1. Mountain Lion

            “Go away!  Get out of here!”

            Only the thin nylon of my tent separated me from the mountain lion.  With a deep purr, the huge cat prowled around my shelter.  The flickering flames of my campfire cast its silhouette against the slanted orange walls.  I was terrified.  I shivered both from fright and the cold mountain air.
            “Get!  Get!” I shouted.  “I’m not afraid of you!”
            I placed my thumb on the button of my emergency beacon.  Pressing it would send a distress signal, and rescuers would be here before dawn.  But they would recognize me.  They’d know my real name…Luke Dellar…and age…twelve.  They would know I was the runaway boy from San Diego, and my thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail would be over.
            The wild cat hissed.
            "Go away!  Leave me alone!"
            Minutes before, I'd been sitting by the fire, tying knots.  The undergrowth rustled, and I directed my headlamp toward the sound.  The ray of light reflected off the cat’s golden eyes.
            “What are you doing out there?” I shouted.  “What do you want?”
            My thumb stayed poised on the button.  What could I do?  If the cougar clawed through the nylon, I had only a pocketknife to protect me.  I banged the knife on my cooking pot, but the beast kept circling the tent.
            Motionless, I waited.  With every breath steam shot from my mouth and froze on the tent walls.
            “You still there, lion?” I said.  “Or did you run away, scaredy cat?”
            Scuffling footsteps came from the trail.  Through the nylon, I saw two light beams.
            “Knots, is that you?” someone called.  “What are you yelling at?”
            I recognized the English accent.  “Granite!  There’s a mountain lion out there.”
            Two people laughed.
            “Nothing out here, Knots, but a warm campfire.”
            I knew the second voice as well.  Sprinkle was a Canadian woman Granite had met in Sierra City.
            “Come on out, Knots,” Granite called.  “Enjoy your fire with us.”
            Slowly I unzipped the mosquito netting and pulled aside the tent flap.  Not a sign of the mountain lion.  The two thru-hikers sat by the fire holding their palms toward the warmth.
            “The lion was stalking me!” I said.  “It walked around and around my tent.”
            Again the couple laughed.
            “Are you sure it wasn’t Bigfoot you saw, Knots?” Granite said.  “No panther would come into a campsite with a fire blazing.”
            “Hope you don’t mind us sharing your site tonight,” said Sprinkle.  “We’ve hiked twenty-five miles today.”
            “We’ll cowboy camp here by the fire,” Granite said.
            I crawled out of my tent, looking into the trees.  Cowboy camping was a trail term for sleeping out in the open without a tent.
            “Are you crazy?” I said.  “I’m telling you, Granite, a huge mountain lion, as tall as my tent, was just here.  It’s probably watching us now.”
            Granite held out a Ziploc bag full of peanuts, chocolate bits, and raisins.  “Have some trail mix, Knots.”
            Seeing how unconcerned Granite and Sprinkle were, I began doubting what I’d seen and heard.  Had a mountain lion really been in my campsite?  Maybe it was just the wind and the shadow of a waving pine bough.
            That’s when I aimed my headlamp toward the base of my tent and dropped to my knees.
            “Look here,” I said.
            Granite stood and saw them, too.  “Bloody ‘ell,” he said.
            In the dust were paw prints over four inches long.