Early '80's, Yosemite, Canon AE-1 with a 300mm zoom
Sitting outside in the morning on the Adirondack chairs, a lone whine and bark in the foothills echoed for about a minute before becoming a chorus of at least three or more overlapping participants. It continued steadily for several minutes. It had to be coyotes. I assumed they had perhaps cornered something that was fighting back or tree'd it. Gradually, one of the barks evolved into a whimper. It was hard to listen to. It could be someone's pet being attacked. It became both upsetting and intriguing enough that I abandoned my post and drove up the small road leading into the woods.
That was absurdly optimistic. I knew so even before getting into my car. What might I find, and then what could I do with it? Would a couple of coyotes yield their wounded or freshly killed prey to me? I don't think so. Had they, would I be in any position to take an injured animal and somehow save it? Highly unlikely.
Still, my curiosity was piqued, and my wheels were in motion, as were the wheels of dozens of other cars, all on their way to destinations of their own as they navigated the intersection by the path leading into the hills. The sound of all these vehicles completely drowned out my ability to hear the barks, even past the intersection on the single-lane gravel drive leading up to the "Private Property" sign. All I could hear was the sound of engines and tires on the nearby pavement.
I hoped, if nothing else, to see one or more of them in the distance, to put a muzzle to the bark as it were, to witness nature even at the risk of that including a potentially gruesome find. Yet I saw nothing and conceded to the likelihood that the odds of doing so were as limited as the sparse visibility afforded me beyond the dense brush and surrounding trees.
I returned home to my seat in the yard, bringing my first pour of coffee along with me, accompanied by the continued bark of one lone coyote again, in the same manner it had begun. After a few more barks, a separate and parallel yelp echoed alongside it. Sustained silence followed.
This incident brought to mind a late-night walk many years ago in Tahoe with my friend, Matt C. Our other friends had the car and were staying at the tables longer than we wanted to, so we decided to walk back to the rental home. The weather was pleasant, and the stars were out in abundance.
After walking in the dark longer than expected, we realized we had gotten lost. Our path alone the outskirts of the streets and scattered homes butted up against the woods. Then we heard a lone bank, followed by multiple overlapping ones, just like this morning, seemingly moving in our direction. Seemingly just behind that first row of trees. Seemingly surrounding us.
I was sincerely concerned, my heart racing modestly, and I began looking for something to pick up as a weapon, or the closest home I might attempt to reach should the pack break through the line of trees in pursuit of us. Matt was far less concerned and dismissed their chaotic cries as circumstantial. My thought at the time was the classic line " ... well I don't have to outrun them, I just have to outrun you!!
We eventually found our way to the house, and I suspect they ultimately caught whatever they were pursuing as the proximity faded and the barking subsided.
What I find interesting about all of this, this morning's sounds and the Tahoe night walk, is how my imagination filled in so many blanks with so many assumptions and "what ifs". It seems to me that this is an instinctual, natural response to assess a relatively neutral set of occurrences with an emotional filter and response. A protective one, too. What if coyotes attacked Lucky or Scottie? What if I could prevent that? What if the Tahoe pack rushed us from the woods? What house would I run to, and how easily could I trip my friend without losing stride?
Why, ultimately, do I feel a need to anticipate and control anything, anyway?
That was absurdly optimistic. I knew so even before getting into my car. What might I find, and then what could I do with it? Would a couple of coyotes yield their wounded or freshly killed prey to me? I don't think so. Had they, would I be in any position to take an injured animal and somehow save it? Highly unlikely.
Still, my curiosity was piqued, and my wheels were in motion, as were the wheels of dozens of other cars, all on their way to destinations of their own as they navigated the intersection by the path leading into the hills. The sound of all these vehicles completely drowned out my ability to hear the barks, even past the intersection on the single-lane gravel drive leading up to the "Private Property" sign. All I could hear was the sound of engines and tires on the nearby pavement.
I hoped, if nothing else, to see one or more of them in the distance, to put a muzzle to the bark as it were, to witness nature even at the risk of that including a potentially gruesome find. Yet I saw nothing and conceded to the likelihood that the odds of doing so were as limited as the sparse visibility afforded me beyond the dense brush and surrounding trees.
I returned home to my seat in the yard, bringing my first pour of coffee along with me, accompanied by the continued bark of one lone coyote again, in the same manner it had begun. After a few more barks, a separate and parallel yelp echoed alongside it. Sustained silence followed.
This incident brought to mind a late-night walk many years ago in Tahoe with my friend, Matt C. Our other friends had the car and were staying at the tables longer than we wanted to, so we decided to walk back to the rental home. The weather was pleasant, and the stars were out in abundance.
After walking in the dark longer than expected, we realized we had gotten lost. Our path alone the outskirts of the streets and scattered homes butted up against the woods. Then we heard a lone bank, followed by multiple overlapping ones, just like this morning, seemingly moving in our direction. Seemingly just behind that first row of trees. Seemingly surrounding us.
I was sincerely concerned, my heart racing modestly, and I began looking for something to pick up as a weapon, or the closest home I might attempt to reach should the pack break through the line of trees in pursuit of us. Matt was far less concerned and dismissed their chaotic cries as circumstantial. My thought at the time was the classic line " ... well I don't have to outrun them, I just have to outrun you!!
We eventually found our way to the house, and I suspect they ultimately caught whatever they were pursuing as the proximity faded and the barking subsided.
What I find interesting about all of this, this morning's sounds and the Tahoe night walk, is how my imagination filled in so many blanks with so many assumptions and "what ifs". It seems to me that this is an instinctual, natural response to assess a relatively neutral set of occurrences with an emotional filter and response. A protective one, too. What if coyotes attacked Lucky or Scottie? What if I could prevent that? What if the Tahoe pack rushed us from the woods? What house would I run to, and how easily could I trip my friend without losing stride?
Why, ultimately, do I feel a need to anticipate and control anything, anyway?