When I was about nine years old, I found, in the secondhand bookstore that I haunted as a child, a book about a wonderful friendship between a boy and a wild cougar. I cannot remember the plot, and although I have searched and searched among the hundreds of books that fill every room of our house, I cannot find that little paperback with its orange/red cover. But it gave me a fascination for cougars—also known as mountain lions or pumas. I wanted to find out more about the beautiful big cat of the Americas, with its dark rounded ears, white muzzle, and glorious sand-colored coat. The cat that would never hurt you, I was sure, unless provoked.
I have still never seen a wild cougar—most people haven’t. But when a female made her den in a cave in the mountains just opposite the National Museum of Wildlife Art in Jackson Hole, a rare opportunity for watching cougars arose. Tom Mangelsen, wildlife photographer extraordinaire, spent days with his long lens trained on that den. He and scores of visitors observed the three kittens as they emerged into the daylight on uncertain legs, and noted how, over the next couple of weeks, they grew stronger and increasingly playful. And then, one morning, they had gone. Led by their mother into the dangers of a world that is, by and large, hostile to cougars.
It was Tom who introduced me to the horrible situation of the cougar in North America. First he showed me the photos and video he had taken of that female—whom we named Spirit—and her adorable kittens. Playing with mother’s tail. Playing with a feather. No wonder so many people spent so long watching that den, waiting for the rare glimpses of mother and young. And then, after we had spent a wonderful day in Yellowstone, he showed me the video footage taken by Cara of an outfitter making the decision to “harvest” the “young male” who is crouched as high in the tree as he can while the hunting dogs bay and lunge at its base. Such a beautiful animal—and, as it transpired, a female. One moment vivid with life, the next a dead body. Her beingness evaporated into the cold winter air. I was shocked and sickened.
What an ending to an otherwise perfect day in Yellowstone. I had seen wild bears for the first time: a very big male grizzly and a female black bear with cubs. And feasted my eyes on that glorious landscape, watched the sunset over the mountains. And then, suddenly, that video footage of sudden violent death. That was when Tom told me about The Cougar Fund, which he had started. I offered to sit on the board and gradually learned more and more about the persecution of the Americas’ big cat. Horrible facts. Until that day, I did not know that it was legal in many states to hunt cougars with dogs. I had no idea that in some states they are classified as “vermin.” In Texas, for example, cougars of any age can be killed in any way at any time of year, with guns, bows and arrows, and from cars. They can be trapped and poisoned—even tiny kittens. I didn’t know that in many states it costs only $30, and sometimes less, to buy a license to kill a cougar; that annual quotas can be suddenly increased (in one instance from two to twenty) by Fish and Wildlife authorities, even when there has been no sound research behind such a decision.
And even when there are regulations, they can be difficult to enforce. Tom explained that in Wyoming it is illegal to kill a female with cubs at her side, or cubs younger than one year, even during the six-month hunting season. But there is a 75 percent chance that a female will have cubs during the hunting season, and cubs will rarely travel with their mother, especially if they are less than four months old. If their mother is shot, her kittens may die and, as a result, the hunter has, perhaps unknowingly, violated the law. As we have seen, even an outfitter who should have known better couldn’t tell the difference between a male and a female cougar.
Only in California is there a ban on hunting mountain lions, thanks initially to the efforts of Margaret Owings. I knew her well, and she asked me to write a letter in support of mountain lion protection—which I was, of course, delighted to do. But although her efforts were successful, a property owner only needs to complain that a mountain lion has become a “nuisance” and he or she is usually able to get permission to kill it. And such complaints become ever more common as more and more people crowd into California, many of them anxious to avoid the fumes and bustle of city life, seeking to establish a closer connection to nature, seeking permission to build their houses ever deeper into the last remaining wildlife habitats. No wonder encounters with cougars are becoming ever more frequent as human beings invade their land. And only too often the human interlopers seek not to establish a connection with a cougar who lives nearby, where he has always lived, but to dispose of it for fear that the animal might harm them or their children or their pets. All too often, the cougar will be shot.
Yet across America there have been very few recorded instances of cougar attacks on humans. Prior to 1992, there were only ten. And even though the number of conflicts has risen in recent years (seven between 1992 and 2002) as people move further into cougar country, domestic dogs are still responsible for many more attacks. (People driving cars kill hundreds more people than do cougars—or any wild animal!) It has always seemed to me that if we choose to move into the territory of cougars—or bears or any other wild animals—we should learn to live with them and be prepared, like Marc and many of the people featured in this book, to come to terms with the possibility of meeting a cougar on a hike. Learn how to behave, carry a can of bear spray in case of an emergency. And keep in mind that there is less chance of a cougar (or bear or bison or any other large wild animal) attacking us in the wilderness than there is of being run down by a car, or mugged in a city.
Some people understand. Last year I visited Charlie Knowles in his house, which is surrounded by wilderness. He told me how he had come down early one morning and seen his cat staring fixedly through the glass in the living room into the backyard. She was almost touching the glass with her nose. He kept still and followed her gaze. And there, sitting just outside the door and gazing with equal fascination, it seemed, at the cat, was a magnificent young mountain lion. For a moment the tableau held, and then the cougar, sensing his presence perhaps, turned and vanished into the dawn. Charlie would never dream of harming his wild neighbors.
Soon after I became involved with The Cougar Fund, we convened an exciting gathering of cougar people from various organizations and different parts of the country to discuss ways of collaboration that would benefit mountain lions as well as all our organizations. It was good to see so much passion and meet some of the people who are working so hard to protect the big cats. The Cougar Fund works in cooperation with the Jane Goodall Institute’s environmental and humanitarian youth program, Roots & Shoots. In this way we are helping spread educational material to our members and teaching young people about cougars and their behavior and the desperate need to help them. I hope that this book, with its sometimes tragic, sometimes moving accounts of people and cougars, will go a long way to helping people understand what is really going on and how desperately the cougars, and those championing them, need all our help today.
I am writing this introduction on New Year’s Eve, 2006. On the wall opposite me is one of my favorite photos, taken by Tom, of Spirit and her three kittens. A devoted mother struggling to raise her young in a dangerous world. And all the wide-eyed expectations of the young ones, playful and quite unprepared for the harsh, human-dominated world into which their mother must, perforce, lead them. I wonder, as Tom and Cara and I have so often wondered, if any of those four vital cougar beings are still living. I picked up the phone and dialed Tom’s number. And what an extraordinary coincidence. He is, as I write, sitting in his car with his camera lens trained onto a pair of ears. A female cougar with the silhouette of Jackson Hole buildings behind her in the darkening evening sky. The small group of people watching is keeping quiet about her presence—she is too close to town. In spite of some progress with the officials, we all still fear that the Wyoming Game and Fish will decide to have her shot, seeing her as a potential danger. In fact she is peacefully waiting for darkness to fall and then, Tom thinks, she will move silently back into the safer mountains.
New Year’s Eve is a time for memories, and I am in my room in the house in England where I grew up. Many of the books I read as a child are on the shelves—although not the one about the boy and the wild cougar. In my lifetime the world has changed so much. That lost book was written in a time when there were fewer people on the planet, more areas of wilderness, more hopeful opportunities for such jungle friendships. In the imagination of a child, anything is possible. Where adults so often see fear, children see the potential of adventure, as the boy did with the wild cougar. Perhaps by bridging these two worlds we can come to terms with how to coexist with this animal, for the cougar’s survival ultimately depends on our tolerance of it living among us.
Thankfully, there are still some wild places left. A few years ago, as I sat with a small group of young people, sharing stories around a log fire, a young man told me about a journey he had made in a small boat in an utterly remote part of Central America. One afternoon his guide left the main river and turned up a small tributary that flowed through dense forest. And suddenly there was a puma, crouched on the trunk of a tree that had fallen across the water, drinking. As the boat appeared, he raised his head and, quite calmly, looked at them, with the rays of the sun shining through the canopy and glinting on the drops of water that dripped from his chin. Then he stood and moved away, unafraid, into whatever the evening held for him.
—JANE GOODALL PH.D., DBE
FOUNDER OF THE JANE GOODALL INSTITUTE AND
UN MESSENGER OF PEACE