by Ralph Helfer
The waves hit the elephant pens next, and they hit them hard. We moved the elephants out just as the building collapsed and was carried downstream. Then the waves caught the camels’ cage, pulling it into the water. One huge camel was turning over and over as he was swept along. Sometimes black humor is the only thing that gets you through a moment like that. I thought crazily, If that camel drowns, will some future archaeologist dig up its bones and say, “My God, there must have been camels in Los Angeles!”?
We worked in a frenzy. Animals were everywhere. Bears, lions, and tigers were jumping out of their cages, only to be swept downstream. Saving them was no easy task. They were either hanging on to our legs and pulling us under, or we were hanging on to them and swimming for shore.
I unlocked the cheetah’s cage and he sprang out over my head, right into the water, and was gone. I remember grabbing hold of Serang, one of our Bengal tigers, as he came out of his cage. He carried me on his back to temporary security on the opposite bank as smoothly as if we’d rehearsed it.
I worked without a break, Zamba always at the back of my mind. I knew he was up on a dry spot—but I also knew that no dry spot was a guaranteed haven for very long under these conditions. I managed to work my way around the debris and forged across the tributary the river had formed to get to the spot where I had left him.
I wouldn’t have thought that there was any energy left in my battered body for shock or grief, but there was. A huge oak tree had crashed onto the area where I had told him to stay. The water was backed up a good six feet deep, and Zamba was gone.
“Zamba! Zamba!” I screamed his name against the roar of the flood but there was no answer. Zamba was gone. He was a fairly good swimmer, but I knew his mane could weigh him down and hold his head under the water.
I shuttered my mind to the thought that he had drowned. Grief was a luxury I didn’t have time for; action was my only option, so I swallowed my panic and kept looking. Everybody was busy, searching for life and saving any animal he could find. There was no one to help me look for Zamba. I searched everywhere I could, calling his name at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t believe he was gone. I envisioned him lying somewhere hurt, needing me.
As the storm continued, the river was full of animals and people swimming together. There was no “kill” instinct in operation, only that of survival. Men were grabbing fistfuls of fur, clinging for life. A monkey grabbed a lion’s tail, which allowed him to make it to safety.
I saw that Clarence the cross-eyed lion was in a complete state of panic. The river had surrounded him and was now flooding his cage. His trainer, Bob, waded across the water, put a chain on Clarence, took him out of his cage, and attempted to jump him across the raging stream. But the lion wouldn’t jump. The water was rising rapidly. There was no time for niceties. Bob threw his body weight against the chain, trying to drag Clarence out if he wouldn’t go of his own accord. It wasn’t working—the lion was simply too big. So Bob threw part of the chain to me. To gain some leverage, I looped it around a pipe running alongside a building. As we both pulled, Clarence finally jumped, and just then the pipe I was holding on to came loose. It turned out to be a “hot” electric conduit, for when Clarence leaped and the pipe came loose, we all got a tremendous electric shock! Fortunately the pipe also pulled the wires loose, so the shock lasted only an instant. Had it continued, it would certainly have killed us, as we were standing knee-deep in water.
With Clarence safe, Bob and I noticed a group of monkeys trapped in a small outcropping of dirt and debris in the middle of the river. Another trainer, Frank, almost died trying to save them; he tied a rope around his waist and started across, but about halfway over he slipped and went under. We finally saw him in midstream, trying to stay afloat. We didn’t know what to do, whether to pull on the rope or not, because it seemed that whenever we pulled on the rope, he would go under. (We found out later that the rope had become tangled around his foot; every time we yanked it, we pulled him under.) We ended up taking an enormous risk and cutting the rope altogether. He made it, thank God, and he was able to swim the animals to safety.
We were racing against time. The river was still rising, piling up uprooted trees and parts of buildings and pushing them along in front, forming a wall of destruction. Throughout the turmoil and strife, one thing was crystal clear to me: without affection training, all would have been lost. It was extraordinary to see it working under such horrendous circumstances. As dangerous and frightening as this emergency was, these animals remained calm enough to let themselves be led to safety when it was possible for us to do so.
The wild string panicked, and in their hysteria they attacked their rescuers as if they were enemies. In the end, we had to resort to tranquilizer guns. We fired darts into each fear-trained animal, and as they succumbed to the medication, we held their bodies up above the water and carried them to safety. Tragically, there was not enough time to drag all of them to safety; several drowned in their drugged sleep before we could reach them.
Imagine yourself in a raging storm, with buildings crashing alongside of you. You make your way to a cage that houses a lion or a tiger, and the animal immediately understands why you’re there and is happy to see you. You open the door, put a leash on the animal, and you both jump out into the freezing, swirling water. Together you’re swept down the stream, hitting logs, rolling over and over, as you try to keep your arms around the animal. Together you get up onto the safety of dry land. You dry off, give your animal a big hug, and then go back in for another one.
Chimpanzees are deathly afraid of water, because they can’t close their noses as humans can, and they know that they’re dead if their heads go under. But even the chimps were trusting their human companions to take them to safety, voluntarily jumping into the freezing waters. It seemed a terrible, terrible irony that this was the circumstance under which my dream—of true communication between man and beast—would be realized.
There was one big cage left in the back section containing a lion. This lion was a killer who had been fear-trained; we had taken him in because he had nowhere else to go. A group of us went out to him. The other lions were being saved because we could swim with them, but this fellow was too rough. I got to the cage and opened the door. A couple of my men threw ropes on the lion and pulled, trying to get him out of his potential grave—but he wouldn’t come out. He was petrified! We pulled and struggled and fought to get him out of the cage, but we couldn’t do it, and we finally had to let him go.
The storm continued on into the night, and with the darkness came a nightmare of confusion. We worked on without sleep, sustained by coffee and desperation. My thoughts of Zamba came hard and fast, but I did my best to push them away to the periphery. There wasn’t anything I could do for him now. I would work where I was needed.
During that night, it became clear that ancient Modoc the elephant, the one-eyed wonder of the big top, had by no means outlived her capacity for calmness and courage in the face of disaster. Modoc took over, understanding fully what was at stake and what was required of her. Animal after animal was saved as she labored at the water’s edge, hauling cages to safety on higher ground. When the current tore a cage free and washed it downstream, Modoc got a firmer grip on the rope with her trunk, and with the power of several bulldozers, steadily dragged the cage back to safety. Then a trainer would attach the rope to another endangered pen, and Modoc would resume her labors. She was astonishingly brave and wise, and she had many rescues to her credit that night.
We eventually became stranded with some of the animals on an “island,” a patch of high ground in the middle of the compound. This, plus an area alongside the railroad track, was all that was left of Africa U.S.A. When the dam had burst upstream, the wall of water that hit the ranch divided into two fast-moving rivers. As time passed, the rivers widened and deepened until they were impossible to cross. As dusk fell on the second day, we realized that we were cut off from the mainland. Since it was the highest gro
und on the ranch, the island in the center had become a haven for all the survivors. The office building, the vehicles, and about twenty cages were all well above the flooded zone, and so were safe for the time being. The giraffes, some monkeys, and one lion were all housed in makeshift cages on the island.
A railroad track ran behind the office building. By following the tracks for three miles, it would be possible to reach the highway. The problem would then be crossing the torrent of water to get to the road.
I noticed that Bullfrog, our thousand-pound Indian buffalo, was gone. Buffalos are known to be excellent swimmers, and I had thought for sure that he would have made it to safety. I asked around to learn whether anyone had seen him. No one had. Bullfrog’s cage had always been at the entrance to the ranch, because he greeted visitors with a most unusual bellow that sounded exactly like the word “hi.” Now he was gone, too. Would it ever end? I felt weak. The temperature had dropped, and the wind had come up. The wind-chill factor was now below zero.
There’s something especially horrible about tragedy that occurs in the dark. I could hear the water running behind me, and every once in a while I’d hear a big timber go, or an animal cry, or a person shouting. It all seemed very surreal.
Throughout the night and all the next day the rain continued, and we worked on. Luckily, help came from everywhere. The highway, which we could no longer get to but which we could see, was lined with cars. Some people had successfully rigged up a bos’n chair, a winch with a body harness fifty feet in the air, and were sending hot food and drink over to us, a distance of some two hundred yards. Other people were walking three miles over the hills to bring supplies. A citizens-band club set up radio communication. The actor Gardner McKay, a true friend, put his Mercedes on the railway track, deflated the tires, and slowly drove down to help us. One elderly woman prepared ham and coffee and brought it in at two o’clock in the morning, only to find on her return that her car had been broken into and robbed!
Then a train engine came down the track to help—just an engine, no cars. The electricity, of course, was out all over the ranch, which left the reptiles especially vulnerable, as they need warmth to survive. Three girls from our affection-training school volunteered to rescue the snakes. They climbed onto the cowcatcher, the metal grill on the front of the engine. We then wrapped about thirty feet of python and boa constrictor around their shoulders and told them where to take the snakes once they were on the other side. Goats, aoudads, and llamas all rode in the coal bin behind the engine. I’ll never forget the look on one girl’s face as the engine pulled out and a python crawled through her hair.
By four the next morning, some twenty people had, by one method or another, made it over to our island to help. Some chose a dangerous way, tying ropes around their middles and entering the water slowly, with friends on the island holding the other ends of the ropes. The current would carry them quickly downstream, and they would look for a logjam or boulder to stop them so they could make their way to where we were.
I was having some coffee in the watchmen’s trailer when the scream of an animal shattered the night. I dashed out to find a small group of people huddled together, trying to find the animal with their flashlights. We could hear it desperately struggling in the raging water. It had succeeded in swimming out of the turbulence at the middle of the stream, but the sides of the river were too slippery for it to get a foothold and climb to safety. The noise and the darkness made it impossible for us to figure out which animal it was.
Then I heard it: “Hi! Hi!” It was a call of desperation from Bullfrog the buffalo, as he fought for his life. There was nothing we could do to help him, and his “hi’s” trailed down the dark, black abyss, fading as he was carried away around the bend.
Then Toni screamed at me in the dark, “Ralph, over here!” I fought my way through a maze of debris and water and burst into a clearing. There was Toni, holding a flashlight on—lo and behold—a big steel cage from Beverly Hills! It had been washed downstream and was lodged in the trunk of a toppled tree. It was still upright, but its back was facing us, and we couldn’t see inside. We waded out to the cage. Toni kept calling, “Sheba, Rona, are you there? Please answer!” Our hearts were beating fast, and Toni was crying.
Hoping against hope that the wolves were still alive, we rounded the corner, half swimming and half falling. Then we eased up to the front of the cage and looked straight into two sets of the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Rona and Sheba had survived! They practically jumped out of their skins when they saw us, as though to say, “Is it really you?” Toni had her key, and we unlocked the door. Both wolves fell all over us, knocking us into the water. They couldn’t stop licking our faces and whimpering.
The rain finally let up on the morning of the third day. The sun came out, and at last we had time to stop, look around, and assess the damage. It was devastating, and heartrending.
Most of the animals had been let out of their cages and had totally disappeared, including Judy the chimp, Clarence the lion, Pajama Tops the zebra, and Raunchy, our star jaguar. We knew a few others had definitely drowned. Both of the white rhinos were missing, and so were the hippos. Our beloved Gentle Ben had been washed away, along with hundreds of other animals. Zamba was nowhere to be found. Every time someone screamed that he had found an animal, my heart jumped. Was it Zamba?
I was sitting there looking at the wreckage when somebody put a cup of hot chocolate in my hand. It was Toni. Her clothes were torn and wet, hair slicked her to her head, lips blue from the cold. What a woman! Earlier, she had managed to make her way to the nursery where all the baby animals were quartered. Without exception, the babies had followed her to safety. Not one baby animal had been lost.
The hot liquid felt good going down. I stood up and hugged Toni, and we walked arm in arm. The sun was just topping the cottonwoods, and the river had subsided. All was quiet, except for an occasional animal noise: a yelp, a growl, a snort. All the animals were happy to see the sun, to feel its warmth.
Toni and I felt only the heavy, leaden feeling of loss. During the storm, all we had been able to think about was the loss of animal life, the tragedy we were witnessing. Now, in the harsh light of day, I realized that I was seeing ten years of my life go down the drain as well. Our home, across the street, was safe, but our business was essentially destroyed. We had just signed a contract with Universal Studios to open our beautiful ranch to their tours; this would now be impossible. A million dollars was gone, maybe more. But still, all these calculations paled in the face of the loss of some of our beloved animals.
We turned around to head back to the temporary camp. So many people were there at the ranch! We were once again connected with the rest of the world. Exhausted, wet, wonderful people—true heroes, animal lovers every one. They had come from everywhere. Some were employees, some friends, and some strangers, but everyone greeted us as we came down the hill with expressions of hope and love on their faces. They cared, and it showed.
The animals were out of crisis, but they couldn’t stay in the state they were in. The work was only just beginning, as one by one, we fed, cleaned, and housed them as best we could.
“Ralph, come quickly!” screamed a voice. “He made it, he made it! He’s alive!”
“Who, who?” I screamed, scrambling toward the sound. Immediately I heard a resounding “Hi, hi!” From around the corner came Bullfrog—disheveled and muddy, but alive!
“Hi, hi!”
“Yes, hi, you big, lovable…Hi! Hi!”
Everyone pitched in for the massive cleanup effort. Animals were straining to pull big trucks out of the water and muck. Bakery trucks were coming by with stale bread for the elephants. Farmers loaned us their bulldozers to round up the hippos and rhinos. (One hippo fell in love with the skip-loader bucket and coyly followed it home.) Our neighbors—even people who had suffered terrible damage to their own homes—were amazing, lending us anything they could spare. Charley and Madeline Franks, two loyal he
lpers, kept hot chili coming, and must have dished out hundreds of meals. People from the Humane Society, Fish and Game, Animal Regulation, and the SPCA all helped to comfort and tend the animals.
We began searching for the animals that were still lost. Everyone was busy constructing makeshift cages. The medical lab trailer was pulled out of the mud. The nursery building and its kitchen storage area had been completely submerged, and some of it had been washed away. Whatever could be salvaged was taken up to the island for immediate use.
Outside the ranch, the animals began turning up everywhere. The police informed us that elephants had shown up in people’s backyards. Eagles sat in the limbs of suburban trees. Llamas and guanacos cruised the local restaurants, and monkeys were spotted in parking lots. In no case was there a problem between an animal and people.
We had had dozens of alligators, some weighing two hundred to three hundred pounds. They had suffered real tragedy—we lost most of them because the ice-cold water had hit the whole pen, and it battered and beat them mercilessly. For seven months afterward we’d read in the paper that the bodies of alligators were being found everywhere, up to forty-five miles away. There were helicopter and airplane photos of alligators that had been killed, their bodies lying in the sand as the water subsided.
As the cleanup efforts progressed, I was starting to feel the full shock of everything that had happened. But, other than the alligators, the overall animal loss had been much less terrible than we’d imagined. Of the fifteen hundred animals we’d had at Africa U.S.A., only nine had drowned. Five of those were animals that had not been affection trained. But our other losses had been enormous, and my beloved Zamba was still at large, as was Gentle Ben. With a heavy heart, I had gone back again and again to the area where I had last seen Zamba. I thought that maybe the big tree had hit and killed him, but his body was nowhere to be found.