A brush with the mountain devil

“Now, you watch out for that cougar,” I was told.

Normally such words make you stop and reconsider a placid walk in the woods. Not then, though.

We’re up in Michigan now, at the cottage. Last night, I took the dogs for a walk along their favorite road. It’s a tree-canopied, isolated stretch of dense woods impassable during winter. But during summer, it’s a dog’s delight.

The cougar warning actually was made a few years back, as a send-off to the same walk with the same dogs along the same stretch.

That day’s walk could have ended so badly. It didn’t, which is testimony to luck, patience and the mysteries of a dog’s instinct.

First, the road. It’s single-lane and sand-covered, enveloped by tall, thinnish trees of towering green leaves and needles. The woods on either side are so tight-knit, the sun’s rays barely slip through. When they do, they project stark, spotty shadow puppets on the road, tree trunks and thickly-carpeted ground.

The road connects two county highways. Locals use it as a shortcut, though rarely.

The dogs – Linus and Riley – love it because of the freedom they have to run, plus the earthy smells of decaying wood, wet leaves and, probably, animals that foraged nearby.

On the day of my cougar warning, the three of us set out for a quick walk. We were to head back to Kansas City within hours, so this was the last chance to enjoy the road before a long trip in the car.

All along the lake, word of the cougar sighting had spread. Our neighbor to the west, whose cabin sits hard by the forest, thought he’d heard its fierce growl. (The sound of a cougar is indeed frightening. Try it.) Others heard of others who had heard of others who had actually seen it.

“Cougar!” Also known as the puma, mountain lion, mountain devil, the red tiger.

It wasn’t quite cougar-frenzy along the lake, but it was close. After all, we’re used to more docile wildlife up here – deer, the frisky beaver, occasional ducks, garbage-loving raccoons. Perhaps the geese are the most aggressive, but only if the dogs taunt them first.

A cougar, though – why, that’s serious stuff. Stealthy, strong, fast, with big teeth and sleek eyes … a capable and deadly hunter.

With that context, we began our walk. The dogs lept out of the car and raced up the road. I followed along.

Here I need tell of the two dogs’ different natures. Linus, the terrier mix, is small, quick, feigns to be fearless and is always on the hunt. On our walks, he immediately jumps off the road into the dense woods, occasionally popping out to look back to make sure I’m still in sight.

Riley, the Golden Retriever, sticks to the road. She races ahead about 50 feet, turns around, and races back to my side. Then does it again … and again. Rarely does she venture into the growth, and usually then only behind Linus.

All seemed fine this time. I was walking fast for exercise, though I was alert because of the alleged cougar sighting. Indeed, the road seemed more threatening this time – like I was Dorothy with my dogs Toto. “Lions, tigers, bears … ”

Oh my!

“Where’s Linus?” I asked Riley, who had just bounded back, sloppy tongue flopping about. I realized I hadn’t seen Linus the last three minutes or so.

I looked south, to where we were going, then north, to where we’d been. No sign of him. I listened hard, over Riley’s panting, for some snatch of Linus rustling through leaves.

Silence.

“Liiinuss!” I yelled. The forest soaked up the sound. I yelled again – this time, more urgently: “Linus … come here, now!!”

Nothing. No movement, no rustling … nothing.

Riley began to whine, sharing my concern. And I began to panic.

The cougar! I could imagine it had swiftly moved behind the woods’ shadows, following our trek south step by step. It would be silent … that’s its nature. And it would size up the dinner opportunities:

• The noisy man, arms flailing as he walked. "No, the meat would be too tough and gamey."
• The red dog, then? "No, it’s big and might put up a fight." (If the cougar only knew …)
• So the small dog? "Yes. He's only bite-size, but the convenience … he will come to me."

That was it, I thought. The cougar had Linus.

Okay, even at best, Linus was merely lost. But that was a huge problem. I had no cell phone. I couldn’t leave to get help. Linus might return, find me gone, then race through the woods in search of the cottage a mile away.

Plus we needed to head home. How could we get in the car without Linus and drive 16 hours to Kansas City knowing he might be wandering the Michigan northwoods alone? If the cougar hadn’t gotten him now, it surely would then. Imagine the torture of that trip …

I yelled some more … on and on for 15 minutes at least. I strained my ears over Riley’s whining in hopes of hearing twigs snap or the shuffle of leaves.

My despair grew by the second.

Then behind me – small, short, rapid-fire panting. I turned. There, looking up with wide, panicked eyes was Linus, clearly out of sorts.

“Linus!!,” I yelled, my voice a mix of anger and relief. “Where have you been?!!” My shouts compounded his panic. He knew he screwed up, big time. He looked frazzled, exhausted, now confused by my outburst.

Where he’d been is still a mystery. My guess is he did indeed get lost. Perhaps he picked up an animal scent, bounded ever-deeper in the woods, then suddenly found he couldn’t see his way out.

I suspect my yelling brought him home.

Of course, he might have encountered the cougar, and in a show of fierce bravery and loyalty, somehow convinced the cat to shop for dinner elsewhere.

I’d like to believe that. But I don’t think so. Because ever since that walk, Linus sticks closer to me. He ventures into the woods, yes, but perhaps 10 feet or so and no more. That was the case last night.

A true cougar-slayer, like a good scout, would fearlessly guard our flank along the cougar’s path, which we know is deep and beyond sight.

No, I think instead that Linus realized his limits that day.

I’m okay with that.

Linus is, too.

(To see more photos of the road, click here.)