Day 7: Bwindi Impenetrable Forest – Gorilla Trek

So here’s the thing about trekking through a place like Bwindi Impenetrable Forest to see gorillas in their natural habitat: it is neither as glamorous nor as predictable as the phrase “gorilla trekking” might suggest. There’s an inherent contradiction in everything—the collision between your romanticized idea of what this experience should be and its stark, often ridiculous reality. What you expect is some Attenborough-level communion with nature. What you get is an extended exercise in humility and sweat.

The day starts early because Bwindi is one of those places where Nature likes to remind you that it has a strict agenda and you are not in charge of it. The briefing takes place in a small cluster of buildings that feel like they were placed there by someone with a passing knowledge of what “infrastructure” means but no real interest in fully committing. You’re greeted by park rangers, who are intensely professional, terrifyingly fit, and infinitely more patient with the eager-eyed tourists than you could ever be in their place.

You’re given a walking stick, which immediately feels like both a practical tool and an odd throwback to the colonial safari aesthetic you hoped to avoid. The walking stick is necessary, though, because once you step into Bwindi, you quickly realize that this forest was not designed with human beings in mind. “Impenetrable” isn’t just a poetic exaggeration; it’s the forest’s entire personality. Vines coil around trees like they’re holding grudges. The undergrowth is thick, tangled, and occasionally grabs at your legs, as if the forest is questioning your decision to be there.

The first hour of the trek is deceptive. It lulls you into a false sense of security with relatively gentle inclines and the occasional bird call that makes you feel like you’re in a harmonious nature documentary. But then, the trail inevitably becomes more vertical than horizontal, and you realize that your walking stick is your lifeline. At this point, you also realize just how out of shape you are, despite whatever delusions you had about your fitness levels back home. The rangers, meanwhile, are casually discussing gorilla behaviour as if the steepness of the terrain and the humidity haven’t turned their bodies into furnaces.

Midway through the trek, when you’re panting, sweating, and silently regretting every indulgence you’ve ever had, there’s a moment when the situation’s absurdity hits you. You’re hiking through one of the densest, most ancient forests on the planet in search of a 400-pound primate who probably has no interest in being found. This is a rare, almost holy encounter with one of the most elusive species on Earth, and yet, in this moment, you’re primarily concerned about how much further you can go before your legs give out.

Then, when you’ve resigned yourself to the idea that the gorillas are a myth invented by the Ugandan tourism board, one of the rangers signals for silence. Everyone in the group suddenly transforms from exhausted hikers into silent, wide-eyed disciples, all waiting for the grand reveal. The ranger gestures to a dense patch of foliage ahead and whispers something like “They’re close,” which sends a collective shiver through the group. Your senses sharpen. Every sound, every rustle of leaves, seems charged with possibility.

And then, without fanfare, without the swelling orchestral score you’d expect from a BBC documentary, there they are. A family of gorillas just… existing. There’s no slow-motion reveal, no dramatic narrative arc—just a group of gorillas lounging, munching leaves, and occasionally glancing at you with the same disinterest you’d expect from a house cat.

It’s impossible to overstate the strangeness of this encounter. The silverback—the massive, stoic leader of the group—sits at the edge of the clearing like a living monument to evolutionary gravity, staring off into the middle distance as if contemplating something far too profound for your tourist brain to comprehend. Occasionally, he looks in your direction, but it’s not the kind of look that invites connection. It’s more like he’s acknowledging your existence with the bare minimum of effort required.

The younger gorillas, however, are more curious. One of them—smaller, more playful—strides over to a nearby tree and starts climbing, pausing halfway up to give you a look that’s half mischief, half *What are you even doing here?* This is when you expect to feel some grand, transformative connection with nature, but instead, you’re stuck wondering if the gorilla is judging your outfit. Which, to be fair, it probably is.

The weird thing about staring at gorillas is that they stare back, and in that moment of mutual observation, the lines between species feel thinner than they should. It’s deeply unnerving, being sized up by an animal whose DNA overlaps with yours by about 98 per cent. You expect to feel awestruck, but mostly, you feel awkward, like you’ve interrupted something. Which, of course, you have.

There’s a tension in the air—not between you and the gorillas, but within yourself. Part of you wants to whip out your phone, snap photos, and record the experience for posterity, but another part of you, the quieter and possibly more sane, is telling you to exist in this moment. Because you know, even as it’s happening, that no photograph or video will ever capture what this feels like—the sound of the gorillas chewing leaves, the smell of the damp forest, the sheer weight of the gaze from the silverback who seems to understand something about the universe that you never will.

The hour you can spend with the gorillas feels endless and too short. When the rangers quietly signal that it’s time to leave, you’re both relieved (because the forest is suffocatingly dense, and your legs are screaming) and disappointed (because the silverback never really gave you the deep, meaningful eye contact you were hoping for).

As you hike back through the forest, there’s a strange, lingering sense of anticlimax. You expected something profound and life-changing, but you got something quieter, more subtle, and more difficult to articulate. The gorillas don’t exist to provide you with a spiritual epiphany. They just *exist.* And maybe that’s the point.

When you emerge from the forest, covered in dirt and sweat, the world feels larger and smaller simultaneously. The journey back to civilization feels surreal, like you’ve stepped out of a dream that wasn’t entirely yours to dream. Bwindi is behind you now, but you can still feel its presence—its dense, impenetrable weight, the gorillas tucked somewhere deep within, living their lives utterly unconcerned with yours.

The whole thing feels absurd, meaningful, insignificant, and profound. You came to Bwindi for a story, but you got a lesson in humility: Nature doesn’t care if you get your story. It just *is*.