6:45 a.m., dawn: It sounded like a gas well decompressing, three loud “pssts,” with conviction and presence. I thought it was a bear, as I have heard many of them before. I couldn’t see what was ahead because of the overgrown scrub oak. It was a heavy winter, so it was like a jungle up on the disc golf course south of the college. As I turned the corner, a view opened up to a strolling mountain lion, 8 to 10 feet long and 4 feet tall. His or her muscles rippled in the morning dawn as my nerves gave the opposite reaction.

I made myself tall, using my hands above me, threw rocks in its general direction (I didn’t want to hit it for fear of really starting a bad first impression) and banged logs to scare it away. It looked at me with a cold, intense stare, as if saying, “I’m the apex predator here, bud. I would have killed you by now if I wanted to.”

I thought, “Wow! That was cool! My first mountain lion sighting in 30 years of living in Southwest Colorado.”

Temporary relief!

Then another, smaller lion proceeded to saunter perpendicular to my path. Now it was getting scary.

I waited for it to cross and quickly walked toward home, looking over my shoulder and at the ground for some large football-size rocks to use as weapons.

I think they were on a training mission, the mom and cub, as there are a lot of deer up there. They were clocking out as I was starting my day on my usual hike on the mesa. That was my first, and hopefully, last mountain lion sighting – surreal, beautiful and extremely scary.

Paul Pennington

Durango