I’ve seen the power of God show up in my life more times than I can neatly count. Sure, some of those moments could be written off as coincidence if you’re determined enough—but this one? You’d need Olympic-level mental gymnastics to file it under “random chance.”
What happened to me was so strange, so specific, and so wildly unlikely that I still shake my head thinking about it. And the best part? I even have video proof of the situation that set the whole thing in motion.
Back in the summer of 2017, I headed out toward the Tofino area in British Columbia, on the west coast of Canada. I’d spotted a remote beach on Google Maps several kilometers from anything resembling civilization, and I was determined to camp there for the weekend.
When I arrived, I realized I was running low on water. I’d already burned through a good amount while waiting for a road to be cleared, but it was getting late, and in my rush to set up before dark, I convinced myself I could hold out until I found a proper water source. I had filters—now I just needed a stream.
I hadn’t been backpack camping in a long time and wasn’t exactly in peak condition after dealing with a rare foodborne illness. The trek was mostly downhill from the access point, but even that felt like it was trying to break me. At one point, around the halfway mark, I literally collapsed onto the trail and just laid there —pack still strapped to my back—as if gravity had suddenly filed a complaint. In some sort of John Bunyan moment, I was hauling over 60 kilos (133 pounds) of gear in, on, or strapped to two packs.
By the time I staggered onto the beach, I’d been without water for more than an hour, and nothing mattered more than finding a drink. The third beach had a stream that emptied out from behind a wall of massive driftwood logs—logs shoved inland by Pacific storms until they piled up like a fortress between the forest and the shore.
I couldn’t wait. The moment I saw water, I headed straight for the logs and found a shallow pool in the sand. It was… questionable at best—seaweed, muck, the whole swampy cocktail. The tide was out, and a thin trickle of water ran from the pool toward the ocean.
Not ideal, but desperation does funny things to standards. I took a quick sip just to check, and sure enough—way too salty. The real source had to be on the forest side of the driftwood wall, which meant climbing the eight-to-ten-foot pile of enormous, storm-tossed logs.
I dropped my pack, grabbed a canteen and my metal cup, and started climbing. But something bizarre happened—something I had never experienced in my life. With every step upward, my eyes grew heavier. By the time I reached the halfway point, I felt like I could fall asleep standing up. Literally mid-step.
I stopped cold. This wasn’t normal exhaustion. Something felt fundamentally wrong. So, I tested it: I stepped back down onto the previous log—and suddenly felt more awake. Then I climbed forward again. The moment I reached that same high spot, the crushing sleepiness slammed into me. I repeated this a few times, stepping up and down like some confused mountain goat, and the results were identical every time.
Finally, I shook my head sharply—like trying to snap out of a dream—and muttered, “This is so weird.” It was obvious I wasn’t getting over that barrier. I felt completely myself at the base of the logs again, as if someone had flipped a switch. Still puzzled, I headed back to set up camp, but I couldn’t stop thinking, What on earth was that? I joked to myself that I’d found a glitch in the Matrix.
I planned to head back over the logs after getting my tent set up. But before I could finish, a sudden eruption of noise broke out above the exact spot where I’d been trying to enter the forest. A group of blue jays were absolutely losing their minds—rapid calls, frantic flapping, the whole alarm-system-in-overdrive routine.
They kept it up for a minute or so, and then I heard it—the unmistakable, frustrated yowl of a cougar cub. It was oddly adorable and absolutely chilling at the same time. Jays and a few other bird species are known for mobbing predators like cougars, bobcats, and wolverines, but hearing it in real life… that’s a rarity.
And suddenly everything made sense. Earlier, I had noticed huge tracks on the beach and assumed the biggest dog on the Pacific coast had taken a joy-walk. I even wondered if someone had brought a Great Dane or maybe a wolfdog out there. A cougar hadn’t crossed my mind.
After finishing the tent, I was still desperately thirsty. But now I knew what was lurking just on the other side of that wooden barricade. Cougars avoid getting hurt at all costs, but a mother with a cub? Totally different story. So I found the thickest log I could lift and banged it against other logs and nearby trees—basically announcing, “Big noisy human approaching.” Then I hurried back to the little pool on the beach side of the logs and filled my containers. The fear was real—because I was maybe fifty feet (sixteen meters) from the den.
I used some makeshift boiling techniques to capture water vapor, choked down some brackish water, and made it through the night. By the next day, I hiked to a different spot where I knew I’d find proper fresh water.
On the second morning, I decided to scale the coastline for about seven or eight kilometers. Most of it was rocky reef formations and low cliffs, but there were a few tucked-away beaches along the way. On one of them—a completely isolated stretch of sand boxed in by cliffs on both sides—I found something that stopped me in my tracks.
Fresh prints. Two sets. A mother cougar and her cub.
There were no human prints, no dog tracks, nothing else at all. The place was so inaccessible it might as well have been a private apartment for wildlife. And the footprints were incredible—so clean, so sharp, almost giving the illusion they’d been made by two-legged creatures. Cougar back feet land exactly where the front feet were, so when they trot, it stacks perfectly. A silent, efficient predatory signature.
Seeing those tracks, I knew instantly what I had avoided. If I’d climbed into that forest the day before—right over the den barrier—there’s no doubt the mother would have charged. She wouldn’t have risked a debate about it; she would have taken me out before I ever saw her. The video I recorded there still gives me chills.
Just the night before, a midnight tour group had shown up on the beach, arriving by kayak with flares and a megaphone. The guide encouraged everyone to shout and dance and make as much noise as they wanted—apparently “unleash your inner chaos” was part of the tourism package. Maybe that was the final straw that made the mother move her cub. My presence probably didn’t help, but I had been quiet, going to bed before dark and keeping a low profile. After all, I didn’t really feel like watching my back.
This beach was perfect for raising a cougar family—secluded, quiet, and with a freshwater creek right there. It was the only spot like it for more than ten kilometers. No wonder they didn’t move the first night; it was prime real estate. But after the late-night circus of tourists with flares and megaphones, I can imagine the mother deciding she’d had enough.
Back at camp, and feeling more emboldened now that the big cats had left, I found something remarkable: footprints and cave-ins on the sand embankment where the mother had habitually leapt up onto the logs from the beach I was camping on. The jump had to be around 5 to 8 feet—a vertical launch I was pretty impressed with. I sketched the entire scene into my notebook, trying to capture every detail while thinking about how close I really came to disaster.
That overwhelming sleepiness I’d felt the day before replayed in my mind. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t dehydration. It felt… supernatural. I knew something was wrong as it was happening, and only after the jays and the cougar cub revealed the truth did everything click together.
Without that strange warning, I would’ve marched straight into a mother cougar’s den—solo, exhausted, unarmed, and completely unaware. There’s no version of that scenario where I walk away calmly brushing off my pants. I mean, I’m not Daniel in Babylon. .
This wasn’t even the only time in my life I’ve crossed paths with a cougar in a vulnerable way. But that’s a story for another day
Regardless of whether someone wants to call all this coincidence, I can’t ignore what I’ve seen throughout my life. Too many things have happened after asking God for protection or intervention—moments like this one where the outcome defies logic. And then there’s the stories from my friends and acquaintances. I’m certain He exists. And I’m convinced He wants our obedience, not out of control, but out of love. This world is in a broken state, and in many ways, it feels like a test. We can choose who we want to be here—but even better, we can ask God to reshape who we are prone to be.
Jesus died so that we could have life beyond this world—life with Him in eternity. And in the meantime, we still get to experience Him moving in our lives. If you’ve seen God show up for you, tell your story. Someone needs to hear it. And if you haven’t begun that journey yet, you can start a new story with God today. He’s there—He always has been. After all, at least some of you didn’t end up reading this by accident.
