The Cougar Almanac [antikvár]

Preface Autumn had thrown its golden cloak over the land, and the earth lay hushed. The eerie howls of hounds pierced the icy air. After a one-hour dash through devil's club and over deadfalls they had finally treed their target. High above the hounds, draped like a plush rug over the twisted limbs of an elderly ponderosa pine, was a cougar. A half mile back, two of us scrambled over the thick brush. Biologist Mike Atkinson carried a large pack full of veterinary equipment. He looked like a doctor making an extremely distant house call. I stumbled behind, one hand clutching a notebook, the other my heart. I gotta get more exercise ran like a mantra through my mind. Finally, we reached the wind-whipped pine in which our prey was perched. The cougar felt secure in his tree and showed no fear. Cougars in similar situations—held at bay by curious humans below—have even fallen asleep. Mike studied the big cat through binoculars to estimate his weight and then fired a tranquilizer dart into his hip. The cougar hissed at this gross invasion of his privacy, then slowly nodded off. Donning climbing gear, Mike clambered up the tree and gently pulled the cat to earth. A half-dozen measurements were quickly taken: total length: 6'3" height to shoulder: 26" tail length: 2'4" weight: 84 lbs.