This morning my dog, Coffee Girl, and I got off to an early start, riding down to a grassy ridge which features a 360 degree view. Following that I planned to drop her off back at the RV and then to finish the bicycle ride on my own. Halfway down the field I lost track of her. I stopped and turned around. Where the heck was she?
Then I saw her streaking down the trail towards me, and at maximum speed. It was impressive and beautiful, but something was wrong. Two coyotes were in hot pursuit. The leader got within 50 meters of me before he noticed me charging him on the mountain bike.
He quickly turned away from the trail. In the tall grass I couldn't chase him down. He did the usual: he ran to the back side of a juniper bush until he could just see me through the branches. How wary and observant they are!
I am really getting to hate coyotes but until I think of a way to vanquish them, I must settle for fantasies: imagine dragging its carcass behind my mountain bike and riding triumphantly across the field, like Achilles did to Hector's body, in front of the topless towers of Ilium.
I am really getting to hate coyotes but until I think of a way to vanquish them, I must settle for fantasies: imagine dragging its carcass behind my mountain bike and riding triumphantly across the field, like Achilles did to Hector's body, in front of the topless towers of Ilium.
Coffee Girl was unharmed. Thank goodness she has enough sense to run back to Papa when she is in danger. She was in a good mood today, having enjoyed the excitement perhaps.
Later I finished my own bicycle ride and was relaxing at the usual coffee shop; I had a nice conversation with a couple of hikers who had just finished a hike in the national forest. They were good people, yet I felt estranged from them as I always do around "nature lovers" who see Nature as a postcard. They do their best to find an intermediary between themselves and Nature: they use heels and cameras. But they lack a dog as the ultimate psychological stepping stone.
On the ride home a car beeped needlessly when it was exactly even with me, even though I was doing everything right. As usual I tried to see this as an advantage: a reminder of risk and thus a partial remedy against the complacency that goes along with not encountering a jerk for several months.
Comments
As a long time solo hiker, no companion (human or dog) would allow me a greater appreciation of the cruelty and beauty of Nature. At the same time, I can marvel in my insignificance in being there.
Consider a dogless hiker crossing a stream or encountering a small lake. Nice, but big deal. What is to be said other than, "Oh golly wolly, that lake is shor purty!" Now imagine the same hiker with a Labrador retriever along.