The first time I heard about the Iberian lynx, it was a footnote in a research paper. A cautionary tale of a species on the brink.
The world’s most endangered wild cat, clinging to survival in the fragmented landscapes of Spain and Portugal, its population barely scraping past a hundred. It felt like another one of those tragedies biologists file away in their mental archives—an example to cite, a lesson in what happens when habitat loss, hunting, and bad luck align in just the right way.
I never thought I’d be in Spain, trying to see one for myself.
A Familiar Face in a New Place
My old colleague from Bossou, Danilo, had been tracking lynx populations in Spain for nearly a decade. When I reached out, half-expecting him to be somewhere remote, he surprised me with an invitation to his place outside Andújar, one of the last strongholds of the Iberian lynx.
“Come prepared to be disappointed,” he warned me over the phone. “You’ll find tracks, maybe scat if you’re lucky. But seeing one? That’s a different story.”
It was the same thing we used to say about chimps in Guinea. You didn’t find them; they found you.
The Hunt for a Ghost
Andújar’s landscapes are deceptive—rolling hills, thick with Mediterranean scrub, cork oak forests sprawling out under an unforgiving sun. It’s wild, but not in an obvious way. It’s the kind of place where things remain hidden unless they want to be seen.
For two days, Danilo and I hiked through lynx territory. We found prints in dry riverbeds, evidence of their preferred diet—rabbit remains scattered near a rock face—and once, late in the evening, we thought we caught a flash of movement near the tree line. But the Iberian lynx lives up to its reputation. It stayed elusive, leaving behind only traces of its existence.
“They’re making a comeback, but they’re still ghosts,” Danilo said, crouching near a fresh set of tracks. “Fifteen years ago, these prints wouldn’t be here at all.”
A Conservation Miracle (Sort Of)
The Iberian lynx shouldn’t be here. By all logic, by the trends we’ve seen with other species, it should have disappeared decades ago. And yet, against all odds, it has rebounded—from a low of just 94 individuals in 2002 to over 1,600 today.
The recovery is the result of a mix of captive breeding programs, habitat restoration, and strict legal protection. Lynx-friendly corridors have been established, connecting fragmented populations. The rabbit population—decimated by disease, but vital to the lynx’s survival—has been artificially bolstered in key areas. Conservationists, biologists, and even some local landowners have worked together to bring the species back from the edge.
But success is a slippery thing. The lynx’s habitat is still fragile, threatened by roads that cut through its territory. Vehicle collisions remain one of the leading causes of lynx deaths. Climate change is shifting ecosystems in unpredictable ways. And there’s always the looming fear that one outbreak of rabbit disease could send everything spiralling backward.
That night, Danilo and I sat on his terrace, drinking cheap wine and swapping stories about Guinea. The time he got chased up a tree by an angry mother chimp. The time we thought we’d discovered a new behaviour—only to realize we’d just misidentified the same individual twice.
“Funny how we end up in these places,” he mused, staring out at the dark hills. “From the rainforests of West Africa to tracking a cat no one ever sees in Spain.”
He wasn’t wrong. Life in fieldwork is never linear. You follow the research, follow the conservation work, follow the next question you don’t have an answer to.
I didn’t see a lynx on that trip. But I knew it was out there. And for now, that was enough.
Because sometimes, knowing something exists—against all odds, against all predictions—is its own kind of victory.