Spoor

        If you're a normal person, you probably never gave much thought to elephant urine. Neither had I until I encountered some on a narrow jungle game trail in North Sumatra, Indonesia. In tropical heat, such "spoor" disappears quickly, which meant that the animal that made the deposit was probably not far away. This sudden realization immediately led to very mixed emotions.

        We were an unlikely group to be on a Christmas rafting trip down the Alas River through thte Gunung Leusser game preserve. Although my wife and I lived in Jakarta, our house was large and comfortably air conditioned. Our only contact with elephants was at the zoo. Our three college-age children, Sally, Amy and Peter, were visiting for the holidays, but had never been enthusiastic campers. To them a game park has roller coasters and giant water slides. My wife often said with only a hint of humor that her idea of camping was staying in a Holiday Inn.

        We began our trip on December 23^rd in Brestagi, a small town nestled in the mountains southeast of Medan, Indonesia's third largest city. A four hour drive in a mini-van across rugged mountains took us past fragrant clove orchards, the small trees waving their distinctive copper-yellow leaves. Farmers gather the buds of the clove blossom and spread them beside the road to dry on mats made of palm fronds. The spicy-sweet aroma fills the air like the smell of baking cookies. Most of the clove crop is bound for Indonesian cigarette factories. The pungent clove and tobacco cigarettes, called "kretek" are ubiquitous in Indonesia, and are an important part of the farm economy. Corn fields on the gentler slopes reminded us of upstate New York, while rice paddies in the low lands assured us that it was not.

        A tour outfitter in Medan had organized the trip, and we let ourselves be convinced that two of our four guides were along for training. It was more likely that they figured a mob like us needed as many guides as guidees. Whatever the justification, we were glad to have them when we reached the river and they began to unload the gear, including two six-man inflatable boats. These would be our transportation for the next four days. The volume of gear was intimidating, but Andi, the chief guide, and Sabar, his experienced senior assistant, demonstrated to the two younger guys the management skills of "supervision" and "delegation". A group of about twenty children appeared from the nearby village of Kutacane to watch and to swim naked in the river.

        It was a fine, hot day, and after lunch on the river bank, we launched. The kids ran along the bank beside us for a while, laughing and shouting the few English words that kids all over Indonesia know, "Hallo, Meester. Geeve me mahney!"

        Just below its headwaters, the Alas is a wild young river, ready to strut its Class III and IV rapids to anybody looking for a thrill. However, from Kutacane, it is more mature, flowing leisurely through a flood plain for two or three miles before entering the game preserve on its way to the Indian Ocean.

        Our boat was always captained by one of the senior guides, while the second inflatable carried the provisions and the other three guides. The first hour was a pleasant float alongside low, sandy banks past scattered large mango and avocado trees, clumps of banana plants and slender coconut palms. Occasionally, children would appear and run along the bank for a minute or two, waving and shouting greetings at us. To each side of the valley through which the Alas flowed, loomed massive mountain ridges. To the left, the mountains we had just driven across; to the right, the mountains separating us from the Indian Ocean.

        We sat astride the pontoons, one foot trailing in the water, the other hooked for support under an inflatable cross member. After about an hour, we stopped at a gravel beach across from a tiny village near the park boundary. While Andi crossed over to get the permit to enter the park, we took the opportunity to cool off in the river and to contemplate the forest, now looming over the river ahead.

        Entering the park was like passing through a huge gate. Until then, trees had been widely scattered across broad flat land, but now became so thick as to shade the entire stream. The river narrowed as it entered the forest, speeding up slightly, and we were committed. From this point on, there was no turning back, and the nearest civilization lay three days ahead.

        For the next two hours we floated through primal forest, past trees as tall as ten-story buildings. Andi's occasional soft command to paddle right or left kept us in the stream. The only other sounds were monkeys and an occasional rustling in the bushes.

        As the sun approached the tops of the trees on the right bank, we rounded a wide bend in the river. On our right was a fairly large flat sand bar, about a quarter mile long, sloping gently up to the forest. On the left a high, almost sheer bluff rose straight out of the water about thirty feet high.

        "Paddle left," called Andi. "We stop here for the night."

        Sally and Amy gave me a slightly surprised look. "There's nothing here."

        "Just the river and the forest," said Andi. "And us."

        We beached the boats, and jumped out to stretch our legs. The kids jogged along the sand bar while the guides dragged the boats farther on shore and began to unload supplies.

        While the guides set up the tents and the campsite, complete with folding tables for the cook stove and food, we cooled of in the river. A bar of soap washed away the day's sweat, and we sat in the sand while Andi prepared dinner.

        On the afternoon of the second day, we beached on a sandbar on the riverbank where a small stream emerged from the jungle. The water tumbled clear and cool down a six-foot embankment and across a stony ledge where the muddy river swallowed it as if in thirst. The junior guides secured the boats while we tourists savored the chance to stretch our legs and walk on solid ground.

        Sabar dropped to one knee beside the stream to study the multitude of animal tracks in the mud. He pointed out several deer hoof prints, delicately twin-pointed, and an area torn up by the snout of a rooting wild pig.

        Suddenly signaling for quiet, he climbed the embankment and motioned for us to follow. He set off up the stream bed, moving from rock to rock with a grace we wouldn't have believed from so stubby a body. Behind him, we five struggled to keep up without making noise, while Andi brought up the rear to keep us from straggling. Our pulses, already quickened at the thought of tracking wild animals in the Sumatran jungle, now began to pound from the effort.

        The stream rose before us through magnificent primary rain forest, switching back and cutting through the earth as it continued up the hill and out of sight. Its gentle splashing probably covered some of the noise of our stumbling and panting as we made our way.

        The forest floor was surprisingly clear, and the embankment on each side of the stream was at times shoulder height, so that we could look across the jungle from a small animal's perspective. Huge trees with trunks as big as Cadillacs rose all around us, their leaves shaking in the occasional breeze thirty to forty yards above our heads. Moderate undergrowth of small saplings and low bushes allowed visibility of fifty feet along the ground. Where the sun found small gaps in the leafy canopy, sunbeams like spotlights lit the ground, and when we walked through them it felt like brushing against filmy curtains.

        At the sound of a low whoop, Sabar stopped, his hand up to signal the troop to halt. The whoop repeated, then increased in frequency until it became a demented cackle, as if the jungle were laughing at we clumsy intruders.

        "Hornbill," said Andi, and Sally spotted it sailing above a hole in the jungle roof. Its huge bill and long neck giving it a profile eerily like drawings of ancient pterodactyls, undoubtedly the creature's long lost uncles.

        At a cleft in the bank, Sabar led us out of the stream bed onto a well-beaten game trail leading off through the underbrush. Sudden movement to my left caught my eye and I whirled in time to see two small animals dash away. At first I imagined they might be young pigs, but they moved too quickly and their legs were too long and spindly. Probably mouse deer, which only reach a maximum size of five or six pounds.

        I relaxed a bit and turned to follow the group along the trail. Andi now had the lead and stopped to point out a small troop of macaques in a treetop about thirty yards away. They ignored us, judging correctly that we were no threat except perhaps to ourselves.

        At a signal from Sabar, we started off along the trail again, trying our best to be quiet, avoiding twigs and dry leaves, ducking under branches. The path took a slight angle to the stream and we began climbing more steeply. Our breath began to labor and sweat beaded our brows.

        Soon our trail intersected a larger one, which continued up the slope. It was large enough to allow us to move more quietly, sidestepping debris. Andi suddenly stopped. Catching up, we were disappointed to find him inspecting a mound of mud in the trail, which was strangely covered with beetles.

        "Elephant," said Sabar, and as Andi poked the mound with a stick, we saw that it was, indeed, the "spoor" from a large - very large - animal.

        "Old," muttered Andi, "maybe two, three days."

        Sabar started up the trail, moving more slowly and carefully now it seemed. At another branch in the trail, he suddenly turned and motioned frantically for us to catch up. As we approached, he crouched at a round, wet patch in the trail. The smell was proof we were not looking at a rain puddle. We tourists looked at each other, peered anxiously into the forest, and wondered if elephants, like dogs, return to the same place to relieve themselves.

        "You want see elephant?" whispered Sabar to no one in particular. We nodded in unison, and grinned nervously at each other as Sabar started up the trail again. This time we all slipped along, hardly daring to breathe, stopping every few yards to listen, expecting any minute to hear the beast crash through the underbrush.

        A sudden loud whack made us jump, then freeze. We were startled and annoyed to see that Andi had taken his machete to a low branch hanging over the trail, clearing it away. With no change of expression, he motioned us to continue, though we knew by now there was no chance of seeing a creature as wary as a wild Sumatran elephant. The sound of Andi's chopping would have alerted any elephant within a half-mile.

        Soon we came to a clearing perhaps five yards across, with a shallow muddy depression in the center. Several large footprints and caked mud splashed on the surrounding bushes told us it was an elephant wallow. Our excitement began to rebuild. Peter put his hand on a sapling to steady himself and it came away covered with wet, gray mud. We knew from much experience that it dries within ten minutes. Andi's whack at the branch had disturbed the animal in its bath!

        I was annoyed, but then I looked around at our party. We were dressed for the river in athletic shoes, shorts and tee shirts. A startled elephant in such close quarters might well have charged, if only to get away. I realized that we'd already had all the excitement Andi wanted us to have that day. With a mixture of disappointment and relief, we headed back to the river with a new awareness of the toilet habits of elephants and an appreciation of the subtle way an Indonesian tour guide cares for the safety of his charges without insulting their abilities.

        Back at the river, the junior guides revealed their true purpose. A picnic spread of sandwiches, fruit and cold beer awaited us on a folding card table, set in the middle of the sand bar. And in the center of the table, a small Christmas tree, decorated with tiny red ribbons.