Cougar Calling

“Dad, listen… I’m in trouble.”

This is not a call any father wants to receive, especially when he knows his son is alone in the woods at night. I felt bad for putting him through it even as I said the words. But I didn’t know what else to do.

I’d spent a long day in my tree stand. Southern Alberta get’s a solid 15 hours of shooting light in early September, and I was in a tree for all of them. The elk wouldn’t be rutting for at least a week to 10 days, but I know from my game camera that this spot is a corridor. In the morning, they come from the north, climbing up a steep hill and heading over the ridge. In the evening, they make their way south back down the hill. The mule deer and whitetails do the same, and I have tags for all three. Bow hunting in Alberta is a great way to get plenty of tags for multiple species.

I know there are a lot of hunters who’d think it’s insane to sit the full 15 hours when most of the action is within a couple hours of dusk and dawn, but I’m a steadfast believer that anything can happen in the woods. Three years ago, I had a lone bull walk in at about 2 pm, and I feathered a nice whitetail last year at noon. That said, this day was 14.5 hours of nothing but three squirrels, a woodpecker, and a heaping dose of direct sunlight, so maybe the all-day dedication is a bit over the top. There is, however, that last half hour.

At 8:30 pm, a cow elk crossed the hill 77 yards above me. The tag is good for bulls over three points as well as cows, and I’m a meat hunter, so it was game on. I practice at long distances, but I don’t like to take shots above 40 in the field, so I tried pulling her in with a lost calf call. I’d seen a lost calf from my stand two years back, and I watched it pull in five cows with it’s bleating. That one made a surprising racket with it’s squealing, and it was constant until the cows come to the rescue, so I laid it on thick. 

The bleating got her attention, and I had an elk decoy set up on the ground. She stopped, she turned, and she seemed to consider coming down to me, but she held up. I kept it up until I was sure she was moving on. I don’t know what felt wrong to her, but I was encouraged. Where one animal’s on the move, there are often others. Unfortunately, they’re not always who you’re hoping to meet.

I slowly turned, checking all the approaches for other game. When I saw the cougar, it took me several seconds to identify it. At first, my brain said, “There’s a deer.” It’s funny because I had a full broadside view of the cat at 50 yards. Long sleek body with the black-tipped boom of a tail extended behind, staring with intense focus, muscles poised. Beauty and terror in equal parts. 

I think my double take was a product of how rare it is to see cougars in the wild. Hunters log thousands of hours in the woods to see a fleeting glimpse of a cougar, and many more never see one at all. This one stood still long enough for me to start taking a guess at its sex. It’s not easy to do in the field with cougars, but having seen deer in that very spot, I could tell that it was a big one, easily over 120 pounds. Its head was relatively large to the body as well, so it was likely a mature tom.

He was about the same elevation as me, looking up the hill where the elk had been moments ago, but glancing in my direction as well. I thought he’d probably heard my calling, and I hit the bleat again to confirm. Sure enough, his head whipped around, and he focused all his attention in my direction. I had some choices to make.

I was on private land where culling cougars in the name of livestock preservation is highly encouraged. The cougars and wolves are murder on the calves in this area, putting both grizzlies and blacks to shame with their headcounts. Also, taking a cougar with a bow and arrow makes for an enviable hunting yarn, so I decided I might as well try it. I sure didn’t want to walk back to the cabin knowing he was out there.

I only had him broadside for a few seconds before he hunkered down in some undergrowth. I hit the calf call a couple more times. He looked in my direction, but he didn’t come any closer. I tried again, and he kept looking at me, but he stayed put. As with the elk, I thought something probably just spooked him, and he was intrigued but too smart to come walking in. But he was certainly done with the elk now. He crouched facing directly at me so that I could see his face and shoulders outlined against the undergrowth.

As every bow hunter knows, dusk falls fast when you’re in the trees. One minute you can shoot, and in the next, you can’t see through a peep site. Dusk was coming on when I saw the elk, and now it seemed to be getting darker by the second. I could still pick out the exact tuft of heather the cougar was using for cover, but it was getting harder to distinguish his outline. Then a thought occurred to me, Is he waiting for dark? They’re night hunters.

I decide the hunt was off. I probably only had shooting light for 10 more minutes, and I was also beginning to question whether I wanted to drop an elk with this guy hanging around anyway. I started packing up and lowered my bow to the ground. 

I’m nearly silent coming out of my tree stands. Every buckle made fast, nothing to swing or dangle, so that I don’t give any approaching deer a free education in tree stand tactics. This time was different. I wanted that cougar to know there was a human around, and I came out of that tree like Sam Gamgee with a full mess kit, pots and pans jangling and clanking all the way. I let my carabiner hit metal handholds, and left my pack buckles unsnapped so they’d clack together. Likewise, I took down that decoy with all the subtlety of volunteers folding up banquet tables, smacking the folding rods together and jamming them into my pack.

Speedy as I was, the sun’s descent was proving faster. When I was fully rigged for travel, shooting light was gone, open ground was deep in shadow, and the timber was looming blackness. I had my bear spray out of the hip holster, and in picking up my bow, it made contact with the limb with a satisfying metallic wong that was sure to send any wild animals fleeing into the night. I had my phone out as well, and I considered phoning dad. I only climb trees in places that have cell service, so I knew I could make the call, and he’d be sure to answer in hopes of hearing me say I needed some help dragging out a 7 X 7 herd bull.

I decided not to call. Our cabin was only 300 yards away, and the cougar was probably three times that distance, having realized that a human was nearby. That’s when I saw his eyes.

I’d looked back in the direction of the cougar one last time. There, in a cluster of trees not even 10 yards away, two gleaming eyes staring right into mine. I leveled the bear spray at them and began to yell.

“Hey! No closer! I know what you are! I see you!”

He didn’t even flinch. Of course, he didn’t. With all that unmistakably man-made noise packing up, he had still stalked up on me. And at this distance, his nose was chockful of my scent. He knew exactly what I was, and he was coming anyway. 

“Back off! You’re not taking me!”

Even as I said it, I realized my word choice was not exactly important in this situation, but I believe it was some of that self-talk psychologists prescribe.

I could feel myself sweating, and I knew I was starting to panic. I tried to think it through. Bear spray’s only good at 10 yards and under, so it was at the outer limit. I thought about the bow, but the peep site would be useless in the dark. I couldn’t put an arrow within a yard of it if I tried. I also didn’t like the idea of lowering the bear spray, drawing, and trying to acquire a target. It felt too vulnerable. If it attacked at this distance, I might not even have the time to react with the spray.

As I was trying to figure out what to do, the eyes blinked, not simultaneously, but one at a time from right to left. Maybe that’s just the way they blink, but to me, in that moment, it seemed casual, relaxed. It was a strong flex with a message: I have you. Make your move. I’ll make mine. 

I made the call and put it on speaker.

“You got something down?” dad asked.

“No. Dad, listen… I’m in trouble. I got a cougar starin’ at me. Ten yards away and he won’t back off.”

“Well… shit.”

“Yeah. Shit, indeed.”

Carrying my bow by the string, I was able to hold my phone in that hand as well and keep the spray trained on the cougar, thumb hovering over the trigger. I began backing away in the direction of our cabin. The eyes came with me.

“Where are you?”

“I just came out of that stand south of the fence, maybe 300 from the cabin. I tried bangin’ stuff together and yelling, but he’s following me anyway. I thought I’d just keep you on the line, keep talking loud. I don’t know. Maybe it scares ‘im off.”

“Did it come to a call?”

There’d been a grizzly attack the day before, another elk hunter trying to call in a bull. The guy lived, but it was messy. So calling in predators was on every hunter’s mind. I told him about the cow and my calling. All the while, I was trying to keep the cougar’s eyes in sight, but it was steep, uneven ground with no path but for a few thin game trails that don’t lead anywhere. I had to keep glancing down to keep my footing and looking up at the skyline of the trees to keep my bearings. 

I fell about halfway back to the cabin. I barked my shin on a downed tree, lifted up my other foot as I staggered, and a branch hooked my other boot securely as a snare. I hit the ground hard. I popped back up as fast as I could, pointing the bear spray right where I’d last seen him. He wasn’t there.

“What was that?” Dad asked.

“I fell.”

“Is he still on you?”

“I can’t see his eyes anymore, but he was right here a second ago.” I turned in every direction, always with the spray straight out in front of me.

“Is he gone?”

“Doubt it,” I said. “He’s not scared of me yelling, so I kinda doubt he ran off because I fell. I just can’t spot him. He’s here.”

“Are you getting close?”

“I’ll be to the fence line in about a minute.”

The barbed-wire fence is at least 50 years old, and it’s seen very little maintenance. It’s now so slack that I’d probably be able to keep my bow and bear spray in hand while pushing the top wire down, throw a leg over, and step to the other side. But it wasn’t the fence that had me worried.

I’d been sticking to relatively open ground, head on a swivel, hoping to make an ambush more difficult for the lion. I’m sure he could find cover behind two blades of grass and a leaf, but there was no reason to make it easier. The fence line marked the last 50 paces to safety, but I had to go into heavy timber, tight trees where even a bright headlamp only reveals an arm’s reach of visibility. There was no other approach.

Anxious as I was to get to the cabin, I stood and looked at the trees I had to enter. With a trace of sunlight still hanging on in the clouds, they stood out as a black, jagged void against the sky. “Listen, dad,” I said, “I’m sure this sucks, but we gotta talk about it. You know where I am, but you can’t pinpoint me. Bec can locate my iPhone, we have that find me feature, or whatever. So if you hear screamin’ and crashin’, you’ll have to call her and use that to come and… find whatever’s left, I guess.”

I’ve read many hunting narratives over the years, felt that tingle of fear as Hemingway follows the lion or the buff into the tall grass. And now it was my turn to step into that lair with a predator, one whose every cell in his body is formed from the flesh of his prey. Entering those woods, all senses, abilities, and weapons are revealed for the pathetic and paltry things they are. The cougar could see me as though the sun was at its apex, and my reactions would be sloth-slow, laughable in his eyes.

I tried to just focus on the actions and kept moving ahead, getting over the fence, and then taking that first step into the thick, dark trees. I knew that’s when it would come for me, I even expected it.

“You in the clear yet.”

“No. I’m right in the thick of it. Those trees up above the cabin. He could be right on top of me in here and I’d never know it.”

“Reg may be at the cabin.”

“Whether he is or not, I’ll be fine if I can get there.”

“You gotta be getting’ close now.”

“Just a second.” The cabin is in a small clearing, and I knew I’d be seeing the roofline against the sky soon. “I can see the cabin now. Doesn’t look like anyone’s there. No wait. A light’s on. Reg is here. Stay on the line though.”

“Yeah.”

I walked down the last 20 yards to the cabin, always thinking that’s when it was going to happen. That’s when I’d feel the teeth in the back of my neck and be dragged kicking and writhing into the bush. 

But I covered the distance and stepped on to the deck, and there was Reg, blinding me with his headlamp. I couldn’t have been happier.

“All right. I’m on the deck with Reg now. I’m good. I’ll text when I’m driving home.”

“Okay… see ya, I guess.”

“Yeah, bye.”

And just like that, it was over. I was quaking as I told Reg and his wife all about it, changing from my hunting gear into my plain clothes, talking very loud and not able to quiet down. I was still amped up and jittery as he walked me to my truck, toting a 12 gauge. But I could feel myself calming down on the hour-long drive home. When I got there, I reheated some pizza and watched TV with Bec and the kids. Within just one hour, everything returned to the mundane and carefree. Sitting there watching back-to-back episodes of Gilmore Girls, I started to wonder: Was that real? How can that danger, that terror, be real in a world where I’m sitting here watching TV? I’d probably disbelieve it if it weren’t for those eyes. The memory of those eyes.  

I don’t know why the cougar didn’t attack. I don’t know if I’ve been stalked in the past without knowing it, and I don’t know if it will happen again. But I do know that I was hunted that night. I looked up the call duration on my phone: seven minutes. For seven minutes, I felt the terror that all prey must feel. Like the wildebeest at bay, surrounded by lions, eyes rolling, turning in all directions, seeing no way out. When I fell, I’m sure my eyes rolled over white just like theirs.

Oddly enough, I’m grateful for this memory, and that may be something that only those who truly love the wilderness can understand. I suffered fear like I never have before for every second of it, and I never want it to happen again, but it does reinforce a truth that is both enticing and frightening, both a promise and a threat: You never know what will happen when you go out in the woods.