Baby Red Panda Trapped Inside a Fallen Bamboo Climbing Structure

A bamboo climbing structure that has fallen at a zoo in the USA is a framework of bamboo poles, built to let red pandas climb, to give them branches to grip, to give them a place to play high above ground, a structure that, in normal use, stands upright, holds weight, sways gently, a structure that, when wind brings it down, when poles collapse onto each other, becomes a tangle, a framework of poles lying at odd angles, a place where a baby red panda, a small, reddish-brown, famously adorable mammal, a breed that climbs, that grips with paws, that wraps a long, bushy tail around branches for balance, can become trapped, not because it was designed to trap red pandas, but because it was designed to let them climb, and a red panda cub, which is curious, which is small, which is still learning where its body fits and where it does not, can climb into a fallen structure, can find itself between poles, can find that poles that looked like a playground are actually a maze, a maze with poles that hold, that block, that turn climbing into standing, into a small body that cannot turn, cannot step out, cannot do any of the things that would get it out of a fallen structure on its own, no matter how good a climber it is, no matter how bushy its tail is, no matter how much it wants to be out, to be on a branch, to be a red panda again, in a zoo enclosure, not in a fallen structure, not between poles, not with a bamboo branch blocking its front, not in a place where climbing structures are supposed to let red pandas climb, not trap them, not young, reddish-brown red pandas that should be on branches, with keepers, with futures that are, for red pandas, defined by climbing, by bamboo, by trees, not by fallen structures, not by poles, not by branches that block fronts.

The cub had not gone looking for trouble. Red pandas go where bamboo is, they climb, they grip, they investigate structures because that is what red pandas do, they check, they climb, they make sure the world is as it should be, and a bamboo climbing structure at a zoo, with its poles, its branches, its high places, is exactly the kind of place a red panda cub will climb into, will investigate, will discover, too late, that a structure that looked like a playground is actually a trap when it falls, that poles that looked like branches are actually bars, that a branch that looked like a grip is actually a block, that a fallen structure that looked like a place to play has become a place to be held, a place where a small, reddish-brown body can try to move, can try to turn, can wait, in the way red pandas wait, by clinging, by gripping, by hoping, in the way red pandas hope, that the world outside the structure will change, that a pole will be lifted, that hands will come, that a carrier will arrive, that safety will arrive, in the form of animal care staff who understand bamboo, who understand red pandas, who understand that a cub in a fallen structure needs help, not just calling, needs securing lines, wedging blocks, frame tools, not a pull, not a force, but a guiding, a coaxing, a voice that says, in tone, that outside a structure is safe, that a carrier is safe, that people are safe, that a zoo, even a zoo with a fallen structure, can be a place where a red panda is rescued, not trapped.

A baby red panda in a fallen bamboo structure is a baby in danger from the structure itself, from its poles, which can press, which can block a body, which can turn a turn into a wedge, from its branches, which can hold, which can block a front, which can become a second, smaller trap inside a larger trap, a branch that holds a body even after a large pole is lifted, a branch that must be removed separately, carefully, without pulling, without injuring a body that is already held, already stressed, already vulnerable to pressure, to twisting, to a sudden pull against bamboo that does not give, and from the simple fact that a small red panda in a fallen structure cannot lift a pole, cannot remove a branch, cannot do any of the things that would get it out of a structure on its own, no matter how good a climber it is, no matter how bushy its tail is, no matter how much it wants to be out, to be on a branch, to be a red panda again, in a zoo enclosure, not in a fallen structure, not between poles, not with a bamboo branch blocking its front, not in a place where climbing structures are supposed to let red pandas climb, not trap them.

Three animal care staff arrived with securing lines, wedging blocks and frame tools, because a bamboo structure rescue is not one person’s work, it is a team’s work, a work of securing, of wedging, of removing, of watching a cub’s body while poles move around it, a work that requires hands on a line, hands on a block, hands on a tool, hands on a carrier, all at once, all coordinated, all steady, because a pole, once lifted, must be held, must be wedged, must not be allowed to settle back onto a cub that is halfway out, onto a body that is halfway free, onto a cub that is, for a few seconds, in the most dangerous place of all, halfway between trapped and free, halfway in a structure, halfway out, a place where a slip, a settle, a shift, can turn freedom into a new trap, into a new injury, into a cub that was almost out and is now trapped again, worse than before.

The bodycam looked into the fallen bamboo structure in the opening seconds, and the image it gave was the image of a small animal in a place of bamboo and gaps. The red panda cub tried to move between poles, its reddish-brown fur bright against green-yellow bamboo, its bushy tail visible, its small body low, its paws gripping, its whole posture a study in a young animal trying to be free, trying to move, trying to turn through a gap that was too narrow, too blocked by poles to allow a body through, a cub that had tried, that was still trying, that would keep trying, in the way red pandas try, with climbing persistence, with a refusal to give up that is famous in the species, but that, against a fallen structure, was not enough, was never going to be enough, because bamboo poles do not yield to paws, bamboo poles yield only to lines, to blocks, to teams that secure them, that lift them, slowly, controlled, pole by pole, until a gap becomes wide enough for a body, for a carrier, for a cub to be guided out, to be held safely and checked. A keeper kept his voice low and soft, and spoke to the cub in the bamboo, the way people speak to red pandas when they want them to wait, to trust, to believe that the world beyond bamboo is a world that wants to help, that has lines and blocks, that has a way out, that has safety waiting, not just bamboo and poles and a fallen structure, but a branch, an enclosure, a check, a future that is not in a structure.

“Hey, little one… I see you in there. Hang on, we’re going to open this up for you.”

The cub’s ears moved at the sound, its head turning, just slightly, toward the voice, toward the keeper who was speaking to it from outside its bamboo world, and it did not stop trying to move, because red panda cubs do not stop trying just because a voice tells them to, because a climbing animal’s instinct is to move, to grip, to solve a problem by effort, even when effort alone cannot solve it, even when poles block, even when bamboo will not move, but it paused, just briefly, between movements, as if the voice had told it that waiting was itself a kind of work, that clinging still while a line was secured was a job, and that it was good at its job, that it had been doing its job, clinging in a structure, waiting, trying, for as long as the structure had held it there, for as long as it had needed to wait, and that waiting, while not as active as climbing, was still work, still a task, still something a cub could do well, could do with patience, could do until a better job came along, which was, in this case, a pole lifted, a gap opened, a carrier, a job that involved moving, not just waiting, a job that would take it from a structure to a branch, to safety, to an enclosure, a job that a cub, given a voice and a lifted pole, would do gladly, would do with the climbing trust that red pandas bring to keepers, especially to keepers who are helping, especially to being with keepers again.

From three to seven seconds, a keeper secured the frame with a line, while a teammate removed prepared joint pins. The line’s securing mattered, because a frame that is not secured can shift, can settle, can press harder onto a cub, can close a gap that was just opened, can turn a rescue into a new trap, and a frame secured with a line while pins are removed is a frame that will open in a controlled way, an opening that will stay open, that will not shift back, that will not close on a cub halfway out, an opening that, for the duration of the rescue, would be as steady as a doorway, even though it was a fallen bamboo structure, even though it was poles, even though it was wind-damaged, a frame that, once secured, allowed pins to be removed, pins that had held poles together, pins that, once removed, allowed a pole to be lifted, a pole that had blocked, that had held a cub in, that, once lifted, created a wider gap, a gap that a cub could actually move through, a gap that led out, not a gap that led deeper into a structure, a gap that was, for a few minutes, a doorway, a way out, a path from inside a structure to outside, from bamboo and poles to an enclosure, from a zoo’s fallen structure to safety.

The cub watched the line tighten, watched the pins come out, watched the keepers’ hands, and its body, which had been tense and trying to move, became a little less tense, a little more focused, as if the line itself were a job, as if a lifted pole were a task, as if a cub, given a line and a voice, could do nothing else but move, could do nothing else but step, paw by paw, toward a gap, toward a carrier, toward safety. The keepers spoke to each other in short, clear sentences, sentences that left no room for misunderstanding beside a fallen bamboo structure, with a cub inside it, with a line to secure, with pins to remove, and they spoke to the cub in longer, softer sentences, sentences that were not commands but invitations, sentences that said, in tone, that the line was secured, that the pins were out, that the pole was about to be lifted, that there was no hurry, that the cub could take all the time it needed, because time, beside a fallen bamboo structure, is a thing that can be given, as long as the frame stays secured, as long as the pole stays ready to lift, as long as the keepers work steadily and the cub watches and learns that leaving is possible, that a frame can be secured, that a pin can be removed, that a way out can appear, even in a structure, even at a zoo, even in the USA, even for a small, reddish-brown red panda cub that has been trying to move between poles.

Between seven and twelve seconds, a large bamboo pole was lifted out, creating a gap. The red panda still could not leave because a bamboo branch blocked its front. That branch was the climax of the rescue, the moment when a nearly completed lift became a place of new difficulty, not because the gap had closed, but because a final branch remained, a branch that the pole’s lifting had not moved, a branch that stood between the cub and open air, between the cub and a carrier, between the cub and a future that was, for a red panda, defined by climbing, by bamboo, by trees, not by fallen structures, not by poles, not by branches, not by branches that block fronts, not by structures that, however well-intentioned, however lifted, still hold a cub, still block a front, still require hands to remove a branch, to guide a cub out, step by step, into open air, into safety, into a future that is not a structure, not bamboo poles, not a branch, but a branch to climb, an enclosure, a home. And underneath that branch was the deeper climax the team had been briefed on: the cub already had a gap above it, a gap that looked like freedom, a gap that, from above, seemed open, but a gap above does not help a cub whose front is blocked, a cub that cannot climb up through a gap while its front is held, a cub that needs a front path, not just an overhead gap, a cub that, for a few seconds, was the whole rescue, the only animal left, the one that mattered most, because a gap above does not make a rescue complete, because a cub with a branch in front is still a cub trapped, still a cub that must have a branch removed, that must step forward, not just up, that must be guided, gently, into a carrier, into safety, together, not separated from a path, but as a cub with a path, in a carrier, to safety.

The keeper who had spoken at the start spoke again, still low, still soft, talking the cub through the branch, the way people talk to red pandas when they want them to wait, just a moment longer, while a branch is removed, while a path is made clear, while a carrier is brought close, so that the way, which had been almost open, can become fully open, can become a doorway, not a branched gap, not a promise with a branch in it, but a path, a way out, a carrier, an enclosure, a future that is, for a red panda, defined by climbing, by bamboo, by trees, not by fallen structures, not by poles, not by branches that block fronts.

“Easy, little one… just one branch left. We’ll move it, then come to the carrier.”

A cub pulled past a branch can be injured, can have a body twisted, a paw caught, a small, reddish-brown frame hurt by a sudden pull against bamboo that does not want to release, and the team did not pull. They removed the last branch, they held the frame steady, they let the cub’s own movement carry it forward, once the branch was truly removed, once the front path was truly clear, once the opening was, finally, an opening, not a branched gap, not a promise with a branch in it, but a doorway, a way out, a carrier, an enclosure, a future that is, for a red panda, defined by climbing, by bamboo, by trees. The cub moved forward, slowly, paw by paw, toward the carrier, toward the keepers’ hands, toward the world outside the structure, its small, reddish-brown body moving with the careful, deliberate gait of a young animal that has decided, finally, that moving forward is safer than staying, that a carrier is better than a branch, that an enclosure, even an enclosure seen through bamboo, is better than a fallen structure, that a doorway, even a doorway opened by keepers, is better than a structure built for climbing, that leaving, even after a branch blocked its front, even after a gap above was not enough, is better than staying forever in a structure, at a zoo, in the USA, far from a branch, far from safety, except for keepers who would remove branches, who would bring carriers close, who would guide a cub out, gently, when it was ready, at its own pace, in its own time.

In the final seconds, a keeper removed the last bamboo branch, gently guided the cub into a transport carrier, clear of the structure, clear of its poles, clear of its branches, out onto zoo ground that was open, that was clear, that was not a structure, that was, for a cub, the world as it should be, a world of branches, of enclosures, of a check area where a cub could be examined, given rest, given time, to become, again, a cub that is not in a structure, a cub that is in a carrier, a cub that is safe, held by keepers, not dragged, not pulled, but guided, lifted, held, gently, onto safety, where it could lie, could breathe, could be checked, could be a cub again. The keeper who had guided it held it close, his voice now warm with relief, spoken to the cub and to the zoo as much as to anyone, because the cub that had tried to move between poles was now out, safe, in a carrier, on its way to a check, to safety, to a future that was not a structure, because the rescue that had almost failed at a last branch had succeeded, because patience had won over haste, because a low, soft voice had won over a pull, because branches, however blocking, however bamboo, can be removed, pole by pole, branch by branch, until a way out appears, even in a structure, even at a zoo, even in the USA, even for a small, reddish-brown red panda cub that climbs when frightened, that waits when guided, that steps when given a carrier and a quiet voice and a branch to step onto.

“There you go… out of the bamboo, little one. Safe now, you’re out.”

It would be checked for any injury from the bamboo poles, for a body strain, for stress from being inside a fallen structure, for the general condition of a cub found alone, and, if it was fit, kept safe, given a branch, given rest, given a future that was not a structure, not poles, not a branch, but a zoo enclosure, branches, trees, a home, where cubs do not need poles lifted, where climbing structures are for climbing, not for trapping cubs, where a small, reddish-brown red panda cub can be a cub again, on a branch, not in a structure, not between poles, not with a branch blocking its front. The structure, its poles to be rebuilt, its branches to be replaced, its frame to be inspected, stayed at its USA zoo, a fallen bamboo structure with a story in it, a reminder that zoos, even zoos as carefully built as a USA zoo, are places where cubs can become trapped when structures fall, and that trapped cubs need people with lines, blocks, tools, steady hands, and voices that speak low and soft into bamboo, that do not pull a cub past a last branch, to bring them back to branches, to enclosures, to safety. The red panda cub that had tried to move between its poles was out, safe, because three keepers, with a frame secured, pins removed, a pole lifted, a branch removed, and a voice that waited, that spoke low and soft into bamboo, that did not pull a cub past a branch, had given it back a branch, and a branch, for a cub that has been in a fallen structure, is everything, is climbing, is bamboo, is a zoo, is a future, is freedom from poles, is life without a branch blocking its front.