Running with Wolves. National Kids Geographic
tongue and teeth to expose the fresh meat for her kittens. Then she took a few bites and walked away.
This was the part of the lesson the kittens had to learn for themselves—how to actually eat prey.
They approached the deer steadily but cautiously. One batted it with his paw, perhaps testing if it was really dead. Another tugged at one of the deer’s large pointy ears. He kept gnawing on the tough leathery appetizer, ignoring for the moment the entrée his mother had prepared on the other side.
The kittens not only had to get used to solid food but also had to learn how to chew and swallow it without eating the fur. Now and then, a kitten gagged, opening his mouth wide and releasing a harsh Ack! from his little throat.
I couldn’t help but smile behind the camera. It was thrilling to capture this brief snippet of cougar life. It was one of many rare glimpses into the hidden world of this magnificent animal. I was documenting behavior that few if any humans had ever witnessed. Every moment was new and surprising…and priceless.
How was I able to get such intimate footage of an animal that was seldom seen in the wild, let alone filmed? Not by chasing after it, that’s for sure.
I had better methods in mind. And the lessons I learned from making my cougar film would prove to be invaluable, especially when I began studying wolves several years later.
The idea to focus on cougars came from Jamie. I was in Washington for meetings while finishing the beaver film. As usual, Jamie and I met for lunch while I was in town. I wanted my next project to be about a big cat—perhaps cheetahs in Africa.
Jamie suggested cougars instead. These animals go by many names—mountain lion, puma, catamount. The idea intrigued me. I had never seen one in the wild, but I knew they were out there, roaming the same forests and mountainsides that I called home. I later discovered that Jamie had steered me toward cougars partly to keep me in the country. I was glad she did.
While planning the cougar project, I knew that I would have to bring the cougar to me. That meant filming in an enclosure—a large fenced-off area on the edge of wilderness. I didn’t want to fool anyone. I would make it clear in the documentary that I was using an enclosure, and in fact, make the enclosure part of the story. I’d let the viewer “in on the secret” by revealing how I was making the film.
I envisioned creating a semiwild situation in which a mother cougar and her kittens would be accustomed to my presence and allow me to film them without changing their behavior. While the cougars could not pursue large prey or roam without boundaries, they would be free to hunt small animals, communicate, show affection, and interact as a family.
With such a secretive animal, these behaviors would have been impossible to film in the wild. But in a large enclosure, I could film and record up close the sights and sounds that no one had ever seen or heard. Such an intimate look at this illusive animal would make people value it and want to protect it. That was my goal.
It was a tall order.
First on the to-do list was finding a site to build the enclosure. Working with a biologist, we found the perfect place—five acres (2 ha) of government land in the White Cloud Mountains of central Idaho.
The U.S. Forest Service granted my crew the land for a two-year study. The site was suitably rugged and included huge boulders, groves of aspen and pine trees, open grassy land, a stream, and a pond. We set wooden posts in the ground and connected them with chain-link fencing. Three tents just outside the fence would be our home for two years.
We also had a plan for the cougar’s food—roadkill. We arranged for local authorities to notify us when a large animal had been struck on the road by a vehicle. Then we’d head out, scoop up the carcass, and bring it to the enclosure for the cougar to find and feast on.
It was a good setup and a good plan. Now all we needed was a cougar.
After a long search, we located a 110-pound (50-kg) female. She had been raised in captivity, yet she maintained her wild nature. Perhaps she was a bit too wild or simply too much to handle, because the owner was going to have her put to sleep!
Upon hearing such disturbing news, the zoo in Boise, Idaho, bought the cougar. But the zoo had little space for her, and officials there were delighted to let us provide her with a home.
Two things made this cougar the ideal choice: One, because she had been raised in the presence of humans, she was already used to having people around. Two, she was pregnant. The kittens would be born in just a few months.
I could hardly wait. How does a mother cougar interact with her kittens every day? How does she care for them? What does she teach them? I had so many questions, and I wanted to capture the answers on film and show the world.
The pickup truck backed up to the entrance of the enclosure. It was a warm day in late spring. I let out a grunt as I helped ease the steel crate off the truck and gently onto the ground. I slid open the door of the crate and the feline mother-to-be walked out calmly without even looking at us.
Good. The less attention paid to us the better.
The bright sunshine made the cougar’s tan fur glow golden. Her impressive muscles flexed with each stride as she went about exploring her new home. Using her sharp claws and long tail for balance, she skillfully crossed streams on fallen tree trunks. Her powerful magnificence made me gasp. Then she trotted away into the aspens and disappeared. Compared to the pen in which she had been raised, this habitat offered boundless freedom.
We gave her a few hours to acclimate to the new surroundings, and then set off on foot to find her.
It wasn’t easy. With the cougar’s keen sense of smell and sharp eyesight, I’m sure she knew where we were practically at all times. By comparison, our senses were dull, and we had to look and listen with all the intensity we could muster. She knew how to hide just by being still. No doubt she was lying low, uncertain that we meant no harm.
Finally, we spotted her. She crouched in the tall grass barely 20 yards (18 m) away—a distance that she could close in two leaps if she wanted to.
We made eye contact. The big cat remained absolutely frozen, watching our every move intently. Suddenly I felt vulnerable, more so than I ever had. I knelt down slowly with my camera hoisted on my shoulder. My sound technician Peter, with his equipment, and my assistant Jake, carrying a large stick, did the same.
The cat continued to eyeball us from her crouched position. Then she raised and wiggled her hindquarters. That got me nervous. Anyone who has seen similar behavior from a house cat getting ready to pounce could guess what happened next…
She suddenly sprang.
We quickly rose to our feet, terrified. This wasn’t a squirrel or a fox coming our way; it was one of nature’s strongest, fastest predators, and she had us in her sights. We started yelling as loud as we could, “Hey! Hey!” and “He-yah! He-yah!”
I exhaled with relief as the cougar suddenly veered off in another direction. But, my relief was short-lived.
She stopped, turned around, and looked at us again. Was she going to make another run at us? My heart was pounding. My knees became almost too wobbly to hold the camera steady. But we stood our ground. Then without warning, she attacked.
With long strides, the cougar ran right at Jake and wrapped her muscular forelimbs around his waist. The force of the impact knocked the stick from his hands. He twirled reflexively to break away, but the cat held on, hopping on her hind legs to maintain balance as she also twirled. It was like a dance, but one that could have deadly consequences.
The cougar looked like she was going to climb up on Jake’s back when Peter ran to Jake with his microphone boom raised like a baseball bat. The threatening stance seemed to do the trick, because the cougar released her grip and ran off.
Jake was shaken