“What was that!?” a woman in our group asked. It was a question we all would have asked, if we hadn’t lost our collective breath.

The noise had come from somewhere not at all far behind us. It emanated from a living creature, that much I could tell. And it was by far the loudest, most attention-getting noise I had ever heard emanated by a living creature. The ground shook, it was so loud.

“Those,” said Kim Barker, our tour guide, “were the lions.” There was a stunning matter-of-factness in her tone, which continued as she added, “They are still very much in possession of all their wild instincts.” The nine of us on the tour, already sticking close thanks to the sub-freezing weather, huddled closer still.

The Conservator’s Center is about the last thing you’d expect to find in rural Caswell County. NC 119 north from Mebane rides the crest of the Piedmont Plateau, open meadows interspersed with stands of the region’s trademark oak/hickory forests. There’s a slight savanna feel, though nothing to suggest the 20 or so lions, 9 tigers and other assorted critters, mostly cats, who hail mostly from Africa. Nothing to tip you off when you head west down Huffines Road, nothing when you veer down the gravel drive where Huffines Ts into Hughes Mill Road. The handful of old farm buildings suggests an old farm. It’s only when the lions roar, which sometimes sets off the New Guinea Singing Dogs, that you sense that you aren’t in Andy’s North Carolina anymore.

The Conservators’ Center was started in 1999 by Doug Evans and Mindy Stinner as a refuge for wild (mostly) critters that were in bad situations. Many were wild animals that people bought as kittens, pups or cubs under the assumption their wild tendancies would vanish and they’d remain cute and cuddly forever— then they start looking at the children a little too longingly. Others came from legitimate zoos that closed. Roy , for instance, a native eastern bobcat,  came to the center  when a zoo in Maggie Valley closed. Three of the lion prides (11 lions in all) were rescued from a breeding facility in Ohio shuttered by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

The facility’s emphasis is on giving these displaced animals a home. The notion of opening the facility to the public didn’t occur until 2007, and even then it’s not a prime emphasis. Visits must be arranged in advance and they’re largely restricted to weekends. Perhaps the main sign that the facility isn’t about tourism? The “gift shop” is in a 12-foot-by-15-foot plywood shed.

Before we head into the compound, Kim goes over the rules. Don’t yell or make loud noises; it upsets the animals. Try not to make sudden moves; that doesn’t go over well, either. Don’t run (prey runs) and if a critter appears to be stalking you, don’t playfully stalk back. Stay behind the barrier ropes. (This causes more than one look of concern: “Barrier ropes”? These critters are in cages of some sort, aren’t they?) And perhaps the biggie: If an animal comes to the fence and turns around, move to one side or the other as quickly as possible — you’re about to be sprayed. Properly alert, we enter the compound to face —

Well, aren’t you a sweet kitty! “Taz,” Kim tells us, is a caracal, a cat that can jump six feet in the air, all the better for catching tasty birds. He’s most notable for his long, pointy ears that end in hairy antennas. Caracals, which range from 30 to 50 pounds, have a wide range of tastes, from birds to lizards to goats and sheep. Cute and very carnivorous.

Ditto the servals, of which the Center has 11, the lynx , even the shy Geoffroy’s cats, which may remain kitten size, around 10 pounds, “but don’t let the cute face fool you,” Kim tells us. “She can be pretty intimidating.”

The first half of the tour focuses on small critters, the aforementioned cats, binturongs, kinkajous, and lemurs. Then it’s time to visit where the ground rules really apply.

Up to this point it hasn’t been much of a concern that the only thing separating us from the residents is a chain-link fence that appears to much like the one separating your backyard from the Wilson’s next door. A little higher, with a cover over top. But standard chain link none-the-less. The chain link becomes more noticeable when we pass by the wolves (of whom, Kim tells us, the males are OK with the female visitors on the tour, not so much the males), the New Guinea Singing Dogs, the tigers and, especially, the lions, who had unleased such unearthly loud roars upon our arrival.

(In fact, I’m told by Julia Matson, the center’s director of Fundraising and Outreach, the fencing is 9 gauge steel, “much stronger than typical chain link and material recommended by the USDA for housing these species.” According to fence meister Master Halco, 9 gauge is the second stoutest gauge of the six standard chain link fence gauges.)

The lions are kept in three pens, divided by prides Kim tells us, at the far end of the compound. We walk a dirt path alongside Sam & Company’s pen, stop short of the pen with Mufasa and his pride. Again, a chainlink fence the only thing separating us from perhaps the most feared predator to man. Mufasa’s pride is at ease, lounging about, absorbing the patches of sunlight that take the chill off the 30something temperature. Sam’s group, though, is moving about. Sam lazily walks toward us, turns. Our penchant for listening to directions about how to act around lions causes us to obediently — and very quickly — part like the Red Sea.

As Sam begins to return to his pride, Micah assumes a pounce position and lets out a roar that’s twice as attention-getting when you’re just 10 feet away. We freeze, Kim pauses her narration. One of the other females seems intent on unearthing Micah from her throne, a wooden platform three feet off the ground. More roaring, more pacing, more posturing. A short chase ensues. Sam roars. There’s a tension you don’t have to be part of the predatory animal kingdom to appreciate.

“Should we call someone?” Kim asks fellow guide Mandy Matson. They aren’t sure what’s going on.

More short chases, more posturing, more warning roars. Now Spike’s pride is getting agitated. Mufasa, apparently, is agitated, too. He lets out a series of bellows from his adjoining cage. His intervention appears to dissipate, if not resolve, whatever was going on in Sam’s pen. Slowly, the alert level lessens from red to orange to yellow.

The animals paid us no heed during their spat, but being just feet away from them we were very much a part of whatever was going on. It was visceral, striking a chord that makes you appreciate the essence of being an animal. About the importance of staying on top, of staying sharp, about surviving. Mufasa’s intervention was a show of power, of the true value of strength. Not about one’s ability to start a fight. Rather, to keep one from happening. It doesn’t matter where you are in the animal kingdom, strength, as we’d just been shown by the critters at the top of the food chain, breeds a degree of respect.

Even if you’re a cage away.

Interested in learning more?

To learn more about The Conservators’ Center, go here. To arrange a visit, go here.