Face to Face
Timothy John Mallow, MS
Coryi Foundation, Inc.
Copyright © 2003 Timothy John Mallow

 
I had been up all night tracking him across the wet flatwoods and hardwood swamps of the eastern side of the greater Mallory Swamp of north Florida. This vast region of pines and swamps is considered sheer wilderness because of its wide expanse across the Big Bend region. So vast and remote is this region that during the Civil War deserters had sought refuge deep within a part of the swamp. There, the place is called "Deserters Hammock", as delineated on topographic maps. Such a feature and name sort of establishes a cautious tone and mood for this area, and for my experience there.
 
Twenty-four hours with no sleep, my eyes were straining to stay open. The beeps of his radio-collar emanating from the speaker of my tracking receiver contrasted harmoniously with the pre-dawn calls of the whipper whirls. A light ground fog caressed the windows of my jeep. The sparkling morning stars commanded my attention of the heavens in this amphitheater of life. The scene was most surreal and yet, medieval. I suppose the only reason I didn't fall asleep was because I wanted to meld with the forest, the wildlife, and most importantly, the austere and most majestic object of my focus.
 
Akbal had proven himself a capable animal. His home range was huge compared to most other bobcats in my study. His daily travels were far-ranging. At times, I could hardly keep up with his travels as I tracked him day and night. Beyond that, he was in fact, a most supreme predator-fighter. The day he was captured rendered up that fact. I capture most of my animals in traps. But during two weeks of September 1996, I used cat hounds and their master from west Texas along with a wildlife veterinarian student from Gainesville, Florida. The master, the most notorious Rowdy McBride, is a man of extreme experience. His forays into the world of nature have included hunts in Siberia where he was tasked to capture Siberian tigers for a joint conservation project conducted by the Russians and Americans. There, he lost one of his hounds to a male tiger that had back tracked the hounds while being pursued. Rowdy and his hounds had also been to South America to capture puma for a similar study. He's also worked for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission to capture Florida panthers so biologists could radio-collar them to find out what was needed to save those great cats from the brink of extinction. Thus, Rowdy and his hounds were more than capable at helping me with my captures. However, the day Akbal was captured proved a most trying day for one of his hounds.
 
We started the hunt around 5AM. As Rowdy's four hounds walked along the dirt road, noses to the ground, I sipped on my coffee as I eased my jeep slowly behind them. For whatever reason, the hounds had turned off onto another road. That road took us into a darkened forest, its canopy of tall pines hovering above us like emerald ghosts maintaining a vista that commanded that men pay due reverence to their domain. The trail was grassy, indicating that it was less traveled by man. A ground fog this early morning broiled the dawn light with luminescent volume. All in all, the place was most mysterious.
 
All of a sudden, Suzy, the lead hound, bolted into the forest, yelping and barking incessantly. The other three hounds followed her cue. Vehicles came to a halt. I climbed to the roof of my jeep and listened to the echoes of the hounds as they purposed to route their quarry. Bringing the eyepiece of my scope to my eyes, I strained to see the action in the distance. But all I could see was an occasional tail of a hound as it crossed the grassy trail ahead of us.
 
Akbal was literally taking these hounds for a circuitous trip. We sat back and watched over the course of 45 minutes as he made figure-eight patterns about our vehicles. Back and forth across the trail he'd appear then disappear into the forest. Seconds later the hounds would follow. I felt like I was in the front row of an auditorium and watching a production of Wagner's "Ring of the Nebulung". It was most intense. I got so excited at one point, I jumped off the jeep, with camera in tow to follow the hounds. But Rowdy quickly staved my pursuit to prevent me from distracting his hounds. Reluctantly, I clamored back to the top of my jeep.
 
All of sudden, Akbal made a dash aft of our position and made way for a side trail. We could see his back bounce up and down with his gait as he ran through the tall grasses that lined the side of the trail. The hounds caught wind of his new course and made pursuit and so did Rowdy. The vet student and myself patiently waited to see if this symphony would return to our stage. But the howls and barks of the hounds faded in the distance.
 
When Rowdy's hounds were in pursuit of a cat via the mere scent on the ground, the vocalizations they made tended to resemble a series of sharp yelps. When the hounds could see the cat or bay it up a tree or in a thicket, the yelps turned into drawn out howls. After a few minutes of suspense the yelps turned into howls. At that instant, Rowdy had emerged from the side trail and frantically signaled to Mark (the vet student) and myself. We immediately knew what that meant.
 
Tempered by experience, Mark and I extracted our capture equipment from the vehicles and ran as fast as we could to where the action had now progressed. Now, the reader does well to know that hauling such equipment a few hundred yards is no walk in the park. All in all, we had 4 medium-sized backpacks, 3 medical cases, a pole syringe, and cameras to tote between the two of us. I remember carrying my load of equipment as I ran through the tall wet grasses that covered the trail. In that sprint, if my sweat had not wetted my clothes, then the morning dew most certainly did. I recall that we ran so fast to where Rowdy and the dogs were that in the excitement, I tripped over my boot laces which had become untied as they were snagged by the some of the more ‘raspy’ grasses.
 
Anyway, Mark and I knew what was going on - by the time we got to where the dogs were howling, it all became evident that they had bayed the bobcat at the edge of a small water hole adjacent the grassy trail. However, just as we got there, we saw Rowdy bolt immediately to the hole. Things happened so fast that I could barely recall the details at that point. But my eyes quickly focused on the cause of Rowdy's concern - Suzy, in her zealousness, had jumped onto the bobcat. Together, feline and canine tumbled into the water hole, which was by my guess, about six feet deep. Both of them disappeared into the murky water. All we could see were the turbulent bubbles of their struggle. Then the bobcat rose to the surface, apparently standing on the hound (which was still underwater) to keep itself above the water. "Oh my gosh!", I shouted, "Suzy is going to drown!"
 
The cat once again disappeared below the surface. The three of us immediately dived in to separate the two, for fear either might be killed in the process. Floating, swimming, feet barely on the bottom of the water hole, I don't recall. But what I do remember is that our hands groped into the frothy mix not knowing whether we'd latch onto the hound or the highly armed Akbal. Confusion was the rule. In a situation like this, one tends to think less of oneself and more so of the animals under one's charge. For Rowdy, it was the life of his hound Suzy that was of paramount importance. For me, it was Akbal.
 
Now, all things being equal, if a 27-pound adult male bobcat squares off with a 60-pound cat hound mutt, one could reason that it would likely be a close draw. However, given the power and cutting edge of a wild feline's claws and teeth, I'd have to say that the hound would fair the worse of such a confrontation. Let's face it, these cats spend all their days surviving under the most trying circumstances. Those that live to adulthood are generally considered to be the best fit, genetically speaking, to cope with the environmental factors in which they operate. After all, a 27-pound bobcat can bring down a 90-pound deer. Akbal was in our midst because he was a survivor, genetically superior to the less fit of his kind. Thus, this cat was by no means a walk in the park for any domestic hound.
 
And thus, such was how the scene did pan out. Instinctively, Rowdy reached for Suzy. I tended, in my own way and as best as possible, to the bobcat. Pulling her by the scruff, Rowdy brought up from beneath the surface a mix of wet hair, blood, and stupefied expression - Suzy had faired the worse. Her face and head was covered in blood. I think it was at that point that we all realized that Akbal was more than a match for any chase hound and that we had bitten off more than we would otherwise care to chew.
 
Looking about into the water, I saw a trail of bubbles transect away from us toward the far edge of the hole. Soon thereafter, like a Los Angeles class submarine on an emergency ascent, the great cat broke the surface of the water and frantically swam hard to escape his captors. The contrail of his wake added to the turbulence created by the three of us in the mix of hound, man, and cat, generating confusing waves in the aquatic vegetation that lined the hole. Clamoring up the bank, Akbal turned to look back at us, not even bothering to shake himself of the water on his fur.
 
My attention averting from the fallen mutt, I watched eagerly as the three remaining hounds circumvented the hole to once again route the predator. But this time, weariness and a thick edge of dense shrubs at the far side of the hole worked to our advantage. The hounds bayed up the cat relentlessly against the impenetrable wall of briar and fetterbush. Akbal spat and hissed his aggression. The dogs barked and howled back, occasionally one of them launching forward to take a nip. But such was futile as the great feline swiped its razor sharp claws in an explosive outward arc. The hound would back off in turn.
 
‘What to do! What to do!’. I whispered in contemplation. Seeing that Rowdy had taken the severely wounded Suzy to the near bank to pull her out of the action, I turned to Mark shouting pressingly and sufficiently to be heard above the mayhem, "Prime 3 cc on the pole syringe, ten percent telazol push. I can get him on a reach from the hole with the dogs on the flanks. He's cornered." Quickly did Mark fill the syringe with the ketamine mix and mount it to the end of the pole. After wading to him and grabbing the pole, I darted back across the hole. After three steps, I was in water deeper than head high and found myself now swimming with one hand.
 
Rowdy followed, looking to me curiously when he came astride me near the far edge. "Give me the pole", he sharply commanded. He had to be kidding! "I can do it", I replied reactively and snidely, "I'm in position." The look on his face told me what he was thinking. And I was thinking the same thing. After all this effort and time, each one of us thought to be better than the other in apprehending a cat, and as such, we each considered it our own duty to handle each capture's most critical moment. "Well", I thought to myself, "This is my critical moment. I am in the hot seat and do not intend to give it over to another." Aside from that, this was 'my' cat, 'my' research, and therefore, 'my' show! Rowdy ate the proverbial bullet and watched reluctantly and patiently as I eased gently closer to the very angry and very active animal, a mere four feet from me.
 
His eyes were bright with a deep amber sheen. His ears flattened, he presented a resolved look and instantaneously spat at me. His breath struck my face with a hot flash of passion and fear. For some strange reason I thought the fragrance to smell pleasantly familiar as that of a girlfriend from my high school days. But then again, it seems all the breaths of my bobcats smell like those of my ex-girlfriends'!
 
The dogs kept up their incessant barking, in the mix and throe of action, frequently averting Akbal’s attention from me. Standing in the waist deep water steadying my stance on its muddy and unstable bottom, I drew the pole to a ready position and locked my thumb to the dispensing plunger. My heart was racing. This was no spear, and I was not a Masai warrior about to take a lion. Yet, my adrenalin surged. Despite the technological dominance of this study with all our high tech tracking equipment and advanced medical gear, this moment was one of pure art. I had one shot and it had to be zeroed to the haunch; for any slight deviation from the muscular target could land the needle deeply impaled into the abdomen and possibly into a vital organ. And, it had to be timed to occur in synchronicity with the rotation of Akbal’s head away from me and to the dogs; for then the penetration of the needle would be unseen by him and the drug could be successfully dispensed. With so many variables, I felt as if I'd be better off donning a blast shield and letting ‘The Force’ guide my 'light-sword'.
 
I closed my eyes, drew in a breath, then reopened my eyes, drawing down with sheer concentration onto the fleshy thigh. No fancy cross hairs, laser guidance, nor fly by wire acquisition system here; just plain old savvy 'English' was at hand. The world was closing around me, yet went silent. Oblivious to sight and sounds, I saw my cue. His head rotated, and so then instantly did my arm. The pole catapulted, striking Akbal in the haunch just aft of the crease. In one single motion, I drove the needle deep and depressed the plunger. With explosive reaction to the sting, he bolted toward one of the dogs in the process of trying to flee deeper into the brush. Like a pinball glancing off a post, he changed direction in an instant, becoming entangled in a network of vines.
 
"I got him", I yelled. Rowdy then moved in to exert more effective control on the dogs. Looking at the syringe, I could see the plunger had been driven all the way down and that the now bent needle was adorned with a drop of the ketamine mix at its tip. I began to breathe easy. Throwing the pole to Mark, I urged him, "Reload please". We had to be ready should the initial dose be insufficient. Within five minutes, Akbal began to tip in response to the drug. Eventually, he settled to prone and turned on his side into a deep sleep. My critical moment had passed and so did I, with flying colors. We had Akbal, at last!
 
Suzy... well, she is another story. Truly, this was not a good day for her and she required emergency medical care at the small animal hospital 50 miles away and numerous stitches. Needless to say, she spent the next few days recovering from her severe head wounds. As for Akbal, this was just the beginning of a number of exciting close encounters over the course of the following year during field research.
 
To the casual reader, this method of capture may seem inhumane. Indeed, chasing after a wild animal with four hounds may seem dangerous and is harassing to the bobcat. However, what we are trying to accomplish will serve to take this species far into the future. To me, it is no different than the painful  prick of a needle that may keep me from acquiring polio or small pox. Ecologists, in this sense, are doctors of the natural world and though methodology is not always pleasant, the positive results of research that conserves a species or a resource far outweigh any unpleasant and largely harmless means to that end. And I must add that radio-collar research places no impediment on an animal’s day to day venue of survival. Radio-collared subjects go on to live as long as non-collared subjects with the same mortality frequencies in each sex and age class.
 
It is no easy task to study a population of any species of wild cat. The forests or savannah plains are your office, your laboratory, and your home. A comfortable bed is typically the seat or hood of your vehicle or a bed of pine needles. Hours and days go by without seeing another soul and you often question your decision to make a niche of such a calling in life. You put up with sweltering heat and humidity, torrential rains, freezing nights, pesky insects, and venomous snakes. And then there are the hunters that scoff your work of conservation or kill your subjects. And of course there are the wary landowners that hate you for generating data from research that is used to establish land use limitation policies. Then there are vehicle break downs, as well as getting stuck in deep sand or mud. And when funding runs out, you scrape the barrel of your personal accounts merely to avoid a time gap in the database. Last but not least, there are the ‘war wounds’. Working closely with wild cats is risky. The bobcat may not be a lion, but his tenacity is as robust. Pound for pound, they are as voracious as a leopard, as powerful in the bite as a jaguar, and as determined as a lion to stand their ground. This researcher has numerous scars, needless to say.
 
However, despite these challenges, you do not quit because you have been smitten to a passionate end and lifestyle – that of interacting with exceptionally beautiful and majestic creatures in the natural world. Most importantly, you live and work to protect what is left and know that what you are doing is truly a labor of love with a significant and honorable goal.
 
I think the hardest part of the work though is to see the death of an animal you have come to know in the wild through months and years of tracking. Ntwadumela is a case in point. This male was killed by a hunter after only 3 months of radio-tracking. He was shot in the hind leg by a high powered rifle, suffered a shattered femur, succumbed to massive infection of the wound, blood poisoning, starvation, and shock. After 4 days of delirium, he painfully limped his way into a tree fall and brushy den at the edge of a marsh and died in his sleep. When I found him, he was lying on his side with his eyes and face pointed to the marsh. I crawled into the den, laid down where he was, and looked out to see that which was his last view in this world. His view consisted of brilliant amber waves of marsh grass moving lazily in the autumn wind, a blue sky above at their tips, and wisps of cottony clouds transecting that sky. I also recall the night before he had died: an endless sea of stars with a crescent moon; whipper whirls chiming in the distance; and peepers singing amidst the aquatic foliage. Then I recall his face as I had found it: his eyes were open and it was as if he wanted a lasting look at the life he had known – a seemingly  final closure to a certain love of life. Funny, I think many humans do this on their deathbeds! Each time a cat dies, I sense that a part of me goes with it. Contrary to popular opinion, researchers do get attached to the animals they so diligently watch and study in the wild.
 
When one of your study animals dies, they rarely die close to a road or trail. Often, one has to trek deep into a swamp or a secluded hammock to retrieve the carcass. Many times, the carcass is not intact and you merely save items that are the most valuable for research. You have to try to ascertain cause of death in an investigative way in much the same way as is done by a forensic criminologist. There have been many instances that I have bagged an animal and stuffed it into my backpack for the walk out. It can be a messy business. But again, what can be obtained at a necropsy back at a field station can shed more light on the ways these animals live and die. On rare occasions have I had to abandon the animal in place due to an advanced state of decomposition. A female bobcat died in the middle of a huge gum swamp awhile back. My associate and I spent a few hours wading through waist deep water, using the tracking collar as a guide to her body. We had to first breach the swamp at an edge inundated with sun drenched aquatic grasses. There, the web of life was extremely diverse and abundant – alligators and cotton mouth water moccasins included. Once in the dark interior of the swamp, we pressed forward not knowing where the proverbial road may lead. Fortunately, we located her body floating in 4 feet of water. This cat smelled terrible. There was no way I was going to haul her out. So we did a field autopsy right there in the water. The best we could conclude was that she died as the result of a moccasin bite. She had a large wound on her right flank that had appeared to take on a necrotic character prior to death and that suggested venomous break down of tissues. The saddest part of this is that her death had orphaned three 3-month old kittens. Attempts to trap them were unsuccessful and they were presumed to have not survived at such a young age. This is another ugly aspect of field research – the orphans! And you become more sullen when you realize that you are merely seeing the tip of the iceberg with respects to all the animals you have not radio-collared, and that have succumbed to similar fates out of man’s vista.
 

Published in: Feline Conservation Federation 47(4):26-28.