"The size both of the moose and the cougar, as I have found, is generally rather underrated than overrated, and I should be inclined to add to the popular estimate ..." - Henry David Thoreau, The Maine Woods "... he observed a much larger track ... 'Well, what is it?' I asked. Stooping and laying his hand in it, he answered in a mysterious air, and in a half whisper, 'Devil [that is Indian Devil, or cougar] lodges about here -- very bad animal...'" - Thoreau, The Maine Woods "She was in a party of several people and pack animals; even so, one night, the largest mule was killed by a mountain lion... The lion jumped on the mule, sunk his teeth and front claws into its neck and then ripped open the unfortunate creature's stomach with its back legs." - Graham Mackintosh, Journey with a Baja Burro

When I was seven years old, I had a nighttime terror as ominous as it was irrational -- a mysterious predator lurked beneath my bed in the dead of night. Awaking in a still and black world, and needing to leave my bed for the bathroom, I would lie stiffly under the covers, listening for the sound of the beast licking its chops while I reviewed my plan -- to quietly position myself to spring far enough from my bed that I would avoid the grizzly fate of predation. It seems that I had an innate sense that for all its ferocity, speed and strength, the beast would not waste its energy pursuing an alert and evasive prey such as myself. The child that stepped carelessly from his bed was beast food, the child who leapt beyond the beast's reach was not. Returning to bed moments later presented the same concern. After assessing how far from the bed I might leap successfully, I would again be airborne.

As a "grown up", my greatest remaining fear of the dark is that I might stub my toe on some unseen object. There are no beasts under my bed. When out of doors at night, delight is a far more likely emotion than is fear. Delight in the vigorous night air, or in the sparkle of distant stars, or in the flash of an Earth-bound meteor, or simply in the quietness. The wild places that I sometimes visit possess an even more wonderful night world. The sky is more beautiful, the aromas less man-muddled, the quiet often mixed with the gentle sounds of pine music or of water's movement or with the vocalizations of owls or coyotes. In the years since the beast lived under my bed, I've learned that man and his amassment of man things is a more real and rational danger than is the wild predator. Even in a wild place the most dangerous creature is human.

Yet, in a truly wild place, there remains the wild beast; the predator not made of childish fears but of muscle and bone, claw and fang, night-vision and hunger. One is not likely to forget about the beast when hiking or camping in grizzly bear country, but indigenous to most of western North America is a wild cat that can weigh 220 pounds or more and measure more than eight feet from nose to tail. The elusiveness and reclusive nature of this cat serves to explain how it has survived in a modern world ignorant of and hostile to large predators, a world in which for years men were paid by their government to kill predators on sight (a program which helped to extirpate the grizzly and the wolf from lands they once shared with the big cat). It also explains one of its many names -- "the ghost". Most people know it only from wildlife calendars, nature programs on television, or perhaps from having seen tormented specimens in zoos. The mountain lion (a.k.a. cougar, panther, or puma) is more familiar with humans than are humans with it. It has been estimated that for every time someone sees a mountain lion in the wild, that same lion has watched 1,000 humans. A quick calculation comparing the local human and lion populations leads me to believe that the ratio might actually be more like 10,000 to 1. If you ever go hiking, rafting, or sightseeing in western North America, you have very likely been the object of a mountain lion's attention. Although Felis concolor has been driven from eastern portions of its former range, it still occurs from the southern Yukon southward through Patagonia, in habitats from alpine snowfields to low deserts, from temperate forests to tropical wetlands. The lion is a formidable predator, as a solitary hunter it takes down large prey animals more readily than might a pack of wolves. When running, it can spring more than seven meters (more than twenty feet) in a single bound and is capable of leaping almost twenty feet vertically. It is relatively rare that a cougar will attack or kill a human, although it certainly does happen (generally within a predictable pattern that humans can avoid). It is hundreds of times more likely that interaction between mountain lions and men will result in the death of the beautiful, big cat than in any harm to the man. In varying locales the cougar may compete with bears, wolves, jaguars, even crocodiles, but its only true enemy has been human. The cats preferred relationship with man is one of avoidance.

Sometimes, while hiking I'll notice a gradual gathering aloft of turkey vultures for no readily apparent reason, and wonder if they are hopefully waiting for a lion which they have spotted to rouse to the hunt. Several times I have seen explicit evidence of nearby cougars: distinctive paw prints fresh enough to have me alertly scanning the surrounding rocks and brush; a fresh deer-kill which had been mostly eaten and appeared to have been abandoned only moments earlier. My pulse would quicken but more with a scientific curiosity than a fear like that of the beast of the darkness beneath a child's bed.

Deep in a warm summer night, far from the glare of artificial lights, neither clouds nor a moon compete with the starlight. The overflowing light of the Milky Way filters through the Jeffrey pines and the black oaks. What is left of those filtered rays from far off worlds appears to rest softly on the dry grass carpet of the Peninsular Range Mountains. At 2:00 a.m. "mother nature" has called me from the comfort of my sleeping bag. The tent is set up on a slightly inclined pitch and I notice that my daughter has slid part way out of the tent. She is sleeping soundly and I see no reason to disturb her. This is one of our favorite places to camp. The National Forest Service seasonally maintains five spacious campsites here, about three quarters of a mile from a parking area at the end of a dirt road. Often, when we've come here, we've been the only people in the area. This night it seems that the forest is our own -- we are alone (excepting, of course, for the presumed presence of the forests own creatures).

As I walk toward the tent I scan the shadows among the trees beyond it on the hill that swells to the east. My eyes are adjusted to the natural light of the stars but only open areas, such as where the tent is set, contain much light. I watch for movement, knowing that curious raccoons, skunks, and coyotes often approach people's camps. The forest is utterly silent; there is no wind in the trees, not the sound of a single cricket. In the dimness of the trees I return my attention to the poorly lit path I walk. When I am about 70 feet from the tent the tranquility of the moment is shattered by the sharp crack of a dry tree limb. Instantly I am still, my gaze locked on the area from which the abrupt intrusion has come. Something larger than a raccoon or a coyote is contained in the darkness less than 100 feet beyond the tent and to my right.

A description of what I heard at that moment does not lend itself well to words printed on paper, so I must ask the reader to attempt to join me in that dark forest. Do this: using your face muscles, draw your mouth back tightly from your teeth (bare your fangs), exhale audibly, sharply but protracted, and deeply -- from the diaphragm. You should have just made a sound like a cat "spitting", maybe just slightly louder than your pet cat might 'spit'. Now imagine that you are holding a bullhorn to your mouth and amplifying the sound to a volume much louder than any house cat or human could possibly imitate. This is the sound that stunned my senses. It resonated through the woods. The human brain processes input with amazing speed -- I doubt that there was more than a mere fraction of a second that I didn't know the identity of the animal that was "speaking" to me. It was a cat, a very big cat; the "ghost of the West." My skin was instantly sensitive, chilled as if struck by the Chinooks of Saskatchewan in January. The hair stood out on the back of my neck. I studied the shadows knowing that the creature looking back, studying me, might be regarding me as a potential meal. I was aware that his eyes were designed for moments like this. The cat could see me plainly, study my facial expression, my body language. Less than two years earlier an adult woman had been killed by a cougar while running alone on a trail not far from where I stood this night before this cougar. Her body was found partially eaten. I knew exactly what not to do. Do not run. Deer and bighorn sheep run from mountain lions. To a lion, something running is food. A cats attraction to moving bodies may even be independent of hunger urgings and may be simply a matter of sport, like the kitten compelled to pounce on a rolling ball. It may be that all adult victims of mountain lion attacks have unwittingly triggered that attack themselves when they succumbed to the urge to run. I determined not to behave as if I was food or a cat toy, to move "normally" toward the tent. My first step brought an unnerving response from the shadows. The voice of the lion again resounded through the still night air. The snap of the breaking branch and the two harsh vocalizations of the lion made it easy to determine its location even in the darkness -- it was uncomfortably near.

With adrenaline surging, and a mixed sense of awe and anxiety, I moved to were my daughter lay half outside of the tent. She was not in any pressing danger, a person hunkered down motionless in a sleeping bag does not resemble a running deer and is not likely to be on a mountain lion's menu. I scooped her into the tent and zipped it closed so abruptly that I awoke my wife. "What's going on?" she asked, only half conscious. "I'll tell you in the morning," I whispered. "Is someone out there?" she persisted. "No, ... a mountain lion, ... it's okay..." Semiconscious and satisfied to hear that things were "okay," she quickly faded back into a sound sleep.

Mountain lion meals do not come in containers of polypropylene, PVC coated polyester or woven polyethylene. I felt exhilarated, knowing that we were not in danger, yet a mountain lion stood perhaps less than fifty feet from where we lay. Not wanting even the momentary distraction of moving a muscle, I lay quietly listening for sounds of the lion's movements. Although more alert than perhaps I had ever been, I heard nothing. There was no audible crush of pine needles or of leaves, no discernible licking of chops. The overriding silence was absolute. Ghost indeed. Eventually I drifted into the silence and slept soundly.

In all the varied moments in which I have wondered at the "wild" world -- experiencing storms, astronomical events, wolves, whales -- those moments in that dark forest are unique. They were moments in which I was aware that I was under the close scrutiny of a large predator -- fangs and claws which might have been upon me abruptly. Reflecting on those moments, I realize that the lion had been watching me in absolute silence until it accidentally revealed its presence, at which point it seemed to say to me "yes, I am here and I am watching you, and this is potentially serious." Bearing in mind that this is a most graceful animal, it seems atypical that it carelessly revealed itself by breaking a dry tree limb (likely it was moving toward me when it snapped the limb). The question I must ask is apparent -- how often when I have been hiking, either alone or with my family, has a cougar been watching, perhaps a very short distance away? When walking in wild places the thought presses into my consciousness. I stop and listen to the quiet. The hidden but present predator speaks to me even now.

© Wes Janssen 1999

_Sugar Pines (Pinus lambertiana)

"This [the sugar pine] is the noblest pine yet discovered, surpassing all others not merely in size but also in kingly beauty and majesty... No lover of trees will ever forget his first meeting with the Sugar Pine, nor will he afterward need a poet to call him to 'listen what the pine-tree saith.'... They are the priests of pines, and seem ever to be addressing the surrounding forest.. View the forest from beneath or from some commanding ridgetop; each tree presents a study in itself, and proclaims the surpassing grandeur of the species." - John Muir, The Mountains of California

My thoughts were focused on a deer which had moments earlier sprung across my path. In this slightly distracted state I had walked past a great giant almost without becoming aware of its presence. As thoughts of the animal were overtaken by a more normal flow of sensory perception it seemed almost as if the stately giant tapped me silently on my shoulder. I stopped and turned. The breadth of its base dominated my field of vision as its massive bole swept toward the sky. Thoughts of solitude and of meeting such a giant were what had brought me here. The forest on Middle Peak is a wonderful collection of oaks and conifers, salted with trees of species known for their great size. Incense cedar, white fir, ponderosa pine. Trees that sometimes stand 200 feet tall. Yet they seem to stand respectfully in subjugation to this forest king, this "king of pines" as Muir rightly called it. This woodland regent is the sugar pine, Pinus lambertiana, the tallest and most massive of all pines.

The largest of all trees, in fact it is said the largest of all Earth's many billions of life forms, is the giant sequoia. Very few trees indeed even approach it in size. The sugar pine is one of the few. The very largest individuals of this species stand, incredibly, in near-sequoian dimensions. The famous botanist of the nineteenth century American west, David Douglas, who first described the tree (and named it after an associate, a Dr. Lambert of London), recorded a specimen 245 feet in height! While every continent (excepting Antarctica, of course) boasts its share of great and beautiful trees, this stretch of Earth which we call California is blessed beyond all others. Though much of the land is semi arid, the most amazing trees are found here. The worlds tallest trees, the coast redwood; the worlds most massive trees (perhaps the most massive thing that has ever lived), the giant sequoia; the worlds most long-lived trees, the ancient bristlecone pines; and what some may think the worlds most beautiful trees, the storm sculpted Monterey cypress (may I quickly concede that such a title as 'most beautiful' is far too arguable to claim any semblance of certitude). To this cadre of Plantae's nobility, one may feel compelled to commend the sugar pine. This tree too is a Californian, although it spills slightly beyond the state's borders into the mountains of Baja California to the south and the fertile river valleys of southern Oregon -- where have been documented the largest individuals of the species -- to the north.

Approaching the great giant before me, I studied first its height. I could see no easy way to determine how tall* it stood, but I guessed that its lowest branches were probably at least eighty feet above the ground, perhaps higher.... Looking then at the trunk I determined that there must be a way I could know its diameter. Mentally projecting my own height horizontally as a rough unit of measure, it was quickly apparent that, at the ground, the diameter must be approximately nine feet, perhaps slightly more. By no means a champion of the species but an extremely big tree nonetheless -- an exceptionally big tree for notoriously dry San Diego County. Noticing the way in which the trunk broadened at the ground, I realized that a more accurate indicator of the tree's size would be the diameter of the trunk two feet above the ground. This was not something that could be so easily approximated. I would have to devise a means of measuring it. How? I didn't have a tape measure (or anything else long enough to encircle the tree). At times I have a rope in my pack, this day I didn't. Where there's a will, there's a way (seems like I've heard that somewhere)... I took the strap off of my camera. It would suit my purposes. Fortunately, there was a drawing pad in my backpack and its cover proclaimed it to be exactly 9 x 12 inches. This was all I needed. The given twelve inches allowed me to determine that the strap was adjusted to a length of thirty inches. With this I measured the circumference at two feet above the ground to be 270 inches. Because I often use it to determine the circumference of cylinders for which I create graphics, I long ago memorized pi to the first six decimal places (so I'm a nerd... it comes in handy sometimes). 270 inches divided by 3.141592 provided a diameter of 86 inches (7'2"), at two feet above the ground. The question of diameter resolved, the question of the tree's height remained unanswered as did another question. How old was this giant?

It was getting late and would be dark before I reached my vehicle several miles away. I continued through the forest wondering about the giant's age, and before long a means of answering that question presented itself....

It happened that I came upon a sugar pine which had been recently cut down, presumably because, having been dead for several decades, it threatened to fall across a trail which was frequently used by the park service. Likely it was easier to fell it away from the path than to remove it later. The cut had been made at about two feet above the ground, making valid a direct comparison to the previously measured tree. In the growing darkness I quickly counted the rings -- the tree had died at an age of 300 years. By measuring the diameter of the cut -- it was 75 inches -- I had enough information to calculate an approximate age of the living and larger tree now a quarter of a mile behind me. Where a diameter of 75 inches yields and age of 300 years, a diameter of 86 inches would yield an age of 344. The great pine dated from the middle 1600's, from a time when the only humans to know this mountain were the native Kumeyaay. When the Franciscan Junipero Serra arrived in 1769 and established the first European settlement in the area, this pine was likely more than a hundred years old. In 1826, Jedediah Smith became the first American to enter the area overland from the east, and the tree was about 175 years of age. When California became a US state in 1850, it was about 200. The venerable giant avoided the designs of loggers when the discovery of gold brought miners, ranchers, entrepreneurs, and wood cutters a few years later. California grizzlies, now extinct for eighty years, ambled beneath it for two and a half centuries. The Franciscan missionaries, loggers, miners, grizzlies, and most of the Kumeyaay are gone, the aged giant remains, towering majestically above the surrounding forest. I continued through the gathering darkness, happy to have made its acquaintance.

* Appendix: There are various ways of determining the height of a tree, even an extremely large one. A simple, "low-tech" method involves triangulating the height by employing an arm-length stick. The resulting measurement is only an approximation, but can be a very good one if done carefully. One has only to create a right angle with arm and stick to determine the correct observation point, and then to measure his distance from the base of the tree (it will be equivalent to the height). As this method does require a clear sight line to the base and top of the tree from a distance equivalent to the tree's height, it would have been very difficult in the circumstances described above.

© Wes Janssen 2000