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In 1979 I was fresh out of college and had no idea of what I was going to do with my biology degree. Jobs weren't plentiful. A friend suggested that I could get seasonal work with the state park system, which could eventually lead to permanent employment. I submitted my application to Mount Mitchell State Park and sometime in early August began my work as a lowly "Park Attendant". The pay was lousy, the work involved picking up cigarette butts, cleaning toilets, and mowing, but at 6000 feet above sea level, the view was priceless. Sometime during my first week, the seasonal naturalist took me to view something that would color my whole tenure at Mt. Mitchell. We went into the boreal forest on the east side of the ridge, only a stone's throw from one of the ranger's houses. The firs were thick there and the forest floor was spongy and rust colored with fallen needles. Very few plants grew as ground cover here because of the low light level induced by the thick canopy of close growing firs. There in the dusk, stuffed in under the shallow, exposed roots of a Fraser Fir, was a deer carcass. It had been partially eaten and could only be identified by its hooves and amber and white hair. The naturalist told me that this was typical of the way large cats, particularly cougar, cached their uneaten prey. They would return later to finish it off. I felt an eerie uneasiness being in that place, and knowing that I would be living less than 150 yards from here. It was also strangely comforting to think that I was finally living in the wilderness, something I had done only on weekend backpacking trips before now. The days and weeks passed. The carcass was left undisturbed and forgotten. I thought no more about it as I learned my duties and made friends with other park employees and the mountain. I was practically in heaven. I was living and working on the highest peak in the east. I spent my off-duty hours exploring the secret places seldom visited by humans. I began to acquire a knowledge of the vegetation and wildlife and developed my skill in nature photography. My stamina and strength increased. Life was indeed good. The Pisgah National Forest borders the east side of the State Park. That side of the mountain had once been logged and was a mixture of grassy fields and forested areas. Here and there a Fire Cherry or Mountain Ash or a lone Red Spruce or Fraser Fir rose from the fields, trying to establish the next stage of natural succession. In September, the snowy flower-tops of white snakeroot stand above the grasses, especially in moist hollows. Sections of forest, probably left by the loggers because of the rugged terrain, dip down into the fields, the dark blue-green providing contrast to the ripe hay colored grasses of late summer. Silvery skeletons of dead fir lie like fallen tombstones in the dense vegetation, those still standing silhouetted against the ever-changing sky. Late September was the beginning of the bow-hunting season for deer. Hunting is not allowed within the park, but is legal in the National Forest. The main gate of the park controls access to the Forest Service hunting area. An old railroad grade was open to vehicles during deer season. This road denoted the park boundary, was used by hikers, and led to the park's water reservoir. One of my duties was to arise before daylight, drive down to the park gate and open it for only the few earlybird hunters who wished to drive in. After 8:00 a.m., they could come and go at will. One pleasant afternoon, Clyde "Hoppy" Hopson, a long-time ranger at the park, gave me the assignment to walk the park boundary. I was to look for hunters who may have veered out of the National Forest and into the park. I eagerly accepted the job, knowing that the opportunity to hike alone for a few hours was one of the fringe benefits of my employment. I started up the trail toward the tower, then turned onto the Commissary Ridge Trail. Only the whispering breeze broke the silence of that warm weekday afternoon, and an occasional trill from a winter wren. A mile or so down the ridge, the park boundary leaves the official trail and starts out cross-country through the evergreens, passing through fern glades and around rare Paper Birch. Eventually the line crosses Lower Creek, a tributary of the South Toe River, near Camp Alice. I had seen neither deer nor deer hunter. I finally arrived at the fields that occupy most of the area below the restaurant. The grass grew knee high in hummocks that made travel a little tricky. It was easier to follow the deer trails that zigzagged through the meadows. Ultimately they would lead into an area of thick brush and blackberries, ideal cover for wildlife. It was one of these very blackberry thickets that my traverse led me to on that day. As I neared it, I was startled by a commotion commencing from the center of it. I froze, not six feet from the edge of the copse. A large animal burst out of the upper side of the briar patch and headed up the mountainside. I could hear heavy footfalls on the resonant ground. This animal was moving fast, not loping off. I had not seen it yet as I followed the sound of it crashing through the thick growth, behind and around a large spruce. To my right was a small, open draw, maybe the head of a spring. The snakeroot was growing thick in the center of it. It was at the head of this fairly steep slope, beyond the spruce tree, that I first saw it. I felt the hackles on the back of my neck begin to rise, I didn't breath. It was not a deer. The deer by that time had shed their amber spring coat and were now a dusky gray. This animal was tawny rust in color. I couldn't see the lower half of its body, or its face because of the snakeroot and grass. I did not see a white warning tail-flag; if there was a tail it was tucked down low, out of my sight. Deer usually lope off, in bounding leaps to safe cover, then stop to survey the situation. This animal was hell-bent for heavy cover. Its back arched and straightened as it reached out with both front feet to grab hold of new ground and pull its back legs up even with the front. Two rounded ears, protruding from a heavy, rounded head, skimmed along, just above the feathery snakeroot blossoms. As it barreled straight down the draw, I scarcely had time to realize that it was a cougar before it disappeared into the forest below. The whole episode lasted only seconds. A long moment passed, my adrenaline began to flow. What should I do? Maybe I could find a track, some hair, if I traced the path of its escape. Should I go into the woods and maybe flush it out again? None of these ideas seemed to contain wisdom or safety. After some time, my heartbeat slowed and I decided to let the experience be enough, I did not need more proof. I was elated at the gift of a glimpse of this secretive cat. I practically floated up the incline toward the restaurant on the ridge. When I topped out, I noticed a North Carolina Wildlife Commission vehicle in the parking lot. I found the two wildlife officers finishing lunch inside. After making some casual conversation, I couldn't contain my news any longer. As I informed them of my experience I could see a smile of condescension come to their faces. I couldn't believe they would discount a credible witness to such an event. Maybe they just didn't want to publicly acknowledge they knew of the existence of these creatures in these parts. Could it be that it would complicate their job if they actually found evidence of a panther in the park? For whatever reason, they assured me that I had only seen a deer. I did not press the issue. That was twenty years ago. The incident still exists in living color in my memory. I have no idea if any of these phantoms have survived. I worked another year at the park in various capacities including naturalist. I saw no more evidence of the presence of cougars, but each time I ventured alone into trailless reaches of the park, I couldn't help but look over my shoulder occasionally with the sense that I was being watched by hidden eyes.

other articles about the presence of cougars in the Southern Appalachians

All images, files, compositions, writings are copyright Edward M. Kelley