The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

  One of the first things you notice about a coyote is its independence. This animal has no need of your human skills and will rarely even bother to acknowledge your existence. It simply is. Despite your presence in its territory, neither aware of it's bestial worth nor of its character, it lives by its own senses, for itself, mostly by itself; and, periodically, for its young - and that, only as long as necessary.

  As a young mother, I managed to lose a sizable chunk of my romantic innocence on my way to a mine far up over Death Valley. Lessons taught in parochial school had in no way prepared me for the raw American wilderness: having a working knowledge of natural history hardly saved me from the unknown I encountered in this harsh environment.

  Women and children were considered a liability in the mining community. While their father was at work, I hid my own children in the abandoned mines and shacks of those prospectors who had gone dead or bust. Women were generally viewed as unwelcome distractions of the most dangerous kind, inciting the deadliest of brawls; kids were seen as a mere nuisance for their destructive potential, miner's children having little fear of open shafts and heavy equipment.

  Both alienated species being a serious insurance risk factor, we, novitiates of the low desert were sharply aware of our place in that alien society. Coyotes had haunted many of our lonely nights down at the bottom of the Valley near Shoshone; we had kept ourselves awake with humble fires lit within reach of the mouths of caves, or near the abandoned trailers we used as shelter on the valley floor. We borrowed a fleeting illusion of cursory safety. We had witnessed the disappearance of our city-bred siamese cat, and had stayed awake all night long, to finally fall asleep in the relative coolness of dawn, mourning the loss of our pet.

  After months of searching for a measure of comfort, we had found a dilapidated hovel behind a large boulder outcropping. This would be the place where we would spend our days while the boy's father was working up in the mountains - he would be gone for the customary two week pay period, then rest for one week-end, often he would not come down at all if a rich vein of ore had been uncovered, or the hydraulic equipment failed during workdays.

  That first day, after carefully storing all of our dry goods in rodent-proof containers, the boys and I set out on our usual adventure: so distant from public education, we felt privileged to implement our home schooling plans with natural components.

  Animals provided us with enculturation and wild entertainment; fauna and flora, our constant companions. Always alert, we made our way silently up the canyon corridor toward the mines. Suddenly, I felt a nagging sense of being watched, then I noticed a slight movement above us in the rising heat: a form hardly distinguishable from the jagged jasper.

  I was relieved to spot a small female coyote, barely the size of a medium house dog. She stood rigidly between two scraggly bushes, fifty feet into the sun above us. I held my hand up as a sign of warning and the boys froze one by one, as we did whenever we mobilized our efforts in any circumstance. I whispered "coyote." My sons turned to stare in the same direction. Knowing better than to appear afraid, they imitated my every move, instinctively. Soon, another brown and beige specter leapt out of the rocks beyond, and another, and then a third - clearly her young. The pups stopped wagging their tails and became wary as their mother shared her infectious wariness; one by one they looked down on our troupe. Ears flat aside their yet oversized skulls, they tapped the ground with impatient, playful paws.

"Look mama! The coyote has three kids - just like us!" the oldest said in a steady breath. So secure was I of my primal intimacy with nature, I felt more at ease with the animals than with any possible errant miner whose intent I might not be so certain of. The only threat to our safety here would be hunger or fear, and nothing more complicated than that.

  I swelled my five-foot-three frame to its full potential, careful not to appear too threatening. My boys and I stood immobile for what seemed like a very long time, anxious to blend into the moment. After considering our uneasy alternatives, I allowed the boys to move slowly yet surely as if they had not seen the wild pups ahead; my eyes fixed on some point near the playful trio, I walked along the far wall of the narrow pass with eyes to the rocks on the road, my peripheral vision never losing sight of our feral observers.

  Large ears and youthful rounded noses danced among sage and atriplex. Mother coyote appeared tense and nervous in the center of this wilderness theater. She searched updrafts with her pointy snout to detect our scent, her ears moving in remarkable synchronicity with each pebble our feet dislodged along the path. Yet we could not tarry for fear she would be wary of the threat of our presence and perhaps turn agressive to protect her young in a surprise ambush.

  Heat was rising from the valley in a palpable rush. Although I had heard full hunting parties in the night, I had never seen more than two desert coyotes together and I surmised the male had left for his next adventure, and that these were just unsuccessful breakfast hunters who had been interrupted by our unwelcome appearance. "Don't scare me old girl and I won't scare you off!" I tried to communicate to the animal, telepathically.

  In unrelenting vigilance, I stretched myself in front of the children. One hand on my brown backpack, ready to swing yet not to attack, I reached in and withdrew a rabbit meat tortilla, slowly peeling away the newsprint wrapping. "Here girl, here girl - come and get it!" I cooed by force of habit, as if my canine-friendly voice could assuage the wild creature ahead. I tossed the offering in a slow arc, and it landed just to the animals' right.

  The female yipped loudly as she jumped away from the food, tail tight between her skinny legs. She circled the offending package, then darted in hesitant leaps back toward it, followed by her bouncing brood. My sons and I waited as still as the rocks around us while the yip-yip of the pups subsided. Mother took a long time sniffing the dubious gift. One big eared fat pup advanced boldly toward the tempting morsel. The female suddenly lurched at him ferociously, sending dust into the air and sharp screams echoeing around us. Coyote Mama assaulted her young with bared fangs and fierce growls. They sideswiped her in an effort to claim the prize. Confused and alarmed, I wanted to throw the remains of our lunch at them.

  The battle raged on for excruciating minutes and, fur airborne, the mother grabbed and flung her offspring like puppets, snapping at any who dared to venture back toward the last of the food. One runt whimpered loudly, dragging his injured leg and visibly bleeding on the rocks. I dared not yell at the savage animal for fear she'd turn her anger toward my own progeny. The sound of their agonizing squeals and grunts lasted for some time. We humans walked on by, fast and sure-footed, and it was evident that the enraged female had forgotten about us for the moment. Her yellow eyes were mere slits above curled lips, and she lay low to protect the prospective nourishment.

  Keeping my body between my own children and the quarreling pack, my rucksack at the ready, I signaled in the direction of the safest route through the narrow passageway. We moved in unison, teeth clenched so tightly as to bite inner cheeks. I noticed my right eyelid was involuntarily twitching, and I stilled it with a firmly applied palm. As we reached a respectable distance, we slowed our pace and turned around to see two of the craven pups persistently circling their mother.

  I realized that I had taken a foolish chance, baiting these wild animals in such close proximity to my own children. These coyotes had surely seen miners riding in pick-ups, and perhaps a few predatory hunters high up in their over-equipped Jeeps; they did not fear our kind afoot, yet they keenly mistrusted us.

  Game was scarce in this dry spring. The mother's fur seemed especially ratty, from age or deficiency, as she must have had to regurgitate any mice, lizards or rare rabbits she may have caught to feed her young. Few beetles coursed the ground that year and grasshoppers had little to forage, so the pups had little practice to catch their own food. The pups appeared to be less than four months old and I was surprised to notice the mother chasing them so soon, each time one would try to nuzzle her; she could have waited till they were at least six or seven months of age to run them away. I wondered if our presence influenced her behavior. The boys were now talking excitedly...

"Mama, that was jackrabbit you gave them."
"It smelled good, didn't it?"
"Do they like cooked meat?".
"Look, she's eating it - they quit fighting!" they exclaimed in a burst of excitment.

  We could still see her going away with her hind quarters tucked low beneath her tail, she was carrying what was left of her bounty back over the hill, white sided snout held high, ears layed back like mobile radars. The pups followed, sniffing the ground for any dropped bits of meat. Their tails flipping high, they leapt over rabbit brush, nudged each other and weaved carelessly in this, their inhospitable territory. Their den must have been located on the high ridge, where the mother could have burrowed under some rocky ledge away from badgers and hawks.

  Our skin dry and lips chapped, we took turns to drink from the canteen. Cheeks red, noses flaking, we looked at each other as if taking a wellness survey; heads bent to avert the sun at zenith, we walked at a slow gait now. The sights and sounds of the coyotes' ferocity had depleted our stores of energy and we needed to find a place of rest.

  A large mine portal lay ahead. We painfully climbed up to the rocky rubble that littered the entrance and, after checking for rattlers, collapsed in a loose heap in the shade. Lunch was comprised of thin stringy strips of boiled jackrabbit meat and the misshapen homemade tortillas which I had made that morning at dawn. We were only too glad to have some nourishment left after our feeble attempt at feeding our would-be friends or pets. The distance between man and mammal companion reduced to some strange codependency, we promised each other that we would not try again to appease the wild with food but, instead, observe their antics from as safe a vintage point as possible.

  The walk back down the canyon was swift and guarded. Silence emphasised the grating of rocks underfoot, and flakes of quartz crystal shone all around the exposed facia. A lone crow circled above us and cawed noisily for attention. Several turkey vultures were riding a thermal updraft in the yellowish sky, perhaps sensing the near end of the injured runt which had bled upon the granite during the heat of the fight.

  Suddenly, my youngest son asked "are there anymore coyote leftovers in your sack?" Relieved of the stress of the day's tension, we broke out in uncontrollable giggles; our voices guttural and dry in the unforgiving noon wind, we convulsed and roared all the way to the shack we called home.