One of the great outdoor joys of my life is to simply meander through the countryside. That means to hike along with no particular place in mind as my destination, and to do it in a very slow manner. I do my best meandering while hunting. A good example of what I’m talking about happened during my last elk hunt.

Rod Chandler and I decided to drop off of a high ridge and descend about a thousand feet or so into the depths of a canyon. Upon reaching the bottom, we started meandering on an old cowboy trail. Immediately we came upon a very large predator track. At first we thought that it was from a lion, but closer examination proved it to be from a very large canine. The track was more than double the size of a coyote, and we speculated whether it was made by a lost hound dog or even a wolf. (We both believe that these critters still roam the wilderness.)

Later we split up to hunt back along a mesa. I was meandering above rim rock when I came upon the ruins of a square pit house, the kind commonly made by the Mogollon Indians hundreds of years ago.

I found a lone shard of pottery with rope marks on its exterior side, and placed it on a stone, then moved on. Not fifty yards further, I found a second building site, but this one was full of dirt and covered with stones. It was about five-foot by ten-foot in size.

I rejoined Rod and took him to my find knowing that he had studied Indian cultures in college and could give me some insight into what I was looking at. There were pottery bits everywhere.

I also found another foundation, much larger than the rest. Rod explained that it was their Kiva, or meeting place. These “finds” made our day and our hunt, and they came from meandering.

The next day we abandoned our hunt for elk and made a trip to the area of Mule Creek to hunt squirrels. Again, we were meandering up a remote canyon when we came upon the remains of two buildings cut into the side of the hill. Large stones were used as walls and then mortared in place with mud. One building had a tin roof, and inside we discovered old bed springs. There was a hole in the side wall for a cook stove and another hole in the roof to accommodate a wood heater, probably a pot belly.

The remains of a spring house stood across the dry creek bed, and it held black, brackish water in its belly.

A short ways up the draw we found the evidence to tell us what this ancient camp had been. There was a deep, vertical, uncovered shaft and next to it about 20 feet away sat a huge 6×8x4-foot piece of machinery. It was a winch of some sort, and we could surmise that it had used a three-foot wide belt of canvas or leather to accomplish its task. We estimated that this hunk of machinery had to weigh four or five tons. The name of the maker, Fraser Chalmers of Chicago, could still be read, and the patent date of 1896 still showed clear.

Amazingly, the two long handles that worked the gears and wooden brake were still free and easily moved! Imagine that – and after nearly 100 years out in the elements! We could also see that this machine had been powered by a steam engine and boiler. What a work of art! I wish we could have loaded it onto the back of Rod’s pickup and taken it home. How many men and mules had broken their backs to get this behemoth up here and working?

The draw revealed many coarse chunks of golden quartz, none of which revealed any “color” to us. I did find several large pieces of white quartz which I brought home with me.

Down below the mine ruins I found a clear piece of quartz that Rod told me was “high grade”; it had a rose colored hue to it. Then in a short stand of grass, I found my most unusual find: It was the remains of a pipe made from the leg bone of a deer. It had a small half-inch bowl, and the stem was broken, probably the reason the miner threw it away.

A few years back, my son, Joey, and I were coyote calling up north a ways when we happened upon a brown boulder the size of a house. We meandered around a bit and discovered that the monster was made of obsidian, a neat looking black, glass-like stone. Soon we discovered “Apache tears” littered everywhere at its base.

I never forgot about that boulder, and last year I took my wife, Jeri, and two friends up there to look around. We not only explored that rock, but found two others of similar size. On top of all of them we found ancient drill holes used by Indians to grind grain and corn and other foods.

Meandering further we discovered more obsidian, but this was the rarer brown variety. A neat find.

Old shacks tucked up in brush-covered side draws and caves are always a treat to find while meandering. The other day I came upon a huge rock as big as a house; it was arched upward and underneath it was a cavity that went from one end to the other, very cave like. The ceiling of the opening was black from ancient campfires.

About a half mile below the rock was a spring, and at this site I found the track of a big male cougar. It was fresh. My friend Billy Lee and I will have to give this further consideration in the future. Beside the lion tracks were the tracks of a female cougar and her cub. Whether the male was with them or just happened to be drinking from the same glass is unknown to me, but it was a great find.

There have been many other finds over the years in this part of Southwest New Mexico, but they are fodder for other tales at other times. I hope you include some meanderings in your next trip afield. Who knows what awaits you.

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The Kilbourne Volcano near Deming

Photo by Thomas McGuire

Try to imagine, if you will, traveling along a deserted, sandy, narrow, semi-graded track in the middle of the south central New Mexican desert. Everywhere you gaze, there is a myriad of thorny mesquite, interspersed with the ever present chaparral brush (also called creosote bush or greasewood), dry yellow grass, and tall yucca plants.

Here and there a fast moving lizard darts across the sandy road in front of you, or maybe even a slithering prairie or diamondback rattler crosses your path.

Eight or so miles along this desolate stretch you see hills rising out of the flat desert floor. These hills stretch for almost two miles north to south and rise to a height of nearly three stories. They are also covered with chaparral and yuccas, but there is one large difference between these and any others in the area: These hills are actually sand dunes that form the east and north rims of an ancient volcanic steam crater known as Kilbourne Hole.

The sandy track takes you to the south rim, and instead of being up on a lofty mountain dome, you find yourself still on the desert floor peering into a gigantic hole, because Kilbourne is actually a sunken crater.

The crater is actually called a marre, and scientists, who know far more than I, theorize that lava flowing from nearby Aden Crater flowed over the earth’s surface and cooked the west limestone beneath. After a time, there was a steam explosion that produced the Kilbourne Hole. From the south the view is spectacular. The “hole” stretches for more than 1 1/4 miles across and reaches a depth of nearly 300 feet in places.

Peridotite or Precious Green Olivine at Kilborne Volcano

Photo by Larry Lightner

Not only is Kilbourne unique in being Southern New Mexico’s largest steam crater, but it has another distinction: It is the site of a rare, semi-precious gemstone known as Peridotite or Precious Green Olivine.

This gem lies mostly on the inner eastern and northern slopes just above the rimrock, and is found in various sizes of crumbly rock up to the size of one’s fist, or it can be found commonly in “bombs” which are softball sized chunks of rock which when broken open, reveal the semi-precious olivine.

Besides the green olivine, we found rusty reds, golds, purples, brown and black forms of the gem. My wife descended to the floor of the crater and there found some interesting “fingers” which resembled polished jasper or marble.

If you go in search of this stone, be prepared. You’ll need a rock hammer, a small bucket, a five gallon bucket left at your vehicle, safety glasses and leather gloves. The weather is mostly sunny and very bright, so take sunglasses, a brimmed hat, long sleeved shirt, long trousers, and either sneakers or hiking shoes.

The hike up and over the dunes can be very physically demanding because the east slopes are comprised of soft, deep sand, and the west slopes are very steep and rocky – and you must descend 100 to 200 feet to get the the “good stuff.”

And . . . you must always be on the alert for desert rattlesnakes!

I’ve been to Kilbourne twice and each time I came away with a five gallon bucket of peridotite for my rock garden. Outside of Kilbourne, you can only find this gemstone in Southwest Arizona, St. John’s Isle in the Red Sea, and in Burma.

The best and only way I know to get to Kilbourne is to travel Interstate 10 between Deming and Las Cruces, New Mexico to Exit 116. Go south off the interchange and take an immediate left onto a paved road which parallels the interstate to the east. A couple of miles on, the pavement ends and you turn right and head south for several more miles until you reach railroad tracks. Here the graded road turns left and you follow it and the tracks both east then south. From the time you leave this last pavement it will be 28.5 to 29.5 miles (depending on the accuracy of your odometer) until you reach a tiny, deserted junction with a shed or two. Turn right and head west for almost nine miles to the south rim of the volcano.

All of the dirt roads are graded but rough with washboard and some soft, drifted sandy areas. I recommend a four wheel drive vehicle or at the least, a two wheel drive pickup. This is no place for a passenger car, even if it is front wheel drive! Allow two hours driving time once you leave the pavement.

If you’re a rockhound or just like to see spectacular sights, then Kilbourne just may be your ticket.

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Not too long ago I made a hunting trip to the desert again. I also wanted to do a little camping in the back of my pickup. The following is some of that trip.

The first night was a bit of a disappointment, mainly because I had forgotten to pack my propane cook stove in my haste to get going. I had big plans for a well planned dinner. Instead I sat under the camper shell as rain pelted my surroundings, and ate unheated, leftover steak from the previous night at home and a dry, plain bagel, all washed down with grape juice.

The next evening, after a long day’s hunt, I wearily backed the pickup down into a fairly deep, sandy, dry wash where the strong wind was not quite so bad. The wind was cold, blowing from the northwest, so I sought out a windbreak in the form of a big chaparral bush and backed the truck as close as possible to it. This particular draw was filled with chaparral, yucca, and prickly pear, and it took some doing to gather firewood to cook over.

I set my fire ring downwind from the large bush; it was made from a tire rim from a mobile home and not all that big in diameter. But it would do as long as I cut the fuel wood to lengths of eight inches or less. I managed to do so with my trusty bow saw, making sure I did not cut anything larger in diameter than three inches.

After piling the rim full of hard, dry chaparral, I fetched up the Coleman fuel and dumped a cup on. A stick match thrown on the mixture produced instant fire. Sitting back in a dilapidated lawn chair, I waited for the wood to “coal up” while I also started to cut up some fillets (produced from a wild sheep that I had taken in Texas.) I lay the meat in a teflon-coated frying pan and proceeded to open a can of sauerkraut. One thing about cooking vittles on the open fire, you develop patience and a good appetite.

So in the meantime I also filled my blue, porcelain coffee pot with water and brought it to a boil, then made a steaming cup of french vanilla-flavored coffee. A metal cup held the brew, and it helped to warm my wind blown, chilled hands while the beverage also warmed my insides.

It took about 30 minutes for the wood to become just the right coals for broiling steak then another 45 minutes to slow cook the meat and the sauerkraut.

The food was worth the wait and I savored each bite, chewing it to the fullest, washing it all down with a glass of ice cold milk.

Green olives stuffed with pimentos were my side dish. They are something I dearly cherish but seldom get. (My wife says they’re not on my diet.) But out here, who cares! Dessert consists of two fudge-covered granola bars and a coconut candy bar (if you’re going to break a diet, why not do it right!)

Afterwards I sat back and relaxed under a full moon and gazed toward the town of Columbus, about 20 miles away. As the town’s lights twinkle in the dark, I’m intrigued by the fact that Columbus appears to be a vast city under the stars instead of the tiny, border town hamlet it really is.

A falling star adds to the scene as I realize the wind has turned from a steady torrent into sporadic, strong gusts.

It just doesn’t get better than this, I say to no one but the bushes, but I wish my wife Jeri could be here to share this moment with me. But she, for the most part, is a motel and restaurant person so I can only sigh and miss her at this pristine time in the night.

I wash the dishes in steaming water from the coffeepot relishing the warmth on my still cold hands, then throw the paper plates in the fire. I then set all the dish cloths on the branches of the bush so they can air-dry overnight.

A solitary plane flies over, its engines the only noise to break the reverie except the occasional pop and crackle of the dying embers of my fire. I do not freshen the blaze, preferring instead to let it die out so I can turn in early. I stare at the coals for a long time, lost in forgotten thoughts. I wonder to myself why when there is a campfire, a person has to stare into it, mesmerized by its glow.

Off in the distance I spot the Tres Hermanes mountains, lit up by the now high moon. They seem to appear three-dimensional under the clear light and much closer than they really are. I gaze about me; there doesn’t seem to be cloud anywhere, which is a comforting thought.

Contentment and a full belly bring on an onslaught of fatigue and the attendant desire for sleep. It’s been a long day. The fire has ebbed away almost to nonexistence so I throw dirt on it using the empty sauerkraut can as my shovel.

I peer upward one last time; it is a full, clear, starry sky, a far cry from last night when the clouds rushed by, low and leaden, full of rain. Tonight the humidity is gone and I can safely sleep in this sandy draw without fear of a flash flood sweeping me away into oblivion.

Tomorrow’s dawn is a full nine hours away, just enough time for a good night’s sleep under layers and layers of old down comforters.

All of a sudden it’s midnight. It seems as if I’ve only been asleep minutes instead of three hours.

Large, loud raindrops are furiously pelting the metal roof. I gaze furtively out the window; all I see are low, dark clouds pouring forth their water in sheets.

Dagnabbit! Quickly I pull on a jacket and boots. No time for jeans. Who knows how long it’s been raining a mile or two away up in the mountains at the head of this draw. Experience has taught me that in the desert it can be clear overhead then become a raging river at the same time because of severe rain miles up canyon. I think of the party in Utah just months ago who found out this fact the hard way. Some of them never made it out.

Reluctant to crawl from my cocoon, I give a sigh and push open the door and clamor out into the rain. Lowering the tailgate, I start throwing in coolers and dry firewood from under my truck. They all land on my bed.

Quickly I gather the towels from the chaparral and the dirt where they have fallen, then throw in the now cold fire ring.

The draw is still dry except for the falling rain. I fumble for my keys with cold hands and fire up the engine, cussing the desert and its unpredictability.

Gunning the engine, I drive a quarter mile to a flat between “my” draw and another; it’s not protected here, but it’s much safer and easier on the nerves. The wind is blowing once again strong, cold and steady. Miserable now, my sleep disrupted, I unload all the gear and stow it under the truck, getting more wet in the process.

Now dirt is all over my bedding but I don’t care as I undress and crawl under the mound after again lighting my propane, one-burner heater. In seconds I’m fast asleep.

The next morning the sun is shining brightly although the mountains to the north are shrouded in thick, gray clouds. What a little breeze there is, even slightly warm and somewhat soothing. It’s gonna be a good day in the desert.

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I took a trail the other day that wound its way far above the Gila River. After a mile or so, I left the trail and dropped off the ridge into a deep bowl covered with tall, old ponderosa pines. One pine, at the center, towered high above its neighbors like a matriarch.

As I walked beyond the huge tree, I spied the bare skeleton of a dead elk, its backbone and remaining rib cage stark against the brown pine needles. The decomposing head, still attached to the spine, sported a massive set of antlers that were six points to the side.

I lifted the head up; the spine remained attached. Whatever had killed the bull had not done so by breaking its neck.

This was an out-of-the-way canyon, far from the trail or highway where I had parked, so I reasoned the bull killer had not been a human. Since the carcass appeared to be about 3 or 4 weeks old, it could not have been left over from last hunting season.

I pondered what could have killed a 1,000-pound animal with fully functional headgear. A bear or lion, probably, although my friend, Billy Lee, says a lion will normally break its prey’s neck. Maybe this was the exception. I ruled out coyotes because the bull had been so huge.

I propped the skull and horns against a remote pine tree in hopes of getting a permit from the Game and Fish boys and then going back in for the prize. Then I noticed that elk tracks abounded everywhere in this remote place. I filed this bit of information away in case I decide to hunt the wilderness one day.

Now came the hard part. I had to climb out of this hole, and the sides of the canyon were steep. I was thankful for the many game trails that crisscrossed the terrain, and made good use of them as I negotiated my way upward.

An old fence crossed the slope about 100 yards below the ridge. As I slithered under the bottom strand of rusty barbed wire, my body was nearly vertical.

Climbing that last 100 yards, I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. My breathing became more labored. "Am I crazy?" I wondered. For once, I wished for a horse to ride. Of course, the critter’s legs would have to be two feet shorter on one side.

I decided I was definitely short on brain matter. Here I was, a 52-year-old man, alone, without any human having the least notion of where I was at, pushing my body to extremes. Go figure. But I knew I had done this sort of thing before, and likely would again.

After I made it to the top of the ridge and back onto the trail, I immediately encountered a huge pile of lion dung, full of burnished brown elk hair. Was this from the killer of "my" elk? At that moment I hated that lion – and all lions, for that matter. In the next mile I found other piles of lion scat, mostly composed of hair from Hereford cattle.

I could empathize with the rancher who loses livestock to the predators. I could feel his resentment, rage and hopelessness.

But the farther I hiked, the more rational I became. What made me, the hunter, any different from the lion, or any other predator? Am I more noble because I kill the animal and take its meat home and store it in a freezer? We’re doing the same thing, the lion and I, but he eats the meat where the animal falls, and smaller critters benefit from the kill. Even flies and beetles were enjoying the bountiful harvest. The dead bull elk helped to perpetuate the food chain; nothing is wasted in the wilderness.

But even though I knew all of this to be true, I still hated that lion. After all, he is my competitor for the game.

Eventually I came to a spring covered with lush, green grass. I sat there for more than an hour in hopes some wild critter would come to drink and share the moment with me. None did. I decided to make my way back along the three miles of trail.

On the way I found an unusual pair of antlers. They had not been dropped by the same animal and were from different time periods, yet they lay within inches of each other. One antler was a small forked horn; the other a medium four-point. Neither was worth keeping. Farther along the trail I found another, larger and fresher, probably from last year. This one I took home.

I was surprised to find fresh coyote tracks atop my own footprints. They were made by a large animal and stayed with the trail for about a mile. Farther still, I came upon the track of a truly huge lion. Could this be "my killer?" Later, the fresh tracks of a smaller coyote and a large bobcat appeared.

Strangely, all of these critters had used the trail after me. My scent surely had to linger there, yet these animals did not seem the least bit bothered by it.

Deer and elk tracks abounded. Finally, I came upon a herd of four mule deer, two of which were yearlings. The biggest doe’s ear had a huge, gaping hole in it.

Being careful to avoid eye contact, I strolled past the animals at 20 yards’ distance. They never moved. The sight of them was a fitting end to a grand hike in the Gila Wilderness.

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I have been hearing about Rockhound State Park near Deming, New Mexico for nearly nine years now, but I never seemed to get the opportunity to go down and see it in person.

My wife Jeri and I both love to look for unusual rocks and stones. We have specimens all over the place, inside and out.

On a warm, sunny day a short while ago, we decided to take the short trip down to the Floridas and explore the park and its surroundings.

As soon as we arrived, we checked out the park exhibit room to see just what the heck we were supposed to be looking for. The raw product looked very different from the finished one, and it helped to see the rocks on display.

Then we inspected a plaque outside which had specimens of semi- precious gem stones. That really got us going. We discovered this area has opals, jasper, geodes, and something called persolite. (I may be wrong about the name of this last one.) It is a “glittery” black gem.

We do not have any real rock gathering equipment, so I made do with what I had. A 20-ounce claw hammer would crack rocks and suffice as a pick. We also carried a one-gallon plastic jug. I cut a four-inch hole on top, opposite the handle, to make it into a container for specimens. We wore fanny packs, and I carried a camera and binoculars; the former to take photos of my attractive wife, and the latter to view the surrounding tall peaks in hopes of seeing Ibex, that illusive goat that has been transplanted hereabouts.

Off we trudged, taking the first small trail to our right. It led us up and over a saddle, out of sight of the park proper. We slowly explored around a myriad of prickly pear cactus searching for the unusual. We immediately found the glittery black stones. Onward and upward we traveled, our destination an outcropping of dark boulders. It was here that we discovered uncountable amounts of jasper, most of which appeared to be orange and orange-brown. We also gathered some pink jasper and some of a gold coloration.

There were copious amounts of the black persolite, which I was especially drawn to, much to Jeri’s puzzlement since she did not find them to be especially appealing.

We soon found out that our hammer was inadequate for the task at hand. When we tried to break particularly large rocks, the head would bounce off, sending splinters of steel and rock in every direction. We quickly discovered that the steel hammer head was taking quite a beating. It was tempered for hitting steel nail heads, not striking rocks. Evidently, they are harder than steel. My glasses also fell victim to the rock fragments and became chipped. We decided to turn our heads and swing blindly so as not to incur any more personal damage.

We really did not know what in the heck we were doing, but the object was to have fun, and we had lots of that. So we mostly settled on collecting the odd or the pretty.

In about 90 minutes or so we had a jug full, so we opted to go back down and have a picnic. Instead of utilizing one of the many clean picnic tables, we decided to sit on the tailgate where we could eat, look about, and chat casually. We dined on Jeri’s homemade potato salad, raw veggies, and thick corned beef sandwiches while we planned out next trek.

About 500 feet above us on a steep slope we spied two outcroppings of whitish-brown veins that were quite conspicuous since nothing else was that color. They drew me like a magnet.

We had to do some scramblin’ to reach the veins. It was steep and loose to boot, but accessible as long as we used caution. There were many places where others before us had dug at the bases of boulders and outcroppings. It was in one of these places that we took some greenish-tan specimens using the claws of the hammer as a pick. I have no idea what this stuff is, but it is unique to the country side, so it came along.

We climbed higher, my wife in the lead. She seemed to really be having fun crawling up and down the slopes, using the hammer claws as hand holds and for breaking up the small stones that caught her eye.

At one place we found a small cropping of geodes. We did not find any hollow ones to keep, but we did find a bunch of small, marble-like nodules. Some were striped, but most were all solid slate gray. They seemed unusual to us, so we gathered up a dozen or so of the prettier ones and put them in our jug.

Next we moved into a steep draw which had a vein of tan limestone. Right in the middle of it, on a wall about 12 feet up, was an unusual vein of bright pink limestone, at least that is what my tongue told me it was after I tasted it. Jeri insisted on getting some, so she literally crawled and pulled herself up the nearly vertical slope. I followed quickly after her, barely able to resist the urge to place my hands strategically on her bottom side and “help” her upwards. Instead I just figured that I would do the husbandly thing and break her fall if she slipped and needed a place to softly land. But she got up there, as did I, without mishap. She proceeded to use the hammer claws to break away small chunks of her “treasure”. It was a good spot to sit and admire the great view of the park grounds far below us.

Near this spot I found some more black rocks that were grainy in structure and did not have the glitter of my others. They reminded me of anthracite coal. I eagerly gathered in a fist-sized chunk along with several other small pieces.

In our explorations we did not find any opals. I guess that is because we would not have known a raw opal if it had broken loose and hit us on the head. It was our only minor disappointment since this gem is Jeri’s favorite.

On the way downslope, I stepped on a loose rock about the size of my fist. It let loose, causing me to take a nosedive down hill. Nothing got hurt except my dignity. I imagined that all the visitors were at that very instant looking upward, viewing my fall. Yeah, well.

We left the park with about 15 pounds of specimens and souvenirs, which is the limit that one is allowed to take, and drove east. I had heard that there was a little known road over the saddle which would take us out to the roads east of the mountains. The bladed road soon turned into an ungraded two track which then in turn turned into a wash with a few vehicle tracks in it. Then it turned into a scantly seen two track again which was barely a whisper of a trail, then finally back into a rocky wash. I quit here as a tall cut bank lay before my front wheels. No one had been this way in a heck of a long time, and we were four or five miles from the graded road. Not a good place to get stuck, so I reluctantly turned back, to the relief of my spouse. (She does not like four wheeling!!)

Back in the wash she spied a bright pink rock (more like a boulder) that she insisted on having. So yours truly lugged the 300-pound (actually about 75) rock back to the pickup. I will admit that it does compliment the painted trim on our house.

For myself, I found a brownish rock that had a splash of glittering green on it. A solid hit with the hammer revealed that its core was also green. It is a nifty memento of our little side excursion.

All in all, it was a good trip and a great adventure. We plan to do it again. Who knows, maybe we will even be able to find an opal or two.

Do your self a favor and take someone special down to Rockhound to explore the hills. I think you will have a pleasurable time.

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Here in New Mexico we are blessed with at least four varieties of predator felines, and I believe there is the remote possibility of a fifth type roaming secretly in the Southwest New Mexico bootheel.

The smallest species of cat that inhabits our state is one you would never suspect of being a vicious killer of wildlife, but it is, nonetheless. I do not know its scientific name, so I will just call it “Fluffy”, or the common house cat. It is one of the primary reasons why there are not more coveys of quail around. Fluffy is a very efficient killing machine, and besides quail, it will regularly prey on young rabbits, songbirds, and small reptiles.

Last November, I spied a jet black fluffy on the side of Bear Mountain at least three air miles from the nearest dwelling. It appeared healthy and quite wild.

I have called in more than one fluffy cat while predator calling. The experience that caused me the most trauma happened way back in 1961 in eastern Pennsylvania. I was on my very first week of using a mouth call. I was trying to sound like a dying rabbit. It was 4 A.M. in the morning and about 12 inches of snow blanketed the ground. I had been standing against a tree for about ten minutes when I felt something brush against my leg in the dark. After my body came back down to earth, I looked down to find a large cat brushing back and forth against my leg and purring for all it was worth! No, I did not shoot the cat.

The next largest cat in our state is the bobcat. It is in the genus Lynx, and its formal name is Felis Rufa. It weighs in at 15 to 33 pounds on average. It has stiff fur which is valued for clothing, rugs, mounts, etc. and makes it somewhat valuable and sought after. It feeds on rodents, small reptiles, rabbits, birds of all sizes, and an occasional deer. I have eaten bobcat and found that it is not to my liking.

I have had one or two encounters with this cat. My first happened in 1971 on the Mojave Desert in California. My baby brother and I were on a hunting excursion, and I stationed my brother behind me and somewhat off to the right with explicit instructions to guard my blind side.

Well, after five minutes or so of squawking on a mouth call that was supposed to sound like a jackrabbit in the throes of death, I got a weird feeling that I should look behind me over my left shoulder. I was startled to see a large bobcat padding silently toward me at the distance of six feet! Now I had read that this variety of critter was downright mean and could lick ten times its weight when it got a notion to. This fact was now in the forefront of my mind as I swiveled my head forward and checked my rifle. In seconds I turned and aimed at the cat which was now crouched to pounce on yours truly and only a scant three feet away! It was about to spring on me, I thought, as I fired at the moment it moved. The critter fell inches from my rifle muzzle.

To this day, I can still see those yellow-green eyes staring at me, quite unafraid and saying I am going to eat you!! This is what I call a close encounter of the first kind. Baby brother never even saw the critter.

Another encounter happened just two years ago near Silver City. A distraught lady called to solicit my help. It seems some sort of critter had crawled under her fence and slaughtered all of her exotic ducks. It was a sickening sight; ducks lay dead and uneaten everywhere. They had been killed for the sheer joy of killing. I figured that a stray dog was the culprit. A chow dog had been seen previously doing this very deed.

However, I did some investigating and found some strands of hair snagged on the fence. The color was right for the chow, but they seemed finer than dog hair. So I took some home and on a hunch I checked the pelt from the before mentioned California bobcat. It was a perfect match. Armed with this new found info, I took call and gun up behind said lady’s residence. In less than five minutes the only pot bellied bobcat that I have ever seen, came in. I ended his adventures and sure enough, the killing stopped for good.

The next largest variety of New Mexican cat is reputed to live in the northern extremes of the state. It is a kissin’ cousin of the bobcat – the lynx. Its formal name is Felis Lynx and is also in the family Feladae. Its size is about one third larger than the bobcat and can weigh 22 to 44 pounds on average. I have never encountered nor seen a lynx in the wild. Its pelt is said to be quite valuable for the same reasons as its smaller cousin. It feeds on birds, rabbits, small mammals and deer. It, too, is supposed to be a pretty fair fighter when it has to be.

The next cat in line is the good old cougar (also called mountain lion or Puma). Its formal name is Felis Concolor and is also in the family Feladae. It is the second largest cat found in North America, weighing anywhere from 77 to 220 pounds and can attain the length of nine feet from nose to tail tip.

A surprise to me, I found that this critter emits a sound an awful lot like a big house cat. It feeds on primarily on deer, but also on rabbits, birds, an occasional elk, domestic livestock, its little cousin Fluffy, dogs, and an occasional coyote. I have seen lions move into a valley one year, and by the next the deer herd is all but gone. They can roam quite close to towns, and as I reported earlier in a previous column, they have been seen within Silver’s city limits. I have previously related my encounters with this feline, so I will not repeat them here. I will say that I find them to be quite good eating.

The fifth cat of our fair state has now been officially documented as being recently seen in the Pelloncillos Mountains southwest of here. I speak of the Jaguar, the proper name Leo Onca. It is the largest of North American felines and can weight 220 to 350 pounds. This is one big kitty!! It can attain a length of longer than nine feet tip to tip. And I read that it is one bad killing machine. I have never seen one in the wild, nor do I wish to unless there is some distance between the two of us, and I have a very accurate firearm in hand.

The Jaguar eats just about anything it dang well wants to, but usually it feeds on the same thing as the cougar. I read that it roars, snarls, growls and gives deep throated grunts. It sounds quite fierce to my way of thinking.

A friend of mine has an outfitter friend down in southeastern Arizona. It seems the dude was out tracking a big lion with his hounds a couple of years ago. Only the lion turned out to be a big male Jaguar which the hounds cornered.

The location of this rare event was the Coronado National Forest, less than 100 miles from Silver City. The cat was cornered, and the hunter was taking pictures of it when the cat charged him (something that a self-respecting cougar will not do). The only thing that saved our man from being a cat burger were his trusty dogs. No, he did not kill the Jaguar, but settled on just getting away with his own good hide. I saw the photos of said cat, and they were quite impressive.

Anyway, I got to thinking about the incident and came to the conclusion that it would be no big feat for a wandering Tom to take the notion to follow the mountain chain up from the boot heel to the crossing at Steins, then travel north to the Burros and ford the river and head southeast, all the while never leaving the mountains or hills. Not much of a trip at all considering that cougars have been radio tracked over twice that distance in New Mexico.

Several years ago Rod Chandler and I were scouting the south side of Burro Peak when we came upon a really huge cat track. In fact, Rod commented that it was probably the largest that he had ever seen. We just figured it to be one heck of a big lion track, but what if . . . Yeah well, I always said that I was a hopeless romantic.

Anyway, if they were willing, which they are not, I would bet that the folks living down in the bootheel could tell us some stories about Br’er Jaguar.

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