By Sheri Schofield
“What’s that?” I exclaimed, stopping suddenly in my tracks.
“I’m not sure,” Tim responded worriedly. “Christy! Christy!” he called to our teenage daughter who was ahead of us on the woodland trail. “Christy! Stop where you are and wait for us!”
“I’m already stopped, Dad,” she called. “What was that scream?”
“I think it may have been a mountain lion,” he shouted.
A blur of flying teenager whizzed past us heading back to the house.
“Let’s go,” Tim said, grabbing my hand and following Christy. “Next time we go for a hike, I think I’ll bring my rifle.”
“You don’t have a rifle, Tim,” I puffed, trying to keep up.
“Well, maybe I should get one.”
“Ha!” I scoffed. Tim? With a rifle? An anomaly in a state where most men hunt, Tim couldn’t bear to see animals hurt. Just the week before, Christy had invaded my kitchen after school with complaints about the drive home.
“Dad hit a squirrel,” she announced. “Then he stopped the car and ran back to try to help it. Fortunately, it died before he could give it mouth-to mouth. I was terrified that one of my friends might drive by and see!”
No, Mark wasn’t likely to buy a rifle. He’d never use it.
Living in a log home twenty miles from town is wonderful. But in Montana there are always certain dangers to rural living. Mountain lions on the prowl are one of them.
When I was a youngster, our family lived close to town, where the treat of mountain lions was not usually a problem. There was a time, though, when the threat of a mountain lion haunted our small community…
The town of St. Ellen lay sunning itself beneath the setting summer sun. Our town was a quaint little village with a few old-fashioned streetlights, white globes that beamed down at night on the lichen-covered rock walls separating the lawns from the sidewalks. Stone cottages set back from the thoroughfare nestled among the stately evergreens and oak trees. Many of the shops were also built of stone, but a fair number of older structures had false wood fronts and shaded boardwalks.
The road passed through St. Ellen, crossed a lazy river, and led the traveler upward into a deep shaded forest, then broke into the open once more near the top of the hill. There, nestled among the trees and wildflowers, was a small community known as the Hill of St. Ellen. Everyone knew everybody else on the Hill. I was born there, so I belonged.
The Hill was originally built as a place where folks with “nerves” could get away from the stress of life to a place of rest and healing for whatever ailed their tired souls and bodies. For the stressed ones, there was a lovely church from which chimes echoed on the evening air at the end of the day. For those who suffered physically, there were guest houses, mineral springs, and physical therapy available. A small store and post office combination with a barber shop next-door provided casual gathering places for the community. Local news was exchanged and embellished there daily. Below the store was the fire station with its one truck.
Our house clung to the slope below the central hub, which meant we were among the first to hear any spicy tidbits. Gran and Gramps lived on one side of us in an older wooden home. Uncle Amos and Aunt Eddie still lived at home with them.
Down the slope from our house lived Uncle Zack, Aunt Louis, and their three girls, Haley, Blossom, and Ivy. Their house was built of bricks.
(And no, our house was not built of straw!)
I was the oldest child in our family with two siblings, Doolie and Daisy. My cousin, Haley, was my age, and was the oldest of three at her house. Haley and I were inseparable.
We had just finished third grade and were enjoying our summer vacation, when peace on the Hill was shattered. One evening, as the crickets began their song and bats flew out of the caves on the mountain, Millie Jo, a nurse at the health center, was sitting on her porch with her friend Bea. Millie Jo was a plump, cheery girl with short, curly black hair and blue eyes that looked near-sightedly upon the world through thick glasses.
Bea, tall and thin, always agreed with whatever Millie Jo said, for unlike Bea, Millie Jo was always confident. “Millie Jo says…” peppered Bea’s conversations.
As the sun faded gently behind the mountains, the two young women sighed and started back indoors. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream froze them to the spot.
Millie Jo whipped around, staring intently toward the trees. “Look, Bea! A mountain lion!”
“A mountain lion? Here?”
“Yes! I saw it jump from that old ash tree! Didn’t you hear it scream?”
“I did!” said Bea. “Oh, how thrilling!”
The next afternoon, Mama brought the news home to our clan as we gathered at Gran’s and Gramp’s place.
“There’s a mountain lion on the Hill,” Mama said matter-of-factly, setting the groceries down on the table.
“Call the dogs,” Gramps ordered. He and the menfolk headed for the gun rack.
“Major! Hercules!” Gran called, sticking her head out the screen door.
Major, our big tawny dog, came running. Behind him trotted a rooster. Aunt Eddie had raised Hercules, a handsome Bantom, from a chick along with Major, so he thought he was a dog. He couldn’t exactly bark, but he could growl. We called him a dog to keep him happy. He and Major went everywhere together, and the other dogs on the Hill had learned to tolerate him. Major had insisted.
“Where did you see the mountain lion?” Gramps asked, loading his rifle.
“Oh, I didn’t see it,” Mama said. “Millie Jo saw it.”
“Millie Jo?” Gramps sat back down and began unloading the gun.
“Yes,” said Mama
The rest of the men put their rifles away.
“Millie Jo and Bea saw it yesterday evening. They heard this wild scream and saw the mountain lion’s shadow as it jumped out of that big oak tree behind their place.”
Uncle Amos shook his head in disgust. “It was probably that old tomcat that hangs around Claude’s place. It’s so big, I’ve thought it was a cocker spaniel at a distance.”
“Yeah,” Pa said. “Millie Jo’s imagination must’ve got the best of her.”
“Dr. Hayworth saw a mountain lion up at his place last winter,” Mama said. “I wouldn’t be so sure Millie just imagined it.”
On the floor around the corner, Haley, Doolie and I paused in our game of marbles to listen to the adults.
“I bet it really was a mountain lion,” Doolie said firmly.
Haley and I nodded in agreement.
“So what are we going to do about it?” Haley asked.
“I say we build a trap,” Doolie said. Just like the leopard trap in that John Wayne movie, Hatari.” At age six, Doolie was very much into the hunting and catching phase of his life. He practiced lassoing the rest of us when we least expected it.
We had all seen Hatari several times. Pa was the projectionist at the St. Ellen theater, and we had free passes.
The next day Haley, Doolie, Blossom, Daisy and I tromped around the forest trying to find the perfect spot for our trap. We didn’t bring Ivy along. She couldn’t keep a secret. Besides, she liked to bite.
“Look,” Doolie pointed. “That tree fell down and its roots are sticking up. We could use that for one side of the trap.”
“Good idea,” I said.
Doolie was our best trapper. He knew just what was needed. “Everyone pick up all the big sticks you can find and bring them here.”
In a very short time, we had put together a large pile of fallen tree limbs for Doolie to build into a trap. He went to work weaving sticks together and pounding others into the forest floor.
“If that ol’ lion walks inside, all the branches will fall on top of him and give him a ‘cussion,” he finally said with satisfaction.
“We need some kind of bait,” I said.
“In Hatari they used a chicken,” Haley said.
“What about Hercules?” Doolie asked.
Off we went in search of the chicken-dog. He was usually scratching for bugs in the forest behind Gran’s place.
“There he is,” Blossom hissed.
We spread out in a skirmish line.
“Okay, everybody…now just walk slow and pretend we’re going for a walk,” I said.
“Doolie took his shirt off and held it out to throw over the rooster.
“Here, chickie-chickie,” I crooned, trying to sound like Gran when she called to feed him.
Hercules looked up and cocked his head. It must have been our stealth that tipped him off because he started running toward the forest.
“Get him!” I shouted.
We charged the rooster, squealing with laughter, Doolie in the lead. Major ran up behind us, barking and wagging his tail wildly. We finally cornered Hercules. Doolie clamped his shirt over the angry bird, and we had our bait.
“Better take the forest path. If we cut through Gran’s place, somebody’s liable to see us,” Haley said.
“Aunt Eddie would make us let him go,” I agreed. “She’d think he’d get hurt. But I know Hercules. Any lion that gets caught in the same trap with him will be a mess by morning. Hercules is mean.”
The chicken-dog growled and struggled to get away. At the trap, Haley and I held Hercules still while Doolie tied the heavy anchoring string to the rooster’s foot.
“On the count of three, let him go into the trap and get out of here!” I told Haley. “Let Doolie close it up. One—two—three!”
We ducked out of the trap, barely making it to safety. Hercules nearly choked on his anger as he charged us, but the string yanked him up short. Major whined and looked anxiously at his pal.
“Come here, boy,” I said, patting the side of the fir tree away from the trap.
Major slinked over.
“Sit,” I ordered. I tied him to the tree with a short bit of rope. I didn’t want him triggering the trap.
He sat there whining.
“Stay,” I ordered.
“Lucy, can I set my bow an’ arrow up, too?” Doolie asked.
“Sure,” I said. It couldn’t hurt. It was just a toy set.
Doolie dashed back to the house and fetched his little bow and arrow set which he’d had since Christmas. He rigged it so a rubber-tipped arrow would fly into the trap when the lion activated the trigger. Don’t ask me to explain how he did it, but it worked.
Afterward, we all tromped back to our homes feeling like we had accomplished something awesome. As it turned out, we had, too.
That night as I was drifting off to sleep, the fire station sounded the alarm signal.
I jumped out of bed and ran to look out the living room window, hoping to see where the fire was, while Pa tromped across the porch and headed up the hill to find out what was happening and to see if he was needed to fight fire.
Nearly twenty minutes passed before Uncle Amos dashed down the path and knocked at our door. “Brother Jeremiah called for a search party. Pastor Miller is missing. He went for a walk in the forest, and Mrs. Miller thinks the mountain lion may have attacked him.”
“Oh, no!” Mama exclaimed.
“Can I borrow any flashlights you have? We’re going to spread out and search the forest.”
“Sure Amos. Come inside while I fetch them.” Mama pushed a chair over to the high cupboards, stepped up onto it, and pulled out three flashlights. “Will this be enough?”
“They’ll help.” Amos tucked two flashlights into his back pockets and turned the third on for his own use.
“Let me know when you find Pastor,” Mama said.
“Sure thing, Sis,” Then Amos was gone.
Poor Pastor Miller! I ran over to the big picture window overlooking the forest, praying fervently for his safe return. I liked Pastor Miller a lot. He was always kind.
“Pastor! Pastor Miller!” the men called in the forest. “Where are you?” Their voices echoed through the forest. Lights bobbed between the trees. The moon came out offering better light for the search.
“Did you check with the beekeeper?” someone called.
“Yes. He wasn’t there.”
“Has anyone checked the river?”
“Not yet.”
Not the river! I prayed harder.
It seemed like ages since the hunt had started. Finally, I heard a shout.
“Over here!”
The lights began bobbing in the direction of the forest near us.
“Here he is!” Pa’s voice called.
A few minutes later, the men came tromping into our house, supporting a dazed Pastor Miller.
Major slinked in behind Pa, his head held low and his tail jerking in guilty little wags.
“We found him in some brush just south of here,” said Mr. Stanley. “This was sticking up from his forehead.” He held out a little toy arrow.
“Uh-oh! I wonder what the penalty is for shooting the pastor.
“Here, John,” Papa said, helping Pastor Miller into a chair and looking suspiciously at the little arrow.
Mama fetched a cup of hot tea and held it up to Pastor’s trembling, blue lips. The tea seemed to help. After a couple sips, Pastor Miller revived a little and gasped, “M-m-m-mountain lion!”
“Mountain lion!” everyone began talking at once.
“So it’s true! Millie Jo did see a lion!”
Cupping the hot cup in his hands, Pastor Miller explained. “I was walking down the path, when I saw a rooster caught in a pile of brush. I crawled through it to free the poor thing, when I heard the mountain lion roar right behind me! I must have jumped up and dislodged the brush, because that’s the last think I remember until I heard the men shouting for me.”
Major slinked toward me and whine apologetically, trying to make his big, tawny body look small and inconspicuous.
Excitedly, the men began planning a hunting party. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t entirely our fault after all. Whew! It was the mountain lion’s fault! There for a minute, I was afraid that my ticket through the Pearly Gates had been cancelled permanently. That was a close one!
Millie Jo was given credit for being the first one to spot the mountain lion and sounding the alarm.
Pastor Miller thanked the good Lord for saving him from the mouth of the lion, like Daniel.
Hercules developed an intense allergy toward us children for a full week before his tiny brain forgot why he was avoiding us.
Haley and I decided that building mountain lion traps was extremely dangerous to our eternal destinies, and solemnly vowed to each other that we would have nothing more to do with Doolie’s traps.
Doolie, shaken by catching something as sacred as Pastor Miller, decided to restrict his future traps to small animals, like gophers.
When Doolie hit his teenage years and Pa wanted to take him hunting, Doolie just shook his head and refused to join the men.
The menfolk took it philosophically. “He’s a little strange,” Uncle Zack commented.
“Maybe he’ll grow out of it,” Pa said hopefully.
“It’s all those girls,” Gramp concluded. “They’re turning him into a sissy!”
Over the years, Doolie continued hunting small animals. He volunteered to help neighbors get rid of gophers, mice, and rats. He claimed to be “Montana’s First Small Game Hunter.”
Branching out, Doolie learned taxidermy. He skinned and stuffed the little creatures, even mounting their heads on miniature plaques. His living room wall was covered with tiny trophies, glaring ferociously at anyone who entered. Which could explain why Doolie was late in marrying. Oh yes, he was handsome, and he dated. But one look at Doolie’s living room walls, and those dates were history.
“Lose the trophies,” I told him several times.
But Doolie refused. “Waste not, want not,” he said. He decided to market his trophies. He owned a gas station along the main tourist artery. He found that people from other states would buy just about anything that would give them bragging rights back home.
While some stations collected elk manure and sold it as “Elk Seed” Grow your own elk,” Doolie cashed in on his knowledge of girls. Over the years, he’d seen his cousins and sisters collect Barbie dolls, Barbie houses, Barbie cars, and finally, Ken.
Now Ken was a man with whom Doolie could relate. Surrounded by women, poor Ken didn’t have a chance to express himself.
Doolie set up his collection of gopher, mole, rat and mice trophy heads at the gas station. Above them, he placed a sign:
Give Ken his own space: Decorate Ken’s den with trophies!”
Fathers who’d invested fortunes in Barbie accessories for their daughters responded with enthusiasm to the novelty.
“Hey! How much do you want for a trophy head? Only fifteen dollars? What a deal! I’ll take two—one for Ken and one for me. Ha! Can’t wait to show the girls.”
With silly grins on their faces, dads walk out to their cars. “Hey, look! See what I’ve bought for Ken’s den!” They open the sacks.
Screams lift the roof as the cars pull out of the service station, accompanied by dads’ wild laughter.
Montana’s First Small Game Hunter rings up the profit on his cash register and just grins.
