I returned to the place of the lion faceoff, to measure the distance between us on that day; the most memorable day of my life in the Santa Ynez Mountains of Condor National Forest.
Using the yard measurement instrument of the common stride, as taught to us at Monte Vista Elementary school by Dr. Ehrenborg when playing football, I paced off 30 long steps.
And so it was over 90 feet.
Ninety feet sounds far to me when spoken of, sounds really far. Ninety feet also feels close when facing a lion, frightening close.
If asked before I had measured it, while sitting in town telling the story or whatever, I would have said the distance was much closer, maybe half as far.
How many loping strides would it take the big cat to close the distance? Not many. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
I walked up to the spot feeling uneasy. It’s hardly a stone’s throw from the road. I wanted to look around more, but I did not feel comfortable enough walking deeper into the woods, far from the road and my vehicle, with its alarm, the panic button in my pocket.
There are now places in the forest, certain settings, that I do not venture into alone for fear of a possible lion attack. It sounds ridiculous. I’ve never in my life thought much about lions when hiking.
The feeling will subside with time, surely, but for now things are different out there.
I see a lion track now and I turn circles, eyes darting around the creek, the rocks, the hills, wherever, all over.
Yet, I don’t ever really expect to see a cat. I’d like to think I’m being vigilant, but I know it’s driven by anxiety.
I didn’t even see the deer. Then, suddenly, they were there, staring at me with their big wet eyeballs in the mottled understory light. The deer materialized out of nowhere in an instant as I finally saw what I had been looking at.
There they stood, fifteen feet or so from where the lion had been standing staring me down weeks earlier.
I had walked up oblivious to the presence of deer when looking carefully to avoid a lion.