by Laura Dene McIntyre
I fought off a mountain lion yesterday. With rocks and sticks and my best girlfriend at my side, we fought it off together. It was creeping along behind us, slinking lithely as cats do, eavesdropping, curious, hungry.
With my feet stepping firmly on the forest floor, rain dripping from the cedar branches and from the tip of my nose, I was in my Temple. This is where I pray silently to the Universe, where I play on my days off and where I breathe peace.
The early March wind was softly gusting along the treetops, as usual.
Minutes before the cougar appeared, we had been speaking about reclaiming our stories as Our Own. I was overwhelmed with the understanding that I need truly to believe that I am the hero in my own life’s story, not the victim. Never the victim. My life is not happening to me; I am the one in charge, I am the one who controls how I feel, how I react, and only I can determine how life’s lessons impact me. Sandra and I were having this very discussion out loud, our shoulders relaxed with confidence as we trod along the earthy path.
We are nearly thirty and single, and we thought we were talking about how we would not let any more clown-boyfriends into our lives. We thought we were talking about being the main characters in our world, taking every lesson we’ve learned from our past and applying it to our present. This glorious present, where we were hiking in the unspoiled wilderness. The glorious present, where we felt the rain on our faces, where the characters who hurt us are just minor characters in the plot, people who entered our stage with the purpose of teaching us perhaps compassion, resilience, trust or courage. These characters can’t rule anything we don’t allow them to rule. I knew then I had shifted consciously into believing I am the one who gets to be the hero.
As we turned to return to the truck, we were caught in a limbo trance, staring straight into a lion’s eyes. She could have been tracking us the entire hour but she now crouched beside a fallen tree, five meters away. An iciness slipped over and around me as we realised what this meant. My father’s friend was killed by a mountain lion several years ago; these cats don’t hunt mice. We took turns bringing each other out of the depths as we slid in and out of frozen immobility.
As we thawed, we made ourselves look like one giant beast, holding onto the other’s arms, clutching and waving the biggest tree branches we could lift.
Yelling and bellowing, we had to remember what our Girl Guide leaders had taught us twenty years ago. The motto Be Prepared came to mind, and something about a reef knot. But underneath was an innate knowledge that we had to choose in this Glorious Moment not to be prey.
Holding eye contact with the awesome animal, we retreated slowly, continuously searching for anything to throw at her. She stepped forward with every step we took backward. Interestingly enough, our cell service worked in the backwoods, and we spoke to 911 to let someone know our deal. We were an hour from civilisation of any sort, fighting off a mountain lion with sticks and rocks. We were not going to be prey, nor the victim in this story. We would fight to the death if we had to. I was willing to kick that pussy’s ass and I was not going down without a fight.
I scanned the trail for rocks and found nothing. Sandra found a large stone and hurled it at her, and she eased away slightly. For fifteen minutes she stepped forward, staring me in the eye, daring me to survive this.
Stumbling backwards down the trail, we faced her head on, hurling chunks of wood and waving the logs in the air. We were yelling such profanities that my uncles, the potty-mouth loggers, would have swept tears of pride from their cheeks. Shaking and near exhaustion, we pretended to be the bravest heroes we’d ever heard about. Our cat eventually stalked away into the mossy distance, leaving us to live our lives like the heroines we know we are.
RCMP gunfire echoed in the distance as the day drew darker. When officers arrived to escort us out, we had been alone for over an hour on a slippery wooden bridge. We had our collection of stones and branches for protection, and we were watching over our shoulders into the deep underbrush. At last, we were able to exhale.
Shivering as rain seeped through my layers, I quietly observed the magnitude and fragility of my life. I sifted through the pieces of my story that I want to hold onto, and looked closely at the ones I want to let go of. If I can fight off a mountain lion, I can unleash the ghosts from my heart into the depths of the rainforest. Thank you, feline Goddess of the Backcountry for allowing me to fight for my life, for allowing me to be my own heroine, right now.
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