TERRE HAUTE —
Despite the cold and the ever-present winter breezes that blow across our hill these days, I often find myself, even in the blue evenings, standing on the walk near my cabin, looking at the stars or watching for the last red-tailed hawks of the day as they float by in the drafts. I hear the coyotes in the fields across the wetlands from our place, too. Their howls are lonely and frightening, and they make me glad that I am standing where I am and that I have water and woods between us.
Ask anyone who lives away from the lights of towns, and they might tell you that coyotes are thriving. They are more numerous than in the past, at least it seems to me. Just a few years back a state representative pushed legislation to put a $5 bounty on coyotes, and you’ll meet more than a few folks who believe that ’yotes are the reason for fewer rabbits and game birds.
I’m not so sure about that. Oh, I know that coyotes run off with the occasional sheep, and they are notorious murderers of housecats, but, for the most part, they tend to make the majority of their snacks at the expense of field mice, although, they aren’t above raiding an available henhouse or dog bowl. The coyotes around our place seem to be heard much more often than seen, for it is only rarely that I’ll catch a flash of brown fur sprinting across an open field or broad-jumping a roadside ditch. Otherwise, they are mostly invisible.
Because I own no livestock nor enjoy hunting, I hold no grudge against coyotes. Even though they are labeled as “nuisance” wildlife by our Department of Natural Resources, I take that appellation with a grain of salt, for the beavers that work in the wetlands below us, the gray squirrels I see scaling the huge sycamore tree outside my window and the woodpeckers that visit our frontyard feeders are listed as such, too. So are red foxes and Great Blue Herons and the aforementioned hawks, but I have no ax to grind with them, either, and I have simply chosen to leave them alone.
The most egregious sins committed against coyotes are by a select few who have captured them in the wild, then “trained” hunting dogs to tear their captive prey to shreds. Some pens have even been equipped with hot wires that shock the animals while they try to defend themselves. It is people like these who give the sport of hunting a black eye. My father and my grandfather were hunters; neither would have allowed a coyote to die that way, and I don’t think any of my friends who hunt would allow it, either.
CeAnn Lambert runs the Indiana Coyote Rescue Center in Bringhurst, a small town midway between Lafayette and Logansport. She says that loopholes in our state laws have allowed coyote-fox kill pens to exist under other names, like “dog training grounds” and “penning.”
“Eighty-six percent of Indiana citizens do not hunt or trap, and most of the ethical hunters in Indiana are against this activity,” Lambert says. “The Indiana Wildlife Federation, HSUS [Humane Society of the United States], PETA [People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals] and Born Free USA have also come out against this horrible bloodsport that is so enjoyed by a small percentage of our citizens. Many people in Indiana still can’t believe that this is really happening to our precious wildlife.”
Indiana law does allow land owners to hunt and trap coyotes on their own property year-round without a license, while licensed hunting and trapping seasons run from mid-October to February.
Last year, my wife and I found a dead coyote along the road we walk. It was both larger and prettier than we thought it would be. It was hardly the scruffy indigent that I’d always imagined coyotes to be, and we admired its fine fur and clean teeth and beautiful tail. We though it had been hit by a car, for there were no obvious bullet holes in it. A chicken coop was within sight, though, so I’m not sure its death was mere coincidence.
If you haven’t read John Steinbeck’s great travelogue, “Travels With Charley,” I suggest you pick up a copy. Like most memoirs, Steinbeck’s book is often seen as his swan song, as his statement of discontent, of his longing to return to an America that wasn’t around anymore. I don’t see the book as that at all, and one passage — about coyotes — shows me that Steinbeck, by the time he wrote it in 1960, had simply come to accept the fact that his country was changing, and so was he.
Late in the book, Steinbeck included a passage about his encounters with two coyotes as he drove across the “terrestrial hell” of the Mojave Desert. As he took a break with his traveling companion — his poodle, Charley — Steinbeck drank a can of beer in the shade of his camper (named Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s battered horse). He spied the coyotes as they watched him from 50 yards away. Slowly, he brought the animals into the telescopic sights of his .222-caliber rifle and its “long-ranged stings.”
“They were favored animals, not starved, but well furred, the golden hair tempered with black guard hairs. Their little lemon-yellow eyes were plainly visible in the glass,” Steinbeck wrote.
In his mind, Steinbeck considered the coyotes “vermin,” that they “steal chickens” and “thin the ranks of quail,” that “they must be killed,” that they “are the enemy.” But he didn’t shoot them.
“… I did not fire. My training said, ‘Shoot!’, and my age replied, ‘There isn’t a chicken within 30 miles, and if there are, they aren’t my chickens,’” he wrote.
Steinbeck said he guessed he was “too old and too lazy to be a good citizen,” when it came to his civic duty to kill the coyotes. He went on to relate how he not only spared their lives but also he acted on an old Chinese proverb he’d once heard, that a man who saves a life becomes responsible for it. He emptied two cans of Charley’s dog food for the coyotes before he hit the road again.
The coyote hunters out there will have to forgive me, but I suppose I’d have done the same thing.
Mike Lunsford can be reached by e-mail at hickory913@aol.com or by writing to him c/o The Tribune-Star, P.O. Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. Read more of Mike’s stories at http://tribstar.com/mike_lunsford, and visit his website at www.mikelunsford.com. He is currently working on his third book.
Mike Lunsford
The Off Season: ‘Too old and too lazy’ to deal with coyotes
- Mike Lunsford
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A walk in the woods
I went for a walk in the woods one day last week after work. It was a warm and green afternoon, and a fresh blue breeze blew in from the west like a new spring friend.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘Dowsers’ provide hope more than science
My grandfather was a man of God. Many times I saw him, his right hand held high in the air at his Wednesday night “prayer meeting,” praising the Lord before weeping at the altar on his knees. And yet, he was a “dowser,” a “diviner,” a “witcher” who, as a favor, would grab a forked sassafras stick and find water for some poor unfortunate whose well had gone dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: As of today, it’s unofficially spring
Despite the calendar telling us not to rush things, I think it is all right to go ahead and say spring is here. The Ides of March has passed, Easter is coming soon, and I have already been out in my yard with a rake, getting my boots muddy. It looks like spring to me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Twain’s Sawyer helps us yearn for ‘wilderness of childhood’
My cousin, Roger, stopped in one day last summer for a glass of tea and a little conversation. Rog has lived an hour’s drive away for years and now, and besides summer reunions, I don’t see him nearly often enough. He’s a good man who has raised a good family, and he owns a healthy sense of appreciation for not only the life he has now, but also the lives we had years ago as kids.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Cheerful green of wheat fights winter blahs
There is a light drizzle of freezing rain tapping at the door of my cabin today. It is little more than a week before the words I am writing are due to appear on your breakfast table or work desk with your morning coffee and scrambled eggs. But I write when I can, and today, despite a full schedule of televised football games, and the stacks of ungraded papers in my briefcase, and a good book lying open on my nightstand, I am clacking away on a keyboard to the whir of a heater and the steady drip of my gutters.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On the simple joys of watching it snow ...
It began to snow about 20 minutes ago, as I write this, light, wind-driven flakes that fall silently into my woods as I watch from a window.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On this day above all, ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’
More than a year after his wife’s death, the great American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, wrote in his diary on Christmas Day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Remembering a Lefty Frizzell-kind of Christmas ...
My brother and sister and I sat around a Thanksgiving dinner table a month ago, shifting in our seats just enough to make our yet-to-be digested turkey sit a little more easily, and, as we often do when we get together, we reminisced about our childhoods for a while.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The wonders of wading in ‘The Iridescence of a Shallow Stream’
I have no idea how many times I have written a story that begins with the wistful phrase, “When I was a boy. ...”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Little man who came to dinner changes feel of household
My 7-year-old nephew, Carson, came to visit us last week. That in itself isn’t earth-shattering news, for he often drops by with one of his parents or the other, the last time dressed as a ghoul for Halloween. But for a couple like Joanie and me, whose youngest child is now nearly two decades past Carson’s age, having a little guy like him in the house, even for a few hours, takes a bit of adjusting.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Reflections: a bit of red glass and our daily thanksgivings
I sat in the half-light of my old desk lamp a few nights ago, a chilly wind blowing in from the northwest that made me appreciative of my long-sleeved shirt and purring heater.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Growing up — and ‘old’ — with many mouths to feed
At our family reunion last summer, I asked my brother if I could borrow a pair of photo albums he had put together. Over the past couple of years, I have committed quite a few of our family’s old yellowing snapshots to newly cropped and digitalized lives, and I wanted to do the same with some of the pictures John has collected for himself.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Violets in October – a pleasant surprise
I guess I don’t pay much attention to the weather forecasts these days because it surprised me a bit when our furnace kicked on a few nights ago.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A library is a good thing — even a little, homegrown one
I grew up with libraries, and I can’t imagine there ever being a time when I won’t want to wander one exploring it like some bookworm-Balboa, finding an author or title that I never really knew existed before. Creating those “Eureka” moments seems to be a dying interest now that so many of us download and digest books electronically without ever really considering that there just might be some hidden gem we’d have liked even more had we simply stumbled upon it on a shelf by accident. I think those moments of discovery are not unlike kicking up lost treasure a mile from where X marks the spot.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The ‘soothsayer’ who came to dinner
I’ve had a good time opening my mail these past few weeks. Sure, I still received the usual junk about lower credit card rates and satellite television packages, but the genuine letters made me smile; most were about a story I wrote in late August.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The agony of de‘feet’ has this writer on his heels
I don’t know if I can electrocute myself by using a computer and soaking my feet in a pan of warm water at the same time, but I am contemplating taking the risk. My feet, particularly the right foot, have staged a 10-digit rebellion over the past few months. After a half-century of commendable service, my pods are screaming to be taken in for repairs, a big inconvenience for a guy who works on his feet all day and whose “sole” form of serious exercise is putting one foot in front of another walking the local roadways.
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Mike Lunsford: Summer’s hidden beauty worth the wait
The great naturalist John Burroughs once said that nature teaches more than she preaches. I can’t recall a summer where that rings true more than this one, for that old sun of ours truly taught us a thing or two these past three months.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time to redefine the concept of ‘assisted living’
Although it has been nearly two months now, I can’t forget the few afternoon hours I spent on a hot June day this summer at a local “assisted living” facility in town. I had been asked to speak to a group of men there about Father’s Day, but for most part, the wonderful old guys who came to listen certainly made my day more memorable than I did theirs.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Observations on smooth stones and blue-green water…
It was raining when I began to write this. Although no one could rightfully call what we got this afternoon a “downpour,” it was nice to have my windows open to hear the steady drops of a passing shower tapping on my dry-as-dust deck and hard-as-concrete yard.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: This summer has us recalling the heat of ’36
It was “only” 99 degrees one afternoon last week when I decided to work on a backyard deck. With a jack and a drill and a little more sweat than I wanted to invest in the project, I went about the business of leveling its sags and dips a bit. The sun pounded down on my head and shoulders like a thug’s blackjack, but as I packed my tools and drank a glass of cool water under a big maple tree a few hours later, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I’ve been these past few dusty and drought-stricken weeks. I have worked under this summer’s heat lamp for only a few hours at a time, but God help the roofers and utility linesmen and firemen, and so many others, who are out in it day after long hot day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: We had no better friend than Andy Taylor
The world is a sadder place now that Andy Griffith has died, but at least we still have Andy Taylor.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Wading deeper into the subject of Blue Herons
Like a relative who has worn out his welcome, the hot, parched weather of this young summer has already overstayed its visit with us, so my wife and I have found ourselves walking our road later in the evenings to keep our feet cool and our backs dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Thanking two dads whose gifts have never stopped coming…
It is nearly a week until Father’s Day, but I have had my dad, and my father-in-law — a second dad to me — on my mind today. I wrote about both men just a few weeks ago, but I have set my mind to write about them again anyway. I don’t want this story to be sad; they both loved to laugh and wouldn’t want that. No, I just wanted to tell them hello, and to thank them again for what they still do for me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Raising a flag for my father, veteran or not
My daughter, Ellen, and I stood at my parents’ graves on Mother’s Day a few weeks back and talked about how it couldn’t possibly have been so long since we lost them. My dad, for instance, has been gone for 16 years, and that is nearly unimaginable
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Time to become one of the boys of summer again …
Besides writing for a living, I teach school, and I’m not ashamed to tell people that I still love my classroom. I’ve been a teacher for 33 years, all of them in the same school district, and virtually all of them in the same building. But I also have to tell you that if the next few weeks don’t slide by pretty quickly, I may just let loose of the last thread of sanity from which I have been dangling for a while now. There are a lot of teachers out there who feel the same way.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time for us to get the real lowdown on dirt…
I have had my hands in the soil as of late. Two Fridays ago, I planted a viburnum bush, three chrysanthemums and a yellow poplar, not because it happened to be Earth Day, but because it was sunny and warm, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. The dirt I scraped out of and back into the shallow holes I dug near a backyard picket fence smelled good, and when dampened with a few sprinkles of water, it soon found its way into the deep wrinkles of my knuckles and under my fingernails. For the most part, I have nothing but good things to say about dirt.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Make big money: Raise worms at home for fun and profit…
When I think about all of the crazy things my brother and sister and I did just to make a few dollars when we were kids, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for teens this summer as they try to find jobs in what is supposed to be a very tight market. Money, to say the least, was a rare commodity when we were growing up, but you have to at least give us credit for trying.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d…’
Had white lace curtains been hanging in the west window of my cabin, I would have had a perfect Wyeth painting to watch last Thursday. A gentle breeze was wafting through my screens, and the sunlight of a warm late March day was fractured by the window sill as it poured onto my legs and feet. I could catch the scent of lilacs as it was carried in by that wind, and it and the subtle melody of the chimes that hang just outside made me as lazy as an old cat.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A report from the country as a new season brings sense of renewal
Regardless of what the calendar may yet say, spring has happened. It couldn’t have come too soon, and it wasn’t just last week and its windy 70s that have convinced me. I have been keeping a journal of sorts in my head for a fortnight now, stashing away reports of birds and buds and sounds in the crammed cabinets of my mind, all in a file marked, “The New Season.”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Feeding time at the homestead draws a host of new guests
I stepped outside into the warmth of an unusually mild early March morning last week to do what I always do just before I grab my briefcase and book bag and lunch bag and head off to work. It’s nearly always dark when I leave, even as the sun gets up earlier and earlier in the late winter, so I often go about the business of feeding our cats with porch lights on and a flashlight in hand.
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