Liz Snair and Alex Huryn, who shared images of mammal tracks and scats, as well as Rick Truex, wildlife biologist for Sequoia National Forest, William J. Zielinski and Ric Schlexer at the Redwood Sciences Laboratory of the USFS Pacific Southwest Research Station, Preston Taylor, Casey McFarland, and Neal Wight for their support and providing us with access to their track plate collections.
While juggling way too much at UC Davis, many have encouraged me and, at times, even carried me: Heiko Wittmer, Jacob Katz and Kendra Johnson, Bjorn Erickson and Lisa Matsubara, Allison Olliver, Jen Hunter, Maria Santos, Katie Fleer, Phil Sandstrom, Marit Wilkerson, and all those others faithful to Sophia's. Huge thanks to those who support my tracking endeavors: Paul Rezendes, Paulette Roy, Louis Liebenberg, Adriaan Louw, Casey McFarland, George Leoniak, Brian McConnell, Nancy Birtwell, Fred Vanderbeck, and Keith Badger. And last, but not least, thank you to all my family for enduring support and patience.
Mark Elbroch
I'd like to thank Meghan Walla-Murphy, Robbie Olhiser, Stephen Mark Paulsen, Thea Rae Altman, Gary Sieser, Elizabeth Cohen, Preston Taylor, Stephanie Pappas of the Chelonian Science Foundation, the Dautch family, Briggitte Cahill, Arianna Palmisano, Jonathan Weber, and Seston Graham for their support, humor, and generosity in making this book happen.
Michael Kresky
I'd like to thank my wife, Ciel, and our new baby girl, Stella, for supporting my passion for wildlife and tracking.
Jonah Evans
INTRODUCTION
Mark Elbroch
It's not for everyone, this world of little scats and tiny tracks. But for those who are bold, I'd say get some gloves and a jacket and a hat and go out and explore California.
GARY SNYDER IN “THE POROUS WORLD,” A PLACE IN SPACE, 1995
I arrived at Nettle Springs in the afternoon, a perennial water flow many miles up a dry desert canyon, surrounded by steep, unforgiving slopes of pinyon pine, oak, and juniper. I parked in some shade, filled a water bottle, and strolled up the dry, sandy wash above the springs, where tracks were easy to see. I was looking for an animal to follow. A few deer had crossed the wash early in the morning, but I was hoping for a soft-footed animal, which provided a greater challenge.
Suddenly fresh Cougar tracks were beneath me. The tracks belonged to a mature female cat, and she crossed the wash and traveled northeast into the manzanita, pines, and juniper. After a deep breath to focus and quiet my mind, I began to pursue. The afternoon was fast slipping away, so time was short, and I followed as quickly as my skills allowed. Yet within an hour of starting on the trail, I found myself confused. I looked down at the fresh tracks of a male Cougar—had she really been a he? No, for just around the corner I found her trail again; there were two cats, one following the other. But I was wrong again, for I then noticed the trails of at least three different Cougars converging among the dense manzanita bushes and winding up and over the folds of the desert canyon. I paused to reassess, kneeling down and feeling the large pad of a Cougar's track—that which shows more clearly in difficult tracking terrain.
The mess of tracks could have been a family group. Or perhaps a kill was nearby. That's what I hoped for—a fresh kill—something I could photograph. At the time I knew it didn't really make sense—a mature male and female at the site of a kill, unless one were stealing from the other or they were closely related—but the sun was too low in the sky to give anything much thought, and the trailing demanded all of my attention. I began to jog along the Cougars' trails, circling in on myself and jumping from trail to trail, all the while peering into every shadowy bush and dense growth for the dark telltale mound of a Cougar's cache. Several times I was fooled by the large nests of woodrats. As fast as I tracked, the sun moved quicker, and soon it was turning orange above the mountains to the west.
I followed numerous trails, looped in on myself countless times, and had turned up nothing. I'd not even revealed where any of the cougars had departed the confusion of converging trails. But with sunlight at a premium, I decided to backtrack the female up the wash to see if a piece of the larger story lay behind her. It did. A male lion had been following her down the wash and had cut into the bush farther up the drainage, where I hadn't initially seen his tracks.
I continued to follow her back trail. As the sun moved below the mountain range to the west and the entire canyon was bathed in rosy shadows, I jogged on, reluctant to leave such a beautiful trail. Higher and higher I climbed out of the canyon, but the light was fading fast. Eventually the light was so low, I moved at a crawl and walked in a bent crouch so that my eyes were closer to the ground. I kept losing the trail and having to circle back to find where she had turned. Finally I stood on a steep slope and appraised the areas that I had covered in the valley below and to the north where the cats had spiraled in on themselves. The temperatures were dropping as I began my trip back to camp.
The intimidating stare of a female cougar in a protective stance.
By the time I reached the wash, it was fully dark and stars were twinkling overhead. The simple notes of poorwills sounded in the distance, but otherwise the night was eerily quiet, and my footsteps in the sandy, gravelly wash seemed abrasive and loud. Niggling nervousness began to work its way into my mind, but I threw it off as the usual fears associated with being alone in the wilderness surrounded by fresh signs of Cougars.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, my footsteps echoed along the wash and out into the scrub. I moved quickly to fight off the dropping temperatures and to stop from shivering. The nervousness in the back of my mind hadn't resolved itself completely, and furrowed my brow. Then fear seized me like a slap in the face, and my gut twisted and froze. The moon had just crested the canyon's ridges, and its ghostly light filtered through the bushes and trees, creating shadows and shapes that suddenly appeared menacing and dark. My mind began to imagine a Cougar crouched in every shadow, and I picked up a few good rocks and began to massage my throwing arm to prepare for action in the cold.
“Stop it!” I told myself. “Get control of yourself. It's just the willies. Nothing to worry about. Another mile and a half and I'll be safely back at camp.” And so I told myself, “You have permission to be afraid if you see her tracks atop your own.” Not likely, I thought, convinced I'd beaten my own mind in the game.
I walked perhaps 50 yards farther before the moon rose high enough to bathe the floor of the wash. Then I saw them. I knelt to study my own tracks made just hours before. And there was no denying it: there were the fresh tracks of a female Cougar atop my own, and she was tracking me. I stood quickly and looked behind me. I was spooked and nervous. I worked my throwing shoulder and rolled my first rock in my hand.
I began to walk quickly down the drainage to the safety of my truck. I stopped with regularity to listen for footsteps behind me, and to look for a Cougar's form in pursuit. I avoided any area where she could attack from above, winding my way down the shadowy wash that seemed to stretch on for eternity. But I arrived safely back at camp, where I decided to sleep in the bed of my truck. With great relief, I slipped into my sleeping bag, thrilled to have shared an evening with another predator.
I awoke some time later with the certainty that I was being watched. The moon was straight overhead and bright. I sat up and peered into the contrasting landscape of
