"I struggled to find the perfect times in photographing the cheetah until I committed to capturing the truth of that moment."
Words and photos by Hunter Ferner
I wake up bleary-eyed to my 5am alarm. The sun is still enjoying its slumber as no other light enters my tent other than the reflection of the moon off the lake. Everything is quiet and still, including my tentmate, Philip, who didn’t seem to stir at all from my alarm. I give it a few breaths before I get out of bed, brush my teeth, and prepare a cup of hot coffee by the dam before the others join me. For now, it’s slow, mindful sips from my golden cup of sunlight, but in less than an hour’s time it will be a chase of wild proportions: The other photographers eventually join me, and we set out to photograph the world’s fastest land animal at first light.
It wouldn’t be Africa if there weren’t a few bumps in the road, though, would it? That’s exactly what happened to us when we sent the Landrover flying down one of Hwedza’s many pothole-ridden dirt roads just as dawn was about to break.
We were based at Imire Rhino & Wildlife Conservation, a Zimbabwean wildlife conservancy committed to the stewardship and protection of the black rhino—one of Africa’s most frequently poached animals and, as a result, one of its most endangered. The property itself extends over 12,000 acres (if you’ve ever been to New York City, that’s over fourteen times the size of Central Park), and it hosts the most beautiful ensemble of Southern Africa’s savannah-faring wildlife. All the animals at Imire roam the grasslands freely, including black and white rhinos, African bush elephants, zebra, nearly a dozen species of antelope, giraffe, buffalo, and—the subject of our mission—two resident cheetah currently in the midst of a grand rewilding project.
We set out to photograph them one morning, and—as luck would have it—we were running late. Sam, my photography and animal behavior mentor, signals the cheetah anti-poaching ranger over the radio to see if he has a visual on them. Each day, rangers at Imire locate many of the protected species at the conservancy—such as rhino and cheetah—by using a telemetry device that responds to a receiver on a collar around the animal's neck. This device not only allows rangers to get to their posts more efficiently, but it also allows the folks at Imire to monitor the animals' behavior and observe how the cheetah in particular are adjusting to life in the wild. With Sam behind the wheel of the Landy, we turn into the main section of the reserve—down one of the only public roads that cut through the property. After a few anxious moments of waiting for a response from a ranger, we receive nothing but static through the radio until we hear Tinashe’s strong Shona accent come through. He reports a visual directly on the other side of the property from where we were. Sam guns on the gas, and we speed through the dust of the savannah in hopes of catching the cheetah stirring before losing the golden morning light.
I rode passenger; Philip and Mel were in the back. The barrel of my lens stuck out the window while I attempted to shoot the sunrise as Sam dodged all the dips, bumps, and holes in the road. Suddenly, I noticed we were teetering on the side of the road, and I called out a boulder that was fast approaching.
“Careful of that rock, Sam,” I say to him. “Wait a minute, that rock is moving! Sam, that’s a rhino!”
I’ve never come to a stop in a moving vehicle so fast in my life.
“Oh, hey there, Matopos,” Sam says ever so casually.
Matopos, a brilliant male white rhino, acknowledges us as we spill out of the Landy and slowly makes his way toward us. Keeping the vehicle between us and him, Sam reaches into the truck bed for cubes. “Cubes” are the little pellets that Imire staff and volunteers feed to the plant-eating animals on the property, such as rhino and elephants. Although they provide some nutritional supplementation to the animals’ diets, the cubes primarily allow humans to get closer to the animals to assess their behavior as well as to check for any signs of fighting with other animals such as scars or open wounds. Many of the animals at Imire—Matopos included—have learned to approach stopped vehicles because they know there’s a good chance at getting fed if they do.
We never got within fifteen feet of Matopos, at least not without the Landrover between us for our protection. And despite how incredible of a moment it was getting practically road-blocked by a wild rhinoceros, we were still running behind on time. The light was already escaping us, and soon the cheetah would rest from their nighttime kill. So, after snapping a few quick photos of Matopos, all four of us got back into the car, and we sped off again as a white rhino fed off a pile of cubes that some crazy, sunlight-bound humans had left for him.
Unfortunately, the sun didn’t wait for us and neither did the cheetah. Not only had we lost all of our good light by the time we got to them, but the cheetah were also completely inactive. Both of their stomachs full, it was clear that they had a successful hunt during the night, and they would likely be spending the better part of the next day or so resting in the grass.
It was a frustrating moment to come across the cheetah in practically unphotographable conditions. Thoughts started running through my head like how we could’ve spent more time with the white rhino as the sun rose, or how we could’ve gotten to the cheetah earlier in the morning when they would’ve been more active.
I suppose I should mention that this wasn’t my first visit to Imire. I originally traveled to Imire in the winter of 2021 as a volunteer. During that time, the cheetah were just introduced to the conservancy. The Aspinall Foundation sponsored the relocation of two captive cheetah from Parc Safari Zoo in Québec as a part of a global rewilding project Aspinall has spearheaded. Imire acts as a halfway house for Kumbe and Jabari—the feline brothers—between living in captivity and, eventually, being rewilded into a national park. While at Imire, the cheetah will learn to hunt, repopulate, and share a wild landscape with humans all for the first time in their lives.
Thus far, the rewilding project has been incredibly successful.
During my visit to Imire in 2021—a dream of mine that came true three years after I first heard of the organization—Kumbe and Jabari were averaging an extraordinary three to four kills per week. Their high success rate was a product of two main factors: (1) wild prey at Imire were unaccustomed to the presence of predators prior to the cheetahs’ introduction to the property, and (2) the two brothers didn’t have a mother cheetah to teach them when too much kill was too much. I remember mornings when I would drive around the property counting herd populations, and we would come across an impala carcass that the cheetah had only eaten less than a third of. At least in the early days, they were hunting for sport.
This winter was different, though. It’s shocking to see how the presence of two animals changes the behavior of the hundreds lower in the food chain over the course of a year. I feel lucky in that I was able to witness Kumbe and Jabari grow into their true selves at two distinctly different times in their lives. The difference between my visit from last year to this year is like night and day. You once would’ve been able to catch at least five different species of antelope, several dazzles of zebra, and—if you were lucky—a herd of wildebeest all in a single day’s drive at Imire; now, the entire landscape is much more elusive. It may seem disheartening to the common visitor to Africa, but—in reality—this widely adapted change in animal behavior is an indicator of restored balance in the ecosystem. Because of the cheetah, antelope populations will remain in check, the grass that the antelope feed on will not be overgrazed, and the Zimbabwean soil can retain much of its nutrients to supply energy for smaller forms of life. I think I’ve fallen in love with Kumbe and Jabari’s story so much because, not only have they profoundly impacted my own convictions and my passion for conservation, but because they represent so much hope for Zimbabwe and for the rewilding of animals across the world.
This story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t talk about how Kumbe and Jabari forced me to grow as a photographer.
Sam, Philip, Mel, and myself spent a full week tracking the cheetah. They made our jobs very easy as far as tracking went because they hardly ever strayed from the fenceline that separates Imire from the surrounding communities. We started to fall into a routine with them where, about every other night or so, they would hunt and then spend the next day resting from their kill. At dusk, they would arise from their siestas and pace the vast fenceline until the sun had fully set. Sam—who has witnessed nearly the entire rewilding project from its conception—theorizes that their perfunctory pacing behavior was learned while they lived in captivity. In other words, pacing the fenceline brings a sense of comfort and familiarity to the cheetah. It's a behavior unknown for any wild cheetah to exhibit, and it was nearly impossible to photograph them without also including the fence in the photo.
Even Sam seemed upset by how unwilling the cheetah were to leave the fence. We all struggled to get the iconic shot of the world’s fastest animal sprinting toward its prey in the open grasses.
I remember laying in the road, my stomach rested upon cheetah tracks, and my face was practically in the dirt, and I tried everything I could to analyze the scene and angle my lens between the brush and the fence to try to obscure it. I traveled nearly 12,000 miles to cover this story; I didn't want to waste the opportunity by taking photos that made these wild animals look like they were living in a zoo.
The shots just weren't doing the trick for me. I felt defeated. I put the camera down for a moment and looked Jabari dead in the eyes. I watched him as his ears rotated from one side to another, constantly listening to his surroundings. Just from spending a few moments watching him groom himself and then occasionally brush up against his brother in their pacing ritual did I realize how in my head I had been about the entire experience. The world's fastest land animal was no more than twenty paces from me—and at several times in their pacing rituals they would even come within just a couple feet of me—and yet here I was consumed by technical issues both the light and location were producing. The truth is that there is no other experience quite like this in the whole world. I can't think of another setting where you can get this close to a wild cheetah, knowing that if you make one wrong step—one sudden motion that just might make them feel threatened—it could mean the end of your life.
One of the reasons why I love photography so much more than nearly any other visual artform is because it forces you to be honest in the stories you share. When it’s just you and the camera, there is no room for manipulation or distortion. Some of the best photographs I’ve taken in my life were when I could feel how present I was in the moment.
On one of our last days in Zimbabwe, we finally got to photograph the cheetah in the golden light we had been chasing all week. Just before dusk, we were taking whatever photos we could while the brothers laid in the grass, until suddenly Kumbe jumped up on an old tree stump and perched himself above us while his eyes pierced into our skulls. The tone of whatever nonchalant conversation we were having just a moment ago instantly shifted to alerted stillness among all of us. The boys were ready to hunt again.
I decided to lean into the truth of their story this time. We stalked them as they began to stir along the conservancy boundary. Tightening my core and footsteps, I walked slowly but steadily with them while continuously pressing the shutter button. Suddenly, Jabari stopped in his tracks for a moment and began walking straight at us. In a silent fluster, we began walking backward while maintaining eye contact with eyes that looked as if they were ablaze. He didn't pace long, though, because by some miracle he plopped down in the only patch of sunlight along the entire fence, just like a house cat would in a single ray of light through a window. As Kumbe approached behind Jabari, the light perfectly set the two apart for a split second. You could hear all of our shutters clicking like paparazzi, everyone bearing witness to the ephemeral precious moment before us. No words can describe how special that moment was.
As I write this now three months after my visit to Zimbabwe, I realize that I struggled to find the perfect times in photographing the cheetah until I committed to capturing the truth of that moment. I wonder if the unknown sixth sense in these animals cued them to hold off on giving us a good show until after we had earned it. I wonder if they knew what we were there to do—to tell their story—and that’s why they never left the fence. Looking back, I can't think of a better visual representation of their life story than the boundary fence at Imire. In many ways, the fence represents where they came from, where they are now, and beyond which is the next frontier for them... for all of us.
- h
This story would not have been possible without Imire Rhino & Wildlife Conservancy. I extend my sincerest of gratitude to the Travers family for giving the opportunity of life to some of Africa's most threatened animals. If you or someone you know would like to get involved in animal conservation in southern Africa, visit www.imire.co.zw to learn how you can support African wildlife.
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