KARAPUR, India - The elephant took two steps forward, raised its trunk high, blew an ear-shattering trumpet blast and then charged. I dropped my camera. The woman beside me screamed.
She and I, and three other tourists stood in the back of the jeep, frozen with fear and disbelief. Elephants aren't supposed to attack nature lovers at wildlife reserves. But this elephant apparently did not know the rules.
Moments earlier, the massive animal had been about 50 yards away, stripping tree bark with its trunk and eating it quickly. Then suddenly, and seemingly without provocation, the elephant charged us.
That pushed from my mind the memories of the hard journey to reach this jungle:
A couple of days earlier, I had boarded a train in Delhi, India's capital, and survived a 35-hour, 1,500-mile journey to Bangalore. From there I caught a bus to the city of Mysore, another three hours to the south. Then a hired car took me 50 miles farther south to Karapur, home of Nagarahole National Park, site of my sudden predicament.
This 400-square-mile animal reserve, also known as Rajiv Gandhi National Park, is perhaps the best remaining habitat for the endangered Indian elephant. Strict protection from poachers allows an estimated 4,000 elephants to roam unmolested through Nagarahole's forests.
Having no natural predators, elephants can live here happily for up to 70 years.
The park also is home to gaur (the largest species of wild oxen), sloth bears, wild dogs, crocodiles, tigers, leopards, cobras and nearly 300 species of birds, including black eagles and Shaheen falcons.
When I arrived for a two-day visit, I had checked into a cabin at Kabini River Lodge (www.junglelodges.com) Originally a private hunting lodge for the maharaja of Mysore until 1955, when the national park was created, the property sits on the bank of the Kabini River near Nagarahole's southern border.
I had hopped in the back of one of the resort's Jeeps for a wildlife tour. While our driver wheeled along the dirt track, a naturalist sat beside him, providing information about the park and its inhabitants.
"The wild dogs have to work together in order to survive," the naturalist said as a pack of the dogs leapt across the trail ahead, their red coats and bushy black tails bobbing through the forest conspicuously. Hunting in packs of eight to 12, "They will even attack tigers if confronted."
We bounced along the trail, stopping to gaze when animals appeared. I saw strutting peacocks, Langur monkeys leaping from tree to tree, a lone gaur bull in the shade of a bamboo tree. We came upon bison, owls, even a hooded cobra that slid across the trail. Neon-blue Indian rollers (a type of jay) flew overhead.
I did not see any of the 70 or so leopards that reportedly inhabit the park. Nor did I see any of the 60 tigers. But I saw elephants, at least 100 of them.
In the distance, a small herd of elephants kicked up clumps of grass with their front feet, then used their trunks to shovel the grass into their mouths.
Farther along the trail, we came upon a herd as it tore bark from trees. The naturalist explained that elephants need to eat about 400 pounds of food daily in order to remain healthy. A matriarch, not a bull, manages the herd.
Although they have poor eyesight, elephants have a keen sense of smell and are quick to protect themselves if they perceive a threat.
From the Jeep, I pointed my camera and pressed the shutter again and again. Speaking in a whisper, the naturalist noted that the matriarch had begun to move in a circle around the herd. "She's teaching the baby how to charge," he said.
Charge?
The elephants stood shoulder to shoulder, the smallest one flanked by the two largest. The naturalist then did something that in retrospect he probably shouldn't have. He got out of the vehicle.
He told the driver to keep the engine running and then he took a few cautious steps toward the herd. "Watch this," he said, and took another step.
Suddenly, the matriarch raised its trunk and let loose a shrieking trumpet. Then the elephant charged.
It seemed to come like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. I dropped my Nikon.
The naturalist casually opened the Jeep door and got in. As if on cue, the elephant stopped abruptly and returned to the herd.
"That was a "mock' charge," the naturalist said. He explained that elephants sometimes pretend to charge, for just a couple of seconds, when other animals get too close.
But when you're standing on the receiving end, there's nothing "mock" about an elephant running toward you.
