The Lion Crossing--Part 3

In the days following the encounter with the lions, I thought a lot about them, trying to recall every detail. It made me want to learn more about lion behavior, so I went to the library and found a book by David Boran, entitled “The Beast in the Garden: The True Story of a Predator’s Deadly Return to Suburban America.” At first, I wasn’t sure it was worth checking out. From a cursory look, it seemed to be another hysterical rant to a society already whacky with fear of terrorists, Avian flu, pit bulls, anthrax, illegal immigrants, etc.

However, the book was thought provoking. His thesis was that naive animal lovers in places like Boulder, Colorado (where I once lived and visit often), were screwing up the natural order of things. By not allowing hunting in the foothills in the open space west of the city, the government was causing a surplus of deer to wander into the suburbs seeking food. The deer were acting like bait and luring lions into the suburbs as well. The lions were becoming habituated to humans. Boran feared it was just a matter of time before a lion ate one of the drunken coeds partying outside a frat house on a warm summer night, or snatched a toddler from a redwood deck at one of the million dollar houses lining the western edge of the city. It would be a horrific reprisal of the movie “Jaws” at altitude.

In fact, in the foothills nearby Boulder, lions had already eaten a few dogs, even large breeds, and there had been a couple of harrowing human encounters, but nothing too serious yet - with one exception. Boran got my attention with his description of an deadly lion attack that occurred in 1992 near Idaho Springs, not far from Boulder as the bird flies. A teenage boy went for an afternoon trail run and never returned. Near sundown that day, a party of law officers and friends went searching for him and found his body, still clad in running shoes, covered with dirt and pine needles, laying under a bush. He had been partially eaten. The lion was standing guard nearby.

After a brief chase, they shot the lion, and sent the carcass to the state university for necoropsy. The results were surprising: the lion was healthy, not sick, and female, not male. Often human-lion conflicts have involved sick lions or young, half-starving males trying to find a territory. And this lion had attacked in broad daylight, though lions are nocturnal hunters, and tend to be spotted at dawn or dusk. This lion had broken all the rules for “normal” attacks.

Then I picked up a copy of Kathy Eting’s “Cougar Attacks: Encounters of the Worst Kind.” A fact crammed book, it details numerous attacks and has very interesting and useful insights from field biologists who spend lots of time observing lion behavior. The book gives you an appropriate respect, tinged with fear, for mountain lions. One clear message you get is to give them their space.

So I decided that while the lions hung around, it was best that I did not. Being nomadic, they wouldn’t be around too long. For the next couple of weeks, I ran on the flat asphalt road that winds through the ranch in the valley. It’s bucolic country, with little traffic, but it wasn’t the same running by herds of cows, standing by their calves and nervously eying us from the other side of a barbed wire fence. I’d look up the side of the hogback where the old road zig-zagged by the abandoned mine. I missed the pull of gravity and smell of sage. One day when my knees ached from pounding the asphalt, I resolved that I’d go back up, lions or not.

I decided it would be pushing my luck to go without a weapon, just in case. I rummaged around in my camping gear and got out my old hunting knife. I removed it from its worn leather scabbard, touched the knife with my fingertip to make sure it was sharp, slid it back in the scabbard, and tucked it in the webbed water bottle pocket on a fanny pack, where it would be readily accessible for a quick draw.

As Zorro and I ascended the first time since the standoff, my anticpation grew with every step. Before coming around the bend to start the uphill section where the lions had crossed the road, I pulled the knife out to be ready, but of course it was a silly gesture because the lions were gone, though as I looked at the spot where they had been, I could imagine every detail of them standing there.

Over the following weeks, the fear gradually receded, then completely vanished. I realized the knife was really just a talisman to ward off imaginary fears, like a crucifix repels vampires, and returned it to storage. Besides, I wouldn’t have the time or reflexes to use it anyway. Mountain lions usually ambush their prey from the back with terrific force. The lion’s long incisors would be slipping between the vertebrae in my neck before I could get the knife out. Besides, the odds of an attack were slim. There have only been two fatal lion attacks in Colorado in the past 100 years. Nationally, on average there are 6 lion attacks a year with 1 fatality. In contrast, 90 people a year are killed by lightening.

I figure that through my years running in backcountry, the lions have often been nearby. No doubt our paths had crossed many times in space, if only that once in time. As evolution would have it, we must keep our distance, and the lions normally see to that. That one time, I was lucky, and they revealed their presence to me.

For several months after the encounter I’d spot a lion track once in a while. But now it’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen any there. Running with my eyes down so I don’t trip, I’m always searching for prints. I know the lions are out there somewhere, but I don’t worry. Zorro keeps watch for me.

Intro to "The Lion Crossing"-

The Lion Crossing--Part I

A few times a week, I run up an old mining road that climbs along the flank of a rocky hogback. It’s the kind of place most people drive by without a glance because they are bound for aspen and alpine lakes on the Flat Tops ten miles away. The hogback is scarred by the road zigzagging up, and here and there, mine tailings spilling down its face. On a map, the road doesn’t seem to go anywhere. But it does, climbing through oak, sage, juniper, currants and feather bush, past an abandoned mine, around cliffs and outcrops, and along edges of deep ravines cutting through layers of red sandstone and grey shale. Three miles and a thousand vertical feet later, it arrives at a summit where you see mountains in every direction.

My dog goes with me on these runs. He’s a Red Siberian Husky, Golden Retreiver, Chow mix named Zorro, the Spanish word for fox, an apt name because his deep orange fur makes him look like a fox on steriods. He weighs 70 pounds, but thick fur creates the illusion he is much larger. If you don’t know him, he can seem detached and menacing.

When running, most of the time I keep my eyes down, scanning a few feet ahead for ruts and rocks to avoid tripping on my face, or in a couple of places, falling down the mountain. Occasionally I pause to enjoy the vista of the valley below. But most of the time I’m looking at what is right in front of me. It would be a problem to break an ankle here. Except for a couple months during hunting season, the road is deserted. Once in a while a 4-wheeler passes through, but I don’t see them because I usually go up with Zorro at sunrise.

A couple of Novembers ago, we were a mile up the trail after a rain-snow mix had fallen the night before. I was savoring the cool air and sweet smell of damp sage when Zorro yanked me sideways to sniff some animal tracks. He was on a leash because when he’s in hyper-aroused hunting mode, as he always is in this wild place, he’ll try to chase anything that runs. If he were loose, he’ll run for hours, forgetting altogether about time, and that here he is not on the top of the food chain.

I stopped to take a closer look at the tracks he’d found - large, round…four toes spread widely apart and shaped like asymmetric teardrops…clawless…a distinctive v-shaped heel pad - mountain lion. It’s paws had left perfect impressions in the wet clay. The lion had come down out of the sage, turned to look down the road in the direction from which we’d come, then cross the road back into the sage, headed towards the valley below. The tracks were very fresh, with crisp edges and water just beginning to well in the bottom of the impressions. Likely, it’d been there only minutes before we arrived. It might have stopped because it heard us coming or caught our scent. Zorrro sniffed around as I looked across a large open area covered with sage, but I saw nothing.

Coaxing Zorro with the leash, I aligned him parallel to the tracks, placing his rear foot even with the lion’s. The lion was almost a foot longer than he was. Then I placed Zorro’s rear foot into the lion’s rear print. It was over 3 times larger than his. The thought of how large that cat must be sent a chill through my body. Once again, I peered across the sage, still deserted, and we continued on our way.

Over the years, I’ve run, biked and hiked on lots of roads, paths and game trails in marquee wilderness areas and national parks, and less popular places in the boondocks, like this hogback. Only a couple of times had I come across lion tracks.

The following April we were on the mining trail, less than a half mile to the top. I was jogging slowly, gazing down on the ranch in the sprawling valley below. The cottonwoods that line the stream flowing out of the Flat Tops were already tinged with pale green buds. The stream, just starting to swell with runoff, glittered as it made lazy turns through the pastures. Suddenly Zorro stopped, his eyes trained up the hillside to the left. They say dogs don’t have very good eyesight, but he has an infallible eye for movement. Four legged and sure footed, as he climbs his head rotates back and forth like a radar dish. Once he stepped over a large bullsnake that was right under his feet because it remained perfectly still. But if something moves, he locks on it. He’s pointed me to deer, elk, coyotes, fox, even birds of prey circling overhead.

I stopped too, and followed his line of sight just in time to see the hindquarter of a tawny-colored animal slip behind a clump of juniper a little less than 100 yards away. It had a long tail and was too big to be a coyote. Something about the way it moved was different than other animals I’d seen. We both kept watching, and a few seconds later it came out the other side, then turned and looked at us. The stubby ears and angular face were unmistakable. After several seconds, the lion turned and bounded rapidly up the hill and out of sight. I wished it had waited just a few more seconds so I could study it before it ran away, but it should have been no surprise because mountain lions are supposed to be furtive and shy.

After thousands of miles in running and biking in the back country, I had finally seen a mountain lion in the wild. And it would not be the last.