Felis concolor
A flicker of motion off to my right caught my attention. I spun to face whatever had made that movement and found myself staring at a young mountain lion just twenty feet away.
"Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, my!"
— Dorothy Gale
The weekend started with a sixty-mile drive around to the east side of the Rincon Mountains near Tucson. I was heading out — alone — on a four-day backpacking trip. I'd done this same hike on the same trails several times in previous years, sometimes alone and sometimes with two or three other people. There were usually other hikers and backpackers out in the mountains somewhere, though, so I wasn't really alone.
I arrived at the trailhead about mid-morning and readied myself for the short-but-arduous five-mile hike up to my first campsite at Happy Valley Campground. I had my boots on my feet, my pack on my back, my GPS was turned on, and my hiking stick was in my hand. There was nothing left to do except walk.
The first three-quarters of a mile of trail crisscrossed a small, shallow creek four or five times, but I navigated those crossings without even wetting my boots. There was a light breeze blowing, and it wasn't too hot. I was going to have a great weekend.
I crossed the boundary fence into Saguaro National Park, signing in on the trail register after dropping my pack on some handy boulders. From that trail register, the trail itself really started to climb. I had to haul my 36-pound pack four-and-a-bit more miles while climbing another 2,200 feet. I'd only climbed about 300 feet in that first short stretch before the park boundary.
After a short breather, I donned and readjusted my pack and started the climb. My next goal was to reach a place I called "the Grotto" in the next hour or so. The Grotto was a nice shady place about two trail miles above and ahead of me. There the trail crossed the creek in a grove of trees and boulders on a narrow 'bench' on the mountainside. It was almost always cool and breezy in the Grotto and was usually a great place to take a break.
I made it to the Grotto, had my break beside the gently-flowing creek, and headed up again. I still had 1,000 feet of climbing to do from my resting spot, and the trail got a bit steeper after the Grotto. It also broke out into the sun a bit more, so I'd be feeling the heat. That extra heat was offset a bit by the higher elevation, though, so it all worked out.
After another hour of arduous climbing, I made it to the trail junction where my trail — the Miller Creek Trail — met the Heartbreak Ridge Trail. I'd take that second trail over to Manning Camp and the highpoints of my weekend the next day. Today, I had just another quarter-mile to go to get to my campsite. And it was downhill!
I made it to camp just a few minutes later and selected the best of the three designated sites for my tent. There was an available bear box — that's a large metal box made for storing food and other smelly, good-tasting things — and a lovely pine-needle strewn area on which to pitch my tent. There were also some sections of cut logs that would do well for seating. A few moments earlier, I'd passed a small flowing creek that would provide my water. I was set. And I was alone.
I pitched my tent and did my other camp chores before I settled down for lunch. I had a book to read, a big apple and a granola bar to eat, and a cup of hot tea to wash it down. The sun was directly overhead, but there were plenty of big pines to shade me and my tent, with soft, scented breezes to keep things cool.
Later, I went for a walk up and down the trails in the area, just looking around. I'd been on these trails half-a-dozen times in the recent past, but this was the first time I was camping in the newly-relocated campground. I also walked a half-mile over to the old campground just to see what was left of it.
After my walk, I relaxed in camp. While I read my book, I watched a small flock of woodpeckers making a racket up in an old dead pine. The local Mexican jays were busy, too, squawking en masse every time they saw me make any sort of move around my camp.
A few hours later, and perhaps an hour before dusk, I had my dinner, which was a reconstituted freeze-dried meal. If that doesn't sound appetizing, let me assure you it was. If I remember correctly, I had Pasta Primavera with Grilled Chicken that night, accompanied by a small box of a light, unpretentious chardonnay. Backpacking doesn't have to mean going without.
After dinner, I put my food and other gear away in the bear box, cleaning up my camp for the night. I like to get my chores done and get to bed early when I'm backpacking. Besides, there's really not a whole lot to do besides sleep once the sun goes down. Especially when you're alone.
I closed the bear box and made sure it was secure, then turned toward my tent. As I did, a flicker of movement caught my attention. I spun to see what was there.
Not more than twenty feet away, a mountain lion dropped back down to the ground after having pulled my sweaty bandana from the clothesline I'd strung earlier. The lion had been standing on its hind legs to reach that bandana, and it was him dropping down that I'd seen out of the corner of my eye. The cat saw me spin and cowered up against the big tree it was trapped against.
Without thinking, I stepped forward, waving my arms and yelling. I had my hiking stick in my hand, and I waved that in the lion's direction, too. "HEY! What are you doing! Get out of here! Get out of my camp! Git! GIT! GO ON!"
The cat backed up a step or two. It moved away from the big pine it was up against, then bounded off to the east. The lion vaulted over some downed trees, then ran up a small hillock and into a circle of large boulders at the top, where it disappeared. The whole time it was making its escape, it never let go of my bandana. I saw a final flash of red from one corner of it as the lion dodged into those rocks.
I was shaken and shaking. I'd never before seen a mountain lion in the wild and couldn't really believe I'd seen one just then. I looked around to see if anything else was out there, then dropped down onto one of the cut logs I'd been using for a chair. It was either that or fall down.
The first coherent thought I had, and one that frightened me a bit, was, "That goddamned lion must have been watching me for quite a while before he came into my camp!"
All of that time I'd been lounging about in camp, the lion was out there watching me. He watched as I made myself a cup of tea in the afternoon. He was watching as I walked around cleaning up the campsite, piling up broken branches and kicking pine cones out of the paths. When I'd made dinner and when I was enjoying my wine, he was looking at me. When I was cleaning up afterward, too.
The second thought I had was, "Why in the hell did he want my bandana?" The only answer I could come up with was that he could smell it. More specifically, he could smell the salt on it from my sweat, and it attracted him enough to make him come and get it.
My third thought was, "He's got to be out there right now, still watching me!" That thought was quickly followed by, "What in the hell am I going to do?" And that's when I immediately calmed down. I understood there wasn't a single thing I could do about it. The mountain lion was out there, and that was that. I was in his territory, and I just had to deal with it as best I could.
I made myself a cup of weak tea and tried to relax while sitting on that log outside my tent. I thought back over the previous few minutes — it doesn't take long for a whole string of thoughts to run through your head after you've seen a wild mountain lion in your camp — and realized several things.
Yes, the mountain lion surely was out there, but he didn't really want anything to do with me. That was evidenced by the fact that he ran away from me after he'd snatched my bandana.
Next, I was bigger than he was. Sure, he was more powerful and had better weapons — a mountain lion's claws are very long and very sharp — but I could probably hurt him if he attacked. That fact alone would likely stop him from actually making such a move.
Third, I could smell him. I hadn't realized it until then, but mountain lions reek to high heaven! I'd been about fifteen feet away as I ran at him and, after he ran away, I realized I could smell him from that distance. If he came into camp, and if the breeze was right, I'd smell him before I heard him or even saw him.
Lastly, and again, there was nothing I could do about any of it. The best thing I could do was clean up my campsite, put away anything that might attract the lion back to my camp, then simply go to bed. So that's what I did.
The sun had just gone down, so I reorganized my campsite a bit, added some things to the bear box, and crawled into my tent. I read my book for a while, then fell asleep without another thought of my visitor.
The following morning, as I opened my tent, I cautiously looked around before crawling out. I was a bit nervous as I stood up. I quickly spun around to make sure nothing was behind me or behind my tent. I was still alone.
I had a strenuous four-hour hike ahead of me and I wanted to get started. I was going to hike the Heartbreak Ridge Trail to Mica Mountain, then make my way around to Manning Camp, where I'd be staying for two nights.
I walked over and used the outhouse, then came back to camp. I made breakfast — granola and strawberries — then made a cup of coffee to enjoy as I packed everything back into my backpack.
The entire time I packed, I kept my eyes peeled for any movement in the forest. Thoughts of the mountain lion faded, however, as I concentrated on my chores. Just before I left camp, I fired up my GPS and returned to the outhouse. As I mentioned earlier, this was a new campsite, and my backpacking friends might want to know the exact coordinates of the campsite as well as the well-hidden outhouse.
When I walked into the walled-in enclosure, I smelled the mountain lion again! I hadn't seen him but, damn!, I could smell him! That's when I saw the big wet urine stain on the side of the toilet itself. In the 45 minutes since I'd previously been at the outhouse, the mountain lion had returned. And he didn't just return! He'd actually sprayed the toilet, marking it as part of his territory!
I slowly looked around and around (and around again) but couldn't see anything moving. Nor could I hear anything or smell anything besides the stained toilet. But I noticed that the outhouse was at the base of the little hillock where I'd seen the mountain lion disappear the previous evening.
Making much more noise than usual, I banged my way up the little mound and into the circle of boulders at the top. There, in the middle of those rocks, I found my bandana! I looked around again before cautiously bending down to pick it up. The bandana reeked of the mountain lion, too. There was no way it was going into my backpack unless I could find a bag to carry it in.
I hooked the cloth to the end of my hiking stick and, keeping it downwind, carefully made my way back to my just-abandoned campsite and the bear box. There had been a zippered plastic bag in the box when I'd arrived the previous day, and it was still there. I could use that bag for the bandana. It would be perfect for my smelly treasure. My bandana had reached treasured status because a) it had been stolen from my camp by a mountain lion, b) had then been retrieved from that same lion, and c) there were fang holes in it to prove the story!
I stuffed the smelly bandana into the bag, noting as I did so that a corner of the cloth was missing. The mountain lion had either eaten it or the corner had been torn off on a thorn bush when the lion was running away with it.
I donned my pack and hit the trail just a few moments later. With my head swiveling from side to side, I made my way to the junction I'd gone through the day before. I continued along the Heartbreak Ridge trail for another hundred yards or so past that junction when I came across an odd little ...thing... in the middle of the trail.
There was a small puddle of what I figured out was cat vomit right in the trail. In the middle of that little puddle was the missing corner of my red mountain lion-abused bandana! I blinked a couple of times in astonishment, tempted to try to retrieve that missing bit. I couldn't quite bring myself to do so, so just stepped over it and continued my hike to Manning Camp.
I didn't see, hear, or smell the mountain lion for the rest of my three-night backpack. I also didn't see any other people out there. That wasn't too unusual, but I really hoped I'd have run into someone just so I could tell my story!
I did have one more harrowing incident that weekend, however. The following day, while relaxing in my mountain-top campsite, I was briefly visited — I claim I was attacked — by a very loud, very persistent hummingbird.
Have you ever seen the sun backlighting someone's ear? If so, you know their ear glows red, resembling a flower. The sun must have been backlighting my ear just right because, as I was relaxing in camp reading my book and enjoying a cup of tea, that frickin' hummingbird flew up to me and inserted his very long bill right into my ear!
Do you know how loud a hummingbird is from one inch away? Do you know how fast they fly? I was sitting there minding my own business when, apparently out of nowhere, something very loud and very threatening was one inch away from my right ear! I fell off the log I was sitting on, swinging my arms to fight off the attacking creature! That's when I saw that I'd been attacked by an angry two-inch-long hummingbird who'd innocently mistaken my ear for a flower. Very sweet, but holy shit, that was scary!
The remainder of my backpacking trip was relatively uneventful, given the scares I'd already been through. I didn't see the mountain lion anymore on that trip. I did see him the following year, though, in the same campsite in which I'd originally encountered him. At least I think it was the same lion. That second time it just ran by on the trail, disappearing into the early morning mist.
I think of that encounter, and other wildlife encounters, each time I'm out backpacking. I remind myself not of the transitory fear I felt, but of how lucky I was to have actually seen a mountain lion, up close, in the wild.
Many scores of people collectively spend hundreds of nights out in the wilderness of the Rincon Mountains each year. I'd be willing to bet that you could count, on one hand, the number of people over the years who've had a close-up, real-life encounter with a mountain lion.
And I'm one of them.