By Jessianne Castle EBS ENVIRONMENTAL & OUTDOORS EDITOR
Night still cloaked the snowy earth when my husband and I
strode through the door, our two dogs eagerly following behind. Outside, they
wiggled and pranced in the snow, tails whirling as they waited to be loaded in
the truck. Rooster, our three-year-old male, bound from door to door, his
energy and enthusiasm instinctively causing my fingers to grip harder around my
coffee mug as I reminded myself it wasn’t yet 6 a.m.
When we reached the canyon, my husband, Ryan, slowed the
truck and we began to scan the fluffy blanket of snow. Our truck made first
tracks on the road so looking was easy. It was obvious when we spotted a swath
of dimples cutting across the road who’d been in the canyon: a mother mountain
lion and her cubs, probably closing in on two years old—nearly old enough to
venture out on their own.
We dropped the dogs and watched their transformation from
floppy-eared clowns to austere professionals begin. Without even directing
them, the two dogs bee-lined for the tracks. Rooster glanced his nose over the
snow, moving back and forth over the tracks before picking a direction and
heading out. Bay followed swiftly behind.
Now there are a couple things you need to know: When I first
heard of chasing mountain lions with dogs, it threw up a few barriers my head.
Things like sportsmanship and animal harassment really bothered me. But I
talked to houndsmen, I interviewed biologists, I read the studies. Like all
things, there are good ways of doing things and bad ways of doing things, and
sour apples ruin the barrel.
Also worth mentioning, while most houndsmen—the people who
have dogs and pursue mountain lions—might go out and tree cats all season long,
most only kill a couple cats in their entire lifetime. My husband, the original
houndsman in our family, has only shot one. I haven’t killed any.
People call it many things—hunting mountain lions, running
dogs, chasing cats, hound hunting—but at its simplest, the activity we were
engaged in involved finding a mountain lion track, letting our dogs track it,
locating the mountain lion, and praising the dogs. For the majority of the
time, the cat is hours ahead of us, laid up on a cliff after a night on the
hunt or perhaps prowling unsuspectingly in the still early hours of morn. When
the dogs do catch up with it—as I’ve been lucky enough to observe twice—the
lion quickly darts into a tree. After that, we usually take a photograph, pet
the dogs and leave.
So why the heck do it? Well, why do you hike? Why bother
catch-and-release fishing? Why camp?
For me, hound hunting is a way to experience the wild world.
We go places I wouldn’t otherwise have ever been; we see things in the
wintertime I wouldn’t have ever imagined. These experiences define who I am,
not only as a Montanan, but also as a conservationist and a very human being.
It’s all enabled through a deep bond I share with our dogs.
We got Rooster at six weeks old and a day later Ryan left for four months of
remote work. Rooster kept the house alive with energy as he explored our little
world. I taught him how to sit, come, stay. We played fetch and tug. When he
was six months old, about the time Ryan got home, we introduced him to
tracking, following mountain lion or bobcat scent with his trusted best friend,
and experienced tracker, Bay, whom Ryan had started as a puppy as well.
Three seasons later, he’s shaping up to be a good dog but
the training isn’t over. Rooster knows that he only gets rewarded for tracking
bobcat, mountain lion or raccoon scent. He knows that he’s only supposed to
locate the animal—never engage with it. He’s learning how to track in an array
of conditions. And practice, my friends, makes perfect.
Back on the track, for a time, we observed how the dogs
alternated leading the track, moving quickly, deliberately and always further
forward. When they ducked into the trees, we quieted our breaths and waited.
Our dogs have always been quiet at the start of a mountain
lion race. Where other houndsmen elate at their dog’s bark every stride, Ryan
and I wait in silence until that moment when our dogs erupt into a chorus—it
only happens when they reach really fresh tracks, the ones the cat leaves after
knowing the dogs are close, just before it climbs into a tree.
Rooster and Bay pushed up a steep and rocky canyon wall,
bolting over snow-covered shale slides. When Rooster called in his breathy
moan, we knew what was about to happen and by a stroke of luck we could
see him sidehill over shale toward the top of the canyon wall. Ever the speed
demon, Rooster ate up the terrain, with Bay bringing up the rear, her choppy
bark swallowed by Rooster’s long howls.
When their tones changed, we hurried our steps and climbed
the mountain to the tree.
