Bill Gould. It’s Wednesday, November 17, 2021 at 2 PM. I’m driving from Parry Sound, Ontario to Misery Point, on Manitoulin Island. I received an urgent call today at 1:15 PM from the Ontario Provincial Police. Two hunters have been reported missing on the island. They last texted their wives on Saturday night and have not been heard from since.
Simultaneous to this there have been reports of something out there that has been killing cattle. The reports were accompanied by photos and, it appears, the killings were all done in a similar manner - lacerations to the neck of the animal, followed by significant consumption of the carcass. I’ve seen the photos and whatever did this has razor sharp claws - sharp enough to cut the hide of an 800-pound cow. The only animal that kills its prey in this way is a cat. The only cat suspected to be in Ontario and large enough to kill a cow is the cougar, but they are extremely rare, if not extinct.
The last known location of the hunters was a remote hunting lodge on Misery Point. Nobody else was with them at the lodge, and nobody else is known to have been anywhere near Misery Point. The police were at the point this morning to search for them and found nothing except some of their belongings and their truck.
Misery Point is a peninsula on the south shore of the island that juts a mile into Lake Huron. It’s very remote, four miles from the nearest public road. Along the shore there are no other dwellings in either direction. There are no phone lines, no hydro lines, running water supplied by the homemade tower beside the lodge. A rough one lane road leads to the lodge through dense forest. The trip down the road takes 20 minutes. At the end of the road is the lodge and just beyond that the tip of Misery Point. When one stands there gazing out at the lake, one has the sense of standing at the end of the Earth.
Darkness has fallen as I make my way down the road leading to the lodge. My phone rings and checking the screen, I see it’s Janet Davidson of the OPP. I answer and we exchange pleasantries.
“I’m calling about the missing hunters and the mysterious deaths of the cattle on Manitoulin and I understand you have been hired to investigate the cause,” she says.
“Yes, I have.”
“And are you aware of the lacerations found on the neck of these animals?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, we have some new information. With the help of our specialist from the zoology lab we’ve measured the lacerations and the distance between lacerations, or, more specifically, the distance between the claws and we’ve come to a surprise conclusion.”
“And what is that?”
“These cows were killed by a very large animal, Mr. Gould.”
“They were killed by a cat,” I say, “Nothing else uses its claws like that.”
“Yes, a very large cat.”
“Like a cougar.”
“A cougar’s paws are less than half the size of the paws that killed these animals, Mr. Gould.”
“So, what are you telling me? What did your specialist presume it was?”
“There is only one possibility.”
“And that is…”
“A tiger.”
“A tiger??”
Janet cuts me off, “I know what you’re thinking, but the lacerations match the claws of an Amur Tiger. I know it doesn’t make sense. We are currently looking into it further. We are calling every zoo in Ontario. All I can tell you is you need to prepare yourself for something very large and very dangerous out there. You need to be extremely careful, Mr. Gould.”
“I assure you I’ll stay in my truck,” I say to appease her and we exchange our good byes.
An Amur Tiger? Also known as the Siberian Tiger, the Amur is three times the weight of a cougar, and is the largest cat in existence. This is a game changer. But I can’t understand how there could be a tiger out here.
I’m pulling up to the lodge now with my headlights shining on the front door. I cautiously get out of my truck as I’m greeted by a blast of cold November air. The crisp smell of cedar and pine engulfs me. The full moon hangs just above the roof of the old three-story lodge. The structure is just a bit taller than most of the surrounding trees. The waves are crashing on the rocky beach behind me. I’m getting a bit of a chill down my spine, so I grab my things and quickly make my way up the steps of the front deck and into the lodge for the night.
Entering the front door, I find myself in a large, comfortable common room with a few aging sofas surrounding a stone fireplace on my left. Straight ahead is an ample dining room table with several empty beer bottles. Hanging over the table is a chandelier with propane lights, kindly left on for me by the police. To my right is a piano and hanging on the walls all around are various antique items from years gone by. The air has a surprisingly clean smell with only the slight hint of aging furniture. Beyond the table is a stairway leading upstairs. Rather than giving myself a tour of the upper floors in the dark, I decide to light a fire in the fireplace and spend the night down here on one of the sofas.
The next morning after a hearty breakfast cooked in the cast iron frying pan, which I found in the spacious country kitchen, I’m ready to head out and begin my search for the animal that is leaving a trail of destruction out here in these vast forests and farmlands of Manitoulin Island. Many square miles of land up the road from me is nothing but deep woods. My assumption now has to be that the animal has made the trek in this direction and is still here in these forests. Once a predator makes its way from human occupied territory to a remote area such as this, why would it ever leave? It has everything it needs here. Tree cover, endless fresh water, countless deer to hunt.
I also have to assume the hunters have been killed. If they were alive, they would have appeared by now. I am not optimistic at this point.
I open the creaky door of the lodge and step out onto the deck. The temperature this morning is five degrees Celsius, the sky is cloudy, the wind is blowing briskly in my face from the west. Ahead of me I can see the waves crashing on the shore. I told the officer on the phone that I’d stay in my truck, but I lied. The only way I’ll have any success is to traverse on foot. I sling my rifle over my shoulder and with the rest my gear in my backpack, I head out into the wild of Misery Point.
As I walk up the narrow road into the deep woods, I’m beginning to realize the magnitude of my task. A large predator out here, would have no difficulty disappearing completely. If it is a tiger, it will be an elite predator. Their ability to stalk prey is second to none in the animal kingdom. Despite its massive frame of up to 600 pounds an Amur Tiger can walk without making a sound. Their huge, padded feet enable them to walk stealthily just like their cousins, the house cat. They also have a coat which makes them virtually invisible, especially now in the late autumn when the trees have turned various shades of yellow and brown. A tiger could literally be twenty feet from me and I wouldn’t see it. Add to this the fact that they excel at hunting prey alone. Unlike a lion or a wolf, they don’t rely on the pack. A tiger alone in the forest is quite literally the king of the jungle.
Up ahead and to the east is a network of hunting blinds where hunters do their best work. There are dozens of blinds where they will sit for hours, waiting for a deer to pass. Between each blind is a corridor of felled trees so each hunter in his blind can see the next blind and so on for miles straight through the forest. Any deer walking north to south or vice versa, doesn’t stand a chance. Eventually it will have to cross the corridor, and the lucky hunter will have an easy shot.
I find a gap in the trees and lumber off the road heading toward the system of blinds. This will probably be where the hunters went missing. And it’s also the most likely place the predator is hiding out, waiting for the next hunter to come along.
Shortly after I leave the road, I come upon the blinds. I pause and look down the corridor, amazed at how straight and clear it is through such dense forest. I move on and walk the entire length of the corridor seeing nothing noteworthy along the way.
At the end of the corridor, I decide to head north deep into the underbrush. I count fifty paces, then circle back to where I began. Trudging through dense vegetation adjacent to the corridor is slower and tougher going than walking in the corridor. I am finding myself being much too clumsy and loud, making myself an easy target for a more clever and cunning cat. Eventually, I make it through and arrive back at the first blind I came across.
At this point I’ve had no success finding anything. If there is a predator out here, however, it surely now knows all about me. This inkling motivates me to pull my rifle off my shoulder and into shooting position. I crouch down and, for a few minutes, just look and listen. Seeing nothing but trees and hearing nothing but wind and birds, I sit and ponder my next move.
As I get up to move onward, for the first time I come across something of note. Approximately 100 feet into the brush due north of me I can see and hear probably a dozen large birds squawking and picking at something, maybe an animal carcass. I walk toward the commotion, past branches and leaves brushing my face and my coat. The birds have clearly noticed me now. They ascend from the forest floor. It looks like a dozen crows in the trees and a few turkey vultures circling overhead.
Arriving at the spot where the birds were feasting, I suddenly step into a sea of red. Clearly there was a large animal killed in this location. There is blood all over the ground, the trees, the rocks. Everywhere I look the leaves are splashed in red. This must have been the site of a titanic battle between predator and prey. I find a clump of hair on the ground, but can’t identify it. I can see where the prey was dragged through the bushes. I follow the trail of blood. Blood is everywhere and bushes are trampled, I assume it must be a deer that was killed. Then, I spot a boot ahead on the ground. I creep forward and slowly pick it up. It’s heavy and covered in blood. I turn it over and find a bone sticking out. There is a foot still in this boot. I stop dead on the spot and look around again.
I can now conclude that I have come across at least one of the missing hunters, maybe both. I continue to search and I find a hat, some more hair and two rifles. Both rifles have discharged their ammunition. If a tiger did this, it will be carrying bullets under its hide and it will be very angry, if not dead. At this point I’ve seen all I can handle and I decide to make my way back to the lodge and report the death or deaths.
I’m in over my head. I am armed with exactly the same weapon as these hunters, and look at their fate. I came here prepared to hunt a cougar, not the animal that did this. I snap a few photos and get on my way out of the bush toward the road. If the animal that did this is in fact a tiger, I could be in extreme danger. I haven’t seen any sign of it, but as I mentioned before, tigers are silent, almost invisible killers. They are so stealthy that if you see one it’s because it wants you to see it. And by the time you see it, it’s been tracking you for ten minutes.
As I’m leaving the scene, I sense something ahead of me. Crouching behind a tree, I spot the tiger. It’s a full grown, massive Amur, staring straight into my eyes, almost mesmerizing me. Its beautiful shiny coat is perfect camouflage against the brown leafy background. I assess that my life is now hanging by a thread. I steady my rifle and aim for its head. I pull the trigger. My rifle sends a thunderous blast through the trees, scaring the crows into the sky, squawking madly. My bullet glances off the tiger’s forehead. It flinches, shakes its head and hones in on me once again, casting a menacing glare. I reload and aim again. Blood trickles down from the cat’s broad head, drool from its mouth. It bares its teeth. I pull the trigger again. My rifle roars. Again, my bullet makes contact, but seems to have no effect other than to further enrage the beast. As I reach into my pocket for another bullet, the tiger rears back into the attack position and pounces, releasing a blood curdling scream. It hits me hard, a paw on each of my shoulders. 600 pounds of cat drives me backward onto the ground. My head hits hard. As I land, my phone falls from my pocket. I reach for it and must have hit redial. The tiger opens its mouth wide and clamps onto my neck. I go numb except for the intense pressure of its jaws. Its claws appear from their sheaths and rip my coat, then cut my shoulder muscles as if they were butter. But all I can feel is its hot breath and saliva. And I can taste the blood. My blood.
Then, the animal begins to drag me deep into the bushes. My left arm remains behind, completely severed from my body. The world goes black.
“Hello, Mr. Gould. Mr. Gould, hello? I’m so glad you called. I have some more information. Mr. Gould if you can hear me, I need to tell you that we’ve spoken to the Sudbury Zoo and it appears their Amur Tiger has escaped. Mr. Gould? Mr. Gould you could be in grave danger. Hello?”
BT
