31/05/2026
A memorois to a Giraffe's Farewell
There are moments in the African bush that leave an imprint deeper than any spoor in the dust.
Years may pass. Seasons may come and go. The veld may turn from green to gold and back again. Yet certain memories remain untouched by time, returning as vividly as the day they happened.
One such memory began on a warm Saturday afternoon.
The sun was slowly descending toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the Waterberg bushveld. The farm was alive with activity as hunters enjoyed their time in the field. It was the kind of afternoon that carried a sense of peace—the gentle hum of insects, the distant call of birds, and the stillness that often settles over the bush before evening.
Then the radio crackled.
A hunting team had found a giraffe calf.
Their voices carried urgency.
The calf was lying in a deep erosion ditch and appeared to be only a few days old.
I immediately climbed into the vehicle and headed toward the location.
As we approached, I could see the outlines of the ditch cutting through the earth. What I found there remains one of the saddest sights I have witnessed in the bush.
The tiny giraffe lay crumpled among exposed roots and loose soil. Its long legs were folded awkwardly beneath its body. Its neck was twisted, and its head hung downward into the hole. The calf was almost completely motionless.
Against the backdrop of the vast African wilderness, it looked impossibly small and vulnerable.
For a moment, I wondered if we were already too late.
The odds were certainly against it.
Yet there was still life.
Carefully, we climbed into the ditch and lifted the calf free from its earthen trap. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath it took seemed fragile.
We loaded it onto a trailer and transported it back to the safari lodge.
That evening became the beginning of a battle none of us knew how long we would fight.
The calf's breathing was shallow and weak. We found milk and began nursing it as best we could. Slowly, signs of life began to return. A flicker in the eyes. A stronger breath. A slight movement.
Hope arrived quietly.
By nightfall, the calf was noticeably stronger than when we had found it.
For the first time, we allowed ourselves to believe that perhaps this little survivor might make it.
The next few days became a rhythm of care.
Feeding.
Monitoring.
Medication.
Encouragement.
Hope.
The calf received our attention around the clock.
Among those caring for it was a young student whose dedication would leave a lasting impression on all of us. She practically lived beside the giraffe. Day and night she remained near it, feeding it from a bottle and watching over it with remarkable patience and compassion.
When the calf became too weak to drink from the bottle, she carefully administered milk through a syringe.
Hour after hour.
Day after day.
Without complaint.
It was impossible not to admire her commitment.
The little giraffe had become more than an animal in our care.
It had become family.
Yet one concern remained.
The calf never attempted to stand.
Not once.
We suspected that shortly after birth it had fallen into the ditch where we found it. Instead of taking those first uncertain steps that every giraffe calf must take, it had spent its earliest days trapped and helpless.
After several days we called in a veterinarian.
Surely there had to be an injury.
A broken limb.
A damaged joint.
Something.
The veterinarian conducted a thorough examination, but the results surprised everyone.
Nothing appeared broken.
There were no obvious injuries.
No explanation.
The calf simply lacked the strength to rise.
So we continued.
We fed it.
Encouraged it.
Waited.
Prayed.
And hoped.
Then came the moment that forever changed how I would remember those days.
It was late one afternoon, roughly five days after we had rescued the calf.
I had just finished administering its medication.
Before leaving, I bent down and gently rubbed its neck.
"Come on, big guy," I said softly. "You need to stand up and walk, my son."
Words spoken almost automatically.
Words of encouragement.
Words I never expected would be answered.
Suddenly, the calf lifted its head.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then it stretched its neck toward me and laid its head across my shoulders.
I can still remember the feeling.
The warmth.
The weight.
The gentle pressure.
For perhaps ten seconds, we remained there together.
No movement.
No sound.
Just a man and a young giraffe sharing a moment that neither science nor logic can adequately explain.
To an observer, it may have seemed insignificant.
To me, it felt profound.
I felt something pass between us.
Trust.
Recognition.
Gratitude.
Perhaps it was only my imagination.
Or perhaps there are things in this world that cannot be measured or explained.
Even today, I know what I felt.
It was as though the calf was saying thank you.
Thank you for trying.
Thank you for caring.
Thank you for not leaving me behind.
After a few moments, it lowered its head once more.
I gently patted its neck and left.
An hour later, the radio sounded again.
The student's voice was different this time.
Concerned.
Quiet.
She asked me to come quickly.
Something wasn't right.
As I approached the enclosure, my heart sank.
Before I reached the calf, I already knew.
Its eyes looked different.
Its breathing had changed.
The fight was ending.
We stood beside it during those final moments.
The student who had cared for it so faithfully remained there.
Helpless.
Heartbroken.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then, only minutes later, the little giraffe slipped away.
The silence that followed was overwhelming.
No one spoke.
There was nothing to say.
The young woman who had invested so much of herself into those five days was devastated. I felt the loss deeply myself.
Not because we had known the calf for long.
But because we had hoped.
Hope has a way of attaching itself to the heart.
And when hope dies, a part of us grieves with it.
Yet as the years have passed, I have come to realize that this story is not truly about death.
It is about compassion.
It is about choosing to care when the outcome is uncertain.
It is about fighting for life even when the odds seem impossible.
Most of all, it is about a brief connection between two living beings whose paths crossed for only a few days.
That giraffe calf never ran across the African plains.
It never grew into the towering giant it was meant to become.
Its life was heartbreakingly short.
Yet in those few days, it taught everyone involved something important.
It reminded us that the value of a life is not measured by its length.
It is measured by the impact it leaves behind.
Today, when I think back to that Saturday afternoon and the tiny calf lying helplessly in the ditch, I no longer see only tragedy.
I remember courage.
I remember kindness.
I remember a young student whose compassion knew no limits.
And I remember a small giraffe lifting its head one final time and resting it upon my shoulders.
A simple gesture.
A silent farewell.
A memory that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Similar situations most probably happened to others as well, who felt the loss in their sole....share with us.
....and then a few days later his mom an dad came walking to the vehicle. Close up and almost personal, just staring, maybe they want to say, Thank You.
Berchtesgaden Ranch & Farm
