It was a bright sunny day with 6 inches of new snow in mid-December, deer season is over, and now I can focus on reducing the mountain lion population to save our deer herds. At 6 A.M. we loaded up the dog sled behind the snow mobile and headed up Morgan Creek, up and over the summit to Meyers Cove. We were looking for the notorious mountain lion known as Snaggletooth. This mountain lion had evaded us many times before, making giant figure eights in the snow, crossing over his own tracks trying to confuse our trusty black and tan hounds. Just last year we had him cornered, and he got away, but not before showing us his rotten smile which earned him his nickname.

     We cut a track in the virgin snow towards the end of the road, unleashed the dogs and the chase was on. Our lead dog had a piercing bay that was easy to distinguish from the rest. She led us to an elk kill that appeared to have been abandoned just moments ago. This was to our advantage because Snaggletooth would be running on a full stomach making him sluggish from the extra bulk.

     Trying to outsmart us, he had scaled a steep cliff over a deep, narrow canyon thinking the dogs would never catch him, but the great Mutta would not be out done. Mutta was a ten year old black and tan, the leader of the pack and a new mother. She circled around the cliff until she and the pack had Snaggletooth cornered. Long before we caught up with her, we could hear her howling, indicating she was in for the kill. As we approached, we witnessed the battle that was taking place. Snaggletooth tooth was swinging away at the hounds. He injured two of the younger dogs, knocking one down the cliff with a swipe of his paw. The veteran Mutta was holding her ground and acting as if she were in the ring with Muhammad Ali, bobbing and weaving. We saw Snaggletooth make a death-defying leap for his life and head off toward Camas Creek.

     We though It was over. He had evaded us once more, but Mutta was not about to give up. She went down the cliff, circling to catch up with his scent. The dogs were out of our sights. We were relying on the radio collars and the faint sounds of the bays. Byron Bird was concerned for his dogs when he saw all the blood on the trail. He was afraid the young dogs might be in danger of losing their lives. For two hours we tracked them over the creeks and roads. We finally got a strong signal and spotted the cat running down the cliff about one-half mile away with the hounds in hot pursuit. He crossed the creek and went up the other side; he was exhausted from the chase. The dogs had him treed. This was a first! The hounds were baying in harmony alerting us to their success.

     In order to reach them we had to put on our snowshoes. We had a half hour hike and hoped the dogs could hold on that long. To complicate things, Byron had just had a pacemaker inserted and I was recovering from reconstructive knee surgery. What a pair! We had no business tracking hounds, but here we were.

     We approached the tree and Byron started gathering the dogs, checking their injuries, and tying them up so we could harvest the Snaggletooth. He was an enormous cat, possibly weighing 210 pounds. His face was scarred from years of battles with hounds and his ears were frost bitten. As tired as he was, he was still snarling, exposing his rotten teeth, and slashing at us with his claws.

     II got out my camera trying to get a picture. As I stood under the tree, the cat leapt out of the tree and landed right on me, knocking the wind out of me. Poor Byron's pacemaker was put to the test. Mutta broke her leash, threw caution to the wind to come to my rescue and attack the cat. She saved my life as the cat came at me. I injured my hands in defensive gestures, but survived because of Mutta. What a dog! The cat was too exhausted to run any more and just went back up the tree. Mutta made sure he stayed there, literally going out on a limb to keep him at bay. After examining my wounds and determining they were superficial as were the dogs' injuries, I pulled out a Browning 9MM high power and with a quivering aim, I got him. The hollow point went right through his chest and he collapsed instantly, tumbling through the branches to the ground at our feet. Mutta dove out of the tree and mauled the cat. Then she strutted off proudly wagging her tail in victory.

     We were one tired crew of dogs and handlers, but we now had a cat to take home. Even though our adrenaline was rushing, my knee was throbbing, Byron was winded, and we faced a long journey back to the snowmobile; we didn't think we could make it. How were we to get this nine foot cat out of here? Fortunately it was a down hill run. We leashed the dogs to the cat and acting as a team of huskies pulling a sled in the Iditarod, they pulled him proudly all the way back down the mountain to the snowmobile.

     When I look back on memories of this hunt, what stands out in my mind is not only Mutta saving my life, but the scene of her leading the pack, dragging the cat. What a dog! What a dog!