|
|
|
My pursuit of the wild gray dogs of the western deserts has been paved with disappointment and highlighted with a few bright spots. I began by purchasing a mouth call and an instructional audio tape. I practiced diligently mimicking jack rabbit distress cries. Many unsuccessful trips to the west desert followed. I knew of no one who could show me the ropes, so I was on my own to figure it out. I quickly became discouraged, and began to road hunt, shooting at coyotes on the run, and at long range. This method yielded few coyotes, burned lots of gasoline and gun powder. In November of 1994 I moved to Southern Utah, in pursuit of my high school sweetheart. I took a job at the local Ford dealership, and got to know a co-worker by the name of Tom. Tom invited me coyote hunting one day. I eagerly accepted. Tom called and killed a coyote that day. My interest in females drastically declined. My sweetheart eventually married, I didn’t. I would rather hunt coyotes than chase girls. I hunted regularly with Tom for two and a half years learning along the way. In the spring of 1997 I moved back to my home town for family reasons. Blake had suffered through many of my early attempts of calling coyotes and had little faith in my ability to call one in. However, he loved to road hunt and promptly accepted the invitation when it came. Blake’s truck rolled into the driveway at ten minutes to six. I was ready and waiting. We had planned to hunt in northern Utah, but altered our plan to extend into southern Idaho. We crossed the Utah-Idaho State line in darkness, as we neared our intended hunting area the dark figures of hay stacks and brush patches could be made out. However, figures of coyotes still eluded us. I kept the truck moving. I wanted to reach the public lands that bordered these fields as early as possible. I wheeled my mid-sized pick up truck into a small depression in the roadway to conceal it. As I stepped out of the vehicle the brisk morning air turned my breath to a mist. I led Blake down the bottom of a nearby wash that was littered with marbles of rabbit scat and one intimidating set of coyote tracks. We emerged from the wash into a grass flat with two small sage bushes near the center. The bushes would make an ideal hiding spot. After settling into our blind, I took in the view. The sun had just begun to peek over the eastern mountains. The sprinklers in the fields below had created white stripes where their life giving moisture had been turned to ice. The fields faded into patches of sagebrush and grass, which I hoped many a coyote called home. I raised my call to my mouth and let out three sharp screams, pausing allowing them to echo through the brush. After the last echo had returned I began pleading and crying. I continued to call for several seconds, resting a minute or two, and repeating the process. I glanced in Blake’s direction, his face held an expression of boredom and disdain. I took one final look around and saw no coyotes. The frosty stripes had yielded to the suns warm rays. We had been here long enough. As I stood up a group of coyotes began to bark and howl, as if saying “You can’t fool us with that wood whistle of yours!” We peered through our scopes in search of those chastising us. We couldn’t locate a single bushy tailed gray dog. The coyotes' scornful barks and howls gradually faded away into silence. I pictured the small group bouncing through the sage brush in route to more productive hunting grounds. Hanging our heads in disgust we made our way back to the truck. We climbed into the truck and moved on. Blake was analyzing our latest experience and wondered if a few more minutes would have made a difference. A blur shot across the road in front of us I shifted down and mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor to close the gap quicker. “This one is yours Ward!” Blake exclaimed as my Ford Ranger came to a skidding halt. The skidding truck must have sparked this coyotes' curiosity. He did not run; he merely stood there broadside. He obviously had never played this game before. I took aim, touched the trigger, my 22-250 leapt in my hands, and the coyote crumpled where he stood. “That’s the way it’s done! Nice shot Ward!” Blake exclaimed handing out high five’s. I was happy we had seen and killed a coyote, but I felt as though I had cheated. I hadn't fooled this coyote to come within shooting range. He had just crossed the road at a bad time. I had no sense of accomplishment at this kill site. We gathered the coyote's limp body, tossed it in the pick up and continued our quest. Blake and I continued to lie to each other and rehash hunts of the past. Seven miles passed and we began to round a corner. “Whoa..whoa..whoa.. “ Blake rambled pointing excitedly. My eyes followed his finger to a distant hay field. I brought the truck to a stop. A coyote worked the far edge of the field hunting for mice. “Let’s go park the truck at the end of this fence and belly crawl to the field.” Blake suggested. “I don’t know Blake, that’s a long way to belly crawl, let’s crawl half way and try to call him to us.” I argued, with the guilt of cheating still fresh on my mind. It took some convincing but I won out and we approached as I had recommended. We found a suitable hiding spot and I began to scream. The coyote raised his head, twitched his ears, and went back to hunting. I cried, screamed, and wailed. The ol’ dog basically thumbed his nose at us and continued hunting. I changed to a pup in distress call with the same defiant response from the wise old k-9. Desperate for a response I let out a locator howl. I got a response this time the old dog raised his head looked in our direction and moved out. “You see, I knew we should have belly-crawled to the fence!” Blake boasted. “Nothing ventured nothing gained.” I posed defensively. “I’ll know better next time.” By now it was nearing mid day. We elected to hunt our way home using unimproved roads whenever possible. We were traveling a well-used gravel road that would eventually meet the highway that would take us home. I still wanted to try to call one last time. I spotted a likely spot to hide the truck and began to convince Blake it was a good idea. Once again he caved, I put on my camo hood and loaded my rifle and revolver before he changed his mind. We walked into the wind using the contours of the land to keep us off the skyline. I stopped just over the edge of a shallow brush-filled wash. I found a semi-circle of sage brush, with a rabbit trail running between two of the bushes, to hide in. Blake continued up wind so he could see the vast grass flat at the valley floor. I began calling quietly, in hopes a song dog had shaded up in the wash and had not detected our approach. I called again and again, with no response. I could hear Blake shifting his weight. He was getting restless and impatient. I changed calls from my midrange to my long range call. I blew till I was out of breath. As I put the call down I heard a twig break behind me. I cranked my head around in time to see a yearling coyote gathering himself after jumping the wash, he was now on a dead run straight at me. I glanced down to locate my revolver that lay on the ground in front of me. As my fingers located the pistol grip my attention turned back to the approaching coyote, he was ten yards away and closing fast. I began to raise my revolver; the coyote must have mistaken my hand movement as the wounded rabbit he sought. His head penetrated my semi-circle with teeth bared and snarling. Before I realized what was happening my revolver had barked three times and the young coyote lay dead five yards away. Blake burst from his hiding spot. “Did you hit him?” “Ya, he is down.” I replied still shaking. “Have you got him marked? I’ll go get him.” Blake offered “He is marked” I prompted pointing almost at his feet. Blake’s eyes got wide “how close was he when you started shooting?” I quickly reenacted the scene for him and explained the reflexive shooting. I concluded. “He forced me to shoot him in self defense". ~B. J. W.
|
