Imprints

Imprints

By

Tom Baldwin

            Maggie first spotted a trail of footprints stretching across the snow-bound pond while searching the edges of the forest for signs of deer grazing. Perhaps deer, a moose, too late for bears—the snowshoe tracks of a wandering hunter? Was the solace she sought now fractured by a roving presence that now threatened her calm? A chill crept through her, causing a shudder. She had to know. She went downhill to the pond to identify her visitor. Paw tracks. A cat’s paw... a lynx, a bobcat, perhaps? Nope—too large. She’d seen the paws of big cats at zoos, of lions, tigers, and panthers. So far as she knew, large cats in Maine were unknown. 

The tracks led away from the pond toward the forest line before circling nearer her cottage. She looked back, upwards, at her porch and open deck. Something there was moving. The telltale silhouette of a large cat became apparent, shifting as the animal clambered onto her deck’s bench to stare at her. She’d left her pistol indoors. If he attacked, she’d have no defense. Beside her, in the lakeside firepit, an iron poker poked through the snow cap. She grabbed it meekly and felt the trembling sensations of fear increase. She remembered a warning. Don’t run. Face him down. Make eye contact. Don’t show fear. Hah! Armed chair advice, at best, yet her only choice. She walked up the path, pausing within fifty feet of the porch. The poker would be useless. She heard a low growl. She tried to stifle her fears. She’d read that predators could detect the scent of fear and become emboldened. They stared at each other. Neither moved. Minutes passed. Then, with another growl that sounded more like a groan, the big cat rose from his crouch and leaped off the porch, and retraced his steps, limping hesitantly across the pond before vanishing into the woodlands beyond. She went up to the deck. There was blood on the bench. Wounded. Had he been trapped? She guessed yes. Had he sought her help? She’d been a nurse. She knew the anguish of those suffering. The wound would fester. He might die in the snow. Yet, one doesn’t grab a medical kit and go hunting for a wounded cougar.

She went inside, warmed up, and buckled on her pistol. She was weapons-savvy, and practice had made her a markswoman. Now at least, the odds were even. She cooked her dinner while thinking about the animal—injured, in pain, cold, alone, and unable to hunt. Like an injured stray seeking help? Pity won out. She laced a pound of ground beef with antibiotics and left it beside his tracks at the edge of the pond.

The following day, the trail of tracks across the pond seemed wider, more distinct. When she checked for the meat, it was gone. She found traces of blood in fresh prints. That evening, she repeated her feeding and again for six days thereafter. On the seventh day, the meat remained untouched. A bleak sadness set in. She stared longingly across the pond. For those seven days, they had been friends. She set out treated meat for several days thereafter, but it was over. 

Maggie felt robbed of her solitude. She enjoyed skiing cross-country, solo, through the woods, along a nearby skimobile trail, and over the frozen pond. She had snowshoes and a medal for skating. If he was out there and confronted her again, he would lose, and she would be wounded for life. Her renewed loneliness won out. Her sense of peace was disrupted. A sense of defeat set in. She decided she’d return home until after spring thaw. From her research, she learned that panthers, also known as cougars, were considered extinct in Maine. None had been spotted since 1883. She learned also that among the tawny breed, occasionally, a cat having a dark brown coat had been reported. Well, she thought grimly—believe it or not— at least one brown cougar still roamed the forests in southern Maine. Yet, her only proof was photo sets of bloodied paw prints. 

When Maggie returned to her cottage in May, it was mud season, the unpaved road nearly impassable. “Spit on the ground, Missy, and you’ll make yourself a river!” A local remarked. It seemed too cold to put out the dock, but not for burning brush and downfall in the firepit. She checked her sand beach for signs of imprints. Nothing but the scratchings of a raccoon or other small mammal, perhaps a beaver.  Each morning while her fire blazed, she gazed across the pond and wondered. She imagined his carcass lying silent at the bitter end of his trail, with coyotes and lesser scavengers tearing at it. She tried accepting it as a natural evolution, except the cruelty of a trapper had intervened, and the natural order of things was no longer as it might have been. Was a rare and precious creature, perhaps the last of his kind, now forever lost? Could she have done something more? Should she have called Fish and Game? Would that have put him at risk of being put down? Would a wounded cougar be seen as more of a threat than one in good health? Would the sympathies for wounded wildlife or summary judgment prevail? She didn’t know. Given the choice, had she let her emotions intervene and caused more suffering leading to the same outcome? Was it better that nature take its course? Many of her patients had chosen that journey.    

On the fourth day of her return, it rained all day. The sun set early behind a gray mist that obscured the pond. She’d enlarged and framed a photo of a Maine cougar she’d found online and hung it next to the large window overlooking the pond. From across the room, she seemed able to reimagine the photo image materializing at the shoreline where he’d first found his tracks. That night, she barbecued a hamburger but felt ill and couldn’t eat. The next morning, she awoke to a glorious spring day cleansed by the recent rains.   Today, she’d float her raft and reassemble her dock. She looked down toward the shoreline. Then, back at the photo. Then, back at the pond. A thrill raced through her. She raced to her porch. On the shore, by the firepit, there were four of them—a magnificent dark male, a tawny female, and their newborn cubs. The male was staring straight at her.       Had she been closer, she might have heard a grateful mewing amidst his rumbling purrs. She teared up. He had been her patient. They had bonded. There had been a trust. She’d seen within the soul of a wild one, albeit briefly, and within her own soul as well—imprinting memories to last a lifetime.