Cape Lookout
According to Oregon State Park Rangers, you should do the following if you see a cougar in the wild:
Freeze.
Remain calm.
Maintain eye contact.
Appear large: bulk out your clothing, raise your hands
Fight back if attacked.
Make noise.
Keep children close.
Avoid hiking alone.
I saw this printed on a laminated poster that was stuck to the campground’s bathroom walls, five hours before I went on a midnight stroll at Cape Lookout State Park. I was about 200 feet from our tent when I noticed a pair of eyes glowing in the bushes.
Standing alone under the eaves of Sitka Spruce Tree, with everything fresh and slick on a rainy fall night, thinking very clearly for the first time in days, I tried to decide which step was my best bet.
7 and 8 did not apply.
The eyes in the darkness blinked and moved, reappearing a few feet away.
Number 5 seemed like a waste of energy. Even in top form, I couldn’t fight or outrun a cougar.
Really, my only option was to focus on numbers 1 through 4, with a bit of 6. Those were actionable tasks I could throw myself into.
A rustle in the trees put every hair on my body on edge; I braced myself, puffed out my jacket, stood on my tippy toes.
When large raccoon poked his face out of the darkness, I let out an unbalanced scream that was more frustration meeting release, than relief.
*
Since 1890, there have been 24 fatal attacks on humans by cougars in North America. That’s 0.192 per year. Comparatively, it’s a piss in the wind compared to the 10545 gun-related deaths in 2015 alone. Still, I don’t put too much thought into the number of people driving around with loaded weapons in their glove boxes and belt holsters.
My wife started Grad School in Portland 3 weeks ago, the same day a man opened fire on seventeen people at a community college campus in Roseburg, Oregon. At around 3pm that day, in a moment between peeking at my Twitter feed and opening a beer, I read “campus shooting” and “Oregon” in the same headline.
This scared the hell out of me for about 3 seconds.
Learning that the massacre took place nearly three hours away didn’t lessen my disgust, make me value my wife’s life more, or changed how I felt about losing my job during a recent budget cut; I have those things in check. It just allowed a momentary wave of relief to wash over me, before the business of reality opened its doors again.
*
I got up early and stood on the beach, watching the sun rising through the coastal fog, imagining that I was nowhere, and that nothing existed everywhere. Nothing. Just me, the ground, and a world of red condensation. No guns, no cougars, no statistics.
We made eggs and toasted bagels on an open fire before heading to the Cape Lookout Trail, which takes you on a big loop above the Pacific Ocean.
I had the following items on my person: an apple, a potato peeler, and a stone with Mark’s full name written on it in black marker pen. That’s my old boss from college, who shot himself seven days after the Roseburg incident, using the gun that he always said he needed for protection.
This was a man full of cynicism and insight; a man who did a lot for a lot for the people within his reach; a man who taught people and lead them simultaneously, so that they could do the same. A man I admired and struggled to understand, but not someone I suspected wanted to end things.
Mark never visited Oregon, but I think he would have appreciated the cold, the silver glow on the ocean in the morning, the fog, and all the rain. He never liked the sun that much.
*
When I was ten, I watched the same movie every day, often before and after school, called ‘Bunyip Dreaming’. It’s about an hour long and features a handful of the best surfers in the world from the early 90’s, traveling around Australia’s West Coast. Just before the opening scene, there’s a message that flashes across the screen:
“Dedicated to all those
Who want to leave the world
A better place than they found it.”
I always thought the message was for people who didn’t want to be alive anymore, because they were sick of living on a planet that didn’t care. Not the other way around.
*
We took our time navigating the spiraling trail that wraps around mossy cliffs, stopping at each vista point to admire the view: we watched the pelicans airplaining across the ocean’s corduroy skin; we watched ocean swells marching in from the horizon, gathering into raised fists and pounding the rocky crags where land meets the sea; we watched the sun sneak through gaps in the clouds, decorating the ashen sky with golden brush strokes; we watched a pair of gray whales moving slowly down the coast.
When we got to the final stretch of our hike, to a point where you get a panoramic view of the cape, I took out my peeler and an apple.
It’s been over a year since I quit smoking cigarettes and lately I’ve been missing it. Not the coughing and the stinky fingers and the anxiety over health concerns, but the simplicity of a smoke break. A legislated 3.42 minute intermission from the business of being a human. A time-out, if you will. Keeping my hands busy helps.
My wife sat beside me and drank from her canteen while I peeled my apple.
Earlier this year, 130 Melon-Headed Whales beached themselves in Japan. An article online showed pictures of them suffocating on a dirty beach, leaving this world behind slowly and silently, stoically even. Volunteers and veterinarians tried pulling them in the water, but they kept coming back to shore. They fought hard to die.
I wondered what the tipping point for the pod was -- when did all the whales get together and make a collective decision to find a better place? What did the whales in charge say to the worker whales who were sceptical about the mission’s outline, or dealing with second-thoughts about a mass suicide? Did all the whales think it was the best decision, or did some kill themselves because of peer pressure? Did some whales fail to show up on the day, and now live alone, carrying a load of survivor’s guilt?
I didn’t want to talk about the whales or ruin the moment, so I kept peeling the apple, working my way inwards. But the big things on my mind kept resurfacing.
Mark shot himself once before. A a few years ago, a man snuck into the shop and ran away with money from the petty cash drawer. While chasing this thief outside and down the street, he reached for his gun and accidentally blew a hole in his foot.
He found this funny and laughed about it after getting back from the hospital, dosed on pain killers and wearing a cast up to his knee. He said he had no intention to shoot the guy, just scare him away.
I thought about Mark’s face as I took the stone out of my pocket and held it up to the light. Its brown exterior sparkled as I turned it over a few times, mentally tracing his features in as much detail as possible; his pickle-shaped nose, his blue eyes, the big smile that occupied the downstairs portion of his head. His laugh.
I leaned against a tree on the edge of the cliff; A deadly fall into the ocean offered itself to anyone wanting to leave the world behind. The stone felt heavy in my hand, like I was carrying all the memories of Mark in one object at one time; memories that were built over years, and now live in the fog.
I followed the stone as it dropped, but couldn’t follow it all the way down.
*
I felt really depressed when we started breaking down our campsite, our makeshift Kingdom, as we prepared to drive home to Portland. There were loose ends to tie up when we got back, obstacles to face; finding a new job, writing a letter to Mark’s wife, following the aftermath of another gun-related massacre in America.
I started taking my frustrations out on the pegs holding our tent up, using the hammer-claw to bludgeon the earth. The ground was soft from the rain, making it easy to drive the metal ears into it and rip out chunks of brown guts. Every time I brought my fist down, a small part of the monster inside my head clapped its hands.
You’re making a mess, my wife told me. Relax.
I wanted to tell her that I was still sad about Mark, and anxious and worried about our
world. If gun-loving maniacs don’t kill us, we’ve got earthquakes to worry about. I wanted to say that I didn’t know how long it would take to find a new job or how desperate the process would make me along the way. It was all bubbling up. I cannot recall a single time in life where I didn’t have a lot on my mind, and it just seems to be getting worse as I get older.
‘Why I am so goddamned crazy?’ I wanted to shout.
Instead, I said “I love you,” to her, and she said it back to me, and then she came over to squeeze my cold hand, to loosen its grip on the hammer.
And so I started pulling the pegs out again, softly at first, but gradually more aggressively. And she repeated the calming process once more, and then again a few minutes later, until all the pegs were out. And it felt like working my tired, gnarled feet into a pair of soft, fluffy shoes that made walking feel lighter.
And then it was time to go.