Mountain Lion Eyes

Growing up with a spontaneous, moody, tall tale talking father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. For example, in early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.

As a self-employed landscaper, the love of nature and gardens was in my Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional, unplanned weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small man-made bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.

The adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”

Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!

In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.

On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.

If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.

During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.

We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.

Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.

We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.

© 2011