My wife and I spent six years living in a one room cabin with a sleeping loft. Total area: 600 square feet. And yes, cabin means no running water.
One Sunday in October I wasn’t feeling well. It was about 5 pm. I decided to just go to bed. I climbed the stairway to the loft, was about to lay down when I spied an animal on the road.
“Dana,” I called, my eyes glued to the window. “Come here. Now.”
She must’ve known from my tone of voice that something was up. Because believe me I don’t usually issue commands like that. I heard Dana’s footsteps on the stairs, lifted my arm and waved her over.
Together we watched this lynx walk down our dirt road and turn into our driveway. It proceeded down the driveway all the way to the cabin and turned again, like it was going to walk across our deck.
We ran down the stairs and positioned ourselves at the small window looking out onto one side of the L-shaped deck, and sure enough, this big cat was strolling down the deck like he owned it.
It stopped right at the window and turned its head our way. It was so close—just three feet away—that I could see the little tufts of fur on its ears. It didn’t seem to be looking directly at us, more like over or beyond us.
It kept going and turned the corner on the deck. We ran to the next window and watched the lynx move to the edge of the deck. It faced away from us and assumed a pouncing position, its muscles contracting, like it was going to spring.
I looked beyond the lynx and there, in the fireweed, was a snow shoe hare, nibbling. The lynx pounced. The hare bolted, and they both disappeared into the forest.
I don’t know the outcome of the chase, but would’ve missed the whole thing if I hadn’t decided to go to bed at 5 o’clock.