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Gregg was never one to get out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to go coyote hunting. His argument was we see just as many coyotes when we go out in the evening. Although Gregg had gone with me several times I had yet to call a coyote to his feet. In January 1998 a local sporting goods store sponsored a calling contest. It took little persuasion to get Gregg to enter as my partner. We paid our registration and the game was on. Our day began at 4:30 a.m. by the time we got the cooler loaded with lunch and our allotment of Pepsi and Mountain Dew it was 5:00 a.m... We still had an hours drive to our first calling site. We were right on schedule. My Ford Ranger rolled to a stop in a small wash as the sky began to lighten over the eastern mountains. I rolled the window down and lit my ceremonial cigarette. The breeze was in our favor. I crushed the Marlboro in the ash tray and began to gather my equipment. We walked about a quarter mile down a beaten cow trail and sat down using bushes as a backdrop. As I watched the shadows in front of me become bushes and trees a lone howl broke the silence. The adrenalin began to flow and goose bumps appeared on my arms. It was still to dark to be sure of a target so I waited. Minutes seemed like hours. Finally, I could make out grass patches and felt I could be sure of what I was shooting at. The shrill screams of my rabbit distress call pierced the cold January air; I paused and listened to the sound of the call echo through the canyon. I called again and again but no coyote made an appearance on that stand. A little discouraged we made our way back to the truck. We hashed over the scenario and couldn’t decide on any one thing we had done to discourage the lone coyote from coming to visit after such a generous invitation. We called several more times with the same results. About mid day we decided to walk up a small canyon and over the ridge to make our next stand, as we crested the ridge I caught a blur out of the corner of my eye. My pheasant hunting instincts took over and my rifle came to my shoulder. The coyote filled my scope and I jerked the trigger. Behind me Gregg was trying to position himself for a clear shot. When I looked down to feed another round into my Remington 700 I looked up and could no longer see the coyote. Gregg had his Browning BAR spiting brass and lead all over the place but I couldn’t locate the dog. Gregg eventually stopped shooting. “Did he get away?” I inquired. “I don’t know.” Gregg responded, “I lost him after he went around that bush.” “Do you think you hit him?” I asked knowing I hadn’t drawn blood with my first shot. “I didn’t slow him down any, but it looked like he jumped that bush. His tail went in the air and I never saw him again.” “Did his tail go in the air because his nose hit the ground?” I quizzed. “I guess that is possible but I never heard a good solid hit” Gregg responded with a little encouragement evident in his voice. “We better go look don’t you think?” I suggested. Gregg agreed and we found the coyotes tracks in the scattered snow. We followed the tracks and found where my hurried shot had disturbed the crusty snow. We continued and found fur hanging in the sagebrush with a spattering of blood in the snow. Gregg started getting excited and picked up the pace. Soon the blood trail was not just a drop here and there, but a crimson stripe in the snow. We were almost running. I don’t know why we were moving so quickly, the crimson trail was bound to be a short one. 25 yards later the stripe ended at an adult male coyote with a severe laceration in his neck. Gregg was pumped. He had never killed a coyote before and was eager to do it again. We continued calling the rest of the day with the same amount of success we had earlier in the day. A year or so passed. I had moved back to Northern Utah to make myself more readily available to help my father on the family farm. I invited Gregg up from Southern Utah to go coyote hunting. The invitation was accepted and I planned out the hunt. Gregg arrived late that Friday night. I suggested turning in so we could get an early start the following morning. “Aw come on, the last dog we killed was at 12:30 in the afternoon.” Gregg protested. “I’m leaving at six o’clock I guess if you are not there I will just go.” “Alright, I will be ready.” Gregg liked to tease me about getting up too early to go hunting. He also enjoyed rubbing salt in my wounds when I told him about called coyotes that got away. “It sounds like you should start throwing rocks instead of trying to shoot them.” Gregg would exclaim jokingly. My alarm-clock brought me out of my deep sleep at 5:30 and I kicked Gregg. We loaded the truck and the hunt was on. By the time my truck rolled to a stop behind a lava flow the sun had already chased the darkness from the sky. We kept the lava flow between us and the vast sagebrush basin that lay beyond and walked to the point the lava flow was consumed by the valley floor. We sat down near the top of the lava flow being careful not to sit on the skyline. After a few minutes I took a deep breath and began my rendition of a dieing jack rabbit. I was focused on the north and east while Gregg was responsible for the west and south. I called several times and was just thinking we had been there long enough when I heard, “Aw shit Ward.” I turned to see a coyote about 30 feet from Gregg’s position. Gregg’s BAR was on its way to his shoulder. My mini instinctively began to rise. The hills were soon alive with the sound of gun fire. Silence fell upon the basin as Gregg and I held our empty-smoking rifles and watched that old coyote crest the ridge. “Now what did you tell me about hitting them in the head with my butt stock?” I ribbed. “Ok, you are right. I looked up and there he was. I couldn’t imagine missing at that range. I guess I rushed my shot.” “Apology accepted,” I replied, “Where did he come from.” “I don’t know, I looked up and there he was staring at you.” We were able to find the coyotes tracks in the snow and found he left pretty much the same way he came until bullets forced him to change his heading. We made a few more stands until about mid-day at this point we started exploring new areas. We saw deer and sage grouse and just enjoyed being away from the more populated areas. We were traveling on a lonely dirt road when Gregg said “Stop.” “What” I replied scanning the country side for what Gregg might be looking at. “Let’s park right here and walk down that gulley and try to call.” I agreed and we approached as Gregg had suggested. We found a place that three washes came together and made our stand there. I placed my crow decoy in the bush in front of me and turned on my excited crow tape. After a few minutes I blew my rabbit call. I was about to blow it again when I heard movement behind me. I slowly turned my head. I could see that Gregg had his rifle up. I blew on the rabbit call quietly. The quiet screams were followed immediately with a rifle shot. I turned with rifle in hand in time to see a coyote doing the “Oh shit side step”. Gregg’s BAR barked again and again but the coyote kept on running. I struggled to get a good sight picture and managed to get one shot off before the coyote disappeared around the bend in the wash. “I can’t believe I missed again!” Gregg exclaimed. I began to laugh, “I do not want to hear any more wise cracks about my marksmanship. You have demonstrated that you are no better.” “I saw this one coming from 75 yards out. I had time to get my rifle up before he got here. This time it wasn’t a matter of being surprised. I do not understand it. I had to have hit him. Let’s go look for blood.” Gregg pleaded. “I can see the ditch your first shot dug from here. Do you really want to walk all the way down there to look?” “Have you forgotten about the last coyote I shot? I think it is worth a look.” Gregg explained. I caved, we walked to the point the coyote dropped out of sight and continued another 100 yards or so. This whole time Gregg is going off in disbelief that he had missed not one but two coyotes at very close range. I was still chuckling under my breath but Gregg was on the edge of anger so I let it go. After reaching the truck Gregg was still rambling about missing that coyote. I felt it was time for him to hear my opinion. “How hard was your heart beating when that coyote made its appearance? That is what this sport is all about. The day a coyote answers the dinner bell and I don't get excited, I may have to consider finding a wife. I was once told if you don’t miss them once in a while you are not hunting them. Don’t worry about it. If we educated him good we will get his off-spring next year.” Gregg calmed down considerably but continued to shake his head the remainder of the day. Two years later Gregg moved to Northern Utah. This made getting together to go hunting easier and the trips more frequent. We made plans to hunt the coming Sunday. There were no complaints about the time of departure this time. It was early in the season so I decided to hunt some areas that the rabbit hunters dominate later in the year. After a few unsuccessful stands we moved to the foot-hills. We perched on the edge of a deep narrow canyon the wind was carrying our scent towards the truck. I wailed on the call. After three or four stanzas a lone coyote appeared on the opposite side of the canyon. I didn’t want to spook the dog so I blew a couple of quiet pleading murmurs. This alerted Gregg to the presence of a coyote and he began looking in my direction. The moment the murmurs stopped the coyote was on the move. She broke into a dead run straight at me. When she reached the bottom of the canyon I raised my rifle and prepared to take the shot. The coyote crested a small ridge and stopped staring in my direction. I had the coyote in my scope and was debating whether to call again or take the shot. Gregg’s .243 settled the debate; fur flew from the coyotes front shoulder and the coyote was deposited on the canyon floor. “I wasn’t going to let it get too close this time!” Gregg explained. “Good shot. I guess fifty yards is close enough especially if they are standing. Let’s go get it and try again.” I replied excitedly. We didn’t see another piece of fur that day but Gregg finally killed his first called dog. ~ B. J. W.
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