Post by Deleted on Aug 13, 2015 19:41:35 GMT -8
I originally posted this account in the older forum in January 2012. A large portion of traffic to my own website is from folks looking for information on mountain lions. So I suspect this account is worth carrying forward to the new forums.
Tracking a Mountain Lion
Full-grown male, 18" stride, 3¼-3½" tracks
I was on course for a surprise encounter with a full-grown, male mountain lion. Our paths were sure to meet. He was alert. I was not.
Instead, I was sitting on the ground with my back to him, as he worked his way down the hill toward me.
I'd been hiking up the hill in a roadless area on a rocky, abandoned jeep trail. Underbrush crowded both edges. Like the lion, I ventured on and off the trail as I followed tracks of smaller critters
I had sat down to get a drink and ponder some small tracks. They looked like skunk but the stride was like a rodent's.
About a quarter mile up the hill, the lion was making steady progress in my direction.
The lion was hunting. It was a cool morning, well below freezing. And an inch of powdery snow made for good tracking. But I was often lost in thought about a lady friend between times the small tracks led me off the trail.
Those pleasant thoughts were about to be interrupted.
Beneath the powdery snow was often a crusted layer of several inches. But there were patches without snow and also occasional drifts.
While the mountain lion continued progressing toward me, I stood up, hoisted my pack, and resumed my walk uphill. I had tracked many lions in this area, but they seemed for the last several weeks to be gone. For today, out of sight, they were out of mind. Right now it seemed to be skunk tracks I scanned for.
Except for an occasionally lion kill near the trailhead, I had all but given up on finding lion sign in the area. Deer, elk, skunk, coyote, bobcat, and rabbits left tracks. No mountain lion for weeks, and I was disgusted. Meanwhile, unknown to me, a full-grown male lion was getting very close.
Head down, looking for the odd skunk tracks, I happened to look up. There it was right in front of me. "It" was a fresh mountain lion track. Up the hill I could see a hundred more of them. And those tracks led just off the trail beside me. I was not alone.
The tracks led through thick underbrush to a grove of tall pine trees. Under them there was no snow, just pine needles. I looked up and around and spoke in a calm but audible voice.
The snow around the cat tracks had never solidified. The soft edges were like my own tracks. Had the lion heard me coming and left the trail? How far, I wondered.
Again I spoke to the cat. And I left the trail to follow his tracks. Every movement he made seemed designed to throw me off. First he's squeezing through tightly spaced branches. Then he's moving under low branches.
Now he's entering a pine grove on dry pine needles — leaving no tracks at all. He's weaving in and out of the bushes as if to screen off any followers. Where did he go?
I stopped and looked up to check all the tree limbs. I scanned the underbrush carefully. That tawny fur could be right in front of me, and I wouldn't see it. I decided to work my way around the grove of trees and pick up his trail on the other side the grove — if there was a trail there. Otherwise . . . otherwise, I guess he still is there.
Other side the grove I eventually found the tracks. The lion seemed still to be practicing evasive moves. He could easily outpace me under and between branches. I was already getting tangled up trying to follow him. If he had gone from hunter to hunted, he had all the advantages. There was no way I could keep up. And he could be sitting there watching me from a rock outcrop all this time.
It was enough, I decided. The lion was back home. Leave him alone, I thought. I wanted him to stay. I had gone from lost in thought about a lady friend to lost in thought about lion tracks. Now both the lion and the trail were out of sight. I would have to backtrack — along the lion tracks.
I had a mile of mountain lion tracking yet to do. Having given up the roadless area as lost to my favorite company, today each track became a nugget in nature's treasure. I was a happy camper — for a while.
Tracking a Mountain Lion
Full-grown male, 18" stride, 3¼-3½" tracks
I was on course for a surprise encounter with a full-grown, male mountain lion. Our paths were sure to meet. He was alert. I was not.
Instead, I was sitting on the ground with my back to him, as he worked his way down the hill toward me.
I'd been hiking up the hill in a roadless area on a rocky, abandoned jeep trail. Underbrush crowded both edges. Like the lion, I ventured on and off the trail as I followed tracks of smaller critters
I had sat down to get a drink and ponder some small tracks. They looked like skunk but the stride was like a rodent's.
About a quarter mile up the hill, the lion was making steady progress in my direction.
The lion was hunting. It was a cool morning, well below freezing. And an inch of powdery snow made for good tracking. But I was often lost in thought about a lady friend between times the small tracks led me off the trail.
Those pleasant thoughts were about to be interrupted.
Beneath the powdery snow was often a crusted layer of several inches. But there were patches without snow and also occasional drifts.
While the mountain lion continued progressing toward me, I stood up, hoisted my pack, and resumed my walk uphill. I had tracked many lions in this area, but they seemed for the last several weeks to be gone. For today, out of sight, they were out of mind. Right now it seemed to be skunk tracks I scanned for.
Except for an occasionally lion kill near the trailhead, I had all but given up on finding lion sign in the area. Deer, elk, skunk, coyote, bobcat, and rabbits left tracks. No mountain lion for weeks, and I was disgusted. Meanwhile, unknown to me, a full-grown male lion was getting very close.
Head down, looking for the odd skunk tracks, I happened to look up. There it was right in front of me. "It" was a fresh mountain lion track. Up the hill I could see a hundred more of them. And those tracks led just off the trail beside me. I was not alone.
The tracks led through thick underbrush to a grove of tall pine trees. Under them there was no snow, just pine needles. I looked up and around and spoke in a calm but audible voice.
The snow around the cat tracks had never solidified. The soft edges were like my own tracks. Had the lion heard me coming and left the trail? How far, I wondered.
Again I spoke to the cat. And I left the trail to follow his tracks. Every movement he made seemed designed to throw me off. First he's squeezing through tightly spaced branches. Then he's moving under low branches.
Now he's entering a pine grove on dry pine needles — leaving no tracks at all. He's weaving in and out of the bushes as if to screen off any followers. Where did he go?
I stopped and looked up to check all the tree limbs. I scanned the underbrush carefully. That tawny fur could be right in front of me, and I wouldn't see it. I decided to work my way around the grove of trees and pick up his trail on the other side the grove — if there was a trail there. Otherwise . . . otherwise, I guess he still is there.
Other side the grove I eventually found the tracks. The lion seemed still to be practicing evasive moves. He could easily outpace me under and between branches. I was already getting tangled up trying to follow him. If he had gone from hunter to hunted, he had all the advantages. There was no way I could keep up. And he could be sitting there watching me from a rock outcrop all this time.
It was enough, I decided. The lion was back home. Leave him alone, I thought. I wanted him to stay. I had gone from lost in thought about a lady friend to lost in thought about lion tracks. Now both the lion and the trail were out of sight. I would have to backtrack — along the lion tracks.
I had a mile of mountain lion tracking yet to do. Having given up the roadless area as lost to my favorite company, today each track became a nugget in nature's treasure. I was a happy camper — for a while.
