Having been transplanted from the east, where the landscape is constantly changing with vibrant gemlike blossoms in spring, verdant greens in summer and eye-popping brilliance in autumn, it took some time for my senses to adjust to the more nuanced shades of color so prevalent here in the west. When I finally began to really notice and appreciate the delicate hues of the high desert landscape, I could not stop gawking and wondering at their subtlety. The dry branches littering the ground were not grey, but turquoise and teal; the clumps of sage dotting the foothills were not ashen but frosted emerald; the sandstone cliffs not just beige but layers of the palest coral and peach. Even the sandy earth no longer looked drab and brown but took on the deep richness of sienna reds and dusty purples. Delicious pale hints of color were everywhere, if I would just take the time to look. It was with a similar epiphany that the northwestern winters were transformed for me from a time of stark cold and barren bleakness to a much-anticipated season of mysterious treasures, all due to the graces of one little coyote.
A short drive from our house is an area where an abandoned road, straight and wide, runs directly between two fenced fields. Once paved, the old road is now no more than a sad strip of cracks, pebbles and sprouting weeds. Traveled rarely, except in the earliest hours of the morning by a lone rancher on his ancient tractor, it was an ideal place to let our dogs run unleashed, with full abandon. Although I enjoyed the freedom it afforded our pets and the seclusion it provided me, I considered it to be a particularly bleak place.
Year round, the two fields were sparse, edged by dry rock berms sprouting tall weeds full of vicious burrs. Stark fence posts strung with unfriendly barbed wire bordered a pasture of short scrub on the right and an overgrown neglected field on the left. The few trees that were visible far off in the distance were scrappy, gnarled, charcoal-grey masses, clumped together against the elements.
This bleak expanse stretched for seeming miles with only an occasional wild goose or black starling visible in any direction; an area the locals dubbed Goose Flats. Despite the starkness of this unpeopled landscape, or maybe because of it, I started going there often.
Over time, as my familiarity with the area grew, I began noticing traces of other wildlife evident along the side of the road. The dogs would sometimes sniff out little tufts of fur or fluffy piles of feathers strewn among the weeds; a tell-tale sign that a predator had been recently about. These leavings were rare, but frequent enough to arouse my curiosity and whet my appetite for a glimpse of the wildling that had dined by the side of the abandoned road. I enjoyed thinking about sharing this seemingly bleak landscape with a clever and industrious creature that could move stealthily among the overgrowth so as never to be seen, diligently stalking its breakfast. After many days of watchful anticipation, I was finally treated to the barest glimpse of a lone coyote crossing swiftly from the pasture on one side of the road to disappear into the thick brush of the field opposite.
It was the hope of seeing this cunning creature again that kept me returning day after day, even in the worst of weather. On one of the coldest wintry days, bundled up to the ears, I set out for our usual hike. Head down, I soldiered forward mumbling under my breath against the frigid air.
Finally daring to peek out from my protective mufflers, I looked around and saw that somehow Goose Flats had changed. As if by the single pass of a magic wand, the stark bleakness had been transformed into unimaginable beauty.
A fine layer of frost covered everything in sight so that the fields of spikey weeds became a glittering monochromatic fairyland. The very sparseness that had once made the landscape seem so forlorn now made it look delicate and ethereal. Though brittle and cold, the jacket of silver that bathed the entire scene leant it a luxurious warmth that left me stunned with its beauty and as completely transformed as the landscape itself. I realized that instead of cursing the cold, I should relish the prospect of such days of frozen enchantment.
It was on one such frosty day, when there was a light dusting of snow on the empty pasture, that I spotted the little coyote not far in the distance, out in the open without the protection of any cover, going about his hunting business.
Clearly visible, he stalked, nose down, through the thin layer of snow in search of some morsel of anything to eat. He stopped, pointed then lifted off, all fours in mid-air, pouncing on a hapless field mouse.
I realized that I was only able to watch this charming scene unfold because the arrival of winter had laid bare many things that would normally have been hidden. The leaves and scrub that obscured everything during the warmer months were gone. Kestrels and hawks were now clearly visible as they hovered in the barren tip tops of the trees. Eagles could now be more easily spotted in their roosts along the river. Even the minks and river otters would show up more readily against the wintry backdrop of frosty creekbanks. I was delighted to think that there was a whole world of previously hidden mysteries waiting to be discovered, and that I had the little coyote to thank for my newfound love of winter.
As winter finally thawed into spring and the days grew longer still, I began taking my morning walks before sunrise to avoid the blistering heat of summer.
Quite a revelation awaited me on one of these early mornings, when I discovered that the right-hand field with the shorter scrub was not abandoned after all, but in fact a working pasture. In the earliest hours of the morning the old rancher opened the gates to admit a sizeable herd of cows and their heifers.
They were very cute, often standing affectionately nose to nose and even coming over to the fence to greet us on occasion. They were especially curious about the dogs and seemed to want to drum up a friendship.
One morning, having arrived for our hike in the predawn hours, I was treated to a sight that I would never have reckoned to behold in my life. There in the pasture, lying down amongst the reclining cows was our little coyote; perfectly at home, bothering no one and no one bothering him.
The sight of the little coyote snuggled contentedly against the body of a huge black cow was one of the most heartwarming spectacles I had ever seen.
I learned over time that this was an everyday occurrence and looked forward to witnessing this amazing phenomenon each morning. What a glorious way to start the day, seeing the little coyote nestled among his bovine friends, all peacefully grazing or resting, unruffled by his presence.
This was the coyote’s territory, his stomping grounds, his home. It was also the breakfast table of the herd of cattle that grazed and rested there. My dogs and I were the interlopers, outsiders intruding on their peaceful world. Even so, these kindly creatures welcomed me and my pets with a friendly curiosity, gracious comradery and an unmatched capacity for tolerance that made me very happy to have made their acquaintance.
