I’m a journalist who writes a lot about animals, most of them of the wilder variety, some of whom are also people. I’ve found my fascinations in all lifeforms, from microbes to elephants, but for roughly the past decade the focus has settled on that particular class of creature called predators.
The focus on fangs and claws started with a certain story of scientific discovery, concerning Earth’s topmost predators and their irreplaceable roles in the web of life, eventually taking form as a book called Where the Wild Things Were. After which followed its twisted sequel, Rat Island, a true tale of alien predators running amok on oceanic islands, and the bloody campaign to defeat them. The latest in this unplanned predator trilogy is Heart of a Lion, an intimate look at one astounding individual, following in the footsteps of a teenage mountain lion who made his way more than two thousand miles through enemy lines, from the Black Hills of South Dakota to the outskirts of Manhattan.
Besides the writer, I’m also an incurable desert rat who hikes alone and dances with lizards; a dirtbag telemark skier—for those fellow pinheads who know what I’m talking about—of the sort who’s still carving on ancient parabolic boards and boots with only two buckles; and otherwise a sporadic, dim-witted marathon runner who spends half his year overtraining and the other half healing.
In a former life I studied and worked in the wildlife sciences, before running off to join another circus called journalism. I’ve lived in at least fifteen states and uncounted addresses, North, South, East and West, some for fewer than three months, none for more than seven years. My home du jour is the truly wondrous Reno, in a desert basin beneath the snowcaps of the Sierra Nevada. My house is shared with eight feral cats plucked off the streets, and with my huge-hearted wife Kathy who spoils those ingrates unconditionally, and with one joyous pup we call Towpath, who was once burned and left for dead but who is now the light of our lives.