2025 Migration Tales part II – The Crossing

Thank you Hemingway

Part II of our 2025 Migration Tales is here. Each year, we provide three updates covering different stages of Great Migration to help you follow herd movement throughout the year. These updates include live video from the field, giving you direct insight into where the herds are and how best to plan around their patterns.

A common misconception is that the migration lasts only a few months. In reality, it is a year-round cycle with key moments at every stage, moments we explore together in these tales.

In February of this year, I was in Tanzania and shared live video of the migratory herds in calving season. Down in the lower Serengeti, just north of Ndutu, we saw millions of zebras and wildebeest around us, and we were the only ones there for hours. Between the movements, the leopards, and the live births, it was the migration experience that so many miss.

Now, for those who want to hear the thundering hooves as the movement approaches and as the herds cross the famed Mara River, this tale is for you. This year, around mid-July, wildebeest and zebra started the arduous journey, daring to cross the Mara River. It was here that I insert my favorite passage about migration, written by a friend in a style that can only be called Hemingwayesque.

Enjoy the passage and the video, taken by our guides in the field at the river. The video entries you see this week were all filmed within the last 72 hours, raw, shaky cell phone footage that tells the story of the greatest show on Earth.

 

A Tale Told Through a Friends’s Eyes

The dust was the first thing. It was a fine, pale powder that rose from the earth with every hoof and coated the tongue. The sun was hard and white and made the short grass brittle. For days, the Gnu had moved south to north, a dark river of meat and bone flowing over the plain. The zebras were with them, their stripes a disruption in the solid, moving mass. They came to the river, and they stopped. The river was the Mara. It was wide and brown, and it did not look good. The Gnu milled at the edge, their foolish heads low, their calls a constant, nervous complaint. They could smell the water, and they could smell the green grass on the other side in Kenya. The smell of the grass was what drove them. It was a promise. For a long time, they did not move. The sun beat on their backs. The heat made the air shimmer over the water. A man could see the crocodiles on the far bank. They looked like logs, old and patient. They had been waiting. The river had been waiting. The crocodiles knew about the promise of the grass.

And suddenly one went. It was not a decision. It was a thing that happened. A bull, maybe, or a cow pushed from behind. It slid down the steep bank, its legs stiff with panic, and hit the water with a heavy splash. And then another went, and then a hundred, and then the bank gave way to a torrent of bodies. The sound was a great thing. It was the thunder of hooves on the mud and the panicked bellowing and the churning of the brown water. They were all in the water now, swimming with a desperate, ugly motion. Their heads were high, their eyes white with fear.

The logs on the other side were no longer logs. They moved into the current with a speed that was not natural. A crocodile took a calf. The water broke around the struggle and then was still. The calf was gone. The mother swam on. The herd pushed her on. There was no time for sorrow. There was only the other bank.

Another went down, its leg broken in the crush. It called out, a high, thin sound that was lost in the noise. The bodies pressed over it.

They fought the far bank. It was steep and slick with mud. Hooves scrabbled for purchase. An animal would pull itself halfway out, trembling with effort, then slide back. Another would push it from below. They climbed over one another, their flanks heaving. The first ones to make it stood shaking on the green grass. They were slick with mud and water. They did not look back at the river. The river was a bad thing, and it was done. They lowered their heads to the new grass.

In the Mara, the crocodiles fed. The water was thick with the dead and the dying. The vultures circled in the clean, hot sky, then began to drop. The river carried the bodies downstream. The sound quieted. The herd was already moving, a dark stain spreading across the green hills of the new country. The sun was still hot, and the plains did not care.

Since the herds have started crossing, we will say what we say every year around this time… They’re Baaaack!!