My Last Excursion
It was an ordinary lynx, I guess if lynx were ordinarily seen. Except in this area, this lynx crouched precisely in the northern part of South America was far from home. Its long limbs, short tail, and fur filled ears was the only reason I identified it. Phenotypically it was a dead match, geographically a total mystery. She crouched over her den instinctively, protectively. I watched from the protruding rock where I stood. I had left my group at the camping site on our two week excursion in these parts of South America. As I stared into the face enveloping her auburn eyes I saw not fear, rage, or any of those typical reactions that could be expected from a species that hadn’t been domesticated.
I was frozen, a lover a nature, I knew the extreme cost I would pay if any part of this moment were not absorbed.
I reached for my camera to document her beauty, the
strength this animal possessed, the ability to survive under circumstances she was created not to. Then, she did something entirely predictable; she dove into the den in a quick and fluid movement to escape the eternal frame my camera threatened to capture.
I left disappointed at the lack of evidence I was bringing back to camp. Most stories get bigger in the re-telling but there was no need for exaggeration with this particular incident. My fellow outdoorsmen were all amazed as we walked into town for a much needed good lunch. In town, I discovered I wasn’t the only person to have viewed the beautifully, out-of-place creature. Flyers blanketed the town, or rather community, (everyone seemed related here) and there was heavy talk of the person to champion my precious lynx.
Incredibly disturbed, I tried to point out to one of the locals the extreme rarity of her existence in their area. Rather than obliterate her, try to make peace and co-exist here. Take
pictures, write articles, publicize sure, but don’t harm her; she is now a precious gem to your country. His response was cold and not what I had hoped to hear. He babbled something about destroying crops; of course this wouldn’t be about hunting. They didn’t have sport hunting here like we did back home, instead they viewed this lynx as a knat, a pest, something to swat away from their productive land.
The next day was cooler. I decided to hike back up to that same rock where I had seen the lynx. My son came with me so the trip was much slower. He was tired before we were even half way there. “Daddy, my legs hurt,” he kept saying. When we finally arrived I painted the picture for his young imagination. Vivid as it was, he had the most fun telling me all the possible stories as to why she decided to visit South America all the way from Canada and how she came about travelling, either by boat or his personal favorite, sneaking on an airplane. We didn’t see her that day.
My son and I arrived back at camp and again, all the men and boys were ready for dinner. We made the long stroll back into town. As we passed through all the café’s, convenient stores, and other small shops we came across an oddly crowded parking lot. It echoed loud voices all scrabbling to be heard over the other. Their trucks piled into each space without any cautiousness and unaware of invading the neighboring space; we decided to see what all the hoo-rah was about.
As we shouldered through the crowd, I held my son in my arms. We never made it to the front of the group, but the people were shouting their intentions so there was no reason to push forward. The group cried out a loud battle cry as each ego boasted of what could be. “Kill the lynx!” “Save your crops and animals!” The excitement in their voices made me angry. Killing for food, protection, or animals that harm your way of living is different than deliberately killing something before it is even guilty for anything. We unanimously left their vicious, blood-thirsty pep-rally.
After we had all finished dinner, the disturbing thoughts of the town’s event that night had slowed, until we heard the deafening shot. It rang out loud, sharp, and somehow sounded victorious...for the hunter. My son’s face was tilting up to face me, and then we heard the most horrific sound. Before
she could let out her final cry, a last growl, there was another shot, followed by another, and yet still another. The shots that rang out after the first were painful, each stabbing deeper and deeper into my lungs. We never heard one sound from our beautiful lynx, not one noise was perceivable.
When we reached the parking lot, we heard the proud truck reeling to announce its prey. The hunters pulled into the parking lot, screaming, chanting, taunting. Before the truck completely stopped its passengers were already piling out. They reached into the bed and hurled the body that was once so majestic and mysterious to the ground where it lay awkwardly and partly dismantled. The crowd let out a roar of praise, yet my group sat silent.
My son rushed forward before I could reach him, squeezing into spaces far too small for me. He raced, paying no attention to those in the way to reach the lynx, our lynx that had amazed us both. I had already begun pushing forward claiming my son and calling his name. But it didn’t matter. The crowd fell silent as my son reached the center where she lay. I stood on the inner edge. I watched his tiny hands reach out for her, and finally rest in her rugged fur. He sat there and cried.
When he turned to find me I stepped forward, knowing the rush of questions would flow after the tears. Instead, over the silent crowd, my son’s voice spoke beyond its years, “they killed her because she didn’t belong, right? Are they going for us next?”