He began with a radical act of attention: seeing elephants as singular lives rather than distant silhouettes on a savanna. Where others saw a herd, he saw sisters arguing, brothers reconciling, matriarchs weighing impossible choices. He watched them circle their dead, pause at old migration routes like doorways to remembered summers, and he carried those moments into policy rooms that had never smelled dust or blood. His research turned emotion into evidence, his stories into leverage, until the world could no longer pretend ivory was just a commodity instead of teeth torn from a thinking life.

From there his work widened, mapping invisible highways across continents, persuading engineers and ministers to bend roads and fences around memories older than nations. He mentored a generation who now read satellite images the way he once read footprints. Though his voice is gone, its echo lives in every rerouted railway, every calf that reaches adulthood, every young ranger who refuses a bribe and stays. The future he imagined is unfinished, but not abandoned; it waits in the space between a raised rifle and a lowered one, in the choice to leave room for another mind to walk the earth beside us.