My grandma, Annabelle Revak, passed away on January 10, 2018. She was an outdoor enthusiast who grew up harvesting whitetail deer and taking part in predator control in northern Wisconsin. She always processed her own meat and canned her own jelly, never afraid of hard work or adventure. When I inherited her Winchester 94 lever action 30-30 with open sights, I knew I needed to use it on an epic hunt. I just never imagined it would be the perfect gun for my once-in-a-lifetime mountain lion hunt.
As soon as the snow started flying, my phone started buzzing with photos of cat tracks and treed lions from my hunting friend, Ty, in Wyoming. I would reply with texts like, “Nice work. Let’s get me one.” He told me to get my tag and come down with my boyfriend, Brady, after the snow. Ty asked what I had for firearms. I listed my .45 pistol, 22-250, 7mm, and my grandma’s 30-30. When he asked if the 30-30 had open sights, I proudly replied, “Yes!” Ty said, “That’s the ideal one, bring it.” I was thrilled to know my first hunt with my grandma’s gun would be a lion.
Day 1: The sun was against us as tracks were melting left and right. Luckily, we found a promising track quickly. Ty put the dogs out, and they went to work. We found drag marks from a freshly killed deer, which indicated the lion was nearby. Naturally, the lion refused to tree since we were in a rocky, vertical, and treacherous location, and the cat could go places the hounds could not. I frequently handed my rifle off to Brady so that I could climb the rocks, not being a mountain goat myself. Not wanting to wear the dogs out, we pulled off the track and sought another. Although we searched for the rest of the day, we only found four more old cat tracks.
As dark approached, I spotted a coyote off the road by some timber and decided to take a shot. I had three bullets in the rifle. I took a 125-yard shot and missed an inch above him. He ran off, but it was nice firing Grandma’s gun, an inauspicious end to my first day out with the 30-30.
The forecast for the rest of the week called for even more sun, and we lost our snow fast. However, the next weekend, as I struggled to recover from a cold, new snow fell and we decided to try again. Brady and I received the text to head to Wyoming because conditions looked great, so we prepared to hunt in the morning.
Day 2: After this fresh snow, we saw more bobcat than lion tracks. Again, we experienced a lot of windshield time with no success and decided to go back out at dawn in a different area.
Day 3: Now, we were bound and determined. After three days in the truck, the radio had started repeating the same 15 songs over and over, and after hearing “High Hopes” by Panic! At the Disco 48 times, I dubbed it my official lion hunting song. The wind was against us, but we put the miles on anyway. After finding six different sets of fresh wolf tracks, we headed to a new area where we could safely run the dogs. We immediately found a track by another fresh kill, a buried doe mule deer. Ty collared the hounds and reached for the GPS, which refused to start. As it continued to stay stubbornly blank, my hopes of running this track began to fade. He changed the battery, nothing happened, and my hopes dimmed.
Still, Ty decided to turn one dog, Camo, on the track, which she followed to the river where the lion crossed. The lion went straight up a rock cliff, and even though Camo did her job, it was too dangerous for her or us to climb those cliffs. It was getting late in the evening, but I didn’t want to admit defeat. I asked if Ty would have time for one more day of hunting before we had to wait for another snow, and he was up for it. We would return in the morning with a working GPS and try for this lion again. Hopefully, it would be near the kill so that we could run it down the river instead of up the cliffs.
Day 4, November 27, 2018: Up early and heading back to the same spot, Brady and Ty went to check for fresh tracks near the kill while I stayed at the truck to get my pack and rifle ready. I zipped open the case and slung my 30-30 over my shoulder. As I took my first step, I felt the stock swing by my leg and thought that the leather sling had broken. However, when I looked down, I was horrified to see that a screw, the one connecting the stock to the receiver, had come loose. Not only was it loose, it was lost. If it had fallen in the snow, there would be no finding it. I carefully searched the rifle case and truck until the guys returned, not having seen any fresh tracks. With the screw missing and the sign gone cold, my spirits sank once more.
With optimal snow conditions dwindling, we got back in the truck for one last drive up the road. We occasionally hiked up canyons looking to see if a cat crossed further in only to find fresh grizzly tracks from a bear trying to find one last carcass before hibernation. While “High Hopes” played for the third time that morning, we turned around to drive out, but suddenly, Brady and I simultaneously spotted cat tracks. Ty checked the track, and even though it was from yesterday, it was impressive. Ty decided to turn Baylor, a female Plott/Black and Tan cross, on it. She took the track like a champ and opened. We followed her as she crossed the river and headed up a steep rockface. At that point, Ty turned Ruka, a Del Cameron Bluetick female, out with Baylor. They both scrambled and climbed up ice and rock to continue the chase. Ty cautioned me to prepare for a long all-day race after this cat since the tracks were old and the animal had probably covered a fair distance already. I looked at the canyon and, with an optimistic attitude, suggested that the cat might have just hunkered down right there for the night, staying close. Ty gave me an indulgent smile, doubting it would be that easy and knowing we would likely be pounding the mountains all day.
I got my pack and rifle, grasping it with two hands to hold it together without the missing screw. I followed Ty and Brady up a steep, snowy ridge, my lingering cold kicking my butt. During early elk season with my bow, I had dominated the mountains, running up them. Today, the mountains were winning and I was doing my best just to put one foot in front of the other. Then, Ty said something, and Brady relayed it to me, “Treed.” The best word in the world a houndsman wants to hear. We had barely hiked more than 20 minutes and the hounds had the lion in a tree. Ty barked at me to light a fire under it, so I handed off my rifle, which was slowing me down holding it together, and kicked it up a notch.
Brady spotted the lion in a dead tree about 200 yards at the top of the canyon. A glorious sight for any houndsman is a lion chilling in a tree. We slowly made our way to the lion, which perched in the tree calmly, taking in everything. Brady instantly started filming while Ty gathered the hounds safely away from the tree and gave me the go ahead. I only had two rounds in the rifle and more in my pocket, so I needed to make my first shot count. I carefully lined the bead in the open sight, kept the stock tight against my shoulder to hold the rifle together, and fired. The cat fell a little but lunged in a death grab, climbed back up the tree, and left me with nothing but a head shot, not one I wanted to attempt with my fragmented rifle. Then, the lion turned to his right, opening up his vitals, and I fired the second and fatal shot.
Ty gave us high fives, and I started crying. Never has anything meant more to me than this hunt. I couldn’t hold it in any longer - the years of making plans that didn’t work, the uncooperative weather, the hard work put into this expedition, the experience hunting with a great friend and boyfriend, and the lion shot with my grandma’s rifle. Tears of joy welled up as everything converged. I pulled myself together to go see my lion, a nice big tom. Man, there is absolutely no ground shrinkage with cats.
I notched my tag and started taking pictures. I had always imagined holding a mountain lion like hunters in pictures, holding it aloft with their whole bodies, but what they don’t tell you is how hard it is to get that pose. Initially, Brady and Ty let me try to pick him up by myself since it was my lion. After about 10 minutes of humoring them that I can’t get him by myself, Ty grabbed the lion so that I could get a better hold. Yes! I had my lion. I cheered internally even as I huffed out to Brady, “Quick, take a pic. He’s slipping!” I won’t lie, it’s easier said than done getting a good full-body lion picture. My tom weighed 138 pounds but looks bigger in the pictures.
At that point, Ruka started looking over her shoulder and growling. Not knowing if wolves or a grizzly might be coming, we decided to head down the mountain and take more pictures at the truck. On the way, we passed a cave where the lion had slept the previous night, his tracks and bed dug into the gravel. He really did cross the river and hunker down for the night. It just goes to show you never know what will happen when it comes to hunting. My grandma would be proud that I used her rifle for predator control and that I didn’t give up. Just like her whitetails, this lion meat, which is a lot like pork, will make many meals for my family. I am proud to have harvested this majestic animal, proud to continue my grandma’s hunting and providing legacy, and proud to be a hunter.
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