While Rocky and I were on an African Safari in 1985, our travel agent charted a small plane to fly seven of us - Rocky, me, Dolly, Bill, Juli (Rocky’s sister), and Bill’s friends (Marshall and Claude), from Victoria Falls to an isolated airstrip in Botswana. Two guides were to meet us there and take us to an overnight camp. As we approached the dirt landing strip, we watched a herd of elephants lumbering off into the hot, dry jungle.

Our bush pilot was technically proficient but lacked practical experience and common sense. The 21-year-old Canadian never shut his engines down as we scrambled out of the plane with our baggage. With a wave of a hand, he taxied away, took off, and left us alone. It was foolish, irresponsible, and dangerous of him, but the fact that we silently watched him take off was even worse. We still expected our guides would be there shortly.

Time passed, and no one showed. Here we were, isolated in the wilds of Botswana with no communications, water, food, or even a map. We sat on wooden slats in the heat of the sun without shelter, transportation, or any way out. Regardless, we kept up a hopeful chatter, but that faded quickly. We could still hear the elephants we ran off earlier.

Several more hours passed, but still nothing. Bill and Claude foolishly decided they were going to follow a jungle trail hoping to find help, but Rocky intervened, “The first rule anyone learns in the Boy Scouts is when you’re lost, stay put and never wander off.” Fortunately, they listened. It soon became unbearably hot, so we collected shrub branches to repair a collapsed shelter frame to protect us from the sun and heat, but it didn’t help.

We reckoned with how abandoned and isolated we were. I tried being brave like everyone else, and Rocky kept assuring me everything would be fine. But when I watched Rocky climb a big tree and fire a round from his rifle into the air, hoping to attract attention, I knew we were in deep, deep trouble. The shot was loud and reverberated for a long time, and then there was an uncomfortable silence; we knew it was unlikely anyone heard us. The sun would soon be going down, and lion and leopard tracks were all around. I remember thinking, “Here I am, a sheltered Jewish girl from Bexley, deserted with Rocky and his family in the middle of the African jungle (of all places), wondering if we would make it out alive. More time passed.

And then, from a distance, we heard the faint sound of engines, and it was the most beautiful noise I ever heard. The louder it got, the more lovely the sound. Our guides, Derek and John, were finally coming to rescue us. When the jeeps arrived, we were clustered under our handmade roof, hot, thirsty, scared, perplexed, and very angry. We were also ecstatic and relieved they had found us.

The guides handed out cans of cold soda, apologized profusely, and tried to explain what happened. The bush pilot mistakenly dropped us off at the wrong landing strip, and when we didn’t show up where we were supposed to, Derek and John knew something was terribly wrong. They began a race on dirt roads, two hours away, to the only other landing strip in that part of the jungle, hoping to find us.

Exhausted, hearts pounding, and grateful to be alive, we hopped in their land cruisers and headed to our campsite. Later that night, Bill described our experience as “nothing but sheer terror.” It was the first time that day anyone expressed (out loud) how horrifying our predicament was. When all was said and done, we survived being forgotten and lost in the jungle, and I couldn’t wait to get home to Sarah and Jake.