COMMENTARY : Memorable Encounter on a Hillside Trail

I am troubled by recent news media coverage of a mountain lion in the Altadena area. On Aug. 27, I encountered what was most likely the same lion while hiking in the San Gabriel Mountains just north of Altadena. The encounter was both exhilarating and profound. However, my wife and I, expecting hysterical reactions, kept silent other than to report it to the Forest Service, some conservation organizations and a few friends. I offer it now to provide some context within which the other incidents can be interpreted.

I was hiking alone on the Sam Merrill trail that Thursday evening to unwind from work. It was about 7 p.m. and the sun was getting low on the horizon. The trail is cut into a steep hillside and undulates in and out as it passes through many small ravines. I had just rounded a corner when a large animal came sliding down the rock face with a clatter of pebbles. I thought I had jumped a deer until I saw the long tail. I was shocked and said aloud, “It’s a mountain lion. You guys aren’t supposed to be around here; you’re rare.”

The lion ran up the trail and stopped, looking back at me. The trail made a shallow U through the ravine, with the lion and me about 80 feet apart on opposite sides of the U. Everything I had heard about mountain lions said they are very shy. I fully expected the lion to disappear back into the chaparral in seconds.

The lion, however, continued looking at me and at birds and at lizards scurrying about. I continued to quietly talk to it, mostly babbling about my amazement. After a couple of minutes, the lion sat down on its haunches. A few more minutes and it lay down pointed in the up-trail direction, looking over its shoulder at me. I sat down too. The lion panted a bit and then lay still with a tip of pink tongue sticking out. I think it was a female, just approaching maturity. I was struck by the very reddish color of the back fur fading to dusty brown underneath. Her face had the distinctive white and black marks, and the tail a black tip. I would guess she was the size of a fairly large dog.

We spent nearly 10 minutes just sitting like this: the lion snapping at flies, trying to bite them out of the air, me talking away and even literally purring at her (I purr to our pet cat). The air was fairly clear. What smog there was was away from the mountains, down in the San Gabriel Valley. I kept looking from my right shoulder, where I could see the lion, then ahead of me where the sun was sinking and the buildings of downtown L.A. were clearly visible. The situation seemed so incongruous.

Once when I looked back toward the lion, she had gotten up and was walking down the trail toward me. It was a sleek, lazy walk that seemed to be eating up the distance between us at an alarming rate. I stood up. Perhaps she intended to climb the rocky face she had originally slid down. I backed up to give her room since I had been sitting near there.

When she continued past the rock face, I tried clapping my hands loudly and shouting “No!” She didn’t even blink. By now I was backing down the trail again. I picked up an egg-sized rock and lobbed it a couple of feet in front of her nose. This made her hesitate a moment. I didn’t hit her with the rock since I wished neither to hurt nor to anger her.

By this time I had backed around the corner so the lion was out of sight. I busily picked up more and bigger rocks. When she appeared around the corner, my stomach sank. I started considering how I was all alone on the trail, with the sun disappearing and a mountain lion following me for purposes unknown. Intellectually, I knew she was not showing any threatening body language: ears not laid back, no snarl, no teeth showing, no stalking crouch. My more primitive self was, however, afraid to have a large predator so close.

She closed to within 16 feet of me, easily within attacking distance. I bowled rocks up the trail at her feet, while backing down the trail and scooping up more rocks. We proceeded like this for several hundred feet, going around four or five rock corners. When she did not appear around the last corner, I turned and walked swiftly down the trail, still carrying a large rock in each hand.

After walking a half-mile and meeting other hikers, my composure began to return, and I dropped the rocks. The first hiker--either not concerned or not believing my lion story--continued up the trail. The second hiker decided to turn back. As we talked on the way down, I became convinced that the lion had approached me simply out of curiosity. Given ample opportunity to attack, she had merely observed me with alert interest.

My wife was extremely disappointed to have missed experiencing the lion with me. We returned the following evening and many evenings since--armed with a camera, hoping for another sighting. So far, we’ve seen nothing but a few tracks in the dust.

It is newsworthy when mountain lions show up where they have not been seen in recent memory. But, anyone who steps off our concrete trails should be prepared to accept nature’s surprises as they come.