It was time to advance and assume greater influence over events influencing our life as well as that of the gorillas. Back at camp, some of the edge off our adrenaline fuel condition came from anxious laughing. Still, Lee was in such bad health and we had to act quickly.

Dian was not in the camp.In any case, Mweza had taught us that Karisoke kept no medications of the kind required. We had earlier in the week informed the physicians at the French hospital in Ruhengeri that we may show up with an emergency patient at any moment. Craig and Bill then alternately carried Lee down the mountain, then drove him the last fifteen kilometers to Ruhengeri using a Karisoke vehicle.

Thought it serviced the public population, Pierre Vimont, chef de mission at the French hospital in Ruhengeri, felt it was a military hospital with Vermont having a military commission and a medical degree. He was a short sturdy guy driven by a love of animals and fast sense of comedy. Originally talking about the necessity of emergency medical treatment for wounded mountain gorillas, we had got to meet Pierre via mutual acquaintances.

He urged us to bring him any gorilla anywhere—at his house or at work—and he would do whatever he could to assist. Arriving with Lee at home during Vermont’s post- lunch siesta, we tested his offer. Pierre reacted fast, putting together a group of helpers to operate first to cut the cable and then clear the large infection that had crept over it.

Then there was a complete round of internal and topical antibiotics. Then we waited Vimont arranged a guest room at his house where Craig and Bill alternately stayed and slept with Lee. But to no use; Lee passed away on the second day from her systemic illnesses.

For many more weeks, we stayed in Karisoke. We gave our sad good byes to the surviving gorillas, but Lee’s death marked the real emotional conclusion of our trip. There was yet another dead gorilla. Setting the trap was an African poacher.

The top gorilla research station in the world had absolutely no means or backup plan to assist an injured gorilla, hence we had to jury-rig a risky rescue of Lee, who might have been easily treated by willing French specialists only a few days earlier. It was time to advance and assume greater influence over events influencing our life as well as that of the gorillas.

JEAN-PIerre Von Becke wore his military uniform and created a striking image. Few years of study at Berkeley in the late 1960s had taken the edge off most of his colonial impulses; he was not a spit and shine enthusiast. Blue trousers and a baggy pullover made Jean Pierre most at ease. But he was walking back and forth exhorting his new troops from a cleanly pressed uniform of doubtful provenance, white hair and beard streaming.

The score of Rwandan park guards confronting their new manager was clearly mixed. Few guards had even a matching pair of shirt and trousers as no two outfits were exactly the same. Just half of them wore boots. None carried waterproof rain gear to operate in a park where 10 months of rain fell annually.

The guns on their shoulders seemed to be antiques from World War One single shot heavy rifles, no better than flintlock muskets. Still as Jean Pierre yelled orders, the guards valiantly battled all the obstacles to resemble a passable imitation of a professional corps.