Part 1: Following a Cheetah and Cubs: Witnessing Survival
First Sight
A Masai Mara journal of one mother, two cubs, and five fragile days in the wild.
Words & Images by Lona Downs
A personal record from the field
Some stories begin before the moment you know they matter.
She walked ahead alone, disappearing into the grass. Two small cubs stayed behind—watching, waiting.
This is her story.
Ours began in 2023, somewhere in the air between Uganda and Kenya. I reached into the seat pocket, pulled out the in-flight magazine, and read an article that landed harder than I expected: cheetah numbers in the Masai Mara had dropped by nearly a third in two years. Less than two dozen remained in the area. Cubs rarely survived.
I turned to the window, wondering if we’d even see one.
Day One: First Sight — And What Followed
We landed directly on the plains—no terminal, no gates. Just open air, golden light, and a waiting jeep.
Our guide met us there with a quiet smile and a question:
"Do you want to check in to the lodge first, or go on safari now?"
We didn’t hesitate.
And then he added, almost casually,
"And do you want to see a cheetah? She has been spotted."
We climbed in, the tires crunching dry earth as the jeep pulled away from the strip.
The Mara opened around us—wide skies, golden light, and a warm breeze that felt almost like welcome.
It was quiet, expectant. The horizon stretched wide—we didn’t expect to see much so soon.
But then, just beyond a rise, we saw her.
Even from a distance, her presence held the landscape still.
At first, she was nearly invisible. Sitting upright in the tall grass, perfectly camouflaged, her body still. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the space, but slowly—there she was.
Alert. Watchful. Her gaze swept the horizon, scanning for threats and prey alike.
And then she began to move.
She stepped into the light—her posture fluid, her eyes steady. The grass shifted, and something else stirred behind her.
Slowly, fluidly, she stepped out of the thicket. And what tumbled out after her was a complete surprise—two tiny cubs.
She moved forward with ease—but what emerged behind her was the story’s true heart. Two cubs, wide-eyed and tentative, still learning what it means to follow.
That was the moment we learned her story.
She had given birth to four cubs—but now, only two remained.
She was constantly on alert. Every few minutes, her ears would tilt or her head would lift—listening for danger, reading the wind.
It was only day one, and already it felt like a privilege too large to name.
Cubs of the Mara
A quiet interlude—play, pause, and presence.
For a moment, it felt like the wild had offered us everything.
A mother. Two cubs. Golden light.
I lowered my camera and sat back.
Watching her, I wondered—how must it feel, as a mother, to carry that kind of weight?
I thought of the article on the plane—how few cubs survive.
And I knew this moment wasn’t just beautiful.
It was fragile.
She wasn’t just raising cubs. She was guarding their chances.
On the Mara, everything moves—beginning to end.
Her story was already unfolding.
My witness to it was only just beginning.
Photographic Location Note
All images and observations were recorded in September 2023 across Kenya’s Mara North, Lemek, and Ol Chorro Oiroua Conservancies. These community-run conservancies border the Masai Mara and work in partnership with local families — helping protect wildlife while supporting traditional ways of life.
Coming soon: Following the Cheetah: Part 2 — All Eyes on Her
You can read a companion reflection on this moment in Echoes from the Wild — The Weight of Survival.
There’s more from this part of the world in the Africa gallery.
If you’d like to know how I ended up here — this is a bit of my story.
