Elephant safari trip report by: GINA BUONAGURO SPECIAL TO THE STAR Gina Buonaguro is a freelance writer based in Kingston, Ont.

In the jungle, the mighty jungle An elephant safari in the Himalayas Tigers burn bright if you can see one The words of Jim Corbett echo through the jungle: "Leave only footprints, take only memories."

It is afternoon. Lush fauna layers the Himalayan foothills as a golden glow illuminates the valley floor. Children from the local village trot past haystacks dotting the riverside. They are following the elephants. And we are riding them, through Corbett Wildlife Sanctuary in the state of Uttranchal in northern India. Corbett, designated India's first national park in 1932, was made famous by its man-eating tigers and by Corbett, the British soldier who hunted them and eventually worked to save this increasingly threatened species.

We look at the youngsters trailing behind us as they stare back at us atop these gentle giants. We wave, wishing we had peanuts handy, for some have made offerings of sugar to these animals considered to be the Hindu god Ganesh incarnate. "Sometimes," notes Pavan Puri, our naturalist and safari guide, "women come out with newborns to pass under the elephants' bellies, to bless them.." Our Asian elephants are all females, the wrinkled skin on their back legs hanging loosely like a rap star wearing baggy pants. Chanchal, meaning timid, is the largest and oldest at 52. Chumpa, at age 43, charms with her happy temperament and anthropomorphic smile. And we sit on 30-year old Laxshmi, named after the goddess of wealth. No babies, it seems, have been recently born around here, as only children emerge from the nearby huts to follow us.

"Malagat," prod the mahouts, the men who drive and communicate with these grey beasts. Mahouts belong to a millennia-long tradition of domesticating, training, and caring for elephants in this region of Asia. Naseem, Laxshmi's mahout, is a friendly fellow, just starting out in the profession. He straddles Laxshmi's neck and controls her with a nail-tipped bamboo stick and bare feet. Quick to prevent branches from smacking our faces, Naseem speaks to us with a few English words, many smiles, and expressive hand gestures.

"Monkey," he whispers, pointing to a black-faced langur sitting in the treetops. We stop when we hear it raise its signature guttural call.. Pavan earlier had instructed us to listen for that call, for it means a tiger is nearby. Langur monkeys often feed near sambar deer in a co-dependent relationship to avoid being tiger prey. The sambar first smells the tiger, but can't see it. It relies on the monkey to notice its signals.

The monkey in turn throws out its call only when it actually sees the tiger. The deer then knows to run in the opposite direction from where the monkey is looking, for where the monkey casts its eyes is the tiger.

Hoping for a once-in-a-lifetime memory, we sit silently, listening to the monkey's call. Pavan skirts soundlessly among the elephants, pointing out the tiger tracks and scats along the dirt road. After waiting half an hour, we reluctantly give up and continue our slow journey to the forest rest house encampment that will be our home for the night. We arrive at camp in late afternoon where a dozen men cook dinner and set up tents complete with kerosene lamps, hot water bottles, and a flushable chemical loo. This safari is nothing if not civilized. With a few hours left of daylight, we pile into an open-air jeep in search of more wildlife. Our travels take us among strangulated fig trees and termite mounds in the shape of fairytale castles, past herds of wild elephants and deer grazing in the grasslands. Countless birds swoop and sing. But tigers elude us.

Before dinner, we decide to go for a quick walk in the waning light. We notice a woman with wood on her head treading down a path, so we decide to follow. Our hike takes us to a tiny village where three girls sit, enjoying the cool evening air. "Namaste," we say, and they shyly return the greeting. We wander through the village, saying hello to the young children and mothers that we meet. They watch us curiously. As the sky deepens to purple, we turn to go back and again see the girls. This time they are ready for us. They indicate two chairs for us to sit on. "Chai?" they ask, offering us the unofficial national drink, spiced black tea mixed with boiled milk. We attempt to make conversation but we know no Hindi and they no English. Eventually we settle on smiles and names. Perhaps significantly, our camera's battery chooses that moment to die, so we can take only memories with us back to camp.