The season of thundering hooves

Wildebeests in Maasai Mara National Reserve. [File, Standard]

It is that time again in the Masai Mara - the season of thunderous hooves when millions of hooves thunder across the sweeping plains of the Masai Mara, heralding one of nature’s most breathtaking spectacles: The Great Migration. 

The Great Migration is a journey that never gets old. I have been to the Mara many times. Each visit unfolds a new chapter of nature’s grand narrative, and yet, the Great Migration always feels fresh, always electric, always soul-stirring. 

I have stood on the plains at dawn, watching the first waves of wildebeest trickle in during early migration. I have sat in the heart of the reserve, surrounded by restless herds as they braced for their next move.

And I have held my breath at the swollen banks of the Mara River, witnessing the frenzy of life and death that defines the height of migration. 

No matter how many times I have seen it, no matter how familiar the rhythm, it never loses its magic. The Great Migration is a journey that never gets old. 

From June to October, the Mara transforms into a grand stage where survival and instinct collide. Dubbed The Greatest Spectacle on Earth and recognised as one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World, this migration of over three million wildebeests, accompanied by 200,000 zebras and gazelles, unfolds in an astonishing display of resilience and natural order. 

For close to four months, the Mara becomes the heartbeat of global tourism, attracting adventurers, filmmakers, and photographers eager to document one of Earth’s most stirring wildlife phenomena. 

The first time I arrived in the Mara during early migration, it felt deceptively peaceful. The air was thick with expectation, like a stage waiting for its players. Scattered herds moved slowly across the plains, grazing under golden light.

A silent prelude

Their movements seemed unhurried, but the energy in the air told a different story. They were waiting, listening for the invisible signal that would send them surging northward. Before the migration erupts, the drama quietly brews in the wet season. In the southern Serengeti and Ngorongoro Conservation Area, newborn wildebeests find sanctuary amid lush grasslands, grazing peacefully under a temporary calm.

But as April approaches, East Africa’s savannah begins to wither, its once-green fields fading into a dry, golden expanse. 

Then, as if responding to an ancient call, millions of beasts begin their perilous trek northward, from Serengeti National Park in Tanzania to Masai Mara in Kenya. It is a movement dictated not by leaders, but by instinct - a pulse so old it predates civilizations. 

A hot air balloon safari during the Great Migration in the magnificent setting of Kenya's Great Rift Valley. [iStockphoto]

By late May, the Serengeti can no longer sustain the herds. The exhausted plains whisper of scarcity, and so the great march begins. Following invisible signals carried by the winds, the wildebeests chase the scent of fresh rains falling beyond the Mara. The promise of mineral-rich pastures is too strong to ignore.

Kasaine Salompe, a guide, told me the best time to witness this great spectacle is in July and August, what he called the middle migration, when the plains explode with life. 

When I returned to the Mara in July, the landscape had changed. Gone was the scattered tranquillity - it was replaced by movement. Everywhere I looked, herds poured in from the Serengeti, filling the Mara with their rhythmic march. 

And so, the migration sets forth. The Mara Basin becomes a field where Survival Plays Out. As the army of herbivores surges forward, another contingent joins the journey - this is the resident wildebeest herds from Loita Plains and Hills, increasing the mass movement to nearly one million strong. 

But they are not alone. 

Shadows follow - the silent predators of the savannah. Lions crouch low in the tall grasses, their amber eyes locked onto the flood of unsuspecting prey.  Hyenas trail the march, waiting for weakness. Overhead, vultures spiral in slow circles, anticipating the inevitable. 

The migration does not move without casualties. Thousands of weak or injured animals will never make it back to the Serengeti. Of every three wildebeest calves born, only one will survive the treacherous journey. 

I drove past Loita Hills, where resident wildebeests mingled with the newcomers, their grunts carrying through the dry wind. They were restless, moving in large, shifting clusters.

The zebras lingered nearby, ears twitching, their presence an unspoken sign of the coming storm. This, I learnt from Kasaine, my guide, was the calm before the stampede. And when the time came, it was as if nature flipped a switch. 

The earth rumbled beneath my feet, pulsing with the weight of a hundred thousand hooves. Dust spiraled into the sky, carried by the wind, forming golden clouds that blurred the horizon. The grunts - deep, urgent, echoed across the valley like a war chant. 

I remember standing on a hill, watching them move like a great wave, rolling forward, unstoppable. The lions had gathered now, crouched low in the tall grass, watching. The hyenas lingered at the edges, patient and knowing. In this moment, survival was a game of odds. And the river was waiting. 

The river crossing: A frenzy of life and death

Nothing could have prepared me for the chaos of the Mara River crossing. 

I arrived just as the first wildebeests reached the banks. They stood there, hesitating, nostrils flaring, sensing the danger ahead. The river was swollen from the rains, its waters dark and unforgiving. Below the surface, shadows moved—the silent hunters of the migration. 

Then, a single wildebeest stepped forward, testing the current. It leaped. And in an instant, the herd followed, launching themselves into the water in a frantic, unrelenting surge. 

The roar of movement drowned out everything else - the splashes, the frantic calls, the snapping of jaws. Crocodiles struck without mercy, dragging the weakest into the depths. Others drowned in the crush of bodies, trampled beneath the weight of their herd. 

And yet, they kept coming. 

On the far bank, those who had crossed waited, grunting, urging the rest to follow. They wouldn’t move forward until the full herd had made it. It was instinct. It was loyalty. It was something deeper than survival. 

Finally, the crossing is complete. The dead, claimed by scavengers. The survivors push forward, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. 

Those that emerge are spent. Too weak to run, some barely able to stand. And that is when the lions strike, turning the battered survivors into their next meal. 

For many tourists, filmmakers, and photographers, this river crossing is the pinnacle of the migration, where life and death collide in raw, unfiltered reality. 

But nature does not waste. 

Vultures and marabou storks descend upon the banks, cleansing the battlefield, ensuring that nothing remains unused. Hyenas, masters of scavenging, keep the cycle going, feasting on whatever the predators leave behind. 

I exhaled, realising I had been holding my breath the entire time. It may seem brutal, but it is a balance. This relentless cycle of death feeds entire ecosystems, ensuring survival for species beyond the migrating herds. 

The return journey.

By September, the herds slowly begin their retreat. The river crossings dwindled. The great crowds thinned. The Mara, once alive with motion, softened into a quiet farewell. 

Last time I stood at my usual viewpoint, watching the last wildebeests disappear over the horizon, heading back toward the Serengeti. The plains whispered with the memory of their passing, and I knew that soon, there would be no trace of their journey. 

But they would return. 

They always do. 

Because migration has no beginning and no end. It is the pulse of the wild, forever moving, forever alive. For those who visit the Mara after October, there is no trace of the spectacle. The land, once alive with movement, falls eerily silent again.