The Lone Ranger: A new Perspective.

A cool, wet wind blow's through the top's of a buffalo thorn tree. Rough branches sway awkwardly in the south-easterly breeze. The vulture ruffle's his damp feathers and irritably flap's his heavy damp wings. Another long rain-soaked and freezing cold night, survived in South Africa's biggest National Park. Blade-like talon equipped feet, stretching out the heartfelt cold. Anxious but eager, the bird acknowledges a tough day ahead.

Low mamma surfaced, grey stained cloud, blankets the landscape. No thermals to assist a frame designed for soaring, no help from the elements today as the scruffy bird crane's his featherless neck over shifting branches in the hope of spotting any indication of a predator kill. All around him he scan's in vain. No colleagues circling,not a breath of movement in the expansive, Satara flood plain.

Deliriously low on energy but survival instinct intact. He know's he has to try, taking into consideration body limits and only having 30 minutes of flying energy available to him,anything more and his body will not be able to create enough warmth to survive the unforgiving African night. Pondering now he take's into account all the variables,alternate landing areas,dangers,wind and the best direction to head in for a sustenance. A dull hum echoes through the low acacia-veld. Initially he is concerned but the sound fades as the wind whips and rolls the noise, in and out of earshot.

Just like a dinner bell ringing a lion's roar bellows out across the bush-veld, the vulture however fears nothing in his state of insatiable hunger. This is his chance,he must take it. Dark brown and densely feathered wings arch outstretched into the humid and cold frontal air . Using every inch of strength left in weary muscles and a mindset of do or die, a soft breeze on the beak compels the crafty creature off of his homely perch. He drops momentarily but this is familiar to him,speed brings lift to a set of wings designed for thermic flight. He turns in the direction of the pride of lions, scanning for a kill,hoping for a scrap. Survival is all that matters.

Above in the dreary, wet and grey mass of climatic culmination,water molecules cling keenly to dust and dirt particles. This never stops the stalwart Caravan, plying its trade in so harsh an environment. A single pilot comfortable in his lush leather chair gazes down on the scene from above. The soaring vulture disappears in a flash of  monotone cloud as the Pratt and Whitney powered foreigner climbs hard, away from the rugged reality below. The pilot focus's intently on the task at hand, six pack instrument scan followed intently. Nothing else in the moment matters. Scanning for home, hoping for a gap.