~~* The Kings of the Forest Once Smote Me *~~

When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider diligently what is before thee:
And put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite.
Be not desirous of his dainties: for they are deceitful meat.~The Sacred Writings

 

Warning: Very Graphic Images!

This page is dedicated to shepherds and those who would understand them. It is also placed here to reveal what can only be described as the trauma and upheaval of nature in our day. It is an open and honest revealing of the hearts of two who respect God's earth and tremble to transgress. For those of you who will, please forgive us. We mean no cruelty by our actions. Only survival. I know that which is expressed here will not be understood by everyone. Only the edge of illumination on such events reach us. But after much musing I consider that silence on this matter is of no benefit to anyone. For a long time I have wanted to place these happenings before the public. Time constraints forbade it until now. But if one person comes to grasp the dilemma faced by those of us who interface with the wilderness in these days, I will have considered this effort a success. Perhaps the end of this time of fire for us will mean the same for others. That is a good hope.

At the onset I'd like to make known that the quote of the prophet Isaiah in the header is my whole heart, soul and hope concerning the future. Even as I type my heart quakes at the lessons we have learned regarding our responsibility as stewards of the land. It is a satisfaction to avenge a loss, but oftentimes only stumbles our human ego. Please bear with me as the details of this great trial and its wonderful solution unfolds. Then feel free to judge me for good or ill.

New Beginnings

Alexandra and I arrived to dwell in Oregon in 1991. We left our Montana home with the confidence that we had dealt justly and fairly as stewards of the land while there. We had lived in Montana for ten years off the power grid. Our appreciation and respect for nature and what it could dish out had been fine tuned as a result of our sojourn there. Our herd of Angora Goats flourished in that environment and so did we. We are persuaded to this day that our little area of the world and its environment was left in much better shape ecologically than when we had arrived. It took a lot of work.

Many hard earned lessons always exacted a great toll both to our livestock (our "keep") and to ourselves physically. We began to accept this way of learning as the high price of the shift our society took away from an agricultural way of life. One sure thing was that we rarely made the same mistake twice.

Nevertheless we rolled with the punches and adapted as best as we could. Always our intent and hope has been to deal as gently as possible with our surroundings. All tasks fell beneath the canopy of an overriding concern that we were more likely to do harm in our ignorance and that better was loss with acquired wisdom than folly.

As shepherds we had suffered some setbacks. There was the perpetual tug of war with predator species. In Montana's back woods, especially the coyotes would always be on the prowl. We even had the occasional encounter with the northern timber wolf and a few with a curious moose.

We took a defensive approach with the predators and it was very successful. Once a hungry beast of prey discovered that we were conscientious shepherds they would move on for more common meals of rodents and carrion. Ever ready to test the parameters of our wariness, they relegated their experiments of probing our weaknesses for the night watches.

Still we had our losses. And so did they if they would became too bold. But by and large we coexisted in relative harmony.

Our arrival to Oregon and Umpqua National Forest was with the full knowledge that we would be needing the same shepherding skills that we had acquired in Montana. Perhaps there would be a need for slight adjustments as a result of different environmental conditions. If anything, we assumed that there would be quite a bit less pressure than we had experienced in Montana. Tiller, Oregon was far more populated with humans than our lonely homestead in the north land.

Every transition we have made from one ecological area to another, from one living logistic to another, has been with the full knowledge that it would be difficult at first. There are the immediate needs of housing and shelter for ourselves and the livestock. An entirely new dynamic of land and animal management had to be learned. The garden would have to be worked up in a patch of new earth. And here in particular, for various reasons, the work load would be intense.

The Not So Obvious Signs

We had the wonderful occasion to have a visitor stay with us in the early weeks of work. All was well until one fine morning he bundled up his wife and two children and left in a flurry. He had been staying in a guest trailer at an opening in the forest on the back forty acres. On the day he left he said that he had been hearing what seemed to him to be a woman violently screaming during the night. This seemed very curious to us since we are bordered by national forest on those acres, but all the more so in that it unnerved our friend. We really didn't know what to make of it and eventually let it blow by.

In the ensuing days and months wonderful progress was made at making Singing Falls, a good place to live and tend the flock. Soon we had new neighbors who were freshly moved from the city. They respected our ideals and loved the close relationship we had with the animals. It amazed them that everyone had a name and that we could articulate the quirks of their personalities. In short order they acquired a pair of Pygmy goats as pets.

Late in that summer we were alarmed to discover that a young lion boldly followed one of the pygmies into the barn and snapped its neck with the owner looking right at him.

They called the ODFW (Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife) who promptly sent out a houndsman to destroy the animal. State law prohibits the relocation of lions that cause damage to livestock and or threaten humans. Experience has shown that once a lion sees how easy it is to prey on domestic animals (especially fenced ones), they don't stop returning until the food supply is gone.

As soon as the hounds were loosed they treed the lion in the riparian zone that runs through our property. Having spent the better part of my adult life in jungles and mountain forests, I had only for a fleeting moment once seen a cougar in Montana. I was astounded that it hadn't taken one of our young goats who frequented that riparian area for shade.

As we developed a routine in the chores and had some momentum behind us in the fulfillment of our plans, we were able to catch our breath and cope with the burdens of every day life a bit easier.

It was then that we in earnest decided to take on the redevelopment of our goals as angora goat mohair producers. We devoted ourselves to searching out a new band of goats. In no time we had the beginnings of a new herd in the making. What we didn't have was a foundation herd sire. We needed to acquire a quality buck to build up the stock. There is an old saying among goat herders that "your buck is half your herd". How true it is.

Small scale farming is not lucrative. In the ebb and flow of time that we have lived on the land, there have been seasons that could only be described as very lean. In a season such as that, Alexandra and I scrimped and saved to purchase a young purebred angora goat buck. That summer we attended the annual gathering of shepherds and fiber crafters in Eugene, Oregon called the Black Sheep Gathering. It is a sprawling event with natural fiber enthusiasts from all over the States and the world. It didn't take us long to make fast friends with many angora goat breeders that attended that event over the years.

We carefully chose our buck. The next day, the angora goat judge decided from a long line young bucks who would be the blue ribbon winner. It happened to be the young buck we'd previously purchased. It made us feel proud that day and we hauled him home to join our small herd. We named him "Seed" because he was to sprout our herd into the ranks of honored angora goats.

Then the Hammer Fell

Alexandra and I take a very intensive approach to the management of our keep. We do all that we can do to leave little to chance. This is especially true with regard to the herd, the flock and key elements of our homestead. Each night we count heads and corral the creatures. They themselves are fond of routine, so the round up ritual at night was a favorite of theirs. They would usually be waiting for us to open gates wide. It seems that if you leave things to chance predators take the chance.

We had lost a couple of young goats a while back and decided that the coyotes were figuring out our routine of letting the herd out early before the summer sun was high in the sky. As a result, we began to alternate the time of day that we set the goats and sheep free. Often one or the other of us would go out with the flocks to make sure all was well and to leave our scent around the perimeter fence.

As autumn came on, the hay was in the maw and preparation was made for winter. Then the hammer fell, and when it fell, it fell hard. There was a break in the weather and we decided to let the herd out to enjoy the dry spell. Shortly after we opened the paddocks, the herd came running back to the barn. Well, part of the herd anyway. Several young kids were missing. We searched high and low to no avail. Not even a trace of them was found. It began to rain in the days following, but we pressed out into the old growth forest looking for a shred of evidence as to their whereabouts. We found nothing. Our hopes were dashed and we were at a loss to know what had happened.

Then there was a recurrence. This time I thought I had caught the culprit for sure. A doe and kid came up missing during the morning check. A short time later, much to my surprise, I saw a coyote at the edge of the meadow facing up into the tree line. He was barking and yipping furiously and paid little attention to me. I thought assuredly he's got that doe and kid cornered up there. I took a shot at him and missed at the long distance. It did manage to scare him off and for that I was grateful.

I began looking for the goats. Much of the north end was covered at least once. Still no sign of my charges. I traversed the hill side and top of the bluff on the adjoining neighbor's property. The day was wearing on without a shred of evidence. I had covered acres and acres of steep ground; nothing, nothing but a painful sigh.

Coyote kills were not unfamiliar to me. They are easy to find because the ravenous creatures tear and shred the carcass over a wide area leaving blood and entrails everywhere. In weariness of the heat of the day, I decided to give up looking. Dejected, I went to my neighbors to tell them my tale of woe. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson are long time residents of this area, having moved here to raise a family after WW II. When I explained my situation to them, Mrs. Wilson said, "Stan, you have got to find those animals".

She was right. If this mystery wasn't solved there's no telling where things would go. I was leaving too much to chance. Immediately I got up to make the best of the day light that remained.

This time I was going to be even more methodical in my approach. I repositioned myself at the location that I was standing when I saw the coyote. Then I carefully considered the direction of the main focus of his attention. I crossed the wide open pasture and stood on the spot where I had seen him. Having marked in my mind geographically significant landmarks, I began a careful trek in a bee line of the direction his nose had been pointing. Slowly again, up the hillside I went.

The day was waning. And then I saw it. Just on this side of my fence line lay a mound of piled debris. As I approached the mound I could see clearly that it had deliberately been camouflaged. But all around the mound and covering a substantial area were scrape marks made by a very large paw. This was no young cat. And a cougar it was. It looked like the pawing you would see a house cat do in a litter box, but only on a much much larger scale. The final proof was revealed when I began to dig in the pile. Buried in its midst were two goats, their necks broken and entrails removed. It was dusk and had been a long day. Simultaneously excitement and sadness captured my heart and mind. I was so glad to solve the mystery and yet so disheartened because I could not solve a growing problem. I did not know how to cope with a lion.

I uncovered the victims and dragged what was left of them back to the house to show Alexandra. It was now getting dark and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I knew I was being watched.

We called the houndsman who said he would be out in the early morning before dawn. He thought my moving of the carcasses was ill advised and that I should return them and restore the area to its original condition. With flashlight in hand I walked back to the mound site and reburied the carcasses. I could feel the eyes of the predator drill right through me the whole time.

Sleep escaped me. True to his word, the houndsman arrived on time just before daybreak. His four hounds on leashes, we started up the pasture incline. We were armed. We discussed the possibility that my interference could have spooked the lion away or disturbed the scent trail. I felt like a fool, but I wasn't about to just let this cat have a free meal.

In no time, the hounds were off and running. The cougar had returned for his prey and even carried off one of the goats with him. The trail led us to the fence where it was obvious the lion had leaped easily over with his trophy goat between his teeth. There was sign on the other side of the fence where he had landed. Splatterings of liquids from the carcass were along the trail. The hounds were baying far ahead of us and seemed located on the back side of the property.

Sure enough, they had treed a very large mountain lion. He was perched high on a limb of a tall old growth tree not far from the waterfall. The job of dispatching him seemed difficult. What choices were there? I hadn't considered what to do once the creature was treed. If he was freed he would come back and all the wiser. With one round fired, he tumbled from the tree. He was huge, beyond what I could have imagined a mountain lion could be. Disbelief rolled over me. He could have taken me down easily as I stood by the treasure he had so carefully hidden the day before. But then, he was probably full and well satisfied with his meal. Now he lie dead on the earth.

His Name Was Turbo

He was dead and heavy. We headed back to the house to put up the hounds in their staging boxes. I called the Wilsons and let them know what had happened. They immediately came over to see. As Alexandra and the others made ready for the hike to the waterfall, I yoked the oxen, Bright and Tears, for the haul. The Wilsons are elderly and didn't want to climb the sharp grade toward the back of the property line. When the steers pulled their payload into view, Mr. Wilson exclaimed, "Holy mackerel, are we in Africa?! I've never seen a cat that big in these parts!"

The oxen pulled their curious load up to the house. I suspected now that they had seen one or more of these creatures before. Putting the puzzle pieces together, a vivid memory came back to me of claw marks that had appeared on Tears, the larger of the two steers. It began dawning on me that subtle clues of the presence of the lion were being revealed all along. We just hadn't had to deal with these kinds of predators before. New lessons were now being learned.

For the record, we weighed and measured the animal. One hundred and sixty three pounds and seven feet three inches in length was the toll. His paws were large enough to cover the entire side of my head. One swipe from that sinew and bone and bare bone would be revealed. His entire anatomy was geared for predation. The state estimated him to be four years old after they extracted a tooth sample.

One peculiar aspect of the whole thing was that this tom was wearing an Oregon State radio collar. I found out then that there was an extensive study carried on by the State to track and record information about the lions. The study area was forty square miles of South Douglas County and it included our property in its boundaries. Each collared cat had received a name. This mighty king was named Turbo.

As dismal as the two days had been, they only proceeded to get worse. In a short while I had State of Oregon wildlife personnel all over the property. They were requiring of me that I prove the losses I had incurred. They wanted to know the why and wherefore of this whole event. It discouraged me to know that not only did I have to prove being wronged, but that the general consensus was that it was the cats' turn to do the "persecuting" since they had been hunted to very low levels for many years. Now it was man's turn to suffer loss.

The greatest offense was the assumption on their part that my killing of this feline was some kind of trophy to me. It was, only in the sense that now we could go on here at Singing Falls with our daily routine minus one large killing predator. The angora goats would be alright now. Turbo was gone, but I wondered if they knew that our angora goats had names too?

Peace is Short Lived

Things began to settle down to the normal routine for a while. Winter was finally here and the long cool overcast of December arrived. On a sunless rainless day we opened that paddock for the goats. It would be a good time for them to stretch their legs and eat the acorns shaken to the ground by stormy weather. Alexandra tended them for some time and decided to take a break back to the house. The days being as short as they are here only meant that the romp on the pasture would be short lived.

We lost Seed that day. The goats weren't out of our sight for but a very short time. Gloom hung heavy over Singing Falls. Again we searched high and low for missing goats and dead bodies. This time the search was made with even more intensity than previous searches. Alexandra, in particular, was hard hit. She spent five straight days wandering in the pouring rain looking for the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of Seed, our hope for the future.

The rains had effectively removed any scent of the lion for the hounds to follow. We were now prisoners on our own land. The losses were starting to mount. Unless we spent every day all day with the herd, a virtual impossibility, we couldn't let the stock out. Our 77 acres was virtually useless. And what would stop the cats from simply coming to the barn and taking their fill?

We were fooled into a lull. Once again the routines of daily life seemed to bring with them a hope of better things. Until yet again we were hit by a lion in broad day light. This time four goats were taken down. I found two of them tucked under some low lying limbs of a fir tree. The rains once again would effectively protect the cat from the hounds. This time I decided to take things into my own hands. A gentleman neighbor of ours had been a trapper in his youth. I set his number 4 leg hold traps in the area of the kills. The lion was in them the next day! Another large tom. Not quite as big as Turbo, but formidable nonetheless. This one had no collar.

Harmony at Last?

Now our vigilance was peaked. Winter was passing and spring greening up the fields. Several months went by without incident and the hay in the maw was getting low. Normally we would take advantage of good weather at this time to build up the goats and sheep. Lambs were being born. Kids were romping and the fresh green of spring was needed by all for health and happiness.

A good break in the weather allowed us to release the sheep into the field closest to the barn. I had no sooner set them loose and had gone to the house when Mr. Wilson began yelling from the field adjacent to mine. He was atop his tractor in the field doing some spring seeding when all of a sudden he sounded his alarm. My first thought was that he had fallen from the tractor and was injured, so straight way I ran to him. No, he was fine. But vigorously he pointed at my field. Sure enough there was a very large cougar tracking the sheep. They were bundled up together as he slowly made his stealth approach, crouching, to pounce on them. Like lightning, I ran to the house for my rifle. When I came back he was gone. The sheep were fine. We then called the houndsman, who couldn't make it out. Again, our hearts were heavy.

Spring and summer passed with only the loss of one more doe and kid. We considered ourselves fortunate after such a harrowing winter. But life under the threat of the decimation of your livelihood is cumbersome. Many tasks would now need to be rescheduled or delayed for some time. We devoted the better part of each day shepherding and watching to prevent the ruthless depredation of our herd. As much as we would like to have it, goats don't always stay together. They break up into bands of compatible social groups. In just such a situation we were smitten once again by the kings of the forest.

This time we were able to get the houndsman to Singing Falls in time. The tom weighed in at 135 lbs at seven feet three inches in length. Alexandra is standing next to the cougar in this image to illustrate how long and large these animals are. Take note of the size of the little black angora goat kid. It doesn't amount to much more than a mouse to a house cat for these lions.

Counting the Cost

We were not hunting them. They were hunting us. Half of our herd had been taken from us in broad day light. Years of effort to tend our flocks and breed them for color and health had been stolen from us. There were many nights when the sound like that of a woman screaming rang in my ears as another lion would seek to spook the livestock out of their paddocks. Sleepless nights of weeping ensued. The loss of these animals is not like the loss of a piece of equipment. We knew them all by name and we had invested all that we had economically into them. They were our keep and we were losing them. Angst against the state for not even warning us when one of their collared cats was present grew. We felt helpless against a foe that was known as the "ghost of the forest". They lived by stealth and cunning. We are not hunters. We are shepherds. In all of the years that we had spent living in the wilds, never had we considered the option of giving up our way of life. Now it was staring us square in the face. It was being forced onto us by the very aspects of creation that we thought would be a shelter to us. The ecosystem was literally devouring us. There was none to help.

Then there was the time that the mountain lion came down to the house and killed two lambs and carried them off in the night. Not a dog barked nor was there any other sound. I am an extremely light sleeper. In the morning the dreaded head count came up short two 60 lb.lambs. We were incredulous. How many nights had I slept in the outdoors, rifle at side, hoping I would see my foe. So wise he is; so very great a hunter he is. After so much trouble, I still wondered at such a creature. Their agility and stealth are profoundly keen and incomparable in the forest.

Again, our friend the houndsman, returned. And yet again there was not a catch. He was delayed many hours and the weather had changed for the worse into rains. The dogs ran in circles baying up trees where there was no feline. We did find the two disemboweled lambs beneath two leaf piles. He said,"I'll come back in the morning if it doesn't rain too hard tonight." No sooner did he pull out of the driveway than the sky opened up with a torrent. Daylight was coming to an end. Quickly, the trapping gear was in hand. Four main paths led to the carcasses and in each I placed a number 4 leg hold as carefully as I could. The walk back to the house was thick with lifelessness. Now even our food supply was being consumed.

All the night long I wept and prayed. What awful curse was upon us here at Singing Falls. We were like those seeking to grow citrus fruit in the arctic. Wave after wave of sorrow passed over my soul. I didn't want to be at war with nature. It wasn't that I didn't understand the wilds, but who had ever heard of a relentless onslaught of lion attacks such as this? In all my days I had not.

As I wrestled in the night to force daylight to shine, my dear wife would stir in a fitful sleep. At three AM I was preparing my firearm. Alexandra said, "Give it a rest. Don't go too early. You'll only frighten it away." My heart could not wait and perhaps if the lights were on in the house the cougar would not come to raid the paddock again.

Dawn had not yet broken. It was the dark hour just before light that the trek through the pasture began. Slowly with senses ever peaked for any sound, my quiet steps drew closer to the trap I had set. When daylight began to spread across the gray sky, I was past the field and a few hundred feet from the set. I looked up and to my shock I could see the top of the small madrone to which I had attached a trap thrashing about. I had him! I circled around him and went along the fence. At my approach, he saw me and let out a roar. He thrashed again, but this time, with a fierce jerk, his rear left leg snapped in two the strong chain attached to the trap! Thankfully, his right front paw was still securely held by another. He leaned back, ears down, his free paw clawing the air. With a hiss and a roar, there he died.

Why!Why!Why!

None of this was out of the sight of my neighbors who pitied me continually. They had losses also, but not like ours. Mr. Staugh's dogs had been eaten off their leashes in one night. Others were missing pets and calves from their herds. But our losses were seemingly continual and more numerous. I began to be known as "Stan the Lion Man" by members of the community. Everyone knew we couldn't last as shepherds much longer. The irony of being an advocate of gentleness with nature came back upon me to haunt me in the words of those who thought my notions were naive. It wasn't supposed to be this way. The angoras, the sheep, WE - were dieing.

I did learn that in an area the size of the Oregon State study (40 square miles), in a healthy environment, there should be 3 females and 1.5 males. There were two sources of information that I tapped. One said that 98 lions had been caught and radio collared in the study. Another said 78. Either way, things were obviously way out of proportion. The ecosystem was in a tumult. Ungulates (deer, elk, etc.) were perishing on an unprecedented scale. I was not alone. All of nature was in disarray; all of it was a backlash from hundreds of years of abuse. And Singing Falls with its small angora goat herd was caught in the middle.

The months rolled by without any letup. On another occasion, I was milling beams for our barn project with a chainsaw mill. They are noisy. I occupied myself as I worked, singing and praying as I am want to do. Suddenly at around three in the afternoon the oxen, sheep and goats oddly gathered around me. As I lifted my eyes from the task at hand, I spied a large tom only a hundred feet away, nonchalantly passing by with his eyes firmly fixed upon me. He was king! He was bold. Although I understood his dilemma, I cursed him to go far from us. I didn't call the houndsman. I didn't run for my rifle. My head hung in a groaning prayer.

That year the opportunity opened up to testify before the senate committee of natural resources in Salem, the state capitol. That event is a story in itself and not necessary to tell here. Its only comfort came with the fact that I had opportunity to share my dilemma with others, especially those who took a radical environmentalist view. They saw I understood them. They saw I was in a trap. Most of them dwelt in the cities. None were seeking to live sustainably directly off the land.

Would it never cease?

By now you are possibly wearying of this brutal tale. Consider the fact that we lived it! Imagine our dismay when once again we were smitten. Two years had gone by with half of the herd being taken in both years in broad daylight by these supposedly nocturnal predators. Our world was upside down and our mohair venture was hanging on by a thread. On this particular day the sheep once again came running to the barn. Immediately I counted heads only to find everyone there. One particular ewe had a patch of blood on her neck. Upon inspection, it was obvious that the fangs had penetrated deep into her skin but the neck was not broken. And once again the houndsman, who by now had become a fast friend, arrived immediately upon my call. He was probably moved by pity more than most at our situation, having tracked it from the start. In less than an hour the treed cat was found. She was very aggressive and came screaming out of the tree right at us. She fell on her way down. This was the first and only female I had seen. The State scientists had named her Thelma. Her documented kitten was never found.

After those long months of soul searching, an answer finally came. Yes, truly this tale ends well for us here at Singing Falls. Through sleepless nights of lions screaming and harassing the flock, many tears where shed. But I had learned that I was not to leave anything in my keep to chance if I could. God showed me mercy in a very dark hour. On the occasion of visiting some dear friends who themselves raised angora goats, we opened our car door to be greeted by a very large pure white puppy. I think only a fellow shepherd could truly understand our plight, and somehow they did. That day they said, "Well here's your puppy." We already had two Australian shepherds who were certainly no match for cougars. But what was this? At first I balked at the gift, but soon enough my wife convinced me that this was an answer to prayer. He was given the name "Uzi" which is the Hebrew word for Guardian even though he was a Hungarian Kuvasz by breed. That was over eight years ago, and since his arrival home and over the years since, we have never lost another animal to the cougars. It was like dark and light.

Yes, the curse of our terror ended in one day at the hands of friends and the paws of a dog. At night I sleep at ease when the guard dogs warn and keep at bay the kings of the forest. Their ferocious barks command respect of the boundaries of Singing Falls. No longer do I hear the screams of the cats. Neither is there the empty void of another missing creature with a name from among our band of angora goats. Not one more time have I had to hunt the lion in all of these years. Neighbors have taken losses and we have suffered none! We had owned Uzi for about a year when a near neighbor lost a fifteen hundred pound mule to a cougar on one fateful night. I saw the horrid lethal claw marks on the saddened, shocked prey. We are still wary, for the kings of the forest are full of skill. But harmony has returned to Singing Falls and different, more tolerable testings are being borne. So plain was the answer and so very near, but out of view because of being too close to the problem. We wonder why, in the midst of all our research, we had not heard or seen what to do sooner. Perhaps it was that we should endure our testing so that it would leave some good mark on our souls. But no mind. We were blind for whatever reason. Mercy from above found our ignorance and healed it. So simple and elegant a solution was given to us in the deepest darkness of our trial. We can but be grateful and give thanks.

 

 

 

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