The Free Radical

The darkness into which I awoke was absolute, the silence unfathomably deep. Yesterday there had been a moon; there were stars. And now…

I rolled over and carefully felt around beside me for the handle to the wood stove. A rush of air from the opened door reignited the last glowing embers, just enough that I could now see the characteristic white markings on Jazz’s face as she slept comfortably curled at my feet. She was wholly unconcerned.

I looked up to the ceiling of my little shack, still expecting starlight and moon-rays to trickle through its translucent skin as always they had before. But now, in this predawn morning, it was as though there were no sky at all. If the lighted heavens had fallen while I slept, I would have expected Jazz to wake me. Dogs like Jazz are attuned to just such cosmic things. But she peacefully slept… still.

I wasn’t tired, so I decided to get up, despite the early hour. As I pulled on my jeans over my long johns, Jazz raised a single eye. “I’m going out for a piss,” I explained. I always told Jazz everything. She went back to sleep.

The mystery of the deep darkness and unusual silence was instantly resolved when I opened the door and pushed my way past the old sleeping bag which hung in the doorway for extra insulation. About a foot and a half of snow had fallen during the night. Shit! It was right up to my knees… and it was still falling, heavily.

I knew Jazz would be happy; I was not. Jazz always rejoiced like a manic puppy juiced on amphetamines for the first snowfall of winter. I usually have no problem with winter or copious amounts of fresh snow– I’m Canadian after all– but I didn’t have my skis with me. I hadn’t expected the snow just yet. It was only the beginning of November.

Today was Sunday. Sunday is the one day of the week I make the long trek to my parents’ house to resupply my food stores and to generally let my parents know that I’m still alive. The wilderness hadn’t taken me yet. Oh, and I get to take a hot shower too! There was no getting out of going. I had to go.

On a clear, snow-free day the journey takes about an hour and a half; it’s all downhill, an easy walk. In eighteen inches of freshly fallen snow– and growing– however, it would take considerably longer and require much more effort. At least I would have my skis for the journey back though, later this afternoon.

I stoked up the fire and lit a few candles, needing the light to ready my things. At least I had my good boots with the drawstring at the knee to keep the snow out. My pack was like a removable appendage of my body; I was equally as comfortable with it on or off. It was relatively empty for the journey down, so would be no burden at all. I was good to go in a jiffy… and Jazz was always ready, just awaiting the word.

We had to wait though. My little mountain shack was situated within a canyon-like gorge amidst the birch and the larch and a steep bouldered landscape with a stream trickling through. Walking in total darkness wasn’t even an option. We’d have to wait for the first signs of light from behind the Rockies on the east side of the valley to help light our way through this blizzard.

As I finally buckled the hip strap on my pack Jazz suddenly knew that it was Sunday. She had a hard time keeping track of the days of the week, but the pack was a sure sign. She knew what was up. As soon as I opened the door again, she pushed past me to frolic joyously in banks of snow equal to her full height.

Jazz bounded ahead, leaping and disappearing, leaping and disappearing. She couldn’t be happier. I trudged behind, seriously lamenting the fact that I had to lift my foot to the level of my knees with every step. Plod. Plod. Plod.

The gorge, where my little cabin was situated, was narrow with steep high walls rising on either side. The path downward hugged the bank of the little stream which murmured from somewhere deep beneath the snow, except where a few air-holes breathed through. Fortunately, I knew the path well.

As we made our way down, Jazz bounding ahead, our path on this eastern slope on this western mountain opened eventually like a fan. We faced directly the Rockies in the east, being backlighted by the first intimations of dawn. The snow still fell so heavily that I could only call it a blizzard, as nevertheless nothing more than a stiff breeze truly blew. The wind was not a factor. The snow was an inconvenience… perhaps a challenge; but the true encounter still lay just ahead.

Just where the gorge opens up to a sloping fan, Jazz was just out of sight over a tiny hillock thirty meters ahead, when I encountered this mountain’s host… and master. He had approached from the opposite bank of the gorge… and he and I met up in the middle, about ten meters apart. I was between him and Jazz who was just out of sight. He was just behind me.

I sensed something and looked back. Something big hunkered down to crouch in the snow. There was still this damn blizzard, so I couldn’t see clearly… all I knew was that it was big! I had about three-eighths of a second to ponder the situation before the mountain lion, crouched in the snow, began to roar. That is a most unmistakable sound. A cougar’s voice is clearly distinctive.

I instantly knew what was up. And the lion kept roaring over and over again. Every hair on the back of my head and neck was standing straight and tall. I whistled for Jazz– the whistle that means “Get over here, now!”

The cougar screamed at me about ten times. I didn’t understand him right away, but he just repeated “The dog is mine… the dog is mine… you should go; the dog is mine.” Suddenly when Jazz appeared over the mound in the distance, he shut up. And I instantly understood.

I acknowledged Jazz with a glance, and then turned back to the now silent lion to deliver a look which intended to say “The dog’s with me, and we’re leaving…”

I suppose we should get one thing straight. Before this encounter I was pretty sure that anytime I met up with a two-hundred-pound hungry cat it could only be because I was the main course. You just don’t meet up with an adult mountain lion face-to-face in his territory, in snow up past your knees, and expect to walk away from it. Prior to the situation, I was convinced that the scenario I was now facing was a certain death sentence. Now that I was in it, I didn’t really think so. This didn’t feel like the end.

I wasn’t scared. I mean, I expected to be shit-my-pants scared, but I remained unsoiled… just on ultra-high alert. Like I said, my hair was sticking up everywhere; I was a wired fuse of primal awareness.

The lion stayed crouched in silence. I walked away as fast as I could in the piling snow. Jazz was completely oblivious to the whole encounter… bounding ahead yet again.

She knew nothing of what had transpired until we returned, loaded with fresh supplies, later that afternoon. As usual, she was a little ways ahead when she caught an unfamiliar scent. Her hackles rose as she sniffed at the prints in the snow. I walked up beside her and laid my hand fully within the impression in the snow. Yup, I knew it was big!

Jazz was on high alert the rest of the way up into the gorge… to home. I definitely looked over my shoulder a few times along the way. Somehow I kinda knew though, that I’d very likely never see the lion again, even though we’d taken up residence right in his domain.

I had my skis now. The Sunday trips down the mountain, now that I’d laid a track, were fun. It happened a couple of times, though. We’d ski down– well actually, just I’d ski; Jazz would run and bound– I’d ski on whatever snow had fallen during the week, and by the time we’d come back late in the afternoon there’d be the tracks of that big ol’ mountain lion meeting us half way. He kept a close eye on us that winter… tracing our excursions…

But I never did see him again.