Tracking the snow cat: hot on the trail of the lynx—the northern woods' most secretive predator - Cover Story

Sierra, March-April, 2003 by Kim Todd

Then, F10 is running.

The five of us thunder down the hillside, pushing through the tangle of rain-soaked subalpine fir, menziesia, and young larch, skidding over roots and rocks with antenna held high. Now that the researchers know the general area of the den, they fan out and check the most likely spots, peering under a fallen tree, shining a flashlight into a hollow log. Root boles, a rocky crevice--all need investigation. Lynx don't dig their dens like coyotes; they find a natural niche and settle in. It could be anywhere in this thicket of tall trees and waist-high shrubs. Somewhere below us, the mother lynx doubles back. Carving sinuous curves into the shadows, she's almost invisible, but not inaudible. The blipping of her radio collar says she's staying close.

Though rarely seen, lynx often appear unconcerned by humans when they do encounter them. Early natural-history writers found this lack of ferocity disappointing. "[T]he lynx seems deficient in brains," wrote one observer in Forest and Stream in 1907, describing the animal's tendency to wander into traps. "I consider them the meanest and most cowardly animal we have in Maine," said a writer named Manly Hardy, who complained that lynx hardly ever put up a good fight. These Montana researchers have noticed a similar nonchalance. Most of the time the lynx run, but Squires tells me how a crew member once walked by a female with kittens. As he paused to watch, the kittens continued to scamper, while the mother lay down and closed her eyes.

A piercing whistle cuts through the conversation. Someone has found the den.

At the base of a subalpine fir, backed by two rocks and shielded in the front by a screen of small yews, two kittens intertwine as if fighting in slow motion. Covered with gray fur, streaked with black on the face and the ears, each could fit easily in a cereal bowl. Their eyes, barely open, are startlingly blue. Their mouths gape as if to mew, but no sounds come out. One separates from the ball and stumbles away, its coordination so poor each step is a victory.

The den, a flattened patch of pine needles laced with long tawny hairs, seems too unprotected. There's no overhang to shield the young cats from above. Frankly, the researchers are not impressed. They have come to expect better from F10. "This is an unusual den," Kolbe says politely. The mother paces below us, a blur between the trees.

One by one, Squires holds up the kittens, too young even to squirm with conviction, and checks the sex. A coworker plucks a few hairs and stores them in a vial. In the winter, when each kitten is big enough to wear a radio collar, they'll capture them again. The tracings of their movement and the DNA testing on the fur will let the researchers build a family tree and delve into each lynx's personal life. Who is its father? How far did it roam from its birthplace? How long will it live? If it's a male, how far will he travel to mate? If it's a female, will she take over her mother's territory when her mother dies?