Gelada monkeys were a main attraction in our plan to visit Ethiopia. They are common in the Simien Mountains, and our tour was scheduled to visit a sanctuary with many tame monkeys with which to intermingle and photograph. But it was not to be.

The day of our planned visit found us without a single gelada in sight; I was very disappointed. As we were heading back to our lodge I scoured the hills for any sign of Simien activity. We crested a small rise, and suddenly the hillside was alive.

A band of wild geladas — maybe a hundred, maybe more — were spread across the slope like a moving tapestry. Some were sitting in that classic gelada posture, backs straight, hands working methodically through the grass. The males catch the light first: those great golden manes glowing as if lit from within. The red hourglass patches on their chests pulse with color as they shift and groom.

I yelled "stop the bus!" and was granted permission to approach them to take photographs. We walked slowly, deliberately, but they wandered away toward a cliff facing a river. A mother with a tiny infant clinging to her belly shuffled past us. Two juveniles tumbled in a chaotic wrestling match, rolling dangerously close to the cliff edge before righting themselves with casual confidence. A massive male sat a few feet away, chewing rhythmically, eyes half‑closed, as if he’s meditating on the afrernoon.

I kept approaching and they kept receding, but the cliffs made a boundary that allowed me to get a little nearer than before. The cliffs behind them were jagged silhouettes against the brightening sky. Lammergeiers circled overhead, riding thermals that hadn't fully formed yet. The whole scene felt ancient — as if we’d stepped into a world that hasn’t changed in thousands of years.

We all watched them go until the last golden mane disappeared over the ridge. And for a moment, the mountains were silent again — except for our heartbeats, still trying to catch up with what we just witnessed. And then a long happy walk back to the bus.