Coyote Ugly

We interrupt this regularly-scheduled collection of fishing tales to talk about a land mammal for a moment--Wile E. Coyote.  (William Least Heat-Moon would point out to you and I at this point that in Chase County, Kansas it would be pronounced “KY-oat,” but we aren’t in Kansas anymore, are we, Bill?)

Allow me to set the scene here in North County, the shortened name for the region of San Diego County that rests next to Orange County.  Out here by the sea, towns rim the 5 like ants to a bread trail.  I live in Carlsbad.  The next town north is Oceanside.  And yes, I’m sticking by my description of them as towns--San Francisco fluctuates in 800,000 range of population meter, God only knows how big San Diego is, and Carlsbad is 63,000.  That’s a mall, technically.

Oceanside is where most of the businesses are, and most of the criminal activity.  If Carlsbad were Berkeley, Oceanside would be Oakland.  About a week ago the sis-in-love and I walked down a street in Oceanside, taking care of some errands.  I was along because I have a tough face in rough neighborhoods.  I remarked at one point that I missed living a City, missed be able to run all of my errands in a single square block radius.  She said that a couple of times businesses had petitioned Carlsbad to be more open to it, but Carlsbad was trying to protect its ecological side.  I must have looked stunned--in San Francisco we were stacked like Legos next to the ecological studies of the California Academy of Sciences, the Botanical Gardens, and Golden Gate Park in general.  Carlsbad didn’t want to even pursue those options.  Just keep it as close to the original map as possible.

“And I guess Oceanside doesn’t feel that way?” I asked, an eyebrow raised, marveling at the neighbors.

I got a long explanation about the military families in the area and the crime and what it sounded like, after listening to all the evidence, is that someone sold out.

It’s difficult to tell whether it was Carlsbad or Oceanside.

*****

The Cove stems from a lagoon named Agua Hedionda, or, in Spanish, “smelly water.”  Before the eco-conscious government of Carlsbad showed up with county and state governments to build mechanics at the ocean’s part of the lagoon that allowed for a give and take of sea water whenever a oceanographer rolled the dice, the saltwater only came in at high tide, a natural trap that made the water brackish and stinky.  Sitting on our balcony in the Cove, Agua Hedionda curves around us on the south.  To get around it you have to get in your car (meh) and drive four miles around the lagoon east or a mile west and join the 5 with the rest of the rat race.  Or you can ford it.  Your choice.

A couple of weeks ago I joined my brother and sis-in-love for the car option to an event at a local branch of the conservation department on the other side of the lagoon.  It was an event that would start out with coyote calling for the first activity, followed by stargazing under the influence of high power telescopes.  The event was free, two dollars if you wanted a slice of cold pizza and Kool-Aid.

I am no stranger to coyotes--I’ve seen them in Missouri and Golden Gate Park--but I’ve never attempted calling them.  I used to work for Bass Pro Shops, but I had forgotten the cardinal rule of wildlife calling:  if you want to call a herbivore, imitate a mating call; if you want to call a carnivore, imitate its prey in distress.

Once all of us were assembled on a dark hill away from the visitor’s center, a young man who looked like Christopher McCandless on a good day began blowing something that sounded like a duck call.  Then he blew another instrument that sounded like squeaking.  Oh, now I see.  Rabbits and mice in distress.

Coyotes don’t usually attack people, mind you, save a couple of exceptions:  the person has to come in an infant-sized portion and left unattended, or, if any human tries to take what a coyote snatched.  One woman at the event was toting a toy version of some prized dog breed under her right arm and sharing a personal experience to anyone who would stand still for it.  Apparently, the dog she was carrying used to be one afternoon and took the one now absent.  She apparently chased them down into a canyon in Oceanside (I didn’t say it, but you thought it) and, when she saw the dog was beyond rescue, plugged every coyote taking part in the dog’s demise with the business end of a firearm.  I tried very hard to mask a gasp:  what the f*** was she doing shooting the wildlife, or even talking about it, and why did she bring the other to a coyote CALLING event?

As the calling continued, spotlights were shown over the lagoon, to see if we’d brought them.  My brother shook his head, saying, “Too many spotlights, too many people.”  Little kids were running around near the edge of the hill, dangerously close to the cliff.  Someone’s cell phone went off.

*****

The next night, in the waning and unseasonable sunset, I was walking along the lagoon.  The light was burning into a concentrated sauce of amber, and I could feel the orange source behind me when I heard an unmistakably yipping to the south, ahead of my path.

I paused.  I held my breath.

I didn’t want to miss a word.