COVERSATION WITH A COYOTE
I keep a journal of all the season’s comings and goings, as well as my encounters with my wild neighbors, which I draw upon for my stories to share with you.
Where I live Coyotes are abundant, but secretive. An explorer in the woods could pass through my forests and think these elusive hunters had long since been lost to these lands, driven away by the long ago by settlers armed with axe and musket. But no soul has doubts that these predators have returned come dusk light. As the first stars begin to emerge in the dimming sky, a howl goes up. It’s the call that sent shivers down the spine of many, usually because it begins closer than you could have imagined, and then it grows, voices added from all sides. Few experiences impress upon you the wildness of a place as the coyote song in the gathering dark.
The coyotes in our area are a variety known as the Eastern Coyote (Canis latrans) and are of uncommon parentage. When the fields of the east were abandoned and forest regrow, the Western Coyote began to move into the new habitats. There it met and bred with the wolves of Canada, and a new species emerged, larger than their western cousin, and claimed the reborn woods in New England. They can weigh up 30–50 lbs. and usually travel in family pairs, though sometime cooperating with others in difficult winters to bring down larger game like deer. They are hardly a threat to humans, and they usually regard us as a loud, obnoxious trespasser and avoid us in favor of smaller game such as rabbits or woodchucks. A fact with makes my closest encounter with these wonderous creatures even more surprising.
On a sunny January day, I was out clearing debris along the trail downed by an earlier winter storm. I was out with a colleague, and we were both weighed down with the tools for the task. Myself, I had an axe strapped to my back, and pack of small tools, and a chainsaw in hand. As we clanked along, talking animatedly about a Red-Tailed Hawk we had roused to flight as we worked, were suddenly silenced, as a large male coyote rounded the densely thicketed bend ahead, took one glance at us, and dashed off into the brambles. A hushed word “coyote” was all either of us spoke, and we were stilled by awed at our unexpected encounter. We were so stilled and silenced in fact, that we went unnoticed a moment later by the mother coyote and her pup as they rounded the same corner.
Mother, unsure why her mate had deviated from their planned path, pause to sniff the air to determine his direction, and gazed into the thicket, trying to divine the best route for her and her youngster to follow. The pup, unburdened by practical responsibilities, glanced about, and his eyes landed upon us. Until this point, I had never seen a coyote so young (he seemed weeks or perhaps days old), and he had clearly never seen a human so close, as evident in his total lack of alarm.
It has been said more than half of communication in humans is non-verbal, mostly body language and expression. Though we shared no words, the youngling radiated curiosity as he gazed into my face, and me into his. Even more so his lack of fear was demonstrated as he walked straight us to me to get a closer look. It was these steps that finally drew Mother’s gaze away from the thicket, and she jumped with a start as she finally recognized our presence. I struggle now to imagine a more terrifying sight for a mother coyote, than how we stood, with saw and axe, just as few paces from her son. Instantly she was in motion, swooping between her charge and these two invaders armed with weapons of destruction. Swiftly she herded him away, deep into the safety of the thicket, beyond our sight and reach.
The entire encounter could not have lasted for longer that an a few seconds but left an impression for a lifetime. I still can remember his face, his eyes curious and innocent, matched by my overwhelming sense of wonder. It was an encounter never to be forgotten.