Marooned in the Forest: The Story of a Primitive Fight for Life

by A. Hyatt Verrill

I had seen no game during my tramp, although tracks of foxes, hares, and other creatures were numerous, and, reaching my own side of the lake, I entered the forest and proceeded to seek carefully for game. I had walked for some distance and was well within the woods when I again felt the sensation of being followed and watched which I had experienced when dragging home the deer. At first I thought this was pure imagination, for I had seen no signs of lynx tracks in the vicinity, but nevertheless, I could not resist the desire to glance furtively about from time to time. Finally the feeling became so strong that it got upon my nerves and almost unconsciously I began to swing around on my tracks toward my cabin. Presently I came upon my own trail, and then I knew for a certainty that instinct had not played me false, for beside the broad, oval marks of my snow-shoes were the unmistakable tracks of the lynx. The beast was trailing me! At first I felt fear, but this quickly gave way to anger at the lynx for daring to track me, and I became possessed with the determination to slay him and be rid of his presence once and for all.

To attempt to approach within reach of the lynx would, I felt, be useless, and I knew he was far too sagacious to be caught in my traps. I decided to match my own skill and cunning against his and to bring him to his death through his own persistence in following me.

Carefully stepping in my former tracks I continued on for some distance and then, turning about, retraced my steps, still stepping in the marks already made by my snow-shoes. Presently I came to a spot where a low limb projected above the tracks and, grasping this, I drew myself up, untied the snow-shoes from my feet, and very carefully worked my way along the branch to the trunk of the tree. It was leafless and bare and afforded no shelter, and I knew that the lynx would see me long before I saw him and so, dropping to the snow on the farther side of the trunk, I made my way to a near-by evergreen and, climbing up, concealed myself among its thick branches.

With an arrow fitted to my bow I waited, peering forth through the aisles of the forest in the direction whence I had come.

The time passed slowly. A great, scarlet-crested, pileated woodpecker flitted to a neighboring tree and the forest echoed to the resounding blows of his powerful beak. A flock of redpolls twittered among the branches above my head, and crossbills clambered, parrot-like, among the drooping cones, shearing off the scales with their scissors-like beaks in their search for pine seeds. A gray Canada jay alighted upon one of my snow-shoes and pecked at the dry bear’s hide, eying me saucily meanwhile. From a treetop a squirrel chattered, and from all about came the plaintive calls of chickadees. The forest was full of busy life, each tiny creature busily gleaning its livelihood and all unmindful of my presence.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then at last I saw him. Slouching along in a loose-jointed stride, the lynx skulked on after me in the distance, keeping as much as possible behind trees and fallen branches, sniffing at my footprints and ever and anon stopping to peer about, while turning his head first this way, then that, as if to smell the air for a suspicious scent. Presently he reached the spot where my two trails met and instantly the creature became all alert. For a few steps he trotted back upon the old trail and then, turning, came back and went along the new trail for a few feet. Evidently he was somewhat puzzled, for his every action betrayed the fact. Then curiosity gave place to suspicion, and with a single lithe bound he leaped into a tree and, crouching close to the trunk, peered about as if striving to catch sight of me. But he could see nothing that resembled the being he was hunting and, reassured, he sprang down and, after a moment’s hesitation, came trotting toward my hiding-place.

Already the wild things about had seen the great cat and had scented danger in the tawny, threatening form. With a piercing cry the woodpecker ceased his tattoo and winged his way swiftly out of sight. The squirrels in the treetops ceased their chatter and hugged the bark, motionless. The twitter of the redpolls and crossbills was silenced. Even the bold whisky-jack, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, perched far out of reach and contented himself with taunting the lynx with raucous cries. Only the chickadees seemed undisturbed. Regardless of the approaching form, they continued to flutter about and to utter their sweet calls, as if they realized they were too tiny to attract the savage creature with his lust for blood.

Now the lynx was within a hundred yards; I could see his baleful green eyes, his half-opened mouth, and his keen, white teeth. Each instant he was approaching closer. Never had I suffered from buck-fever before, but now my hands shook, my teeth chattered, and a strange, choking sensation gripped my throat. The lynx was within easy bow-shot, but still I hesitated, striving to steady my nerves, determined to take no chances, and watching with fixed gaze as he came nearer and nearer. At last he reached the spot where I had doubled on my tracks, sniffed about, raised himself on his hind legs, and before I realized what he was about he sprang to the very branch upon which I had drawn myself. Instantly he caught my scent upon the bark, crouched low with bristling fur, and turned his fierce eyes directly upon my hiding-place. By some supernatural instinct he seemed to have divined my ruse and to have discovered me. Perhaps he did not actually see me, perhaps it was mere chance which led him to jump into the tree, but at the moment I felt convinced that he saw me as plainly as I saw him, that he had overcome all his natural cowardice and was bent on attacking me, and that in another instant he would launch himself across the intervening space and fly at my throat with those great, hooked claws and gleaming teeth. Scarce a score of feet separated us. At any moment he might crouch and spring. Drawing back the bow with trembling fingers, I let the arrow fly. Even as I drew the bow I knew the lynx detected the motion, and as the string twanged I saw his great form shoot into space, I had a glimpse of the outstretched feet and bared talons, I heard a snarl of rage, and the next second I fell crashing to the snow as the lynx plunged through the screen of branches about me.

The force of my fall buried me under the snow; before I could rise, even before I realized fully what had happened, something landed on me with a thud that knocked the little remaining breath from my body, and with a wild, frightened yell I struck out blindly with fists and feet. What followed was the madness of nightmare. Blinded by snow, frightened half out of my wits, dazed by my fall, struggling, kicking, striking, I was whirled about like a giant teetotum, while my yells and shouts mingled with snarls, growls, and piercing screams. Glimpses of evergreen-trees and blue sky, avalanches of snow and a brown, furry form, revolved in a kaleidoscopic blur. Suddenly all motion ceased; I found myself lying, panting but unharmed, in a crater of snow, and, sitting up, I rubbed my eyes and glanced about. Instantly I realized what had happened. The lynx had missed his mark, had fallen squarely on top of me, and together we had fought and struggled in the snow, each more frightened than the other, each striving to break loose, and both scratching, striking, and screaming with all our strength.

No wonder I had been dazed and my mind turned topsy-turvy. The marvel was that I was still alive and well and not minus eyes, ears, and strips of flesh. My furs had saved me from the lynx’s claws, and the snow had acted as a pad, but my clothing was in tatters, bunches of lynx fur were scattered about, and all around the snow was churned, tossed, and furrowed where we had spun hither and thither like a mad pinwheel.