↑ Wolong National Nature Reserve, Sichuan Province, China Pandas were once so elusive they seemed almost mythical. They had existed for millions of years, but remained unknown to the Western world until 1869, when a French missionary first documented them scientifically.
Words and Images by Amy Vitale
Leaving home forever must be terrifying. So, when Zhang Xiang, whom we called “Hope” in English, was about to become the first captive-born female giant panda released into the wild, I did the only thing that seemed sensible: I dressed as a tree.
I was part of a film crew documenting Hope’s release in Sichuan Liziping National Nature Reserve in China. But I wanted to blend in so as not to frighten her with my camera. I hid behind a tree, trying to disappear into the landscape. I watched as she took her first steps toward a life for which she had been carefully prepared.
Afterward, Zhang Hemin, affectionately known as “Papa Panda,” came over. He was touched that I had considered the experience from the panda’s perspective. That moment changed everything. What began as a single assignment opened the door to a world I could never have imagined. I was given extraordinary access and began what became a three-year journey documenting China’s ambitious effort to return captive-born pandas to the wild.
The challenge for me as a photographer was enormous. The giant panda may be one of the most photographed animals on Earth. We have turned pandas into global icons — fluffy, cuddly and sleepy — seemingly built for stuffed animals and birthday cards.
The wild panda is something else entirely. Elusive. Solitary. Remarkably difficult to find. In the steep, misty bamboo forests of central China, pandas are perfectly adapted to disappearing. Fewer than 2,000 individuals remain in the wild, and their survival depends not only on protecting and reconnecting their forest habitat, but also on understanding how to maintain a healthy population that can survive without human intervention.
That is where China’s rewilding program comes in. For decades, Chinese scientists have worked to solve the complicated puzzle of panda conservation: breeding animals in captivity, protecting habitat, studying their behavior and, ultimately, determining whether a panda born in captivity could actually survive in the wild.
It turns out that releasing a panda isn’t as simple as opening a door. Before a panda can be released, it must prove that it can survive. Young pandas are raised in increasingly complex forested enclosures where they learn to find bamboo, water, shelter, and to navigate terrain similar to what they will encounter in the wild. Their mothers play an important role in teaching them natural behaviors, while researchers closely monitor their progress and development.
There’s one rule above all others: Pandas must never become habituated to people. How do the keepers accomplish that? The humans working with pandas destined for the wild must become pandas themselves. Only the animals prepared for release received this treatment. Keepers and researchers wear full-body panda costumes so the young pandas wouldn’t associate humans with food, care, or safety. The costumes are scented with panda urine. Pandas rely heavily on smell, so apparently looking like a panda wasn’t enough. You have to smell like one, too.
I did what any right-minded photographer would do. I packed away my tree costume and donned a urine-soaked panda costume. Let me tell you, rocking a panda suit is harder than you might think. You can’t see your feet. Your vision is limited. You sweat spectacularly. And walking through the mountains dressed as a giant black-and-white bear while carrying camera equipment isn’t exactly subtle. You look like a bank robber who took a very wrong turn on the way to the getaway car.
Beneath the absurdity was a remarkably serious idea. If these animals were ever going to survive on their own, they couldn’t think of humans as their protectors. They weren’t being prepared to become ambassadors. They were being prepared to disappear.
One of the photographs that took me the longest to make was of Ye Ye, a 16-year-old female whose cub, Hua Yan, was being trained for release.
For nearly a month, I climbed the same mountain day after day dressed as a panda. Then, one morning, she emerged from the mist. For a few fleeting moments, everything came together, and then she was gone.
That photograph taught me something I hadn’t expected when I began this story. Wildlife photography isn’t always about getting closer. Sometimes it’s about learning how to step back. We can become so focused on making the picture that we forget we are visitors in their world. The privilege is being allowed into that world at all.
China’s panda story is ultimately much bigger than cute animals and clever costumes. It is a story about persistence. For more than three decades, scientists, conservationists, and forest workers have worked to breed pandas, protect habitat, reconnect fragmented forests, and develop new ways to strengthen wild populations. There have been setbacks and failures along the way, but the effort is beginning to show results.
Today, panda numbers have risen from historic lows. It’s one of conservation’s more hopeful stories — a reminder that protecting a species can take decades of painstaking, often invisible work. And the goal was never simply to save pandas in captivity. It was to give them something much harder and much more important: A life in which they no longer need us. A life in the wild.
See more of Ami Vitale’s work at www.amivitale.com.
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