Meeting the Stalker
I was in an alpine valley high in the Chugach Mountains hoping to photograph parka squirrels when it happened. My subjects seemed unusually nervous that evening and difficult to approach. Efforts to close in for full-frame shots only prompted chattering alarm calls (in the Inupiat language, the animals are called sic-sic, a term imitating those calls), sending all squirrels within earshot bouncing down holes and out of sight.
So, I was now hiking back in the direction I’d come when a glance up the plateau captured an inconsistency, an ever-so-slight contrast in texture, that made me stop. I squinted and stepped closer, wondering, as a distinctive contour took shape. Full and rounded, tawny in color, I recognized the form as a haunch protruding from the brush.
That’s an animal, I noted silently, but what kind?
At that moment, ever so slowly, a distinctively marked face rose above the brush to peer straight at me. I saw two large, round, pale eyes; perked, pointed, tufted ears; ruffed cheeks, white and gray with black stripes running from jaw to jowl. Those unmistakable field marks struck with a jolt.
Well, blessed day! I spoke inwardly, thanking God for the moment. Then I felt the tiny muscles at the corners of my mouth involuntarily twitch, tighten, and draw back into a broad smile.
***
The dance of predator and prey is a waltz old as life, a universal movement transcending nature in all forms and contexts. In one role or the other (and occasionally, in both) every living thing takes part. Examples: Single-cell amoebas hunt and consume protozoa; belugas use echolocation find and gnash salmon in waters opaque with glacial silt; big dogs of the political and corporate worlds amass power and wealth by figuratively devouring little dogs.
And hunters in Alaska’s taigas and alpine tundras sometimes wait at the mouths of parka squirrel dens to ambush a meal.
Haplessly, I’d interrupted a predator-prey moment. And even as I fumbled for my camera, the hunter had turned its attention to me. Perhaps 60 feet away, eyes wide and unblinking, it pivoted from its burrow stakeout and, in halting slow motion, stepped over the brush toward me.
Camera up, I began snapping at 10 frames per second, top speed. The clicking shutter and flashing lens seemed only to intensify the animal’s interest. Head low, one front leg extended toward me as a hind leg pushed off, it continued to advance.
My scalp tingled. Rationally, I’d nothing to fear. But the moment was vaguely, if undeniably, unnerving. The animal appeared to be stalking me.
To be sure, these creatures aren’t especially imposing. A large male can weigh 40 pounds; that’s far from, say, the 90 to 140 pounds of an adult gray wolf, or the more than 1,000 pounds of an exceptional brown bear. But with claws like talons and flesh-tearing fangs, they possess a potential for fury. And while they prefer small prey such as squirrels, birds, and hares, they sometimes tear the throats from wildlife as large as caribou and Dall sheep, creatures comparable to humans in weight.
So, there was that. Factually though, I remain unaware of any instance where even one of these animals has hunted and attacked people. Besides, I carried holstered on my chest a large-caliber handgun, a weapon intended – and routinely used in Alaska’s backcountry –for protection from bears. The pistol was more than sufficient (indeed, it was overkill) in the unlikely event the beast I now faced became some one-in-a-million crazed representative of the species.
“After several intense minutes the animal closed the distance between us by perhaps twenty feet. Then, at the edge of a finger of brush, it settled into a relaxed squat to study me. The blazes in its orbs had eased into embers and it calmly blinked as it looked on. ”
Assured, I continued photographing the predator’s advance. Like a house cat stalking a robin, it low-crawled across a stretch of open bluff, stopping mid-stride – freezing for a full minute – before again easing my way. Those light-colored eyes had yet to leave me, still laser-focused on my face, unblinking.
After several intense minutes the animal closed the distance between us by perhaps twenty feet. Then, at the edge of a finger of brush, it settled into a relaxed squat to study me. The blazes in its orbs had eased into embers and it calmly blinked as it looked on. I sensed a subtle decision had been made, and that I’d gone from prospective prey to inane curiosity.
Ten minutes passed. More pictures were made as the creature looked on, its initial intensity ebbing by the minute. Suddenly, its jaws opened wide, pink tongue rolling out and curling in a classic feline yawn. It seemed, finally, to have lost all patience. In a second the animal was on its feet, stretching lavishly, shoulders low, rump and black-tipped bobtail high in the air.
The hour was late. An inky dusk rose from the ground shadows, muting the light between us and gathering overhead like campfire smoke. The animal looked up and away, toward the squirrel dens at the plateau rim. Then it turned on lanky legs and, without glancing back, padded up there. Curious, it paused for a moment at a den, sniffing. Then it was off, short tail twisting in an abbreviated wave as it disappeared for the night over the top.
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