coyote mama

One of the first things I noticed about the coyote was it’s lack of dependence. It does not need you, it does not even acknowledge you, it simply is. Despite your presence on it’s territory, neither aware of it’s animal worth nor of it’s character, it lives by it’s senses; for itself, by itself, and periodically for it’s young and only as long as necessary.

As a young mother, I lost a sizable chunk of my romantic innocence on my way to a mine far up over Death Valley; lessons taught in parochial school did not prepare me for the wilderness, a broad spectrum of natural history hardly saved me from the unknown in this harsh environment.

Women and children were considered a nuisance by the mining community at the Warm Springs mine, so, while their father was at work, I hid my children in abandoned mines and shacks of prospectors gone bust. Women were considered as unwelcome distraction of the most dangerous kind, subject to causing the deadliest of brawls, kids were viewed as nuisance, for their destructive potential, miner’s children having little fear of open shafts and heavy equipment. Both alienated species being a serious insurance risk factor, we, novitiates of the low desert were sharply aware of our place. Coyotes had haunted many of our lonely nights down at the bottom of the Valley, near Shoshone; we had kept awake with small fires at the mouth of the cave, borrowing the illusion of cursory safety. We had witnessed the disappearance of our city bred Siamese cat, and had stayed awake all night long till coyote breakfast hour, to finally fall asleep in the cooler mornings.

After months of searching, we had found a dilapidated hovel behind a large boulder outcropping and this would be the place where we would remain while the boy’s father was working for the two week pay period. That day, our dry goods carefully stored in rodent proof containers, the boys and I set out on our customary daily adventure: so far from public education, we felt privileged to invent our home schooling plans.

Animals provided us with instant enculturation and entertainment. Always alert, we walked silently up the canyon corridor toward the mines, when suddenly, I felt a nagging sense of being watched, then I noticed a slight movement above us, in the rising heat, a form, hardly distinguishable from jagged jasper. I was relieved to spot a small female coyote, barely the size of a medium house dog, she stood rigidly between two scraggly bushes, fifty feet into the sun above us, I held my hand up as a sign of warning, the boys stopped one by one as we did whenever we mobilized our efforts in any circumstance. I whispered “coyote”, they stared in the same direction, and knew not to appear afraid, they imitated my every move instinctively. Another brown and beige specter leapt out of the rocks beyond and another and a third, clearly her young, to hide my sense of unrest I spoke softly
“look! mama coyote has three kids, a family, just like us”.

So secure was I of my primal intimacy with nature, I felt more at ease with the animal than with a possible errant miner whose intent I might not be so certain of ; the only threat to our safety here would be hunger, or fear, nothing more complicated than that. I swelled my 5'3" frame to its full potential, careful not to appear too threatening, we stood immobile for what felt like a long time, anxious to blend into the moment, then I allowed the boys to move slowly yet surely as if they had not seen the wild pups ahead, my eyes fixed on some point near the playful trio, I walked along the far wall of the narrow pass, one eye to the rocks on the road, one never losing sight of our feral observers.

Large ears danced among sage and atriplex, the mother, intense and nervous in the center of this wilderness theater. She searched updrafts with her pointy snout to detect our scent, her ears moved in remarkable synchronicity with each rock our feet dislodged on the path. Her fur rough and dry, her legs thin as old bone, she had no patience for another unsuccessful hunt. It was too late in the day to play.

Heat was rising from the valley in a palpable rush, I had never seen more than two coyotes together in day-time, I surmised the male had left for his next adventure, and these were just frustrated breakfast hunters who had been interrupted by our unwelcome presence. “Don’t scare me old girl! And I won’t scare you off” I communicated to the animal. All senses down on low alert.

In unrelenting vigilance, I stretched myself in front of the children, one hand on my brown backpack, ready to swing, yet never to attack, I reached in and withdrew a rabbit meat tortilla, took the newsprint wrapping off. As if she understood, i spoke;
“here girl, here girl, come and get it!” I threw the offering in a slow arc to the right of the animals. The female yipped loudly as she jumped away from the food, tail tight between her skinny legs. We waited, still as rocks, while the pup’s yip-yips subsided and the mother had time to sniff the dubious gift; one big eared fat one daringly advanced toward the temptation, the mama lurched at him ferociously, sending dust into the air, sharp screams echoed all around us, the mother attacked her young who sideswiped her in an effort to claim the single prize; confused and alarmed, I wanted to throw the remaining lunch left in the sack.

Coyotes did not eat fresh gifts, they waited till nightfall or early dawn next morning to claim a find, for fear of traps or poison. Mistrust of man, a healthy survival tool. They must be real hungry, huh? yes, just watch!

The battle raged on for excruciating minutes, fangs bared, the female grabbed and flung her offspring like puppets, and snapped at whichever ones came back toward the food source. One runt whimpered loudly, dragging his injured leg and visibly bleeding on rocks. I dared not yell at the savage creature for fear she’d turn her anger toward my own progeny. The sound of agonizing squeals and growls lasted for a while, we walked on fast and sure footed while it was evident that the enraged female seemed to have forgotten about us.

Keeping my body between them and the quarreling pack, my rucksack at ready, I signaled in the direction of the safest route through the narrow passageway; we moved in unison, teeth clenched so tightly as to bite inner cheeks. I noticed my right eyelid was involuntarily twitching. As we reached a respectable distance, we slowed our pace and turned around , two cowardly pups were circling their mother persistently. I realized I had taken a foolish chance, baiting wild animals in such close proximity, these had seen miners in pick-ups, and perhaps a few coyote hunters high up in their over-equipped Jeeps. These animals didn’t fear our kind afoot, yet they keenly mistrusted us.

The pups appeared to be about three or four months old and I was surprised to notice the mother chasing them so soon, she could have waited till they were at least six or seven months of age to frighten them off, “did our presence influence her behavior?” I asked myself
“but mama, that was cooked rabbit you gave them”
“It smelled good, didn’t it?”
“Look she’s eating it, they quit fighting!” the children noticed in a burst of relief.
We could still see her carrying her bounty over the hill, snout up and proud, the pups followed her, sniffing for any drops or bits, tails high, weaving carelessly in this, their inherent territory.

Our skin dry and lips chapped, we took turns to drink from our canteen, heads bent to avert the sun at zenith, we walked at a slow gait now. The sights and sounds of the ferocity had depleted our stores of energy and we needed to find a place of rest.
A large mine portal lay ahead, we painfully climbed up to the rocky rubble that littered the entrance and collapsed in a loose heap in the blessed shade. Lunch was comprised of thin strips of boiled jackrabbit stringy meat and the misshapen homemade tortillas I had left: coyote leftovers!.

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