about his project in Namaqualand, where eco-ranger herders with Anatolian sheep dogs were doing pioneering work with sheep flocks. Employing herders and dogs and placing livestock in kraals at night almost entirely eradicated predation. It simply required a mind shift by farmers.
Quinton then showed photographs from his infrared-camera traps. They depicted the wide biodiversity of the berg, from porcupine and honey badger to caracal and baboon. Next came an image of two frolicking leopard cubs, which had the audience ahh-ing. ‘These little beauties were born on 7 January 2011,’ said Quinton. ‘Both have survived and dispersed into the mountains.’
When his talk ended, the audience had plenty of questions.
How much did mountain leopards weigh?
Answer: males were about thirty-five kilograms, which was half that of their cousins elsewhere in Africa.
Were Cape mountain leopards a subspecies in their own right?
Answer: probably not, although more research had to be done. However, one feature that distinguished them from other leopards was a black rather than a pink nose.
How many Cape leopards were left?
Answer: about thirty adults in the Cederberg and possibly four-hundred in total. It was a terribly fragile population. A bad spate of a disease such as feline Aids could wipe them all out.
Were there any left on Table Mountain or the Cape Peninsula?
Answer: no, although many hikers had reported otherwise. Quinton would have to be shown photographs to be convinced. The range around Cape Town had shrunk to unsustainable proportions. ‘You’d find Constantia poodles and Boulders Beach penguins getting nailed if they were still around,’ said Quinton. ‘We must assume that peninsula leopards are extinct.’
The applause was loud and long. The tour leader stood up to thank Quinton, and told his group that the Cape Leopard Trust survived on donations alone. Would they please give generously. As we were packing up, he came to tell us that a number of guests would be dipping into their purses for the cause. Our trip had not been in vain.
‘Fundraising and PR are a huge part of the job,’ said Quinton as we drove back. ‘I’d love to be on my own in the berg, tracking leopards full-time, but it’s just not possible anymore. The Trust is a big organisation with staff and responsibilities. We have projects all over the Cape, investors to keep satisfied, and the interested public needs to be informed about our activities.’
We returned to Matjiesrivier for supper. Around the braai, talk was all about the elusive nature of Cape leopards. Quinton had worked at Londolozi for years, where leopards were spotted on almost every game drive. He’d recently visited Phinda Game Reserve in KwaZulu-Natal to compare notes with researchers using similar trapping methods. Before they’d even finished setting the last in a series of snares, the first one was triggered by an inquisitive leopard. In the Cederberg, you could wait half a year for that.
‘So why on earth do you do it?’ I asked.
‘Part of the mystery is their elusiveness. I’m not generally a patient man—’
‘You can say that again,’ Elizabeth cut in.
‘But I make an exception for leopards. I have to.’
Elizabeth told us about the time they had a television crew staying with them for a month, desperate for a sighting. Quinton stared sheepishly into his beer as his wife recounted the incident. Days dragged by and they had no luck. Finally one of the transmitters was triggered at a cage trap high in the mountains. It took them hours to lug the camera equipment up to the spot. When they got close enough, the crew set up a shot looking down on the hidden trap. With the cameras rolling, Quinton cautiously approached the cage, only to discover that the cat had managed to escape. At that precise moment, his frustration boiled over, and with a roar of rage, he picked up the cage and hurled it over a cliff, cameras rolling all the while. The TV crew got some lovely footage of an enraged man-leopard.
The next day, Lorraine and Garth had to return to the city to attend their grandchildren’s performance in a school concert. Instead of dismantling the three traps and waiting for more volunteers to arrive, I offered to take over the monitoring. This involved checking the frequencies of each trap every couple of hours throughout the day and night. If the pulse doubled from its normal forty beats per minute, a snare had been triggered and I was to summon Quinton pronto. We rigged up an aerial on the roof of my cabin, and led the cable through a window so the receiver could reach my bedside table. That way, I wouldn’t have to get up in the night to check the signal.
‘If the trap is sprung, I’ll go in alone and assess the situation,’ said Quinton. ‘I don’t want you with me at that point. Approaching an angry cat can be terrifying. I was once stalked by a leopard in Londolozi. There’s nothing quite like that primal fear.’
I imagined a writhing, spitting ball of teeth and claws at the end of a wire, and agreed that it would probably be best if I came later with the vets and their darting rifles. Preferably a hundred metres behind them.
For the rest of my time at Driehoek, I stayed close to the receiver. I took the occasional stroll around the farm or along the lower slopes of Corridor Peak behind the homestead, but felt responsible for the traps. I didn’t want a leopard to spend any longer than was necessary with its paw in a noose. However, all frequencies continued to bleat a negative. I set my alarm clock to sound at intervals through the night. Each time I woke to check the receiver, there’d be a thrill of expectation. It was like spinning a roulette wheel: this time I’d strike it lucky.
Days dragged by, and I began to worry I might sit in that hut for weeks with no reward. Besides, the city had begun to assert itself. First the odd sms, then phone calls: bills, the plumber, a body-corporate meeting. Eventually, I had no choice but to pack for home.
On my last day in the mountains, Quinton and Elizabeth arrived to take me on a concerted hunt for Spot, the female that frequented our area. It was a final roll of the dice.
Driving up Uilsgat Kloof, we picked up a strong telemetry signal. She was definitely in the valley. But where? Her echo bounced off the rocky walls, making accurate bearings difficult. We parked and got out.
‘I’m getting a fairly good signal from the other side of the kloof, half way up Mied se Berg,’ said Quinton. ‘You okay for a bit of a hike?’
‘Sure,’ I said unconvincingly. By now, I knew what ‘a bit of a hike’ meant.
As we prepared our packs with water, food, cameras, binoculars and telemetry equipment, Elizabeth glanced at the cliff and exclaimed: ‘Look at those black eagles! They’re attacking something!’
‘My God, I’ll bet you it’s Spot,’ said Quinton, grabbing his binoculars.
We watched the two great birds making an attack run. They approached in a parabolic swoop, then folded their wings and dropped out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. As they plummeted, each bird let out a scream that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The Stuka dive-bombers of the berg. At the last moment, when it seemed inevitable they’d smash themselves against the cliff in an explosion of feathers, the birds flared their enormous wings, talons extended, almost brushing the rock as they soared back into the blue.
‘There, on that big boulder, she’s cowering!’ shouted Quinton.
I trained my binoculars in the direction he was pointing. Nothing. Or perhaps a glimpse of movement?
‘Where exactly?’ I asked.
‘The big round rock, above the diagonal one.’
I looked again, willing the leopard to show itself. Which round rock, which diagonal one? They were all round or diagonal. There! Had I seen something? Maybe just the hint of cat, a vague feline suggestion? Maybe not.
‘She must have slipped behind the rock,’ said Quinton. ‘Let’s move. Fast. If we angle to the left, we can herd her up the valley towards our traps and maybe get