We were up early, taking the jeep track out of camp, in search of the elusive tiger. I was still recovering from the near-sleepless journey from Rishikesh, and didn’t feel to optimistic about my chances, despite a beautiful morning. Somehow – to my dismay, and apparently theirs – I landed on the back of a large elephant with a family of four middle-class Indians. The father, a TV journalist, wanted to discuss the situation in Iraq; on the other hand, I wanted to forget George and Saddam and disappear into the woods.

But before we could get into any sort of detailed analysis of the Middle East, a commotion broke out on the road. Jeeps and Gypsies were scrambling along the shoulder, and our mahout gestured excitedly. There, just below a small temple in a gully running perpendicular to the road, a flash of orange broke through the deodar forest – tiger!

It was a good sized cat of about 200 pounds and indeterminate sex, pacing along the roadside, impatient but surprisingly calm given the traffic jam that closed off its exit from the streambed. No fewer than six cars crept along, angling for position, while our elephant made her slow way towards the tiger. Immediately the young girl riding my side of the elephant began whining that she didn’t want to move any closer, and the mother took up her cries and began berating the mahout in Hindi that he better not lead us into the underbrush as the tiger turned tail and disappeared into the woods. Fortunately, this fellow knew his job. For my part, I offered that there was “no way” the tiger posed a threat, though I was likewise cursing what seemed a conspiracy to keep me from taking a long view of the cat. Just as I was preparing to jump down from the elephant’s back in pursuit of the tiger, another group of safari-goers atop an elephant also arrived and blazed their way along the tiger’s trail. That seemed to assuage the concerns of both mother and daughter as we joined in tracking the beautiful animal into the jungle.

We never got close enough really to disturb her – I decided somewhere along the way that the tiger was female, though that may just be a projection due to her feline wiles. But we did get some excellent views, and through the binoculars I felt as though I might reach across the 25-30 yards distant and touch the tawny fur. To be lucky enough to see such a creature in the wild, even with the somewhat objectionable company felt like a blessing indeed, especially when I returned to camp to discover that not everyone had shared my good fortune to spot the cat, much less observe her for some time. Rather than push our luck, though, the elephant driver pulled an off-road u-turn and carried us safely back to camp.

Remarkably, after a few minutes rest, my driver Mr. Aqueel burst into the dormitory. “Come quickly,” he said. “What another tiger?” I exclaimed. “No, tiger attack,” he answered. Huh? Then, out in the open it came clear to me: The nearly tame sambar deer, about the size of a yearling elk or Rocky Mountain mulie, that had been haunting camp bore the remarkable wounds from its encounter with the cat. A deep gouge ran down her left shoulder, and her left forehoof had been stripped to tendon and bone. Clearly, the deer was not long for this world. The tourists gathered around, apparently astonished that such wild violence had intruded on camp, despite the fact that part of the thrill of seeing tiger is to encounter a major carnivore on its own terms. The consensus amongst Mr. Aqueel and the camp guides was that the tiger would return to finish the job before the day’s end, and that indeed the hunter was the same creature that we had seen just minutes before basking in the undergrowth, looking to escape human notice.

I spent another 24 hours in the park, but that was the only tiger I saw. Hopes to see a leopard remained in vain, and soon I was on my way back to the homestead in Dharchula.

We were up early, taking the jeep track out of camp, in search of the elusive tiger. I was still recovering from the near-sleepless journey from Rishikesh, and didn’t feel to optimistic about my chances, despite a beautiful morning. Somehow – to my dismay, and apparently theirs – I landed on the back of a large elephant with a family of four middle-class Indians. The father, a TV journalist, wanted to discuss the situation in Iraq; on the other hand, I wanted to forget George and Saddam and disappear into the woods.

But before we could get into any sort of detailed analysis of the Middle East, a commotion broke out on the road. Jeeps and Gypsies were scrambling along the shoulder, and our mahout gestured excitedly. There, just below a small temple in a gully running perpendicular to the road, a flash of orange broke through the deodar forest – tiger!

It was a good sized cat of about 200 pounds and indeterminate sex, pacing along the roadside, impatient but surprisingly calm given the traffic jam that closed off its exit from the streambed. No fewer than six cars crept along, angling for position, while our elephant made her slow way towards the tiger. Immediately the young girl riding my side of the elephant began whining that she didn’t want to move any closer, and the mother took up her cries and began berating the mahout in Hindi that he better not lead us into the underbrush as the tiger turned tail and disappeared into the woods. Fortunately, this fellow knew his job. For my part, I offered that there was “no way” the tiger posed a threat, though I was likewise cursing what seemed a conspiracy to keep me from taking a long view of the cat. Just as I was preparing to jump down from the elephant’s back in pursuit of the tiger, another group of safari-goers atop an elephant also arrived and blazed their way along the tiger’s trail. That seemed to assuage the concerns of both mother and daughter as we joined in tracking the beautiful animal into the jungle.

We never got close enough really to disturb her – I decided somewhere along the way that the tiger was female, though that may just be a projection due to her feline wiles. But we did get some excellent views, and through the binoculars I felt as though I might reach across the 25-30 yards distant and touch the tawny fur. To be lucky enough to see such a creature in the wild, even with the somewhat objectionable company felt like a blessing indeed, especially when I returned to camp to discover that not everyone had shared my good fortune to spot the cat, much less observe her for some time. Rather than push our luck, though, the elephant driver pulled an off-road u-turn and carried us safely back to camp.

Remarkably, after a few minutes rest, my driver Mr. Aqueel burst into the dormitory. “Come quickly,” he said. “What another tiger?” I exclaimed. “No, tiger attack,” he answered. Huh? Then, out in the open it came clear to me: The nearly tame sambar deer, about the size of a yearling elk or Rocky Mountain mulie, that had been haunting camp bore the remarkable wounds from its encounter with the cat. A deep gouge ran down her left shoulder, and her left forehoof had been stripped to tendon and bone. Clearly, the deer was not long for this world. The tourists gathered around, apparently astonished that such wild violence had intruded on camp, despite the fact that part of the thrill of seeing tiger is to encounter a major carnivore on its own terms. The consensus amongst Mr. Aqueel and the camp guides was that the tiger would return to finish the job before the day’s end, and that indeed the hunter was the same creature that we had seen just minutes before basking in the undergrowth, looking to escape human notice.

I spent another 24 hours in the park, but that was the only tiger I saw. Hopes to see a leopard remained in vain, and soon I was on my way back to the homestead in Dharchula.

I don’t know if it’s some sort of karmic justice, the result of a billion lives, 4000 years of Hindu doctrine or what, but inertia may be the strongest force in India. I left Rishikesh on the back of a chugging Enfield motorcycle, a stylish way to depart the Yoga Capital of the World; but it was a short ride to the bus depot. Still having broken free of Rishikesh, I had no choice but to keep on rolling. I was standing still and yet running hard to see the tiger park before looping back home to Dharchula and my constant companion Christina.

But soon I found myself at the mercy of the local cops at the main square in Kashipur, a town a half-hour away from Corbett Park headquarters at Ramnagar with little to recommend it other than a bus stop and a statue of some national hero or another whose name escapes me. Fortunately, the cops around these parts are the same sorts of earnest young men I have met throughout my travel (as opposed to the not-so-earnest touts and cheats that have also been present). They treated me to a late-night omelet and chai while assuring me that the bus would be along presently. Three hours later, finally, I nabbed a ride to Ramnagar, banged on the door of the Everest Hotel, grabbed a few winks and made my way to India’s answer to Yellowstone, Corbett Park, a nature preserve in the heart of Uttaranchal.

It strikes some as strange that a place of conservation should be named for Jim Corbett, a hunter in the first degree, whose fame stems from his destruction of a good many tigers and other big cats. In some ways, Corbett is India’s answer to Hemingway, in his African mode, in that his stories of travel in this place inspired a thousand fevered dreams of safari; but having written the classic “Man-eaters of Kumaon,” Corbett had a change of heart, ultimately trading his guns for cameras and becoming an outspoken defender of India’s wild places. The park that bears his name today holds the vast majority of India’s mega-fauna, including most famously the Bengal tiger.

If you have chased grizzlies in Montana, seen lions and cheetah in Africa, tracked wolves in Idaho and watched whales off Cape Cod and Long Island, then perhaps you know there is a rule to all these endeavors: Never utter the name of the critter you are looking for, for if these animals know you are looking for them, they will remain forever hidden from your gaze. So it was with me in Corbett… only ever whispering the name of the great cat, emphasizing to my driver Mr. Aqueel that birds and lizards, snakes and deer would be sufficient animals to identify during my visit. “We’ll not say the name of the tiger,” I quietly intoned, “and hope for the best.” Aqueel nodded his ascent, solemn and apparently only a little happy to have a customer for a couple of days of wildland exploration.

First stop was the dry area of the park, the southern section of Bijrani, which has been set aside for day visitors in particular. I had booked a dorm bed, stopped at the local wine shop for a couple of Tiger Hill Lagers (a reasonable beer available throughout our neck of the woods, and an excuse to make lame jokes about ensuring that at least one “tiger” would not get away). Aqueel it turned out was a master of local birds, commanding his Gypsy through the park at low speeds, picking out bright green bee-eaters, blue-black sunbirds and the occasional raptor from behind the wheel of his open-sided jeep. The best avian species of the afternoon included the crested serpent eagle, not too mention dozens of spotted deer, small ungulates browsing the roadside like so many Texas whitetails in the afternoon sunlight. The day was hot enough that I didn’t expect the big cats to be out in the open, and I contended myself looking at the new landscape.

But there were promises that a tiger might yet emerge, including pugmarks in a sandy stream crossing and a tree trunk scarred by the deep gouges of a tiger’s claws. That evening, at Bijrani campus, a few cabins, wildlife blinds and screened dining hall, I decided that my last, best chance to take an elephant ride might also hold the opportunity to see a tiger, and made a reservation for the following morning’s pachyderm safari.