Maine’s lynx kittens are born in May at the onset of black fly season. Photo courtesy of Paul Cyr

Holding the lynx kitten aloft wasn’t as dramatic as Rafiki holding up Simba in “The Lion King,” but for me in June 2010, it was an emotionally uplifting conclusion to my long career as a wildlife biologist. My final field trip to an Aroostook County lynx den was a retirement gift from my friend and fellow wildlife biologist Jennifer Vashon, Maine’s lynx research team leader.

That evening, during my four-hour drive home to Orono, I turned off a radio station’s broadcast of a Red Sox blowout loss and reflected on my small contribution to Maine’s 10-year lynx project. Earlier that day, Jennifer reminded me that over 10 years ago her husband, Adam, and I had live-trapped the first lynx (L1) in the research project. It was also my very first lynx sighting, albeit not the in-the-wild encounter I’d hoped for. A flood of gratitude and memories overwhelmed me as I clutched the steering wheel.

When Adam and I live-trapped L1 back in March 1999, it was Maine’s first lynx capture since Joshua G. Rich of Bethel live-trapped a lynx near Rangeley Lake in the late 1800s. (A fascinating account of Rich’s life appears in William B. Krohn’s book, “Joshua Gross Rich (1820–1897): The Life and Works of a Western Maine Pioneer and Wildlife Writer”.)

Adam radioed his wife, “Jen, we caught our first lynx.” Twenty minutes later, Jennifer and her team joined us. With backpacks stuffed with data sheets, measuring tapes, weight scales, cameras, sedatives, ear tags, and a GPS radio-collar, the research team mobilized.

Jennifer filled a syringe with a sedative cocktail, attached it to an end of an aluminum pole, and jabbed the syringe into the lynx’s left thigh. Several minutes later, with the drugged female lynx prostrate on a gray wool blanket, biologists took measurements (20-inches tall at the shoulder), recorded her weight (19 pounds.), and attached a GPS radio collar and a numbered ear tag. A clipped fur sample was stuffed into a Ziploc baggie.

While we waited for the sedative to subside, I marveled at her indescribably beautiful thick, fluffy gray pelt. A team member examined her comically enormous, furred feet, which function as built-in snowshoes — an adaptation for walking in deep powdery snow. Being in L1’s presence was humbling and one of the highlights of my wildlife career.

Canada lynx have enormous feet which act like snowshoes in deep snow. Photo courtesy of Paul Cyr

Groggy initially, she finally stood, looked at us, waved one hind leg as if saying adios, then walked across three feet of snow and disappeared into the forest. We sat speechless for a minute before erupting into smiles and high fives. Hours later, back at base camp, my flask of brandy made the rounds for celebratory swigs.

Buoyed by the successful capture and release of L1, Vashon’s team set additional live traps in the Allagash Region. Between 1999 and 2010, 85 lynx (44 males and 41 females) were captured, fitted with a radio collars, and released. Telemetry studies documented the birth of 111 kittens from 42 litters.

When my March 1999 week-long participation with the lynx field crew wound down in northwestern Aroostook County, I stepped outside of our cramped, overheated cabin around 10 p.m. for a breath of fresh air and to enjoy one final magnificent view of the aurora borealis.

Prior to joining Vashon’s crew, I’d spent weeks digging for lynx historical records at the University of Maine’s Special Collections Library, Maine State Museum, Maine State Archives, and Maine’s Law and Legislative Reference Library, where I discovered an 1832 bounty law, An Act to Encourage the Destruction of Bears, Wolves, Wildcats, and Loup-cervier (a Québécois term for Canada lynx). The price of a lynx head varied from $1.00 in 1832 to $15.00 in 1967 when the law was repealed. During the bounty years, the prevailing opinion was “the only good predator is a dead predator.”

Additional lynx historical nuggets were gleaned from early 20th century Maine Fish and Game annual hunting and trapping pamphlets and Maine’s bounty records from 1832-1967 (towns were reimbursed by the state). Interviews of retired Maine game wardens, old trappers, and renowned Maine naturalist Ralph Palmer rounded out my research.

Surprisingly, Harvard University’s Museum of Comparative Zoology holds the largest collection of historical Maine lynx records, including 30 skulls and skins primarily provided by Joshua G. Rich in the late 1800s.

Harvard sent me a copy of the records and Rich’s colorful June 2, 1864, article in The Oxford Democrat, titled, “Fight with a Lynx.” Rich described how he captured the wildcat, tied its legs with handkerchiefs, and carried it 9 miles to his home. During the trek, the lynx shredded his coat and arms. Rich sold the female lynx (after she had delivered four kittens in his barn) to Harvard professor Louis Agassiz for $50 (equivalent to roughly $1,000 today), who then sold and shipped the animal to the National Museum of Natural History in Paris.

Canada lynx are patient hunters, relying on stealth and a burst of speed to ambush snowshoe hares. Photo courtesy of Paul Cyr

My favorite lynx anecdote came from retired Maine game warden Charlie Marshall. While stationed in Fort Kent in the 1960s, he received an unusual phone call. “One summer day,” Marshall recounted, “the town drunk phoned and asked me if there had been a circus in town. I replied that no circus had been in town. ‘Are you sure?’ the caller asked in a slurred voice. ‘Because there’s a kangaroo sitting on the bank under the Fish River Bridge.’” Marshall met the caller at the bridge. “We peered over the railing,” Marshall said, “and I’ll be doggone if there wasn’t a reddish-brown animal sitting on the bank. It was a lynx. But with its long hind legs, large feet, and big ears, I understood how that fellow thought he saw a kangaroo.”

In July 2012, when Maine’s Canada Lynx assessment was published, I initially speed-read the report looking for the first reference to L1. The research team had monitored her movements using radio receivers tuned to the frequency emitted from her collar. They discovered that she’d shared a home range with L2, who was probably her mate. She raised a minimum of eight kittens at four den sites.

On January 24, 2003, L1’s collar sent a mortality signal to the research team. Her carcass and radio collar were retrieved, and a tooth of hers was sent to Matson’s Labs, which determined, by counting cementum rings, that she had lived 7 years, 8 months. L2 died of starvation on April 23, 2005. Tooth analysis indicated that he’d lived 10 years. A necropsy also revealed that his lungs were so full of lung worms he could barely breathe, let alone chase a snowshoe hare — the favorite prey of lynx.

One radio-collared juvenile male had embarked on a Forrest Gump-like walkabout. He left his home territory west of the Allagash, ventured briefly into Quebec, then pulled a U-turn and walked to Monroe. Catching a whiff of Belfast, he hightailed it home to the Allagash, where he settled down and mated. During his three-month odyssey, he logged several hundred miles and likely swam across numerous bodies of water (lynx are very good swimmers).

A half a dozen or so collared Maine lynx moved north to Canada, some reaching the Quebec’s Gaspé Peninsula. And with an unknown number of Canadian-born lynx now living in Maine, it’s clear that eastern Canadian and Maine lynxes are members of the same population.

Since handling L1 in March 1999, I’ve seen four adult lynxes in the north Maine woods, the most exciting of which occurred in June 1999 west of Clayton Lake on the American Realty Road. During an early morning breeding bird survey, I watched a lynx carry two kittens across the road within close range. Other lynx sightings followed in the Spencer Lake region southwest of Jackman.

The future is murky for Maine’s estimated 750-1,000 lynx — the largest population in the lower forty-eight. Rising carbon dioxide levels and increasing ambient temperatures are a serious threat to Maine’s spruce-fir forests. Forest ecologists predict that unless CO2 levels drop substantially, most of Maine’s boreal forest will disappear by the end of the century, impacting lynx and other boreal forest-dependent species. Maine’s trend of warmer and rainier winters is also changing the snow composition from powder to thick crust. Lynxes require a minimum of 106 inches of powder snow to outcompete smaller-footed bobcats and fishers for prey. That advantage is nullified by climate change. But for now, at least, it’s comforting to know that L1’s descendants still roam the Maine woods.

Ron Joseph of Sidney is author of Bald Eagles, Bear Cubs, and Hermit Bill: Memories of a Maine Wildlife Biologist, published by Islandport Press