"TIGER"
By. Chip Anderson
Silence is danger in the black Amazon canopy as it swallows and suffocates you. The awful anticipation of what is out there, watching and waiting is exactly what keeps you from running and screaming, betraying your position, bringing down swift, deadly consequence!
Each small sound that penetrates the jungle night brings you back to breathing life, and the putrid odor of rotting 3 day old Vaca surrounds you hopefully covering your own stink as it sours the humid air, mixing with the acrid sting of cat urine.
Gripping the stock of the 12 gauge double lying across my lap, I try to get a better hold on it, but the perspiration from my hands has soaked the antique wood thoroughly, certainly not adding to my courage or confidence in this poorly thought out venture and venue.
Yet I wait. Will he come? The biggest part of me hopes NO!, but what's left of any good sense I have says YES. The stress of these past few days is nearly too much to take, so I beg silently for an end to this one way or another. All the time ears straining in the sudden and silent darkness, for that quiet whisper of soft padding feet…a twig snapping...some hint...some small gift from the gods...a warning…He is here !
Jose shook his head in disgusted recognition. Lying under the midday sun in a small clearing, partially eaten and half covered with debris, was the 19th head of beef taken in 5 months. The tell tale fatal injury was evident even to me! The crushing bite to the cranium of this young steer had ended its days of grass and leisure on the vast estancia, drug unceremoniously to a hidden spot along the banks of this oil green water where the assassin had hoped to dine undisturbed. And he would have had the "sucha" (vultures) not given away his stash. Jose examined the carcass closely. At least a day old, he pronounced. Clearing the brush away, he stepped back, looked at me and back at his discovery. The tracks of the thief…Man, were they HUGE! I, of course, had never seen jaguar tracks so I suppose ANY would look big to me. However, Jose and his dogs had hunted and dispatched many over the years. So understandably, I took seriously his rattled demeanor. Eyes wide, he spoke in a hushed tone, as if hoping not to attract some unseen attention. "un tiger muy grande!" Pondering for another second, "muy peligroso patron". Looking back now, that was the understatement of the century!
It had only been an hour or less before that Jose and I had been standing in the corral of the Estancia, kibitzing with Miguel the Ranches owner. We were scouting out some areas for wild pigeon and dove in preparation of some shooting clients arriving in several days, and the cow hands had always been a great source of information in the past. It was just that very moment when Miguel was pointing out a distant tree line, explaining where birds had been feeding, that our conversation was interrupted by the clatter and dust of a horse coming at full gallop. The rider, Delphin, head cowboy on this place, raced into the yard shouting, "TIGER! TIGER!" Pulling up hard choking us with clouds of dry sand, as he imparts with much drama and excited animation, just how and where he had found the kill and how he clearly felt the perpetrator, a massive tiger (jaguar are always called "tiger" by the locals and not "tigre" either as you might think) was still very close by as the cow had only a small portion eaten from of it.
Though Jaguars are protected in most South American countries ( ridiculous politics, as their population at least in this part of the world is in no way threatened), the habitual cattle killers are routinely hunted down and destroyed . The region of Amazonia, from southern Ecuador, North East Bolivia and Western Brazil is a sparsely populated countryside consisting mainly of ranching communities, family owned and not at all lucrative. So any loss of stock is a very serious matter. Jose explained the real problem with these tigers, especially one as large as this one, was that they will virtually take over an estancia, feeding at will on cattle exclusively. They will consider it their territory and with beef being rather easy quarry they can and do put some of the poorer operations out of business. Worse yet they often lose all fear and respect of the Gauchos and this is when they can become very scary indeed! Though not widely recognized as true man-eaters, they certainly have a reputation in these regions as successful man-killers! I suppose whether he eats my boney carcass or not is all rather moot, at least for me. This was bloody inconvenient timing with clients arriving; we really needed to be scouting birds, not solving Miguel's feline problems. Of course, he had always been so kind and gracious in hosting our groups of shooters on his estancia, I knew I was going to have a real guilt trip if we turned down his anguished request for assistance, and it did seem like the best time to deal with it, from a pure advantage perspective, as all the signs were in our favor. Fresh kill. Cat still close by. As worried as I was about the probability of having to do something about it, I have to admit there was that 10 year old boy inside me that exists in the soul of every hunter and he was very excited about the possibilities of what adventure lay ahead.
I had only been here two months at this point. Yours truly, rover boy-raconteur had somehow by hook or crook, pluck or luck, found himself as a professional hunter in South America and so far had not faced down anything more dangerous than an eared dove, though I had been severely pecked by an angry, wounded bull picazurro pigeon I was attempting to dispatch. I had hunted dangerous game in Africa, elephant and buffalo, but truthfully cats just scared the be-jeesus out of me. Anything with such potential for savagery as a jaguar deserves as much healthy respect one can muster. Besides, I am no erstwhile Jim Corbett and this was no pretty kitty, this was 350+ lbs. of Vaca-cidal mayhem I wasn't eager to get too close and personal with.
Jose's assurance was if we got his pack of top hounds on this right away, we could finish this quickly - this afternoon! Keeping us in Miguel's favor and gaining us future good will was some comfort to me, so with a bit of trepidation I agreed. Jose had become quite an expert on "tigers". Running his own pack of hounds since he was a young boy, he had put away many cattle killers in his years. Though he was reluctant to brag, as it wasn't in his nature, others who knew him told me he had hunted and finished off at least 23 jaguars and at least twice that number of puma all in assistance to the locals. I found him an interesting and pleasant paradox, as he simply LOVED jaguars. He talked about them, their habits, environmental needs, etc. constantly and he would never hunt them frivolously. When he did pursue a specific animal, it was only if it had done considerable damage in his home community and he felt compelled or convinced to assist.
By 2pm we had arrived back at the ranch and the bed of the Toyota pick up was loaded with 6 of the best dogs in Jose's pack. I was thrilled to see Spartan, a 4 year old male I had bred back in the Carolinas at the Tryon Hunt club. I'd sent him as a gift to Jose a year before - a registered American Foxhound –turned "tiger dog". It was very impressive that he had made Jose's 1 st string, as he told me "many, many" do not live through their first few hunts. It takes a special canine to be a great tiger hound, as jags have a way of turning the tables so quickly, circling back on their own trail during the chase, rushing out with a single deadly blow, killing the dogs one at a time, as they get strung out on the scent. Along with Spartan, we had Chico, Carla, Pancho, and two young bitches, Marisol and Valentine, that Jose said showed promise. I guess so - they were still alive!
Dropping the tailgate, the slobber of hounds poured out into the cortina, working the moist air, noses down, sterns up. It was Carla that struck first, bawling like a banshee, her voice was music to Jose and me. As quick as that the chase was on, all hounds now finding the line, feathering off into the green jess, singing full cry! We jumped into the truck, racing along a dirt track parallel to the working pack. From the sound of things they were not cold trailing, but hot on the heels of this cat. Turning north the cry began to get fainter in the distance. We drove as fast as we could to the far northern end of the ranch. Fifteen minutes later, after some straining, I could make out the chaotic chop of hounds, bawls, barks and yelps. They had bayed game! Jose grabbed his old 12 double and a pocket full of buckshot. We hit the ground at a run, tearing through brush, briars and bulldogging our way to get to the dogs before the tiger had a chance to break or worse he killed some of the pack. Somehow as we ran thicker and thicker, I lost sight of Jose and was left with only the continuous baying of the hounds to guide me. Splashing through a shallow river and up into the grass that was taller than me, I broke through nearly on top of the swarming pack. Pancho was lying off to my right on the ground. I couldn't see if he was dead. I could make out Chico, Spartan and the two young bitches Valentine and Marisol. Carla was nowhere to be seen! But my imminent concern was the location of the jaguar. I could see where the dogs were looking and barking, but for the life of me I couldn't see anything! With the grass and brush so high it was impossible, but the hounds knew he was there. And it hit me, I had no gun! The only weapons on me were two leather dog leashes I had been flogging the brush with in my haste to get to the hounds. Leather dog leashes were a bit "light" in my book for jags. Where was Jose? I realized I could be in serious trouble. I started to back out of this arena, when in a comedy (not funny at the time) of errors I nearly bought the farm and definitely scared at least 7 years off of my already tenuous existence on this ball of dirt! In my retreat, I inadvertently stepped on the foot of Spartan, who was doing his best vicious imitation, holding his ground heroically. Well he let out a surprised, pained yelp, startling me and knocking me down in one quick move. At that very second, the cat, waiting for its chance, exploded out of its grass queirencia - flash of burnt yellow and black taking advantage of the confusion to make a break for it! For one moment as I lay on the ground, I thought "MY GOD! This is how my life ends?" Then he was gone. I listened as the two pups Marisol and Valentine disappeared across the river in hot pursuit.
Jose had been close at the time, but couldn't get close to the cat or hounds because his approach was stymied by a steep bank. No chance for a shot! DAMN! As we stood there taking stock of things, the missing Carla showed up badly clawed and lame. We checked on Pancho who, though also badly injured, was up on his feet at least. We leashed up the hounds we had with Jose carrying little Carla all the way out of that swamp to the truck and the rest of us limping behind. I asked what might happen to Marisol and Valentine and Jose felt they would give up soon in the heat and come back or the tiger would kill them. I am happy to report that both girls showed up at the estancia house un-injured later that evening.
Jose and Miguel were understandably upset, not only for losing the cat, but the injuries to the dogs as well. I tried to brighten the mood by suggesting that perhaps our foray had not been in vain, that perhaps we had put enough of a scare into this tiger, enough so that he might take up his predations somewhere else, but no one really believed that.
The next day was spent doctoring dogs and licking our own wounded egos. For me I was just glad to be alive to have an ego! By mid afternoon, we were again out scouting pigeon and dove, with time running short; we needed to locate some real honey holes. Driving and glassing the miles of back roads on Miguel's ranch, I could make out through the binoculars a vehicle racing in our direction, dust trailing. I started to get that sick feeling this wasn't going to be good news. Pulling up even with us, it was Miguel, anxiously telling us to come quickly. Javier, one of his gauchos, had run almost smack into the tiger while working in the vicinity of yesterdays kill. The cat walked out of the cortina pretty as you please; Javier's horse doing back flips in panic, nearly dumping the scared cowboy.
The big bastard was back! My theory of having frightened him with our previous attempt on his life was now completely blown out of the water. So, what now? With 2 of the 6 dogs on the injured list, Jose was not going to attempt to put the remaining hounds on this track. Not enough experience or numbers to bay up this clever feline.
Jose: "Well, Patron, there is another way."
Me: "NO! NO! NO! Not on your or my life! It's too dark! That cat is too big! And he is definitely not scared of us!"
Jose: "Yes, Amigo, all of that is true, but his boldness will be his death."
Me: "Yeah, or mine!"
This "other way" as it turns out is the classic - we sit up at night, close to the last kill. I was armed with the 12 bore and buck shot, Jose was packing a heavy caliber flashlight and the "piece de resistance" - a large hollow gourd that, when scrapped properly with a wooden stick, makes a sound exactly like a jaguar coming in to purloin some of this "gato grandes" property. So not only are we sitting ducks in the dark, awaiting the arrival of six feet of spring steel muscle and savage claw, we would now push the envelope further by introducing the element of territorial imperative! I really need my head examined!
Before taking on our certain suicide this evening, I had stopped in at the hacienda to explain to Miguel that no cowboys should be wandering around tonight just to be safe. Of course, he assured me that with the cat still out there on one would be out in the fields or jungle tonight. With that, Miguel asked me if I'd like a drink with him before I headed out. He had been saving a bottle of scotch some client had left a while ago. Unopened and 12 years old, it was tempting, but I declined, deciding I needed all my wits with me.
I listened and watched, seated on the forest floor, back up against an ancient Toborochi tree, bathing in my own perspiration. I could see as afternoon shadows grayed into evening, twilight bleeding out into the finality of the night. It had become the time of the hunter. It's amazing how alert you can be in a situation like this. Every sound startles you a bit - the splash of a camain in the river behind you, the awful screech of some night bird or hapless prey, the patter of the huge bird spiders hunting through the mulch that surrounds you. Jose was seated to my left against the same tree as we needed to keep movement, noise and such to a minimum. We had worked out a system of taps that would communicate the approach of the big cat - 1 tap on my left shoulder meant in front, 2 he was on the right, and 3 left. I would then turn the shotgun in the appropriate direction and at Jose's final tap, the flashlight would shine and I would fire the gun, swiftly and accurately, and, voilà, dead tiger! Jose had gone over this plan with me several times, telling me what to expect. I just hoped that I had the nerve to pull it off!
Jose waited until darkness had settled in completely, whispering to me "Are you ready, Amigo?"
"Sure." I checked the gun for the third time to make sure I had the buck shot loaded. "Lets see what happens." Up until this moment, the blackness around us had been alive with all manner of activity, but as Jose scratched across the rough center of the gourd -UUUNNGHH! UUUUNNGH! - the night went into a nervous silence. You could feel the presence of creatures around you –unseen, unheard - the noise they feared most in amazonia - the throat-clearing bass "chuff" of a tiger on the move - had mortified the jungle night. Again Jose, UUUUNNGGH! UUUUNNGGH! I nearly swallowed my own tongue as the blackness was punctured with the guttural cough of our tiger. We had our answer. I felt José's hand on my shoulder - not sure whether to calm me or himself? I didn't dare move a muscle. I couldn't blink! Hell, I can't remember even BREATHING! The only thing I could feel was the stream of sweat pouring down my face, burning my eyes. No need to call again. We could now make out the soft splash of water as he came across the river to our rear. This was not our plan. The trail to the kill was clearly well used and it had shown that he had been coming down river from the north to our right, so all of our plans were now up for grabs. As they say, the best military strategy ever thought up never survives the first shot, and the jaguar had certainly fired first, really putting us in a very bad situation. To get to the carcass he would have to pass most likely with 10 to 15 feet and would then be between us and the way out with only the river to our rear. We were in trouble big time if anything went wrong!
I could see nothing, not even the rotting bait, but I could hear now, (or did I imagine it?), the stealthy padding of huge feline feet, coming closer and closer. Jose's hand on my shoulder sweating through my shirt was grasping me tightly. Perhaps he thought I might run. Run?!? I wasn't even positive I would be able to move to raise the gun! Then I knew he was there. I couldn't see a thing, but I could hear him breathing and could smell cat distinctly. There are few experiences on earth, perhaps the sound of a pump gun in the dark or the buzz of a rattlesnake in close proximity, which can give you that low-voltage, stomach-dropping shock, like finding yourself completely helpless blind within feet of one of nature's most efficient predators. It was a strange sensation of intense fear and exhilaration at the same time. Jose tapped once and stopped. The night burst into view with light as he turned on the torch. Eyes of fire and shock stared at us from less than 4 gun lengths! For one brief second I was frozen. I cannot remember raising the gun or if I had already done so or whether I fired both barrels simultaneously or back to back. I saw the huge cat jump off to the right into the brush, Jose keeping the light on the spot where he had disappeared. I recovered quickly and re-loaded covering the same. We waited for what was an eternity, as if neither one of us wanted to be the first to claim some victory. Finally I could make out the distant hum of a vehicle coming from far off. So we waited longer still. Shouts from across the pampa were the welcome voices of Miguel and Delphin. Having heard the shots, they had come to see what the out come might be, in hopeful anticipation of good news.
Jose and I, now having regained our own composure, moved from the tree up the bank, towards where the cat had been standing at my shot. No more than 12 paces! We pushed on carefully, Jose scanning every blade of grass and every twig. Then he appeared, an amber and obsidian carpet laid out on a bed of velvet moss, the only imperfection were the massive holes that perforated his hide from head to throat and the smear of gore draining onto the ground. Squatting, I was finally able to put my hands on the object of my fear and nightmares, laying here beneath me, in a strange sad way I could sense a certain dignity and savage grace that even death couldn't steal away!
I was weak and a little sick. I knew this cat had to be killed, but I really felt that a big part of what the jungle I had come to love, what the Amazon was all about, what it meant to me, had died a little with him. And Jose, I know felt it too; both of us sharing that brief silent second of responsibility of what we had done.
"Es un trabajo muy triste, mi amigo." (It is sad work, my friend.)
But you can be sure that I was grateful that it had turned out as it had! As Miguel and his cowboy approached, shouting cheers and thanks, I could see that, God bless his heart, he had brought that bottle of 12 year old scotch with him. Now, I don't mind if I do! He poured Jose and I a long one, as the cacophony of the night in Amazonia slowly returned and it was as it should be!