In June, I traveled to Rwanda with a small group from World Vision. This was my second trip to Africa with this Christian humanitarian organization that works with children, families, and communities worldwide to tackle the causes of poverty and injustice. Our primary goal was to see the distribution of HIV/AIDS caregiver kits that were assembled in Boston last November and then shipped to Rwanda.

We spent a day in the capital city of Kigali before the three-hour drive northwest to Musanze on a paved two-lane highway. Rwanda is known as the land of a thousand hills, and we must have passed a hundred of them on our way north. As we approached Musanze we saw three tall peaks in the distance, and I asked what they were. We were told by our Rwandan host, Ananias, that they were the Virungas, a chain of six volcanic cones and the home of Volcanoes National Park.

One of the gorillas in the Amahoro group at Volcanoes National Park. (Photo by Ellen Harasimowicz)

“Where the mountain gorillas are?” I asked.

Yes, he said, and we would be staying less than an hour away. Our trip leader said he had no idea we would be this close to the gorillas.

I’ve known about the mountain gorillas because my son, Jeff, has always wanted to see them in the wild. From the age of four, Jeff spent countless hours running around our Belmont apartment on his knuckles grunting answers to our questions. There are only about 630 mountain gorillas left in existence, and the Virungas—where Uganda, Rwanda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) meet—is one of only two mountain gorilla habitats.

At dinner one evening we spoke with Ananias about the possibility of seeing the gorillas. All of the guide books advise getting gorilla-tracking permits six months to a year in advance because only eight permits per day are issued for each of the five habituated gorilla groups in the park. Also, we were there just days before the “Kwita Izina”—the annual gorilla-naming ceremony where leading personalities worldwide are invited to take part in the naming of more than a dozen gorillas born the previous year. We thought that our chances of obtaining permits would be nonexistent. As luck would have it, a cousin of Ananias, named Benjamin, works at the park and was able to get permits for the five of us who wanted to go. The cost was $500 for nonresidents and about $40 for Rwandan nationals. Most of the money is used for gorilla conservation and to educate and support the people living around the park boundaries, so we were happy to pay the high fee for what we knew would be a priceless adventure.

Ellen Harasimowicz and Jack Hanna. (Courtesy photo)

We arrived at the park office in Kinigi at 7 a.m. and filled out paperwork that included our passport numbers and next of kin. I had brought only sandals on the trip, so Benjamin kindly offered me a pair of knee-high rubber boots. I was grateful for the added leg protection later on. As people gathered in small groups on the lawn, I noticed a well-tanned muzungu (white man) followed closely by a Rwandan with a rather large video camera. I said, “That looks like Jack Hanna, the animal expert on TV.” Well, the man must have heard me because he came over, stuck out his hand and said “Hi, I’m Jack.” He explained he was there for the Kwita Izina, and that of all the places he’s traveled to see animals in the wild, this was by far his favorite.

Our group leader, Ignatius, explained that we were to track the Amahoro group, comprising one silverback and 17 other gorillas, including a baby to be named later that week. Ignatius gave us an overview of what to expect and the park rules, which included staying about 21 feet away from the gorillas to prevent possible transmission of disease, keeping our voices low when with the gorillas, and not making rapid movements that might frighten them. We were told that once we reached the gorillas we would have exactly one hour to see and photograph them—no flash, of course. And, we were warned, if a gorilla should charge or vocalize at us, we should not be alarmed, but should stand still, look away from the gorilla and do what the guide says.

“If a gorilla should charge … ?” Are you kidding?

We drove a short distance to the Bisate parking area. Despite its close proximity, our path was a steep incline over jagged volcanic rock that I was sure would pop a tire or burn out the Jeep motor. My fear of missing out on the chance to see the gorillas due to mechanical failure vanished when we arrived about 20 minutes later at a location partway up the mountain.

Walking along a somewhat steep, narrow path, we passed lush farmland and small, mud-brick and thatch huts with corrugated metal roofs. Men and women worked in the fields while children ran up to us offering handmade drawings of the gorillas for a small fee. Our guide asked us not to buy these charming little creations “because the children should be in school getting an education,” he chided, at us and them.

As we climbed higher toward a blanket of mist, I remembered that this was where Dian Fossey had spent the last two decades of her life, from the mid-1960s to the mid-1980s, studying the mountain gorillas.

Within an hour of starting our journey, we left the farmland behind and stepped into the gorillas’ natural habitat of shady bamboo forest. There we were met by four trackers who live in or near the forest and a Rwandan soldier who was to scare off errant elephants or buffalo with his rifle, if necessary. Ignatius took a moment to tell us about the gorillas’ diet. They are vegetarians, and they get all of the water they need from the plants they eat, including a type of celery. He told us we would see the Amahoro gorillas within the hour. My heart started to race.

The feet of silverback Ubumwe of the Amahoro group at Volcanoes National Park. (Photos by Ellen Harasimowicz)

Kubaha is the mother of this baby gorilla who was named Abashyitsi at the recent Kwita Izina, or gorilla-naming ceremony.

As our trackers deftly hacked a trail through the jungle with their machetes we did our best to avoid tripping over the fallen debris and slithered our way between the tall stinging nettles. Within 10 minutes, our lead tracker, Jean-Baptiste, who we later learned was a porter for Dian Fossey, announced that we were close. We were told to leave our backpacks and any food or water where we stood. We walked another 10 minutes or so, cameras in hand, and then I heard a low, guttural “muhrrrrrrrr!”

I froze. I heard it again. “Muhrrrrrrr!” Our guide whispered to us that our tracker had found the gorilla group and was asking them if it was okay for us to visit. Evidently, the gorillas respond with a sound that tells the tracker either, “Sure, that’s fine,” or “This isn’t a good time.” Before I could see the gorilla, I heard it. It pounded its chest, and my heart leaped up into my throat. One tracker waved us forward as another cut the vegetation around the gorillas exposing them in their resting place.

Slowly, and without a sound, we moved in and crouched down for the unveiling. There they were, a group of about four gorillas of varying ages. An older one remained sitting while the younger ones rolled around. My first inclination as a photographer is to raise my camera when confronted with something worthy, but my camera remained resting on my chest as my hand shot up to cover my open mouth. I was awestruck. I watched the quartet for several minutes before I realized the silverback was sleeping on his stomach just to the right of the group. The only body part clearly visible through the thick vegetation was his feet. Some youngsters started swinging on branches, and we were directed to move around the area to see them more clearly. The mighty silverback got up, ran down the newly blazed trail, and that was the last we saw of him.

Around the corner a large male gorilla was watching a pair of youngsters swing on branches. It was magical. I snapped dozens of frames and then put down my camera just to watch and be present with these magnificent creatures that share 97 percent of the same genes as humans. We were approximately 12 feet from the gorillas, and they showed no fear.

The gorillas became playful and wanted to move around. Our trackers had created a nice path for us­—and for the gorillas. While I was photographing one gorilla, another ran past me and gave me a hip check. I guess I took up more of the path than he wanted; either that, or he was just being playful. I was stunned, but I was equally thrilled for this close encounter. A short while later another one passed me and flung out his arm to whack me on the way. He paused in front of my friend Wendy, scratching her pants and sniffing. “What should I do?” her quivering voice whispered. Jean-Baptiste shooed the gorilla away, and Wendy started to breathe again.

I was starting to get a little anxious at this time, wondering how many more close encounters would follow, and then I spied a female gorilla walking with the baby-to-be-named on her back. They walked out of the shade into the sun. Then a male, who we learned lost his right hand in a poacher’s trap, followed her and started to eat celery just as Igantius had described. It was breathtaking.

The hour with the gorillas passed quickly, but I do not regret the time I laid down my camera in favor of making mental snapshots of the experience. Through the lens I saw a tightly cropped image that I could later enjoy, but without the barrier of the camera, all of my senses were aroused. I could see … and hear … and smell so much more as my view expanded without boundaries. My mind, heart and soul were filled with the experiences of that hour.

Ayer Road resident and professional photographer Ellen Harasimowicz is scheduled to talk about her experiences in Rwanda and Uganda at the Harvard Public Library on Oct. 1 at 7 p.m.