On March 23, 2024, while walking down a forest service road outside Georgetown, Calif., my nephews Taylen and Wyatt Brooks were attacked by a mountain lion.
Listen to this article, read by Malcolm Hillgartner
Taylen, 21, and Wyatt, 18, grew up fully immersed in the outdoors, in a largely rural part of El Dorado County’s Sierra foothills, hunting deer and turkeys, quail and ducks, and fishing for bass and trout. On the afternoon of the attack, they had gone out in pursuit of shed deer antlers, a springtime ritual that resulted over the years in mountains of prongs and tines in the boys’ bedroom, garage and shed, each specimen meticulously labeled with the date and location of the find.
It was Wyatt who glimpsed the movement first, out of the corner of his eye. He was walking on the uphill side of the road, no more than five minutes out of the car, scanning the slope for the telltale jut of a fallen antler. When his head ratcheted around to take in the scene, a young male lion came into view no more than 10 yards away, walking almost casually in their direction.
Taylen, just behind his brother and off to the side, was scanning the lower slope for antlers and still unaware of the cat’s presence. Wyatt said his brother’s name, and both boys immediately followed the standard procedure for lion encounters: arms above their heads to appear larger, shouting and yelling while backing slowly away.
The lion kept coming, eyes locked and pads gaining ground. When the distance closed to a matter of feet, Wyatt hurled his backpack, grazing the cat’s face. The lion never paused, never seemed to react.
