It’s sunrise in the bushveld, but the sound of engines cuts sharply through the stillness. In a landscape celebrated for its tranquillity, the mechanical drone and two distant specks on the horizon signal that this is no ordinary morning on safari.
The whirring grows louder. A fixed-wing aircraft and a helicopter emerge, flying in formation towards us. They slice overhead, low and fast, silencing our gravelly small talk. The fixed-wing veers off; the helicopter banks, dips and lands in a dramatic cloud of dust just a few metres away.
From it steps Gerry McDonald, one half of a Lowveld flying duo. His twin brother, Bruce, still circling above, handles the fixed-wing. Together, they’re known not only for precision flying but for their decades of aerial conservation work — particularly rhino dehorning operations like the one about to unfold.
This event is unusual. Organised by former professional rugby player Joe Pietersen — now a passionate conservationist — and backed by the new Radisson Safari Hotel in nearby Hoedspruit, today’s mission is symbolic and strategic: a commitment to protecting rhinos and the region.
But the lightness of the arrival quickly fades. Pietersen gives a short, upbeat welcome, then hands over to the serious business at hand. His organisation, Nkombe Rhino, supports anti-poaching units on the ground, and today it has assembled what can only be described as a dream team.
From the plane, Bruce McDonald will help locate rhinos eligible for dehorning. Gerry, piloting the chopper, will swoop in with wildlife vet Peter Rogers, who will dart the animals from above. A ground crew — led by another vet, Vicky McGee — will move swiftly in to complete the procedure.
“This is a complex and costly operation,” Rogers says during the briefing. “We need to get a fixed-wing aircraft up, a helicopter in the air and a trained ground team ready to move fast. Everything has to work in sync.”
It’s not a task taken lightly. Despite years of successful procedures, each one carries risk. The primary concern is the anaesthetic: etorphine hydrochloride, a powerful opioid that can be fatal to humans even in microscopic doses.
“Just a prick of this syringe,” Rogers says, motioning to his supplies, “is enough to end your life in seconds. So be careful when assisting us around a darted rhino later this morning.”
Rhinos, despite their size, are unusually sensitive to the drug — more so than the average kudu bull. Precise dosing, close monitoring and immediate reversal are critical to a safe and successful operation.
But there’s one advantage to the grim necessity of dehorning in South Africa: experience. Through repeated trial and error, the country’s vets and anti-poaching units have pioneered methods that now resemble a military-style operation — rapid, efficient and finely choreographed. Even the removed, highly valuable horns disappear into a secure vault minutes after each successful dehorning. And for the rhinos, when all goes well, this means minimal discomfort and, hopefully, a second chance at life.
A crackle on the radio interrupts the post-briefing banter and signals that the day’s first targets have been identified. Rogers and Gerry walk briskly to the chopper while the fixed-wing circles above. Minutes later, the convoy of Land Cruisers roars to life.
“They’ve got a cow and a calf,” someone shouts, almost drowned out by the engines. “But they’re deep in the bush — hold on tight.”
The first challenge for the ground crew is the terrain. The helicopter aims to guide the rhinos into more accessible areas, but success isn’t guaranteed.
“The chopper works like a sheepdog,” Gerry tells me later. “We try to get the team in close, without pushing the animals too far. Open space is first prize — but we don’t always get it.”
Ultimately, Rogers decides when to dart, and upon success, he’ll radio it in and Gerry will land the chopper nearby. Ground teams, often charging blindly through dense thornveld, have seconds to minutes to reach the animal — primarily to ensure its full weight isn’t resting on a lung or limb.
The efficiency of the operation is immediately apparent. By the time I jump off the 4x4, the rhino is already down with her eyes covered. She’s sedated but upright, calm and catheterised — ready for a rapid antidote if needed.
“You have to monitor these rhinos so carefully,” McGee says later. “And the basics are often the most important part. It’s easy to forget to watch if an animal is breathing because you’re so focused on cutting the horn off.”
McGee says respiration is critical, which is why they give the rhinos a partial reversal and supplement with oxygen as well — a practice honed over the years.
“The positioning is also important. We want them in sternal recumbency, lying on their chest and abdomen with the sternum touching the ground, to ease their breathing. If they lie on one side, it compromises that lung. Sometimes, unfortunately, we do have to wake them up because they’re not breathing — that’s a call I or Dr Rogers will make.”
Right now, it’s the best tool we have to slow the poaching and give anti-poaching teams a fighting chance
— Peter Rogers
The ground crew splits into their preassigned roles. Samples are taken, a microchip is inserted, and ear notches are cut to aid future identification. But the main task is the most jarring: the removal of the horn — it’s keratin, biologically more akin to compressed hair than bone. In this density, though, removal is more dramatic than for a typical fingernail.
The acrid smell of chainsaw through horn fills the air. Shards drift like fibreglass. Even for veterans, it’s not an easy task to perform or watch.
Then comes an update: the calf, startled by the commotion, has bolted into the bush. Rogers has darted it, too, and it needs urgent attention. We set off on foot through thorny thickets and emerge into a small clearing to find the youngster squirming and snorting quietly.
The team works quickly and gently — another horn removed, a fresh DNA record created, and another step taken to secure its immediate future.
With the first operation a success, both rhinos receive a reversal agent to wake them up, and the humans retreat to the vehicles for safety to ensure all goes as planned. Moments later, the mother and calf are reunited and tentatively head off together into deeper thickets.
Later, two more rhinos are dehorned, also without incident — overseen primarily by McGee’s careful, steady experience and Rogers’s quiet oversight.
As the last of the rhinos stumbles slowly back to consciousness, walking in confused circles across the dry ground, I see Rogers standing alone, examining rhino blood on his hands from the ear notching and blood samples taken earlier.
“This isn’t easy,” he says. “Not emotionally. First-timers sometimes cry, and when they do, it reminds us of the bigger picture. We do this often, which means it can feel routine, but it shouldn’t — and it’s good to be reminded of this.”
As we watch the last of the rhinos scatter into the bush, Rogers is candid about the reality of his impact.
“It’s not an easy experience,” he repeats. “But it’s proven itself to be effective. Right now, it’s the best tool we have to slow the poaching and give anti-poaching teams a fighting chance. We’re essentially just buying time.”
Buying time for what? I ask.
“Until all the rhinos in South Africa are dehorned. And then,” he adds sombrely, “I suspect poachers will just start going after the dehorned ones, too — even if the risks are higher and the rewards are smaller.”
Soon after, the engines fire up again. The fixed-wing disappears into the sky. The chopper lifts off, shrinking to a speck over the lush bush, returning the reserve on the fringes of Kruger National Park to its expected calm. And thanks to the earlier efforts of some of the country’s most skilled and committed conservationists, four rhinos now stand a slightly better chance of surviving — at least for the next 18 months, when this crew will likely return to do it all again.
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