After more than four months and a change of seasons in the African bush, I've witnessed the landscape undergo some remarkable transformations. The most obvious of which is, thanks to a substantial amount of rain, the incredible metamorphosis of a grey and dry land into a vibrantly green countryside of lush vegetation. Following the first heavy rain in mid-March, my daily forays into the field were like watching time-elapsed footage from the Planet Earth series in real-time. There were even noticeable changes throughout the day - patches of grass (which were either grey and withered or simply absent only days before) were greener and taller on the return trip than on the way out.

Rivaling the change in Laikipia's flora is the change in fauna, though the latter can undoubtedly be attributed to the former. A new contingent of birds, known as "rains migrants," have arrived - now as many as six species of cuckoos can be seen in a single day, whereas there were none in January and February. And while the diversity of mammals remains largely the same, the density has exploded: Impala, Thompson's and Grant's Gazelles, and Plains (Burchell's) Zebras are among the more noticeable species to have increased dramatically over the past few months.

But the most noticeable population increase, without question, is the elephant. Prior to the rains, the elephant population of Mpala Ranch numbered a couple hundred at most. Three months after the first drop of rain graced the parched ground, however, and that ballpark figure has skyrocketed to over 1,000. They seem to be everywhere, behind every bush and around each bend of the road. In fact, I can't think of a day in the last two or three weeks that I haven't seen an elephant. And, like the rain, they have also had a noticeable impact on the landscape: torn and barkless branches, felled trees in the road, dung everywhere, and destroyed aloe gardens at the research center.

For such large creatures, they can be astonishingly silent and hide frighteningly well. More often than not, I'll see a herd only as I'm driving past within a few dozen meters of them. Needless to say, this can cause some rather perilous situations, particularly for locals as they walk or bike along ranch roads. While heading to a field site at a neighboring ranch recently, Rosie and Kayna of the Wild Dog Project came across an abandoned bike in the middle of the road - and about a hundred meters later, a man laying face-down on road's edge. His bloodied left pant leg was torn open to reveal two gaping wounds on his thigh: a four-inch entry hole on one side, and an inch-wide exit on the other. Miraculously, the elephant's tusk had narrowly missed both the man's femur and his femoral artery, penetrating only muscle. Considering the circumstances, he was incredibly lucky - there are few places an elephant tusk can penetrate a person without killing him or her. After a quick stop at the Mpala Clinic to cleanse the wound, the man was transported to the Nanyuki Hospital. Thankfully, he is due to be discharged today.

There is no doubt that these animals demand respect. Many consider them to be the most dangerous animal in the bush, and rightly so. Among the locals, only buffalo garner as much fear and respect. Lions and leopards? Dangerous, to be sure - but they don't hold a candle to the bush's largest herbivores. I've had to retreat on more than one occasion when confronted with an angry elephant - Bloodzilla, my not-so-trusty-steed of a Suzuki, would be kicked around like a football. Even the biggest SUVs have plenty of reason to fear an elephant - if you don't believe me, visit the "Wall of Shame" at Skukuza Camp in South Africa's Kruger National Park, where numerous pictures of rolled or crushed LandRovers and LandCruisers accompany similar pictures of those same vehicle makes with doors punctured like tin cans.

But for all that menace, they can also be amazingly gentle and docile creatures, and they have provided me with some truly unforgettable experiences during the past few weeks. The few times I've had to hightail from an elephant are far outnumbered by the number of times I've been able to pull up alongside a herd and watch them graze and browse peacefully, babies playing around the feet of their mothers. On the night of May's full moon, a herd of elephants began making their way through the research center, eventually surrounding my banda. Cautiously opening my window, I leaned outside to watch the herd lumber by. Bushes shook and tree limbs snapped amidst the deep rumble of contented elephants. Soon, one of the dark shapes I was watching in the bush nearest me began to materialize as it stepped into the moon's glow. I held my breath as it walked by, and retreated slightly into my banda as it passed within a few meters. It was at this point that the elephant must have seen or smelled me, somehow sensing my presence. It turned its enormous head to face me, took a couple steps closer and, tusks glinting in the moonlight, briefly raised the tip of its trunk to say hello before moving on. Magical doesn't even begin to describe the experience of sharing a moment with a wild elephant.

And just last night, a couple weeks after my first unforgettable encounter with elephants from the safety of my banda, I had another experience to rival the first. The almost-new moon meant it was an impressively dark night, so as I heard the elephants approaching, I opened the door to my banda and sat on the front step, high-powered MagLite in hand. Turning it on revealed about a half dozen elephants all within 30 or 40 meters of me, happily munching at the acacias surrounding the four bandas clustered together at this end of the research center. From down the hill near Banda 10, I heard a tremendous scraping noise, like a giant sandpaper-covered box against cement, and realized that an elephant was relieving an itch on the rough stone wall (too bad its occupants were on a short safari to Lake Nakuru!). About 15 meters in front of me, a baby nursed from its mother, completely unperturbed by me and my torch. Next to them, an adolescent male wandered through a patch of grass and, wrapping his trunk around tufts and ripping them out, he reminded me of playing in my backyard as a small boy, ripping up handfuls of lawn to throw on my friends.

What happened next was remarkable, and something I can never forget. The grazing adolescent opted to return to browsing, and made his way straight for me. He stopped no more than ten feet from where I sat, raised his trunk, and began tearing bits off of the small acacia tree immediately outside my door. Each time he raised his trunk to grab another mouthful, I could see his pink tongue and the interior of his mouth as his triangular lower lip flopped open with each bite. I was careful not to shine my light directly at him, but could still see his eyes and eyelashes perfectly well. A deep rumble, and he moved around the backside of my banda so that, when I looked out the window, all I saw was a wall of dusty, wrinkled grey.

Again, how do I describe the experience of watching these extraordinary creatures going about their business alongside me, completely at ease in my presence? How do I convey the magic? I'm not sure if I can.