Words by Jackie Caradonio
Editor, writer and photographer focusing on luxury travel, having held editor positions at Departures, Robb Report, and Travel + Leisure magazines.

After cancer, my confidence was shaken. Then I witnessed the power of the Great Migration.

For most of my adult life, I’ve lived in the “tilt”—or what I more often called the punctuation marks—of life. These are not the mundane everyday moments mired in routine and responsibility, but rather the remarkable ones that come in-between. The ones that happen when I’m off on some grand adventure, chasing big goals, big dreams, and big ideas.

As a travel writer and editor, I’m lucky to have had many punctuation marks in my life. I have cycled with Tour de France winners and speared fish with deep-sea fishermen in Fiji. I have run just about everywhere: through remote villages of Nepal, around the high-elevation lakes of Switzerland, and even in the savannahs of Kenya (the world’s fastest man, Eliud Kipchoge, ran right past me during that one). One time, I climbed a sheer cliff on the edge of Tung Lung Chau Island, overlooking the sea and nearby Hong Kong—twice in a single day.

These punctuation marks knocked me off my axis. They were exclamation points (always exclamation points) slicing through “regular” life. Everything else was an ellipsis, the necessary connective tissue that linked one travel experience to the next.

More than that, these punctuation marks had long been a part of my identity. They said, I’m not like the others! I’m brave. I’m strong. I’m the kind of person who goes climbing in the Bugaboo Mountains three weeks before their wedding. Who cares if I showed up to the rehearsal dinner with bruises on my shins and calluses on my hands? It was my persona—the say-anything, do-anything girl who wasn’t scared of, well, anything.

But then, something really scary happened. Like so many of the real-life things that get in the way of punctuation marks, it happened in-between trips. I was just back from a whirlwind two weeks in Italy, about to swap out my suitcase for a jaunt to Jackson Hole, when a routine check-up turned into an out-of-the-blue you have cancer. It was that fast.

Along with all the requisite thoughts that run through one’s mind when they are told in no uncertain terms that they have a deadly virus growing inside of them—Will I die? Will I live? Will it hurt?—one perhaps not-so-standard question elbowed its way to the front of my mind: What about all my trips?

Canceled. Every single one of them.

Suddenly, I couldn’t tell the difference between the punctuation marks and the ellipses. I was stuck at home, bouncing from my Manhattan apartment to doctors’ offices and hospitals in a zombie-like fugue. But these everyday tasks were hardly mundane. They were the most terrifying punctuation marks of my life, and now, a whole slew of question marks. If this was an ellipsis, it was the longest, darkest ellipsis of my life.

Months later I emerged cancer-free. As I built my strength back, I daydreamed about where my first adventure as a new and improved woman would take me. But something weird started to happen: Though my body recovered remarkably, my mind couldn’t quite keep up. I wasn’t just stuck in the ellipsis. I was scared of the punctuation marks. I had been thrown so violently off my axis, the idea of intentionally pushing myself into even a slightly precarious situation was terrifying.

The ellipsis dragged on, and I waited. I wasn’t quite sure what for. Some sign or act of God that stirred in me the old craving for an exclamation point, I supposed. When it finally came, it wasn’t quite the kick-in-the-gut craving I was used to, but more like a tentative interest backed by reasonable concerns (something akin to the mixed emotions most people probably feel when they consider taking a big adventure).

The trip in question was a safari to Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park to see the Great Migration, the mass journey of more than two million wildebeests and zebras spanning 500 miles. Having been on many safaris, I knew this one was not to be missed: The Serengeti is one of the most spectacular places in all of Sub-Saharan Africa, second to none in game viewing, home to the Big Five in impressive numbers, and a place where nature is at its most raw and unbridled. Given the chance to go—especially for the Great Migration—one simply does not say no.

Though I wasn’t sure I was ready—I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be—from somewhere in the dark depths of my mind, the brave girl I used to be reminded me that the best things usually come from great leaps of faith.

So, I went. Not quite boldly. But I went.

I had been on many safaris before, and this was my second in Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park. But when I took my first steps off the rickety bush plane and onto the dirt runway of the Kogatende airstrip, I felt like a babe in the woods. Spanning more than 5,500 square miles, this wildlife-rich World Heritage Site—home to leopards, lions, rhinos, elephants, and African buffalo, as well as giraffes, hyenas, and more than 500 bird species—is massive. And massively remote. Never had I truly processed just how isolated one must become to encounter raw nature. The reality of being thousands of miles from home gave me a different kind of gut check.

It was the height of river-crossing season, the most popular time to witness the Great Migration. The migration itself is forever ongoing, a continuous loop that cycles from the north of the Mara River in Kenya, all the way south to Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Crater and Masawa Reserve, and then back up again. During the southern hemisphere’s spring, the wildebeest birth their young, when hundreds of calves are born every day. And so, by the time their path converged with mine during the Serengeti’s late winter, calves were bucking and mewing alongside their mothers. I had to muffle my squeals of delight at their scruffy little mohawks and awkward Bambi-like legs.

Cute as it all can be, the Great Migration is driven by an instinct for survival. It’s a tough world out there for these herbivores who have no choice but to follow the rains, which bring more fertile land and thus more abundant food sources. Even more difficult: Their mass movements are constantly stalked by lions, cheetahs, and other predators; carnivores themselves just trying to survive. (I imagine they view the migration like something of a traveling all-you-can-eat buffet.)

The Great Migration is safari theater at its best any time of year, but most especially during the Serengeti’s winter and early spring (June through November). Crossing the Mara River is widely considered the most dangerous part of the journey, because it forces the animals into the highly vulnerable position of wading through murky waters where alligators wait just beneath the surface. Over the course of a week, I watched these crossings daily. Sometimes the animals treaded daintily over shallow bends, and others, they braved neck-deep waters where it was almost certain something terrifying was lurking below. I had seen safari kills before, and it’s not like I enjoyed them per se, but I understood them.

It all started one afternoon when we saw a very large wildebeest stuck in the water, most likely due to a broken leg or other injury. Long abandoned by the rest of his herd, he stood statue-like as the water rushed over him. Then came the alligators, so casual. After all there was no hurry with this one.

Another day, a dazzle of zebras made a rather impromptu break across a remote part of the river. I felt in my bones they were not moving nearly as quickly as they should. Sure enough, the alligators came again, and this time, the struggle was real. A young zebra fought valiantly, bucking and jerking, nearly escaping at one point. But soon the fight was over.

I’m a firm believer that one should never cry on vacation. That’s just a good rule to live by. But on this day, giant salty drops rained down my cheeks. I couldn’t hide my heartbreak. “You wouldn’t want the alligators to go hungry, would you?” my guide asked hopefully. I felt like a child. No, a baby. I was embarrassed of my emotions, which I blamed entirely on this stupid cancer that had interrupted my life. I wasn’t brave anymore. I wasn’t strong. I was just sitting in a safari truck on a fabulous vacation, weeping like a fool.

The following morning, I made an announcement to my guide: We’d skip the game drive and explore the savannah by foot. Perhaps I was terrified of what I might see on another day of brutal river crossings. But looking back, I now suspect that what was driving me was a desire to prove that I really was brave. A gun-toting ranger joined us (already this was looking adventurous), and we set out along a hillside where earlier that morning I had seen a herd of zebras in glorious gallop and a family of elephants breaking apart a giant acacia tree.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that taking to a new place on foot—running, hiking, what have you—is my favorite way to explore. That’s especially true on safari where, too often, I find the little things—animal tracks, strange critters, fascinating natural phenomena—are overlooked in pursuit of the bigger brag-worthy sightings. Rhinos and elephants and leopards are great, but so is the sight of a lilac-breasted roller breaking into flight.

A couple hours into our walk that day, the sun was high, and I was at last happily lost in my surroundings. We stopped to hydrate and shade ourselves under an acacia just as another family of elephants began to saunter through. Being so close to them, feeling the grace in their great size, I felt warm, my humanity blissfully simplified.

Then, like a flash of lightning, across the hillside, we saw it: a cheetah running at full speed, no more than 100 yards away. Perhaps in pursuit of some prey we couldn’t see, it was majestic and fierce and fearless all at the same time. My exhilaration wasn’t dampened even a tiny bit by the fear of sharing such proximity with a ferocious killer.

The next day, feeling somewhat redeemed, I agreed to one more day of river crossings—and this one, my guide told me, was going to be the big one. We drove for nearly two hours to reach one of the widest parts of the Mara River, dust swirling high in the air as the wildebeests vacillated to and fro, waiting for a burst of courage to propel them across the deadly waters. It went on for what felt like ages. Their fear was palpable.

And then, suddenly, the first wildebeest crossed. Then the second, then the third, then hundreds flooded into the banks, crossing straight toward us. Even after they made it to the other side—each and every one of them, safely—adrenaline kept them frantically in motion, bucking and grunting, still fighting for their lives. Damn, these creatures are brave, I thought.

Suddenly it hit me: You can’t be brave if you are not scared. Before cancer, this obvious truth had never occurred to me. Bravery and fear are polar opposites. But they’re also inextricably linked.

And then I felt it. As only travel can do, as only leaping out of the mundane, even if unsteadily at first, and diving feet first into a wild and vastly different world can do, I felt the swell inside of me that had slumbered for so long. As the wildebeests bucked in celebration around me, I finally felt it: the thrill of uncertainty, the desire to step into the unknown—the tilt—and my exclamation point.

Want to see the Great Migration for yourself?

The Great Migration is the largest animal migration in the world. Every year more than 1.5 million animals migrate in a clockwise direction across the Serengeti (Tanzania) and the Masai Mara (Kenya). The best time to see the Great Migration is during the dry season between July and October. July, August and September represent peak travel season. In order to secure the best lodges, we recommend booking 12 to 18 months out. If you can wait until October you may encounter fewer crowds.

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