The Time Capsule: A cat in the night and other wildlife tales

A “Far Side” cartoon from a few years ago has a pack of coyotes lounging on a hillside. Two are off to themselves. One says to the other, “Ten to one if I howl, they’ll all howl.”  
That scene has come to mind several times of late as the eerie yipping and wailing seems to draw ever-closer to the house. At times they sound as if they’re in the back yard, and may well be. On a recent morning I found tracks across the soft soil of the garden that were made by either dogs or coyotes. They passed so close to our chicken that, had the old girl peeked out the third-story window of her Orscheln’s deluxe, high-rise chicken condo, she could have watched the procession—perhaps caught their eye with a friendly gesture.       
I first recall hearing coyotes when, at about 12 years of age, I earned a Boy Scout merit badge by camping out along a gully a half mile from town. I heard the howls, imagined a horde of red-eyed, slobbering wolves, and was torn between hunkering in the tent or making a dash for home. Each had drawbacks, and I spent an uneasy night trying to come up with a third option.    
Coyotes were abundant then, and we saw jackrabbits, but some wildlife was scarce. Dad came home from work one evening, rounded up the kids, and we rode to a vantage point from which a pair of rare Canadian geese could be seen. Another car was parked along the road, with someone taking pictures of fowl now so abundant they sometimes become a nuisance. I don’t remember
vultures being around, but pheasants thrived.  
On a recent Saturday, my wife and I drove from Viking Lake to Red Oak. After a brief stop we went north, though Elliott and Griswold and on to Atlantic. We returned through Lewis, down the old Ridge Road to the Elliot-Grant pavement, then south on M63.     
It was opening day of pheasant season. In other years, the landscape would have been dotted with men and youngsters in orange vests, dogs bounding far ahead to let the birds know they’d best move on. But we did not see a hunter; not even one. There were, in fact, very few likely places. When crops are out the fields stretch endlessly, often without fence rows or windbreaks, waterways and boundaries trimmed short—countryside as barren as a vacant parking lot. The DNR tells us things are looking up, but it’s hard to imagine the birds ever making a serious comeback without habitat.  
Bald eagles, however, are common, bobcats have returned, swans can be seen all
winter, and creatures stalk the night that would have given this 12-year-old more to worry about than a few yapping coyotes.  
I’ve had a business association for 20 years or more with a man who lives near Red Oak. He tells a story that, coming from some people, I’d be skeptical of. Gary, however, is as sober and serious a fellow as I know. I’m sure his wife is trustworthy as well.    
They’d been away, returned home late at night. Pulling into the driveway the headlights flashed across an unusual set of eyes. Gary backed up, turned the car toward the eyes, and illuminated a mature mountain lion. It was close, so close, he said, there could be no mistake. The animal was broadside, head turned toward the lights, long and graceful tail held in the same low arc he’d seen in pictures. The big cat stood for a few seconds, then walked away.
The word “catamount” is derived from “cat-on-a-mountain,” or mountain lion. A county history tells of an 1851 hunting party.  They didn’t see a single pheasant, but bagged “2 wildcats and 1 catamount.”  
Might, 160 years later, it happen again?