Landmine

This article was first published September 26, 2024, at fieldethos.com.

Fleeting glimpses of long-tailed cats crossing country roads. Childlike screams echoing through dark timber. Rumors and whispers and nothing more. That’s what most folks believed, anyway. But it was hard to argue against the track I was looking at. Set deep into the damp earth. Bigger around than the palm of my hand. And not even a hint of a nail print. There was a mountain lion in these parts, alright, and by the look of its track, it was a big one.

The old man that owned the place I was on claimed to have seen a mountain lion once when he was deer hunting. He said he’d caught the cat walking a tree line early one morning and noted that, from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail, its length spanned the gap between the trunks of two pin oaks. An hour after the mountain lion moved off, the old man climbed down from his stand and measured the distance between the trees. He claimed it was better than eight feet.

I couldn’t get that story out of my head as I made my way back to the truck that afternoon, and it was in the back of my mind every time I sat down that spring to call turkeys. I’d forgotten all about it, though, by the time Oklahoma’s fall turkey season rolled around. I was hunting longbeards with a rifle in early November when I spotted a whitetail walking my way. The wind was in my favor, so I just took a knee and watched him come. The little buck was easing along the edge of a deep and rocky ravine, oblivious to my presence, when he suddenly snapped his head around to stare into the chasm. He stood there on high alert, every muscle taut, for what seemed like an eternity. Then he snorted, stomped his foot and sprang away like he was being chased by the devil himself.

Wondering what in the world had spooked the deer, I took a step towards the ravine. That’s when I remembered the mountain lion’s track I’d found earlier in the year. My muscles tensed up every bit as tight as the buck’s had, and my mind raced trying to calculate whether or not the .223 I was carrying was enough to put the big cat down. My next step was in the direction of the truck. And the third step I took fell on a landmine. 

If you’ve never had the pleasure of inadvertently flushing a covey of quail, allow me to describe the experience for you. You’re walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly the whole world turns inside out. It happens in the blink of an eye, in the space between one breath and the next. An explosion of whirring wings erupts from the sole of your boot and works its way up through your legs like electricity, knocking your knees and loosening your bowels, stunning and then stimulating your senses, until it finally pricks and paralyzes your heart. The clawed hand of the Grim Reaper reaches out and clutches at your courage, breaking you out in a cold sweat, even as your skin flushes hot. One minute, you’re soaking up nature’s serenity, and the next you’re soaking your pants leg with pee. 

Or so I’ve heard.

By the time my heart restarted, that covey of quail was winging its way into the next county. I eventually summoned just enough strength to tuck my tail between my legs and run for the truck. My childlike screams echoed through the dark timber, making me wonder whether or not there might be something to those rumors and whispers, after all.

So let me offer a word of advice. If you suspect a mountain lion has taken up residence in your neck of the woods, do everything in your power to prepare yourself for the possibility of setting your foot on a bobwhite landmine. Listen for whistles. Watch where you step. And for heaven’s sake, empty your bladder at the truck.