Five days in the heart of Yala National Park, chasing shadows.
That’s how I would sum up my recent photographic journey to Sri Lanka’s most iconic wildlife reserve. Yala is world-renowned for its high density of leopards, but as any wildlife photographer will tell you, nature follows no schedule. It gives you nothing when you’re desperate, and everything when you’ve let go of expectations.
My trip began with high hopes. Yala had always been on my bucket list, particularly for the chance to photograph its elusive leopards against dramatic backdrops — rocky outcrops, dry forests, and golden light. I imagined a portfolio of intense eyes, twitching tails, and regal poses. But reality had other plans.
For four consecutive days, the jungle stayed quiet. I spent hours in the back of a safari vehicle, camera ready, scanning every branch, rock, and bush with obsessive intent. We covered Zone after Zone, starting early and ending late, but apart from some pugmarks and old scat, there were no signs of leopards. Not even a glimpse. Not even the flick of a tail vanishing into the undergrowth. Just silence, dust, and growing disappointment.
That’s the paradox of the wild: it’s at once a sanctuary of peace and a trial of patience. Yala, as expected, was often crowded. Safari vehicles lined up at every promising sighting – elephants, sloth bears, deer. But the big cat remained an enigma.
By the end of Day 4, as any human being I questioned everything – my timing, my luck, even the purpose of the trip. Was this just one of those photographic expeditions that ended with a folder full of nothing?
And then came Day 5.
We started the morning like all the others – hopeful but bracing for more silence. The air was cool and still. Early light trickled through the trees. For some reason, this day felt different. Calmer. Unhurried.
A couple of hours into the drive after our lunch, we reached a rocky patch known for occasional leopard sightings. And there he was.
At first, I didn’t believe it. I squinted through the trees, heart skipping – a silhouette sprawled across a warm granite slab. A leopard. A male leopard. Sleeping soundly in the evening sun, his golden coat blending perfectly with the rock’s texture.
And the best part? We were the only vehicle there.
In a park as crowded as Yala, that kind of exclusivity is rare. Unheard of, even. But in that moment, the jungle had gifted us complete solitude – just us and the cat.
We turned off the engine. No clicks, no whispers. Just the rhythm of his slow breathing and the occasional rustle of dry leaves.
After some time, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly, golden and wild. He looked at us – not startled, not afraid. Simply curious. Then came the stretch, a yawn that seemed to last forever, his long white canines flashing in the soft light. He rose gracefully and descended the rock in fluid motion, each step a lesson in elegance and confidence.
At the base of the rock was a shallow waterhole. He padded over to it, lowered his head, and drank, his reflection rippling across the still surface. I could hear the camera shutter going, but my mind was silent. Completely present. This – this was the moment I had come for.
Just then, another vehicle arrived. Then another. Within minutes, the scene transformed from sacred solitude to a crowd of safari-goers jostling for a view. I was grateful we had arrived before the noise.
After quenching his thirst, the leopard climbed another rocky perch and paused, looking down on us all. Then, with the effortless grace that defines his kind, he slipped into the bushes and vanished. But the evening had one more surprise.
Not long after, we found him again – this time draped across the limbs of a tree, in deep rest. He was farther away, tucked among the leaves, but still visible. That was our final sighting, a poetic end to the encounter.
The emotions I felt in that hour are hard to put into words. Relief, awe, and something deeper – a kind of silent connection with a creature so rarely seen, so beautifully wild. All the disappointment of the past four days melted away. In the wilderness, you don’t get to choose your moments. You earn them.
This experience reminded me why I pursue wildlife photography in the first place. It’s not just about the images. It’s about the waiting, the watching, the quiet lessons in patience and presence. It’s about understanding that nature doesn’t perform on command, and that the most profound encounters are the ones that happen on their own terms.
Yala tested me. It taught me to sit with disappointment, to trust the process, and above all, to keep showing up. And in return, it gave me one of the most intimate leopard sightings I’ve ever had.
Sometimes, all it takes is one hour to make five days of waiting worth it.
