If I am Killed By A Mountain Lion

If I Am Killed By a Mountain Lion  

Frost on the lifeless grass created a crunching sound under my feet as I walked the narrow wooded trail. Day four of a silent retreat was creating a restless need to leave the tiny cabin for fresh air. As I listened to the crackling grass under my feet, and inhaled clean crisp air deep into my lungs, a warm sense of gratitude flowed through me. The past four days had been perfect. The cabins floor to ceiling picture window, the busy bird feeder, the comfortable bed, the full moon.... and the naps!  The naps were dream filled journeys of pure bliss. Even the rocking chair by the warm fireplace was a perfect fit, and most of my waking moments had been spent daydreaming by the fire. I was aligned and connected within the perfect silence of God.

            The narrow, well-worn trail was perfect too. There were just enough hills to provide aerobic breathing and beautiful enough to entice me deeper into the woods. There is no one around for miles and the air so crisp and silent. The sensory deprivation of four days in silence makes me notice things I would not otherwise notice; The warmth of the sun lighting up my breath, the faint wheezing of my middle aged lungs, the creaking of tree tops, and the rustling of forest leaves as a nervous chipmunk makes his way to safety. I am far removed from my day-to-day existence and far away from my cabin, but in this state of spiritual perfection and alignment, I don't care about either.

            As the sun warms the winding trail, the frozen dirt turns to thick mud, and I look down at my mud-covered boots. My eyes then looked ahead at the trial, attempting to gage the depth of the mud path before me. Then I see it: the large, deep impression of animal tracks. Without further investigation, a shock runs up my spine. Suddenly, I am flushed with adrenaline as my mind flashed to the recent news picture of a Michigan mountain lion dragging a dead deer by the throat into the woods. My once silent mind starts careening like a roller coaster with out brakes. "I live in Michigan. How far South are they? They could live here. It’s the perfect place. Who would know? If I were a mountain lion, I would definitely live here. I would definitely.....live here."

            I rationalize the life a Michigan Mountain lion. "They live in the woods, far away from people." 

Comparison comes immediately. "At this very moment, I too, am in the woods and far away from people."  I stop and look at my surroundings as if I am seeing it for the first time.

"I think they live up in the trees, so they can pounce upon unsuspecting prey."  I scan the bare treetops, trying to change the course of my impending doom. What exactly, would I do if I am attacked by a mountain lion? I cannot scream for help, no one would hear. I cannot outrun it, I am wheezing now. There would be nothing left to do except kill it with my bare hands. But how? All I had in my pockets was an iPhone and a stick of Juicy Fruit.

"Wait.... they are nocturnal! Maybe they are sleeping right now. They won’t wake up just because there is helpless human food on the trail."

"Not so fast. Don't you get up in the middle of the night just because you know there is food in the refrigerator? "

"But this place has plenty of food. Maybe they aren't hungry."

"Maybe they are tired of eating squirrel."

And that’s when I see it. Fresh scat. I stop to take a closer look.

"Could a mountain lion have done this? It looks fresh."

"Okay, what are you going to do if you are attacked by a mountain lion?"

"I will jab one hand into his mouth while simultaneously poking his eyeballs. I will obviously be screaming, so that will scare it."

I envision the evening news broadcast of a poor, unsuspecting woman being dragged off and eaten by a mountain lion in Lower Michigan except, It’s not me.

I am relieved I have a plan!

The trail takes me deeper into the woods and further away from the cabin. I am communing with God and deep into random thoughts when I come upon a small but deep valley with a pond at the bottom. I stop to take in the view when my eyes land upon a small cabin, just big enough for a wood stove, single bed, toilet and the wall facing the pond is glass. I recognize it as the cabin named  Thoreau from the website. I want to take a closer look.

"What if some crazy guy is in there?"

"But I wanna see it!

"Hell no! What if that lunatic keeps you captive and makes you do things you wont even do with your husband. They will find you years later chained to a bed with your hair all mattted and smelling like urine."

"Come on! Have some courage!"

"Courage don’t mean stupid."

I continue to argue with myself back and forth, interrupted by a low, evil, angry growl coming from behind my left shoulder. I instantly freeze as blood rushes to my head and my heart starts pounding.

I turn slowly, rehearsing the mountain lion kill drill in my head. I hear it again.

Grrrrrrrrrr.......ooooowwwwllllllll. I scan the trees.

"Oh my God its a mountain lion!"

"No Einstein. Its Senna tea. Your stomach is rolling. What part of drinking two cups of colon cleanse and then going on a long walk in the woods was a smart idea?"

Maybe I can make it back to the cabin. Nope. I am going to lose it right here in the woods. I have no toilet paper.

"So...apparently you are unprepared."

"Yes. I am unprepared to shit in the woods. But, if I am attacked by a mountain lion, I will know exactly what to do."

The Obsession

  Elementary school for me was a time of observing how the world worked and new people to experience. I often wonder what happened to peers that shaped my perceptions, and through different circumstances, disappeared from view. No one affected me more in 5th grade than Mike.

I suspected Mikes mother dressed him every morning. He had short brown hair and long straight bangs with an unruly colic which was oiled into submission. His linen shirts were pressed to crisp perfection and his dress pants creased, with hems high enough to show off his freshly polished shoes. He stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of children clothed in pop culture t-shirts, Levi jeans , dirty  sneakers and big hair.  He had an older brother with orange hair and fewer freckles, but like Mike, he came to school every day dressed to sell life insurance. I had never met Mikes parents, but in my minds eye. his mother always wore an olive green housedress, black high heels,  and a white apron with pockets. In my later years I realized I was actually visualizing  Beaver Cleavers mother June, of the TV show Leave It To Beaver, but was all I had. 

Mike infuriated me because he had a habit I discovered I could not tolerate. He picked his nose in class.  He was the first public picker I ever encountered, or at least one who was old enough to know better.  As much as I tried to ignore him, Mike was as unavoidable as blinking.  I usually found myself sitting just behind and kitty corner from him so I had full, unobstructed view of his picking, which I felt responsible to interrupt. After all, It was for his own good, as well as the emotional well being of the entire class. 

"Hey! I can see what you are doing! Knock it off!" I would hiss, as the teacher talked and wrote on the chalkboard. Mike would be jarred into the present moment by the scolding and without acknowledgment, he would stop. I continued to stare at him with furrowed brow and laser beam focus, like a starving barn cat looking down a mouse hole, waiting. Less than a minute later his eyes would glaze over and he would stare off in the distance, as his index finger once again disappeared into his sinuses. I pounced angrily on his lack of good judgement.  "What are you doing? Stop that!"  At this point, if picking was good, he would attempt to hide his activity underneath a cupped hand, while my eyes rolled heavenward in disbelief. "I can still see you butt hole!"  It became obvious he no longer cared and I couldn't control it.  On some occasions, other kids would see Mike pick his nose, but quickly look away embarrassed, like they didn't see it, while jocks found an easy target to beat up at recess. 

I didnt understand why, despite disgust and incessant teasing from other children, he couldn't stop.  Most of us quit picking our noses, at least in school, by the time we turned 6. Everyone in fifth grade knew the two deadly "P" sins which would send you careening straight to the bottom of the social barrel. Passing gas and picking the nose. Why did he continue to do this? Why didnt teasing make him quit? Why didnt anything I say to him, make him stop? In desperation I pondered a student petition or someone calling his parents.  His picking obsession intruded  on my life and I was resentful.  Avoiding anything he touched required hypervigillant observation,  pre-planning and execution.  I needed a game plan every single day I walked in the room. It wasn't easy cutting ahead of him in line to sharpen a pencil. I watched every crayon he used so I wouldn't use it after him. I declined his mothers cupcakes on his birthday, and when he handed out paper I nearly fainted.  I was being consumed. 

One day during small group reading, we switched up seating and I was unfortunate enough to sit at Mikes desk. Usually when I sat at other students desks,  it was my practice to peer inside the cubby desk for the sole purpose of unfiltered judgement. Was it clean and organized, or stuffed full of wadded paper and used kleenex? Was there candy or gum and best of all, was there something in there that could be played with, out of the teachers view?  Sometimes, it was more fun to play "Guess what this is?" as I  listened to the teacher, my hands were blindly feeling out objects in the cubby. "This feels like a pencil. Nope its a pen. This is a book. This is either Silly Putty or ABC gum. I hope its putty."

Sitting at Mikes desk, I knew two things for sure. I would not blindly explore the contents of his desk, and there would be no kleenex. Quickly, I peered into his desk just long enough to judge his organization. His papers and text books were stacked in two neat piles. The lesson started and soon I forgot whose desk I occupied, until I accidently placed my left hand in his cubby.  My fingers landed on what can only be described as crunchy nuggets.  Mike had been saving nasal treasures in his desk, as though they were valued relics. I wanted to scream, but if I did, everyone would know.  Becoming sludge in the social barrel was an immediate reality, so I swallowed my scream and moved my hand out of the cubby, rubbing my thumb across fingers, flicking off anything that stuck. Mike had a dirty little secret hiding in his desk, but now, I had one too.

Summers came and went, as elementary home rooms became middle school schedules, and by high school, we were scattered among sophomores and juniors.  By the middle of 9th grade, I realized Mike had evaporated from my life.  I could never pin point the precise time, I just knew that he was no longer there. At our 20th high school reunion I asked about him, but no one knew. Was he dead or in prison? Is he married with children? Does he still do it?  Once in a while, I get reminded of Mike, like the time I was at a traffic light, and in my rear view mirror, I see a man picking his nose. Its my insurance agent. I take a mental note that from here on, to use my own pen while in his office. 

Last week I picked up my grand daughter Gracie from school and as I opened the car door she announced, “My teacher said we can’t pick our noses in class no more.” 

“Really? Why not?” I instantly think of Mike. 

Gracie answered very  matter of fact, “Because...our teacher said it is gross and disgusting.”

I laughed out loud as a vision of 23 little Mikes rolled through my head. “Wow. That's too bad. Who was picking their nose in class?” 

Gracie proudly replied, “Everybody.....except ME,” 

I knew better, but I didn't say anything. Its okay with me if she thinks its gross and disgusting. Perhaps if Mike had that lesson early on, his position in the social barrel would have improved.

I have this fantasy that one day I will run into Mike. He will be handsome, successful and content. I will express my happiness at having run into him and I might even hug him, but the one thing I may not do, is shake his hand. 

The 5 People You Meet On the Dance Floor

The Soccer Mom

The soccer mom is usually 30 pounds overweight and has had the same unfortunate hair cut since high school. She is there for a bachelorette party, after several discussions with her husband, who insists she be home by midnight. She will never get drunk on her only night out, because she has to get the kids to soccer practice in the morning. She will get out on the dance floor, but only with a group, as she attempts the dance moves she had at senior prom. She will look bored and disinterested in dancing until one member of the of the group ramps up, at which point she starts to cut loose. 

The Jumper

This woman is usually tall and thin with with fuzzy, out of control hair. She has never taken dance lessons, but she knows aerobics. Her arm movements will usually consist of air punches she learned in Tai Bo in combination with moves from step aerobics. This woman never leaves the dance floor. Her cardiac capacity rivals an African runner and she will jump dance all night long.

The Sure Thing

This woman is visually stunning and she knows it. Her dance moves with her Under Qualified BoyFriend rivals that of a Vegas pole dancer. She gyrates her hips, feels her own breasts, and hikes up her skirt, all the while scanning the room to see who is watching. If she gets lucky, she will find someone better. If she drinks too much, the under qualified boyfriend will get lucky later. When she wakes up in the morning and realizes what she did, she will justify is as a mercy fuck, and explain to the UQBF that she “Just wants to be friends,” and then packs her things to leave. She will then avoid his calls and texts. Meanwhile, the UQBF will reminisce for decades about the best night of his life and the one that got away.

The Leather Wallet

The only thing this woman ever did successfully is marry well and have unlimited tanning sessions. Just as she is 5 years past her prime, her wealthy husband leaves her for his hot, young secretary. She has money, a push up bra, and over tanned, wrinkled skin, thus earning her the name, “Leather Wallet.” She seldom hits the dance floor, but instead will spend the evening gyrating in front of 20 somethings with a dry martini in her hand. If she is intoxicated, she will systematically dry hump anonymous legs, until finally she hits the jackpot, and one desperate underage schmuck who has never been laid, takes her home. 

That One Guy

It never fails. There is always That One Guy. The one who lives in his own world and dances alone. He is the first one drunk and the first on the dance floor as soon as the band plays a cover song from his high school days. If his feet were more coordinated, he would be river dancing.