Mountain Lion vs Mule Deer: A Rare Predator-Prey Encounter

A once-in-a-lifetime predator-prey moment captured in Montana

I spend a lot of time in wild places, but nothing could have prepared me for what unfolded on that cold October evening in western Montana.

The day had been a disappointment. Hours of driving, glassing, waiting—nothing. I decided to take a back road home that evening, a route that passed through the mountains. The light was fading fast, the kind of quiet, unproductive day that every nature and wildlife photographer knows all too well. Snow had begun to spit from a dull, gray sky, dusting the ground just enough to soften the edges of the landscape. Autumn was at its peak—golden grasses, rusted hillsides, the last color clinging to the trees.

That’s when I saw them.

A small group of mule deer stood partway up a hillside just off the road, their coats already flecked with snow. I eased to a stop, rolled the window down, and slowly lifted my camera. The snowflakes were quite large, making for some beautiful atmosphere. For a moment, it seemed like the day might offer something after all.

Then everything unraveled.

The herd tensed all at once and bolted toward the timber. Before I could react, a piercing sound cut through the air—a scream so sharp and desperate it froze me in place. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see a mule deer tumbling down the embankment and into the road only yards from my truck.

At first, the screams didn’t make sense.

Then I saw it—a long tail rising and snapping into view.

The doe had a mountain lion on her back!

Instinct took over. I quickly leaned out the window and began shooting as the deer struggled to regain her footing, hooves scrambling for traction on the gravel surface. She lunged forward, trying to escape, but the cat launched again, clamping onto her back. Its front legs wrapped around her neck, tight and deliberate, like a chokehold.

They crashed back to the ground together.

What followed was chaos. The deer fought with everything she had—kicking, twisting, refusing to give up. The mountain lion held on, muscles coiled, focused on one thing: survival. Blood, dirt, and hair filled the air as the two thrashed in the middle of the road. It felt endless, though in reality it was no more than thirty or forty seconds.

Finally, the cat secured its grip and began dragging the doe toward the edge of the road.

I knew what lay below—a steep, unforgiving slope. When they disappeared from sight, I jumped out of the truck and ran to the edge, heart pounding. What I saw next was almost impossible to process: the two animals tumbling head over tail down the hillside, locked together as they fell.

When they finally came to rest at the bottom, they lay just a few feet apart.

Both were motionless.

I remember thinking, there’s no way that deer is alive.

I was wrong.

Without warning, the doe sprang to her feet and bounded into the trees, vanishing as quickly as she had appeared. Not even a second later, the mountain lion followed—leaping after her, relentless, determined.

Then everything went quiet.

I stood there alone, staring into the timber, waiting for another scream, another sound—anything. But the forest offered nothing. Just silence.

I returned the next day and searched the area, looking for some sign of the doe. I found none. Whether she survived or the cat eventually caught up to her, I’ll never know.

What I do know is this: resilience in the wild is absolute, and mercy is rare. There are no villains and there are no heroes—only the hunter and the hunted, locked in a struggle as old as the landscape itself.

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