Labor Day weekend, tent up and prepped with a blow-up, pillow-top mattress, kid air mattress, blankets and sleeping bags. A beautiful fall night in a small abandoned gold mining town in Oregon next to my in-laws vacation home. The stars are brighter than I've seen in years, the sparkly white of the Milky Way popping out of the sky. Sweet dreams of paddleboarding on a remote mountain lake are interrupted by a low growl, followed by a shrieking scream, peaked with a high shrill cry. The horrific and terrifying call bellows through the acre lot, louder than a concert on a Saturday night. Piercing through the stillness, everything stops, no tweets, no howls, silence. Then again another long set of growls, shrieks, and cries.
"Did you hear that?" I sit up.
My husband rustles in his sleeping bag, "Only a bobcat or a cougar, probably a cougar." He rolls over.
The growl rumbles around us. "Too loud for a bobcat."
"Yeah, you're right." He begins dozing off.
"You ever read about a cougar breaking into a tent and dragging a child off?"
"Nope, go back to sleep."
I rack my brain through all the articles I've ever read on animal attacks. My analytical process comes up with: tent + cougar = relatively safe.
He sits up a bit and looks at the entrance to the tent. "Maybe make sure it's zipped all the way up, so it doesn't peek it's head in."
Of course, that makes me feel better!
This was the closest video I could find of what the one near me sounded like. They are loud!
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