by San Francisco Walt


On a Sunday morning in March, I set off from Rock Spring to scout the mountain for future walks and to enjoy. Heavy rain showers had fallen during the night and continued off and on during the day. Otherwise, the day was calm and the temperature mild--in the 60's F.

I walked the Cataract Trail toward Laurel Dell enjoying the green and fresh wetness of the woods, the happy greetings of sprite Milkmaids, ballerina-poised Calypso Orchids, Fat Solomon's Seals, the excited-noisy rush of water in Cataract Creek. I continued through Laurel Dell, down the steep Cataract Trail, to view, and listen to, the thunderous fall of white water rushing to its destiny in the lakes below. The sights around me on the steep trail captured my admiration. One could almost sense the ecstasy of the erect and dripping, lichens and verdant mosses on the trunks and limbs of trees around me.

I walked up to the High Marsh trail, toward Bare Knoll, intending to experience the magnificent views. Droplets of water clung to the Baby Blue Eyes that carpet the steep hillside. The flowers were only half opened and seemed to be coyly playing "peek-a-boo." I turned off of High Marsh trail onto Old Stove Pipe trail. Rank after rank of Indian Warriors wearing scarlet head-dress stood at attention as I passed. At the top of the open rise, at an elevation of approximately 1,900 feet, I was over-whelmed and delighted by what awaited me! The entire hilltop was covered with California Lilacs chapparal in multitudinous, glorious bloom! Their delicate azure and purple blossoms surrounded me shoulder high, filling the damp, still air with a bewitching, appealing fragrance. I stood, head high, amidst the blossoms--trying momentarily to become a part of it all--attempting to absorb it into my consciousness so as to never forget. After some time, I moved on.

Down to the Mickey O'Brien trail then up to Barth's Retreat. At Barth's Retreat I recalled a trail which led to a place called "Buck's Meadow." I followed the trail, enjoying every step, as it led me across small brooks, over lichen covered boulders, young-green grass, and past politely-bowing Shooting Stars growing in the grasses along the side of the brook. I arrived at a place just below the top of the Simmons Trail. Feet took over and led me along an off-shoot trail, through the trees, toward the clearing where George Washington profile rock is located. I was lucky that feet did not lead me beyond the trees. A heavy rain shower struck and fell for some minutes. I took shelter beneath a Douglas Fir and a Bay tree. Silently, I stood there, listening to drops of water plop on the yellow hood of my rainwear as drops seeped through the canopy of boughs and branches above me. It was calm. The weather was temperate....a special moment of life's experiences.


The rain shower had almost ended. I stepped out of the dense shelter of trees and out onto the edge of the rocky clearing where George Washington profile rock sits in the middle of the clearing, as if holding court with his subjects. I looked across the clearing at George on his throne of stone. Then, my eye was drawn to something else, about sixty yards away, on the opposite side of the elevated clearing that was also holding court and looking directly at me! I froze in place. I was facing a fully-grown mountain lion! The coloring of its fur was tawny. Tawny was casually, royally sitting upright on his haunches, small cat ears attentively erect on either side of a broad head. He appeared to be about five feet tall while seated, and lanky in build. I fixed my eyes on the large cat in rapt fascination as he gazed back at me with contemplative regard.

I had never heard of a mountain lion attacking a person on Mt. Tamalpais. Nevertheless, I was apprehensive as I considered my options. It seemed minutes went by as I stood there wondering what I should do. Should I run? Should I jump? Should I throw stones and shout? I stood there defenseless. The only things I carried were the clothes I was wearing. Meanwhile, Tawny sat there, indulgently enjoying the day and the mountain views. We were companions, with George, in the clearing. Tawny no longer had eyes on me but looked out over and around the clearing.

I recalled an article about mountain lions I had read in Pacific Discovery magazine. The mountain lion was described as gracefully powerful and fast. Each sinew of muscle and innate physical coordination endowed it with amazing athletic abilities. If intent on doing so, Tawny could be across the clearing and on me like a cookie cutter in about two seconds.

V e r y   s l o w l y, and cautiously, I backed down the trail by which I had come. My eyes were on Tawny all the while. Tawny calmly looked about. But, I knew that he knew where I was. I thought his eyes momentarily fixed on me as they swept the clearing from side to side. As I retreated behind some chapparal on the edge of the tree line, where I thought I was hidden from Tawny's view, I stopped momentarily to observe that he continued to survey the clearing with undiminished interest--admiring all there was to see.

The moment of truth had passed. Today the game was his. The intruder had given way.
The snail was on its thorn; the bird on the wing; God in his heaven;   --as for Tawny----
all was well with the world.