The First Coyote Hunt – Phantoms of The Woods

It was cold, but I didn’t notice.  It was quiet.  Too quiet.

“That’s strange.  The coyotes were going nuts earlier this week and now, nothing,” I said.

“We have another colt missing,” Curtis replied.

I felt the color drain from my face.  I felt physically sick. “WHAT do you mean, another colt missing!”

“Eternity’s colt – gone.”

My language was not suitable even for the devil.  The colt – of rare Egyptian Arabian bloodlines by a stallion we had leased who was the only stallion with his sire line in North America – had been in the twenty some acres fenced off for the yearlings, two year olds and three year olds.  No trees.  Aside from shelter from the wind, it was wide open.  It was the section of pasture right beside a private airstrip and deep with snow from the recent snowfall.

Back of barn showing 20 + acres of open pasture beside airstrip. Bush line beyond.

It was the same pasture my yearling filly had been chased – taking the top wire down – when she was attacked and consumed two years earlier.  The same year a large coyote approached me in my pasture while I was on a nature walk.  The horses, for a week after that, hovered in the yard in a tight knit group.  I had called the Conservation office – again – that time.  But, I felt like the people I reached out thought I was just a wet hen who had a fluke event happen to her.  An emotional woman – poor little dear.

The year before that, a new born foal was also consumed by coyotes.  Curtis found what was left of his remains.  Every foaling season, I could hear the coyotes belting out their dinner calls, alarming me when a mare was about to foal in my barn that had ten large box stalls – five on each side of a breezeway I left open – front and back doors open to allow a breeze through and to enjoy the view.  I would trot back and forth in the dark, late into the night, offering reassurance, pampering and assistance, if needed, to my beautiful Arabian mares who I selectively gathered over a decade.  I always put every mare in the barn.

One mare, however, foaled weeks before she was due – and my instincts had told me to bring her in early.  I even mentioned it to Curtis.  I heard the coyotes that night, worse than ever before.  Fear surged into me.  Panic.  I tried to wake Curtis, repeatedly asking him to get out of bed and grab a gun.  I contemplated getting on the four wheeler alone and searching the far part of our 150 wooded acres, yet I also feared being surrounded and attacked myself by what was obviously dozens of coyotes – and I didn’t have a gun.

That night, I sat crying in the barn, listening as the coyote chaos continued in the distance, finally falling silent.

The next morning, the mare stood at the gate, looking distraught and traumatized.  My guilt consumed me so greatly, I thought I would die.  All I could do was repeatedly apologize to her as I cried into her neck for forgiveness.  It ate my soul.  I wailed how I was not worthy to be her guardian, how I had failed my mare.  My herd.

I begged and pleaded with Curtis to do something.  For someone – anyone – to do something.  My close friends at the time were horrified at the coyote attack, trying to console my guilt.  One husband, Wayne, sincerely offered to come if Curtis picked a couple of nights to hunt coyotes with him.  He just needed a phone call from Curtis.  That call was never made.  Most everyone, but me, was too busy to be obsessed with trying to do something about the coyote problem – but they talked about it, and I soon fell into that trap, too.

One foal falling prey to coyotes at this new farm might be viewed as a fluke killing to some.  Two horses – and now a third – was no fluke.  Coyotes had found easy pickings at my expense on various levels.

Now, I lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the sky as an offering to the Creator before my first hunt. I heard the words of my shaman surface, Every animal comes to you with a message and a teaching.  The air was still.

“First rule,” Curtis said, “Always be sure of your target and beyond.”

I nodded.  The words from my childhood resurrected, If you miss, you can’t shoot again.

“Are you sure you can do this – kill a coyote if we call some in?” he asked.

I stared him in the eye. My anger towards the coyotes hardened my emotions.  “I’ve never killed anything in my life, but I can kill a coyote.  I’ll just picture what they’ve done to my animals.”

He nodded.  “Rule number two – treat every firearm as if it were loaded.” He handed me the .22.  I shook my hands like something was stuck to my finger tips, not wanting to touch it, but man-ed up in a hurry with a deep breath and grabbed the gun.

We walked out into the pasture through the cut line – a large bush on the right side where I would venture into in the summer, sitting for hours alone in the stillness, or picking berries – and a smaller bush on the left.  Battling deep snow, I noted out loud, “No tracks of any kind, not even horse tracks.”

The main adult group of horses had remained by the driveway where I could see them every day.  The weanlings were in the corral by the barn, with access into stalls, where the dogs could also watch them.  I was disappointed about the lack of tracks, and doubt entered my mind.  The coyotes may have temporarily moved their location, their bellies full.  Or, due to the very cold temperatures, were in the den growing hungry for warmer weather.

Curtis made his way to the edge of the bush on the left side.  Crouching.

“Not here,” I whispered.

“Why not?”

“We’re on the edge of a bush.  The coyote experts say to never position yourself on the edge of a bush.  You need to keep a clear view all around so when they circle, you can see them and they can’t sneak up on you.  Zena even lays in the middle of the yard – never with her back against a building or bush line.”

“This will be fine for tonight.”

“I say left, you say right. What’s new?” I muttered.  I shook my head and positioned myself with my back towards him.  The argument wasn’t worth it right now – later.

He pulled out the rabbit call, and started to blow in long breaths, like he was using a horn.  The noise was offensive.  I turned my head and looked at him sitting there, blowing.  My eyebrows drew together.  My nose scrunched.  I twisted my mouth.  He stopped.  A few moments of silence passed before an owl hooted.

I whispered, “My owl!  Did you hear him?  He’s asking, “Who, who, who the hell is making that awful noise?”  I snickered.

Curtis whispered back, “That’s how I was told to call a coyote in on a rabbit call by a guy who had the same call.”

I shrugged.  “I don’t know much, but I think he either didn’t know what he was doing, or he lied to you.  I remember when Shawn played his rabbit call years ago, it sounded like a baby crying.”

We sat for another five minutes.  Listening.  Waiting.  I felt in my element – in nature.  In that soothing comfort of the natural world that I sought refuge in from a small child on.  Content just to be alone – thinking.  Watching.  Observing birds and small animals, sometimes deer.  Another few minutes passed.  Not even the owl cared about us anymore.

I whispered, “Here – pass me that call.  I’m no expert, but let me try to imitate a baby.  You be ready with the gun.”

Curtis handed me the call.  I took a deep breath and then belted a sorry tune of Jingle Bells.  Snickering.  He rolled his eyes.  I man-ed up.  Putting my lips to the rabbit call, I made a sincere effort to do a series of combining a few short wah’s and ending with a long wah sound.  After a few minutes, Curtis raised his hand for me to stop.

“I read to only call for a few minutes, then wait fifteen minutes before trying again.”

I nodded.  We sat and my natural inclination to let my mind wander and ponder took over, distracting me momentarily – until I heard one short, sharp yip-bark.  My eyes widened.  Curtis and I looked at each other.

I whispered, “Hear that?!”

He nodded.  The sound of soft trotting on the snow.  I looked at Curtis again, “Hear that?”

“Yes, what direction do you hear it?” he asked.

I listened, “In the big bush… no, wait, it’s in this little bush… Wait, I’m not sure.  I’m confused – it sounds like it is everywhere but not all at once.”

Phantoms of the woods.  Heard, but not seen.  It reminded me of Ghost Whisperer, when the deceased are talking to Melinda, the medium, and suddenly materialize in various directions, moving around her as they interact with her…

(to be continued next post…)