The coyote is a survivor,

 reckon he’s got to be

He lives in the snow at 40 below,

or in Malibu by the sea

“The Coyote and the Cowboy” – Colter Wall

But at the end of the day

Nobody cares for coyotes

They’re gonna burn us out

Burn us out of town

“Men and Coyotes” – Red Shahan

We didn’t have central air in the Sears kit home built in 1913 that I grew up in, so in the summer, a window box fan at night had to suffice for keeping us cool. Thankfully, the window in my room was inches from my bed, so it didn’t take all that long to cool off once the sun went down over the Elkhorn Mountains to the west of town. 

Between me and those mountains were the train tracks. I couldn’t tell you if the train ran on a set schedule; as a kid (as if it’s changed since), I wasn’t observant like that. But to be romantic, I’ll tell you that the clicka-clack rhythm of the cars running over the crossing at the head of main, coupled by the dreary horn that lost its potency as it drifted through the airwaves to my house, put me to sleep each night during the hot summer. And between the train tracks and the mountains was the prairie and the winding Missouri river. That’s where the coyotes sang. Thinking back, I’m surprised that I could hear them so clearly. It speaks to the quietness of a small Mountain West town once the moon comes out. There were so many times when I dreamed of being boundless like the trains and the coyotes. 

I never saw a coyote in that small town, though again, that’s not where my attention gathered – I mostly lived in my head. I had a paper route from when I was ten to twelve; I had to go down one alley at the end of my route, and at least weekly I got spooked by the same metal cowboy shadow cutout that leaned against a shed back there. I’m pretty sure I could sleep-ride my bike, and if a coyote was running right beside me, it could have just made a great ingredient to my dreams. But I did see them outside of town when I sought them out. I thought that I wanted to hunt them, so I went with my brother. He had all of the equipment: two 22-250 caliber rifles, coyote calls, a rabbit distress call, and white alpine snow camo – as we were hunting them in the middle of winter. All together we saw three or four. We were able to call them in with the distress call, but they’re smart, and they are careful. Curiosity does not generally kill coyotes. They never got close enough for a clean shot, which ended up being a relief because there was something about their wise reserve that felt familiar. 

For as peripheral as they are, coyotes garner a lot of hate. In another time and place, but in an even colder winter, I was standing in line at a general store outside of Williston, North Dakota, when I overheard coyote convo that perked my attention. General store here refers to a place with gas pumps, ranch and feed supplies, outdoor work clothing, fishing gear, guns, ammo, beer, hot dogs rolling on cylindrical heaters –  along with all other forms of highly chemically- stabilized (preserved) “food” –  and lotto tickets. Standing under shoulder mounts of various types of deer (since they’re varietally impoverished when it comes to wild game compared to Montana), the store clerk was telling the customer in front of me that “they” (not the store – perhaps the local or state government?) were paying $100 per coyote pelt, as they apparently had become that much of a nuisance. I was working in the oilfield at that time, making  “good” (I feel like that is a relative term for this subject) money, and this was the first time I actually considered becoming a full time hunter/trapper, and yes, being clothed head to toe in fur was part of that fleeting imagining consideration. I did in fact go hunting for them the following weekend, to no avail. We didn’t even see one, which made me ponder even more the animosity shown to these prairie dogs. Was it merited? It certainly wasn’t isolated. The westward expansion of the Settlers revealed equal hostility to all predators, not exempting coyotes. But though almost every other predator has been hunted to the point of being threatened, if not nearly extinct, coyotes have adapted – and even thrived. Where other predator’s habitats have shrunk, coyote’s have expanded; “liv[ing] in the snow at 40 below, or in Malibu by the sea”.

The 40 below of North Dakota wasn’t for me, so I found myself in Portland, OR., training to become a barber so that I would (hopefully) never have to work in that kind of environment again. Weather is one kind of environment, and the mild weather of the Pacific Northwest was quite the reprieve. But there is, of course, a social environment to be considered as well. You may be hard pressed to find two more polarizing places in the U.S. when it comes to the people and attitudes present. In short, one couldn’t have been more red, and the other more blue. I also had to learn how to adapt from working completely isolated from the general public, to completely immersed in it. We lived at the edge of Portland, where the city and the suburbs merge. There was a (rare) empty lot behind our house where I once saw a coyote scurry. Coyotes apparently used to run in bigger packs, until it no longer served them. They adapted, like this solo concrete canine. I was trying to adapt as well. I was leaving all of the normal and expected habitats for someone like me; evading the threat of extinction of my hopes and dreams. Perhaps I was on my way to becoming boundless like the coyote. 

Coyotes aren’t migratory, but they are survivors and opportunists, so if an area runs out of resources, they’ll move on. I also moved on from Portland when my wife and I found out that we were having our first child – back to Bozeman, Montana for the opportunity to work at a busy, successful barber shop. Then from Bozeman to Helena when resources became scarce (read: Bozeman was becoming wildly expensive and unlivable for a family that didn’t bring in 6 digits). Then to Alabama during Covid for a nursing school opportunity for my wife. 

But a coyote will always return to their preferred home if the circumstances allow. Circumstances not only allowed for us to return to Montana once more, but against all odds, allowed for us to buy our own home, our own territory. My window is once again inches from my head, it once again faces west, where the sun now sets behind the Continental Divide. If I have that window open, the familiar dreary train horn drifts to my ears nightly. Our place overlooks the Birds Eye valley, and there is indeed prairie beyond the county road before the mountains begin. I have yet to hear the coyote call, though I have listened intently. But one bright winter day, as I was driving with all three of my kids in the vehicle, we saw a fluffy solo coyote scamping through the thick snow between our place and town. I wondered why it would have been where it was; there were so many houses, roads, and the train tracks nearby. Why wouldn’t it be to the west where the mountains and boundless territory lie? But then it dawned on me as I click-a-clacked over the train tracks – to be boundless for its own sake is to be forever bound by the horizon. That train makes its way over the Continental Divide, only to return back once it has handed its cars off to the next engine on the other side; it doesn’t keep going on to the coast and then on around the country. This coyote was probably where it was because that is where resources were available during the harsh winter for it to provide for itself and its family. And I was driving to town to exercise and to socialize my children. The train has its cars, the coyote and I have our kids. I might still sometimes dream of being boundless, but I am actually very content with being bound like the trains and the coyotes.