If my Facebook page is anything to go by, there seems to be a clutter of alleged big cat sightings across the country at the moment. Although most of the accompanying pictures show moggies I’m convinced that there is, or at least has been, the odd big cat out there, so I thought I would share my one and only encounter.
It was summer 1999 and I’d just started work as an assistant countryside warden at the Castle Eden Walkway Country Park in Stockton-on-Tees. I was making the tea in time-honoured, new boy fashion when I was sure I overheard my colleagues joking about a panther. I’d long been a closet cryptozoologist, reading books on the Yeti and other unknown animals but not being in any hurry to publicise the fact. This however was too good a chance to miss. After some tentative questioning from me and a bit of ribbing from them I found out that a couple of our regulars had claimed to have seen a big cat along the Walkway.
I knew the couple they described; they walked their Dalmatian at the walkway, early every morning and always waved at us as they were leaving. They were rather embarrassed about their sighting, as good “strange sighting” witnesses are meant to be. Only the husband had seen it and there was no way he wanted to speak to the press about it. What had happened was that as they were walking along the main track, he noticed a large sandy, coloured animal walking down through the trees on one side of the embankment. He immediately thought “golden retriever”, until it crossed the track about 30 metres in front of him. It was a cat! It had a long tail which swept down to the ground and back up again and needless to say, the “golden retriever” didn’t trot up to them to sniff their Dalmatian. Instead it disappeared in a flash up the other embankment and into the wood. Knowing this chap as we did pretty much ruled out a hoax and, given his description, there wasn’t much doubt that he’d seen a Puma. (Interestingly, as we found out later, there had been a sighting of a similar creature a few days earlier, about ten miles down the road in Yarm)
Needless to say, over the next few weeks, as word got out, we had a bestiary of alleged “big cat” sightings. We had a tortoiseshell big cat; a big cat that was fox-sized and fox-coloured with pointed ears and a long, bushy tail (I kid you not!) and the inevitable big, black cat. As Felis chamaeleonensis has yet to be described to science, we took the details with liberal seasoning. Until, that is, one Sunday afternoon when another middle-aged couple came into the visitor centre to report a big cat behind a bush. They explained that they had been going for a walk along with their West Highland white terrier when they met a rather anxious young lady hurrying in the opposite direction with a doberman in tow. She told them that her doberman had charged into a bush after something; the something had growled very loudly and the doberman had shot out again, terrified. Curious as to what it could be, the couple sent their westie in to investigate. Another loud growl and the westie came flying out again. Perplexed they continued on their way in “did that really happen?” mode, until they passed the same bush on the way back. Just to check, in went the westie again; another loud growl and once again the westie beat a hasty retreat. At this point they thought that they’d better tell someone, marked a cross on the cinder track beside the bush and headed back to the visitor centre.
I had to investigate; a platoon of one hundred sponsored walkers had set off in that direction five minutes previously and I couldn’t risk only 99 returning. I grabbed a radio and cast around for something to protect myself with, should I need it. Our tool cupboard was a bit like the props department for a gladiator movie. We had bill hooks, sickles, forks and big, serrated blades on long poles. I decided on an aluminium litter picker so as not to alarm the public, and set off to find the bush. On the way I repeated to myself what I’d read about Pumas being shy, people friendly cats; “l’amigo del christiano” according to South American legend. I’d been to a carol service last Christmas, I hoped that the Puma would realise. The feet of the sponsored walkers had obliterated any sign of a cross on the ground and so I had quite a few bushes to choose from. Each bush was gingerly inspected with litter picker held at arm’s length. After prodding numerous bushes, none of which growled at me, I had just got to the point of thinking they’d been pulling my leg when a noise resonated from the top of the embankment and the phrase “hairs on the back of your arms standing up” ceased to be a cliché. Now I thought I knew roughly what a Puma growling would sound like; but this was much deeper and more alarming than I’d anticipated. I stood there transfixed, the litter picker drooping; my turn to wonder if I’d really heard it. I’ve no idea how long I stood there but then the growl came again, only this time a little further back and into the woods. Unfortunately, or was that fortunately, the embankment between me and whatever was making the sound was matted with blackthorn and dog rose; I’d look as if I’d been attacked by a Puma by the time I’d fought my way through that lot to investigate. There was nothing I could do, it was just one more report to add to the list and, as it transpired, the last report we received. It was also the last time the “Durham Puma” was heard of anywhere in the north east for several years; its place taken by the big, black cat that I came to dub the “Trimdon Panther”. But that’s another story!
Raven on the Wing 