dian’s article appeared in the April 1981 issue of National Geographic. In a box story within Dian’s, I was surprised and impressed to see that Peter was duly given his own full spread of photos amid his own written account of Marchessa’s death. I have to laugh when I see the latest iconic photo of Dian sitting among her gorillas of Group 5, the young female, Tuck, mouths an orange Crystal Bon Bon—payment from Dian for posing with her as if in splendid adoration. I know enough about gorillas by then to see that the others are waiting expectantly for their next surreptitious candy treat.

  “You didn’t tell me you worked with Dian Fossey,” people exclaimed as if I should announce this as soon as I enter a room. And despite my college major in general zoology, most coworkers remained baffled by my new job choice. Except for the bird people, of course.

  “So why are you working with birds?” many asked, as if I’d had some fall from grace. I was typecast. Everyone was equally baffled, if not disappointed, that I had so little to say about Karisoke Research Center.

  “Wow, that must have been wonderful!” They prodded. “Working with Dian Fossey!”