FOPING PANDA RESERVE, China -- "There! In that tree, a month ago, the Netherlands lady saw a baby panda. She was so excited!"
Great, I thought, at least she got to see one -- and I could see the same tree trunk, with an additional and very cuddly looking black-and-white appendage, as I looked at the screen of the guide's digital camera and listened to his description of the Dutch woman's excitement.
No kidding, there had been a panda in that very tree, just meters from the spot where I was now standing with He Xiangbo, my guide, a local tracker and my friend and traveling companion, Viritpon.
The only problem was, everything was being spoken of in the past tense.
Today, as on many occasions when searching for birds or animals, it was just another case of me being in the right place at the wrong time.
I wasn't disappointed. Far from it: it was a privilege for us to be in the realm of the legendary giant panda -- and who knows, maybe one of these members of the Ursidae family of bears was peeking at us right then from among the bamboo stems.
Tomorrow, or the next day -- our last -- would be different, I told myself.
I had confidence that affable young He, a ranger at Foping for five years, would be able to pull an Ailuropoda malanoleuca (which means "black-and-white cat-footed animal") out of the bamboo forest during our stay at the Foping Panda Research Center, nestled among the Qinling Mountains in central China's Shanxi Province.
Created in 1978 and covering almost 30,000 hectares, Foping is one of five contiguous nature reserves in the Qinling range established specifically for giant pandas. He spends his working life trudging up and down its mountains with a GPS monitor, a digital camera and notebook in search of his piebald charges.
Evidence of our quarry
Every so often as we trudged along with him, we came across evidence of our quarry on the forest floor: fist-sized oval green droppings composed of digested bamboo leaves and stems; a footprint in the sand next to a sparkling stream; or a place where a panda had rested for lunch or an afternoon snack.
"This is a week old," He might say, after conferring with his tracker. If he announced that it was "fresh" we cast around in the hopes of hearing one of these animals -- whose Chinese name daxiongmao means "large bear cat" -- shuffling through the dried leaves covering the forest floor. I suspected that these were our downfall: any panda with a decent sense of hearing could probably hear our noisy progression from afar.
And so onward and upward we proceeded in this green realm of the panda above 1,200 meters, also in search of the rare golden monkey, the goatlike golden takin, and several species of bird that inhabit the protected valleys and ranges of Foping. At the top of the mountain a huge boulder became our picnic table. Out came the cold steamed buns left over from breakfast, and a bag of salty pickled vegetables. The highlight was an apple or a very tart orange, or dry biscuits and water.
From our table, looking across the forested peaks of Foping and beyond, all was quiet. Totally silent would be a better description. It could have been, in two words, paradise found.
Not a bird's call pierced the air. Not a breath of wind stirred through the naked trees on this sunny day. Not a car could be seen or heard, and there were no telltale contrails crisscrossing the sky, charting man's progress through the heavens.
Trekking along well-worn animal highways that snaked over the ridges through the pine trees we could find the calling cards of musk deer, goral and golden takin -- numerous piles of droppings which, depending on size, said such and such a beast had passed this way.
Soon, the tracker, having climbed a tree to survey the surrounding peaks, let out a subdued whistle. He had spotted one of the animals on our "hit list." Ahead, on a nearby peak, was a white golden takin. Another materialized out of the forest, and then both disappeared from view.
"Let's go and get closer," He said, and off we went in single file behind the tracker, trying as hard as possible to proceed quietly, but seemingly treading on every fallen twig and making such a rumpus that I thought there could be no way the takin would stay.
We slid down a steep, frozen slope, crossed an ice-covered stream and entered a cold, narrow valley, one starved of winter sunlight. Slowly we proceeded and then we found our quarry.
From the dark interior of a dense stand of bamboo a takin -- a mountain-dwelling ungulate the size of a large, thick-set pony, maybe weighing 250 kg or so and standing 1.5 meters high or more at the shoulders -- broke out and turned to face us. And then another, and another. From the noise and the violent shaking of the bamboo stems, it was obvious that we'd disturbed a small herd.
In all, there were at least six animals, and after giving us the once-over, they slowly moved away. Having this encounter was magic -- but another surprise was still in store for us.
Returning to the coldness as the sun fell behind the peaks, we headed back toward the research center. We hadn't gone far when we found, under a tall tree next to a stream, the telltale signs of monkey business. All was quiet, and with no sound apart from our breathing to disturb the late-afternoon silence, we resumed our homeward trek. Then, within seconds, the guides froze in their footsteps and we saw, not 30 meters in front, a single golden monkey about to cross our path, heading for a rocky outcrop that would offer it protection.
It stopped, briefly, to glare at us. We all saw the thick bluish lips and the bare, pale-blue skin of its face, and admired its long tail and mane of golden-orange hair.
Then it was on its way again, running on all-fours, tail pointing upward as it made its way to its rocky sanctuary.
Today was obviously our golden day: golden takin, golden monkey and, almost home, we encountered, feeding at the forest edge, a flock of golden pheasants that included at least 12 bizarrely colored males strutting their gaudy plumage in front of prospective mates.
Exhausting day's hiking
As the last light faded in the western sky, we arrived back at the research center, where the cook was tossing food in a wok over an open fire. It had been a long, exhausting day and we were famished. As we settled down in front of a log fire, rice bowl and chopsticks in hand, we reminisced about the day, about what we had seen -- and what we had not.
Soon afterward, it was time to retire to our beds and sleep on our accomplishments and the fortunes of our day. At the same time, we could dream about what might be in store for us tomorrow in this wild and remote corner of China.
But as they will, the next day came and went, with events and cuisines much the same as before: pickles for breakfast, cold buns for lunch, trekking through dense bamboo forests, and rice and woked vegetables before another freezing night at Chez Foping.
So, too, the day after that passed, with its highlights being a huge owl spotted deep in the forest and a single squirrel swearing at us from atop a broken tree -- but we never did see a giant panda.
Later, as I retired to reflect in the outside toilet I'd christened the "Foping fourabreast," I decided Foping was a place I'd come again to sharpen my panda-spotting skills and hope that the next time I'd be able to creep up on one and tickle it under the tail before it could turn around and say "bamboo shoot!"
