by Tim Homan
We crossed the bridge over the South Fork and began the flattened loop portion of the route around but not in the green and grassy meadow. Along the rock-bound southern side of the loop, the pamphlet taught me that what I had been calling talus for years was actually scree. (2) The north side of the loop closely paralleled the edge of the opening through young conifers, trees that had reclaimed part of the meadow in the absence of fire. The evergreens and a few clouds to the west darkened the trail corridor just enough for female mosquitos to begin their crepuscular blood patrol. We walked past a double brace of black-tailed deer (3), all does, two about 10 yards out in the clearing, the other two a few feet inside the forest.
Back across the South Fork and still alone on the trail, Page and I began searching for post number 4, the only one we had missed the first time through. We found the post and walked out into the open and still well-lit woods to the nearest slab of flat rock to find a mortar: a shallow concavity in the rock slowly enlarged by the First Nation women who ground acorns there year after year. While I stopped to photograph one of the mortars mentioned in the pamphlet, Page wandered further out into the forest to find more grinding holes. Just as I finished my point-and-hope shot, Page called my name with just enough volume for me to hear, but with maximum urgency. Her tone of voice, almost a quick hiss, told me she had spotted something well worth my hurry. Not a bird and not the usual deer or black bear. I was almost certain she had walked up on a predatory mammal-a new and noteworthy wildlife species for the trip-a weasel, a bobcat, or maybe even a marten.
I hurried over to her and looked where she pointed. Up ahead, only a little over 25 yards away in a stand of young pines, a pale brown, almost beige-colored animal with short fur stood in the slanting early evening sunlight, long-body profile perpendicular to our view. At least the part I could see was in profile, and that part was definitely far too large to belong to a bobcat or marten. All I could spot in the gaps between the 6-inch-diameter tree trunks was part of a torso perhaps 24 to 26 inches in length. All that was exposed to my view was a long section of the animal's center mass, no head or tail, no shoulder, neck, or legs. The mystery creature's long and muscular torso tapered to the left, which meant its unseen head and eyes were to the right. The top of its back easily reached the height of a large dog, and that disembodied back was noticeably higher and longer than any yellow lab I had ever seen.
I thought I knew what we were staring at, but couldn't quite believe my eyes and needed more proof to make the call. I quietly stepped a pace to my right so I might have a chance to locate the tell-tale head. No head, less torso. I stepped two paces to the left. I lost the body, but I could now plainly see a thick and very long tail. A long … long … uniformly thick and short-furred rope of a tail: a one-of-a-kind tail-an essential feature, an incontrovertible field mark-I had seen numerous times in books and magazines and TV nature shows. That tail belonged to an almost mythical creature: one of evolution's purest expressions of predator, one built to glide through the forest like a ghost on silent roller skates, to spring from concealment and sprint like a cheetah for a short distance. One who could jump 10 to 12 feet high up into a tree or rock ledge at a single leap. Just as certain recognition fired through my body, the dark blackish-brown end of the disembodied tail twitched, curled into a down-curved crook, then flipped back to straight with a flourish, a tail contortion only a cat can accomplish.
Before I could speak the mountain lion's tail disappeared from left to right. Poof. The big cat vanished from our sight without a hint of directional sound. I moved to my right, still nothing. Page said, "it's gone." With very little forethought-OK, none-I trotted off diagonally to the right of where I had last seen that impressive tail. I desperately wanted a better look. I wanted to see if I could spot the cougar crossing the nearby road. Nothing at the road, no large-animal sound, no mountain lion. The obligate carnivore had probably wheeled around to its left away from my running and disappeared deeper into the forest, gone like the silent wraith of its reputation.
When I returned we talked in excited bursts. As Page had walked further away from the first mortar, she realized the birds, especially the Steller's Jays, were fussing loudly at something besides her. She looked out into the forest and spotted what looked like, at very first glance, parts of a strange looking dog. But she knew within a few seconds it wasn't a dog. Page had been lucky enough to lock eyes onto the cougar's hind quarters: the last half foot of its torso, thick muscular back legs, outsized back paws. And that was all she had seen: no head or tail, no front legs and no shoulders, no long back or belly. Between the two of us we had gained good looks at all but the lion's front legs, neck, shoulders, and head. Collectively we had identified more than two-thirds of my personal Holy Grail of North American predators, an incomplete but still stirring sight.
For a few moments Page and I had been in the very close company of a mountain lion, a cougar: Felis concolor, the cat of one color. (4) We had been in the very close company of a sleek and lethal cougar-the big feline with the small head, lithe body, and wonderfully long tail. But the sighting had been somewhat unsatisfying, neither of us had looked into the lion's eyes, those twin lights leading into and out of a predatory mind. We had been very lucky; we had gotten a rare glimpse of a mountain lion … well … large parts of one. California had come suddenly alive with a wildness that animated my mind far more than immense trees and magnificent mountain scapes ever could.
As Page and I were leaving the parking lot, minds still abuzz with our cougar encounter, a small black bear - probably a female - crossed the road right in front of us and began foraging in a thicket of low shrubs. Our first-day wildlife count for Kings Canyon now included a rattlesnake, a bear, most of a mountain lion, and two new birds for both of us: a Black-throated Gray Warbler and a Cassin's Vireo. And four black-tailed deer.
I suspect that cat of one color had been on its way to work in the nearby deer - magnet meadow. And I suspect Page just happened to walk out into the woods directly toward the cougar's line of travel. No doubt California's apex predator had heard her footfalls as she approached its position. The lion had likely seen and scented her before stopping in its tracks. Did the big cat freeze until it could figure out what sort of shuffle-footed creature was barging through the forest? Or did the cougar stop to size up small-woman Page for a possible attack? We will never know.
1 The two contiguous national parks, Sequoia and Kings Canyon (approximately 865,964 acres combined), have been jointly administered since 1943.
2 Scree is a mass of small loose stones that cover part of a slope, usually high up on a mountain. You can easily pick up and throw scree rocks. Talus is composed of bigger rock, one size category larger than scree. You may be able to pick up talus rocks, but they are usually too heavy for most people to throw like a baseball.
3 The black-tailed deer, which ranges down the northwest Pacific coast region from southernmost Alaska to central California, was formerly considered a distinct species. Today this population is regarded as a subspecies of the mule deer.
4 The big cat whose body parts appeared like an apparition is known by multiple common names: puma, panther, cougar, catamount, and mountain lion according to regional dialect and preference. The authors of older sources most often preferred the common name mountain lion and the scientific binomial of Felis concolor. Some of today's authors have switched to cougar and Puma concolor. I prefer cougar and that perfectly descriptive binomial: Felis concolor.
