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There is a reverence involved in the art of spotting a tiger in the wild; a reverence, should I say, mixed with a little fear. I'm tracking one now, a large male by the looks of it. You can tell this by the breadth and shape of its footprints; even to my untrained eye the trail is clearly visible in the soft sand by the riverbed. Our guide speaks to us in hushed tones. The anticipation is palpable. We are within sniffing distance for sure.

But all of a sudden the tracks veer off into the undergrowth where the jeep cannot follow. No sightings today, it seems. There's still time yet, though: it’s just seven am and with the veil of mist lifting from the forest around us its inhabitants are slowly beginning to stir.

This is tiger country. India’s recently-formed Uttaranchal province borders Nepal to its east and Tibet to the north, and the place I’m in, Corbett Park is legendary. The reason for this fame is down to one man, his guns and most importantly, his notebook.

In 1944, Jim Corbett published his first volume of jungle stories, Maneaters of Kumaon, a collection of real-life adventures charting his exploits in these parts exterminating rogue tigers. Little known these days outside India, the great white hunter enjoys a mystical reputation here and his books are still in print sixty years on.

Yet despite this ferocious aura, Corbett was a surprisingly modern figure. Something of an evangelist, he pioneered the ideas of conservation at a time when shooting wildlife with a camera rather than a rifle was thought of as quite preposterous. Corbett was in fact a rare embodiment of the positive side of colonialism. Born and raised in India, he spoke Hindi and several local dialects like a native. He knew the people and environment of the Kumaon region with an intimacy that few could equal. One has only to dip inside his works to confirm his affection for his adopted country; take for example the preface to My India, “humbly dedicated to my friends, the poor of India”. Though after India’s independence and partition Corbett moved to Kenya, where his last days were spent at the celebrated Treetops resort, Corbett was a true soul of the Indian jungle. He set foot in England not once in his lifetime.

His most enduring legacy is the place that bears his name, Corbett Park, India’s first national park and nature reserve and home to over 300 tigers and countless other animals. Close enough to Delhi to drive to in a day, or arrive at from an overnight train, it is a popular weekend destination for those seeking to escape the dirt and dust of the city and hoping to sight that rarest of things, the tiger in his natural habitat.

The 1000 sq km park is divided into three main areas: an outer “buffer zone’ in which limited numbers of local people continue to live and work, the main park itself and an inner core to which access is restricted only to scientists and park officials. But you are in tiger country within minutes of passing through the main gate.

“A tiger was seen here only yesterday morning,” our guide, Brijmohan, informs us as we pass a local village near the entrance. “The people there are used to it.” Fortunately our hotel is another twenty minutes drive away, but still. A tiger? This close?

Though there’s no guarantee at all of encountering the big cats themselves, few visitors to Corbett leave entirely disappointed. Around Bajrani, one of the camps at which tours are based, on our first afternoon in the space of a half an hour we see: grey langur monkeys, nonchalantly conducting their business slap-bang in the middle of the dirt track; skittish spotted deer, or “chital’, one of the tiger’s main sources of food; a larger sambhur deer, which elegantly regards us for a moment, before returning to its browsing; and birds aplenty, from iridescent blue kingfishers to storks, kites and other wildfowl.

A little jaded with the landrover, we opt for a short elephant tour. Slower and smellier for sure, nevertheless an elephant can lumber deep into the jungle itself and affords greater opportunities for tiger spotting from the precarious perch on its back. From time to time our steed emits a nervous rumble. From his vantage point perched on her neck, the elephant driver or “mahout’ points out evidence of the tiger; not only pugmarks but sometimes the deep pattern of scratches left on the bark of a tree to indicate the limits of the big cat’s domain. We must be close; very close.

No. Still, nothing. The excitement is wearing and soon fades to disappointment, but after all we are here to see the tiger wild, as tigers should be, and that means they don’t always appear on cue.

Boarding the jeep again for the return to our hotel, however, there is a last surprise. Just visible beyond the swiftly descending mist, a small group of wild elephant, two of them tuskers. “You are very lucky to see them,” our guide informs us. “Very rare to see them at this time of year.”

But we came to see tiger, and even the joy of seeing the elephants is scant compensation. Still, there’s always tomorrow.

Entry to the park is strictly controlled and tourists are ousted for certain parts of the day. Nevertheless, at dawn and dusk, when wildlife activity is at its peak, a small army of jeeps is allowed to enter and roam in search of tigers. So, at an indecently early hour the next morning, we try again.

In winter and before dawn, Kumaon can be bitterly cold. Wrapped in jumpers and shawls against the chill, we arm our zoom lenses and survey the ground for a sign, any sign, of a tiger. The Gypsy landrovers used for the safaris in Corbett Park are well built but open-topped; though this affords the best view, it leaves you feeling just a little vulnerable. Not to mention surprisingly chilly.

But there is little if any danger. Even though in the far east of Kumaon a human fatality was recently reported, in the words of Jim Corbett: “A man-eating tiger is a tiger that has been compelled, through stress of circumstances beyond its control, to adopt a diet alien to it.” Not all tigers are maneaters, and indeed, it is the case that they are in more danger from mankind than we from them. Witness the savage depletion of India’s tiger population in recent years in order to fuel the market for Chinese “traditional medicine’ and the illegal fur trade. Even the national parks are not free of poachers and despite the authorities’ best efforts, news of dead tigers continues to make the Indian papers.

Despite the plentiful supply of pugmarks we can see, often fresh ones, no tiger. Nothing. A majestic male sambhur deer, his antlers a full five feet across, surveys us quizzically as if to ask why we should be following the big cat, not running away. But time is running out for us and that all important shot. “The taking of a good photograph,” Corbett reminds us, “gives far more pleasure to the sportsman than the acquisition of a trophy.”

And then, as hope turns to resignation and our minds slip to thoughts of the warmth of the hotel and a hot breakfast, the driver accelerates and the guide utters the word we have been waiting for:

“Tiger!”

We join another pair of jeeps that were already here, every occupant silent and rapt with attention and excitement. There he lies, the owner of the pug marks. And he’s a big’un. “He must be about 200kgs,” whispers Brijmohan. “Perhaps 10, 12 years old. Magnificent.” Even he is pleased, and he sees tigers every week. We must be onto something.

We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect specimen of tigerhood. Dozing in a patch of sun about 10 to 15 metres off, he is indeed enormous; the sheer size of the animal sends a sudden thrill of fear into you.

Bollywood to the hilt, the tiger knows he is the star of the show and as if to prove it gives us a couple of gaping yawns to show off his pure-white inch-long canines. The sound of twelve shutters clicking does nothing to disturb him though it is we who are the intruders and this is his domain.

For a moment, we exist peacefully together: the tiger at his morning nap, partially concealed by the foliage; the watchers enjoying their victory safely enclosed in the vehicles on the road. To have seen this animal at all is a rare privilege and one that is growing rarer and rarer.

It is our last half-hour in Kumaon, but as always India has saved the best for last. But the silence is tense and something has to break it. Another Gypsy arrives and a woman inside gasps just a bit too loudly. The tiger wakes; he yawns; he stretches; and then he walks away. NEED TO KNOW
Red tape: British passport holders need a tourist visa, £30 from the Indian High Commission (020-7836 8484, www.hcilondon.net). Visa information: 0906 844 4544 (calls 60p a min).
Reading: India Handbook (Footprint, £15.99) and India (Rough Guides, £15.99). The Oxford India Illustrated Corbett (OUP India, £21.99) and other titles are available from online retailers such as www.amazon.co.uk.
Further information: Government of India Tourist Office (020-7437 3677, www.incredibleindia.org). See also www.corbettpark.com

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