Sliverslinger
FNG
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2016
- Messages
- 30
The Savor of Success
___________________________
“Click…” the soft metallic sound of the safety disengaging was deafening. The lion instantly froze broadside, turned his head with a hint of anger, and looked right into my soul for a split second from 5 yards away. Time slowed to nothing. He knew… I knew…
——————
Success tastes best when it has marinated in failure… when the oil of doubts and the crushed seeds of multiple defeats are rubbed into an endeavor for a long enough period of time, there is a particular savor in the soul when success is finally realized.
I specifically set out to hunt mountain lions four years ago. No dogs, no baits, no lucky spot and stalks. I wasn’t looking for a chance encounter. I was seeking a particular experience, I wanted to intentionally call one in. I wanted to match wits with a cat and outhunt the ultimate hunter.
I’ve come close many times, had some too close for comfort calls, and I’ve written prior stories about those failures. I called a cougar in to 20 yards and had no idea it was right in front of me until I flinched in a moment of panic. Last year a cat decimated my game call 11 yards in front of me. I could have shot him, but hesitated because I wanted a perfect shot instead of the good shot it presented. I’ve had calling sequences where I thought nothing came in, only for the snow to reveal a lion had circled and had been watching without me knowing. I’ve tracked them for miles in the snow, and been tracked by them more than a few times, only to find out after crossing my own tracks. Over and over again I’ve tried and every time resulted in lessons learned.
I got a tip from a friend of a recent cougar caught on a game cam overnight. I had use it or lose it vacation time and took the following day off.
“Today just might be the day babe!” I said confidently to Lauren as I gathered my gear while she sipped her coffee. “I’m gonna go find that cat. If I don’t find him this morning, I’m going to call him in this afternoon. It’s going to happen.”
The rain was pouring and the winds were whistling angrily through the limbs as I crept slowly through the big timber. No point in calling yet, but I knew that cat was there somewhere and the crackling tension was palpable. From one massive fir and cedar tree to another for several hours, I snuck along glassing the bases and looking up into the thick branches hoping to see the flick of a tail or a pair of dark eyes looking down on me. Nothing.
The usual feelings of doubt rolled in like a fog as my determination waned. It was 1 pm and I was soaked to the bone. I strongly contemplated going home, changing into dry clothes, and relaxing on the couch.
45 minutes and a half mile later the battle between will and laziness waged on as I set up my call.
“This is never going to work!”
“It’s worked before.”
“It’s pouring rain.”
“The rain doesn’t bother them.”
“Sure is bothering me.”
“What kind of pansy thoughts are those?”
“There’s no good angle to set up.”
“Then shoot him in your lap.”
“He could be anywhere… there’s miles of timber.”
“Or… he could be right here.”
“This isn’t going to work…”
“You won’t know if you don’t try.”
I settled in as the dying rabbit squeals filled the air, swallowed by the drum of rain drops ricocheting off of leaves and limbs.
20 minutes in and nothing... I was already bored, but committed to staying disciplined and finishing the stand. I switched to a lion caterwaul sound off and on for another 10-15 minutes… the growls and shrieks echoed around and were swallowed by the trees. And then a creepy scene out of a suspenseful movie slowly began to unfold. A few crows began cawing a couple hundred yards away. Soon more joined in, and then still more. Within a few minutes dozens of crows were going absolutely bezerk, circling and bombing down through the alder trees going in every which direction, cawing at a feverish pitch. A few blue jays began firing off over and over again. Up high above all of them a raven circled, croaking his call to join the chorus of the birds… I didn’t recall hearing a single bird all day until then. Chills ran down my spine and not from the small river flowing down from my neck. I’ve never experienced anything like it, but I was unnerved to the core. The frenzied fray of the birds crescendoed and then rapidly faded to a complete silence, interrupted only by the steady plodding of rain drops on the ferns. The hair on the back of my neck was at full attention, and I felt like microsparks were jumping from follicle to follicle as my heart attempted to escape from my ribcage or out my throat.
“What the heck was that all about!?”
I eventually turned off the sounds of a begging lion and switched to an occasional whistle only. If you’ve never heard a lion whistle, you would think it sounds like a wheezy bird chirp. Several more minutes went by as I scanned every bush, overhanging limb, shrub, and tree I could see… nothing. After a few more minutes, over the pouring rain I thought I heard the faintest whistle back. Probably my mind playing tricks on me or more likely a bird. A couple more whistles from me over several minutes and then a long pause. Was that a whistle I just heard? No, wishful thinking again.
I checked the time thinking that if something were going to show up, it would have done so by now. “I’ll give it 10 more minutes.”
I slowly scanned side to side over the bushes in front of me through the scope of my rifle, which rested on the tripod between my legs. “There’s nothing there,” I growled inside my head. Frustration was mounting once again. Another complete and utter waste of time and another failure for the books.
After a few more minutes, I decided it was time to pack up. I was slowly leaning forward and gripping the rifle to remove it from the tripod when I caught movement through the bush and between two small trees directly to my right. Above the top of the bush at 3 yds, I spotted the black and white tips of two ears moving right to left so close I could have taken a step, leaned forward, and smacked them with the end of my rifle.
It happened so fast I didn’t even register what is was until it cleared the bush. Time froze as a nose and whiskers emerged, follow by the long tan body and fat tail hung low, but curled slightly up at the end. He was walking across 12 feet in front of me heading to my left and had no idea I was there.
There was no conscious choice or thought, just the instinct from decades of hunting and mentally replaying failures and their lessons learned over and over and over again. I bit my lip as I swung the rifle over a few inches to the left slowly, the barrel coming up behind him. Within a split second frozen in eternity, the rifle butt found my shoulder, my thumb put pressure up against the ridges on the safety lever, and my finger slid up against the cold, smooth trigger. My eye found the reticle overlayed on the side of the lion’s head just below the ear and then on his shoulder as he walked past.
“Click…” the soft, metallic sound of the safety disengaging was deafening.
The lion instantly froze broadside, turned his head with a hint of anger, and looked right into my soul for a split second from 5 yards away. Time slowed to nothing. He knew… I knew.
Twisted Sister roared and a trap door fell out from under him. He died instantly right in front of me without taking a single step.
I took in the moment while slowly chambering another round just in case. It happened so fast the adrenaline hadn’t yet set in, but it was coming like a flash flood. I started stammering to no one but the trees, my excitement and volume growing by the second…
“I did it…”
“I finally did it…”
“Four years… it finally happened...”
“I did it!”
“I $&@& did it!”
“I finally $&@& did it!!!”
“Yes!!!” I bellowed for all the landscape to hear. “Yes! YES! YES! YYYEEESSSS!!!”
I got up and took the 5 steps over to him and just stood there shaking, staring, stammering, incredulous. I unloaded my rifle and set it down before taking a knee and running my hands down his back, brushing the hair down. I felt his head and ears and ran my hands along his incredibly thick and muscular tail. I pressed on his front paws to expose the wickedly sharp claws and pushed them against my fingers. I had no idea they were that truly razor like. I pulled his upper lip back exposing the dagger-like canines. He was a beast, perfectly crafted for one thing only… a natural born killer. The perfect hunter… and I hunted him. I slowly patted his side, “Rest easy, friend.”
Four years ago I set a goal and after four years of effort, a lot of close calls, and a lot of lessons learned, I have finally succeeded… and it tastes so good. Perhaps only to be beaten by the cougar steaks themselves that will be on the smoker in a few days. Success tastes good indeed.
___________________________
“Click…” the soft metallic sound of the safety disengaging was deafening. The lion instantly froze broadside, turned his head with a hint of anger, and looked right into my soul for a split second from 5 yards away. Time slowed to nothing. He knew… I knew…
——————
Success tastes best when it has marinated in failure… when the oil of doubts and the crushed seeds of multiple defeats are rubbed into an endeavor for a long enough period of time, there is a particular savor in the soul when success is finally realized.
I specifically set out to hunt mountain lions four years ago. No dogs, no baits, no lucky spot and stalks. I wasn’t looking for a chance encounter. I was seeking a particular experience, I wanted to intentionally call one in. I wanted to match wits with a cat and outhunt the ultimate hunter.
I’ve come close many times, had some too close for comfort calls, and I’ve written prior stories about those failures. I called a cougar in to 20 yards and had no idea it was right in front of me until I flinched in a moment of panic. Last year a cat decimated my game call 11 yards in front of me. I could have shot him, but hesitated because I wanted a perfect shot instead of the good shot it presented. I’ve had calling sequences where I thought nothing came in, only for the snow to reveal a lion had circled and had been watching without me knowing. I’ve tracked them for miles in the snow, and been tracked by them more than a few times, only to find out after crossing my own tracks. Over and over again I’ve tried and every time resulted in lessons learned.
I got a tip from a friend of a recent cougar caught on a game cam overnight. I had use it or lose it vacation time and took the following day off.
“Today just might be the day babe!” I said confidently to Lauren as I gathered my gear while she sipped her coffee. “I’m gonna go find that cat. If I don’t find him this morning, I’m going to call him in this afternoon. It’s going to happen.”
The rain was pouring and the winds were whistling angrily through the limbs as I crept slowly through the big timber. No point in calling yet, but I knew that cat was there somewhere and the crackling tension was palpable. From one massive fir and cedar tree to another for several hours, I snuck along glassing the bases and looking up into the thick branches hoping to see the flick of a tail or a pair of dark eyes looking down on me. Nothing.
The usual feelings of doubt rolled in like a fog as my determination waned. It was 1 pm and I was soaked to the bone. I strongly contemplated going home, changing into dry clothes, and relaxing on the couch.
45 minutes and a half mile later the battle between will and laziness waged on as I set up my call.
“This is never going to work!”
“It’s worked before.”
“It’s pouring rain.”
“The rain doesn’t bother them.”
“Sure is bothering me.”
“What kind of pansy thoughts are those?”
“There’s no good angle to set up.”
“Then shoot him in your lap.”
“He could be anywhere… there’s miles of timber.”
“Or… he could be right here.”
“This isn’t going to work…”
“You won’t know if you don’t try.”
I settled in as the dying rabbit squeals filled the air, swallowed by the drum of rain drops ricocheting off of leaves and limbs.
20 minutes in and nothing... I was already bored, but committed to staying disciplined and finishing the stand. I switched to a lion caterwaul sound off and on for another 10-15 minutes… the growls and shrieks echoed around and were swallowed by the trees. And then a creepy scene out of a suspenseful movie slowly began to unfold. A few crows began cawing a couple hundred yards away. Soon more joined in, and then still more. Within a few minutes dozens of crows were going absolutely bezerk, circling and bombing down through the alder trees going in every which direction, cawing at a feverish pitch. A few blue jays began firing off over and over again. Up high above all of them a raven circled, croaking his call to join the chorus of the birds… I didn’t recall hearing a single bird all day until then. Chills ran down my spine and not from the small river flowing down from my neck. I’ve never experienced anything like it, but I was unnerved to the core. The frenzied fray of the birds crescendoed and then rapidly faded to a complete silence, interrupted only by the steady plodding of rain drops on the ferns. The hair on the back of my neck was at full attention, and I felt like microsparks were jumping from follicle to follicle as my heart attempted to escape from my ribcage or out my throat.
“What the heck was that all about!?”
I eventually turned off the sounds of a begging lion and switched to an occasional whistle only. If you’ve never heard a lion whistle, you would think it sounds like a wheezy bird chirp. Several more minutes went by as I scanned every bush, overhanging limb, shrub, and tree I could see… nothing. After a few more minutes, over the pouring rain I thought I heard the faintest whistle back. Probably my mind playing tricks on me or more likely a bird. A couple more whistles from me over several minutes and then a long pause. Was that a whistle I just heard? No, wishful thinking again.
I checked the time thinking that if something were going to show up, it would have done so by now. “I’ll give it 10 more minutes.”
I slowly scanned side to side over the bushes in front of me through the scope of my rifle, which rested on the tripod between my legs. “There’s nothing there,” I growled inside my head. Frustration was mounting once again. Another complete and utter waste of time and another failure for the books.
After a few more minutes, I decided it was time to pack up. I was slowly leaning forward and gripping the rifle to remove it from the tripod when I caught movement through the bush and between two small trees directly to my right. Above the top of the bush at 3 yds, I spotted the black and white tips of two ears moving right to left so close I could have taken a step, leaned forward, and smacked them with the end of my rifle.
It happened so fast I didn’t even register what is was until it cleared the bush. Time froze as a nose and whiskers emerged, follow by the long tan body and fat tail hung low, but curled slightly up at the end. He was walking across 12 feet in front of me heading to my left and had no idea I was there.
There was no conscious choice or thought, just the instinct from decades of hunting and mentally replaying failures and their lessons learned over and over and over again. I bit my lip as I swung the rifle over a few inches to the left slowly, the barrel coming up behind him. Within a split second frozen in eternity, the rifle butt found my shoulder, my thumb put pressure up against the ridges on the safety lever, and my finger slid up against the cold, smooth trigger. My eye found the reticle overlayed on the side of the lion’s head just below the ear and then on his shoulder as he walked past.
“Click…” the soft, metallic sound of the safety disengaging was deafening.
The lion instantly froze broadside, turned his head with a hint of anger, and looked right into my soul for a split second from 5 yards away. Time slowed to nothing. He knew… I knew.
Twisted Sister roared and a trap door fell out from under him. He died instantly right in front of me without taking a single step.
I took in the moment while slowly chambering another round just in case. It happened so fast the adrenaline hadn’t yet set in, but it was coming like a flash flood. I started stammering to no one but the trees, my excitement and volume growing by the second…
“I did it…”
“I finally did it…”
“Four years… it finally happened...”
“I did it!”
“I $&@& did it!”
“I finally $&@& did it!!!”
“Yes!!!” I bellowed for all the landscape to hear. “Yes! YES! YES! YYYEEESSSS!!!”
I got up and took the 5 steps over to him and just stood there shaking, staring, stammering, incredulous. I unloaded my rifle and set it down before taking a knee and running my hands down his back, brushing the hair down. I felt his head and ears and ran my hands along his incredibly thick and muscular tail. I pressed on his front paws to expose the wickedly sharp claws and pushed them against my fingers. I had no idea they were that truly razor like. I pulled his upper lip back exposing the dagger-like canines. He was a beast, perfectly crafted for one thing only… a natural born killer. The perfect hunter… and I hunted him. I slowly patted his side, “Rest easy, friend.”
Four years ago I set a goal and after four years of effort, a lot of close calls, and a lot of lessons learned, I have finally succeeded… and it tastes so good. Perhaps only to be beaten by the cougar steaks themselves that will be on the smoker in a few days. Success tastes good indeed.
