SC EP:1261 Jumping from tree to tree

Jeremy writes ""My first encounter happened along a creek in south-central Kentucky. I wasn't a typical teenager. I didn't spend much time running around with friends. My passion was hunting, tracking, and being outdoors. After reading The Tracker by Tom Brown Jr., I was completely hooked on wilderness skills and wildlife. When I was around 13 years old, I often went down to the creek at night with a lantern and fished for catfish. I loved the solitude. It was peaceful, and every now and then I'd hook into a freshwater drum or a snapping turtle that would really test my gear. One night, I had been fishing for three or four hours. About 100 yards to my southwest was a road cut into the side of a mountain. To stabilize the hillside, large riprap rocks had been placed beneath the road. I've always had excellent hearing, and even at 13 I could identify just about every animal in those woods by sound alone. That night, something strange happened. As I sat there in the darkness with my lantern turned low, I heard something running barefoot along the road. Then I heard it grab the guardrail and vault over it. A moment later, rocks shifted and slid as it landed in the riprap below. Then the woods went silent. I could hear faint footsteps moving through the forest. Because I was down by the creek and the bank rose about ten feet above me, my lantern light probably wasn't visible from where the sounds were coming from. I kept fishing, convincing myself it was probably a deer crossing the road and that my imagination was filling in the blanks. Then things escalated. At first, small rocks started landing in the creek. Then larger ones some sounded as big as basketballs when they hit the water. I tried to ignore it and kept fishing, thinking maybe fish were jumping or something natural was causing the disturbance. About twenty minutes later, I caught a catfish. I turned up my lantern while I unhooked it, and that's when I noticed a pair of glowing eyes on the opposite bank. They were fixed directly on me. After I released the fish, the eyes remained motionless. Then, in one smooth movement, whatever it was turned its head and disappeared. For the next fifteen minutes, I heard vocalizations. They didn't sound aggressive. If anything, they seemed communicative almost as if the animal was trying to locate others or perhaps encourage me to leave the area. The closest comparison I can make is the sound of a barn owl. Oddly enough, I never felt threatened. Before leaving, I caught a decent-sized bluegill and placed it on the bank as an offering, just in case we ever crossed paths again. My second encounter occurred when I was 16. I've been bowhunting my entire life. I'm 47 now, and I still love it just as much as I did back then. This encounter took place in southeastern Kentucky in the vast wilderness of the Big South Fork region. The area is home to black bears, elk nowadays, and plenty of whitetail deer the reason I was there. I had hiked in along a muddy access trail maintained by Fish and Wildlife. The trail led to a place known as "The Helipad." I've always assumed the open field at the end of the road was used for helicopter rescues from the nearby ravines. Around the five-mile mark, the road split. My dad headed toward the fields near the helipad while I took the left fork to hunt deeper in the woods. It was early October. Some leaves had already fallen, giving excellent visibility from a tree stand. Once I climbed, I could see nearly 200 yards through the timber toward the fields below. I settled into a tree around 2:30 that afternoon. It was a popular climbing tree straight, sturdy, and easy to ascend quietly. At approximately 3:30, I noticed movement far down the ridge. At first, I couldn't make out what I was seeing. As it moved closer, I realized it was traveling in a way I'd only ever seen bobcats move. It would leap from the base of one tree to the next, minimizing noise with every step. I'd watched bobcats do this before while stalking. The difference was that this animal was upright. It stood roughly five to six feet tall and moved effortlessly. Its arms were unusually long, and whenever possible it traveled along fallen logs instead of the forest floor. Through my binoculars, I could see that it was black with reddish tips on the ends of its hair. It appeared young. Its coat looked clean, healthy, and almost glossy in the sunlight. There was a gracefulness to it a combination of strength and agility that's hard to describe. It would leap what looked like eight to ten feet at a time, landing at the base of a tree and grabbing the trunk with one hand. Despite its size, it made almost no sound. I watched it approach until it was about 75 yards away. Then it noticed me. To this day, I don't know how. Maybe it saw me. Maybe it sensed me. It immediately jumped behind a tree and began peeking around the far side, studying me as much as I was studying it. For what felt like an hour but was probably only fifteen minutes we observed one another. Finally, it turned and quietly retreated the way it had come, moving through the woods with the same incredible stealth. The moment it disappeared from sight, I climbed down and left the area as quickly as possible. My reasoning was simple: if there were juveniles in the area, there were probably adults as well. I hold a degree in biology with a specialization in fish and wildlife habitat, and I have spent a lifetime in the outdoors. Whatever I witnessed that day remains one of the most unusual experiences of my life. If anyone has studied similar reports or encountered anything comparable, I would be very interested in discussing what I saw."