Upland season

Reader and friend Kirk Hogan from Wisconsin evokes the essence of a northern upland season in a few terse sentences...

14 - hours hunted in 2 days (losing light)
8 - small Brittanies, 3 probably from Herve's original lines
43 - flushes per 5 minute rule (5 minutes between flushes, so probably not re-flushes of the same bird)
28 - fiery points (an amazing number of points in a year one - year off cycle lows, with next peak predicted 2019 - 2020)
14 - birds shot at (towards)
10 - Hail Mary's (prayers in thick balsam fir trees)
3 - to eat (butter, salt, pepper, a little calva, wild rice)
1- shameful shot (too early on a bird that could count to two, and then flew around in the open for a while)
1- shameful non-shot (gloved thumb slide over safety on rare easy one)
2 - maledictions (including math whiz grouse)
3 - pounds gone
7 - elk from remnant herd re-introduced in early 80s to bright hopes for future hunt now wolf chow
1 - wolf track, scat, and ADD Brittany, probably beaver hunting, cleared out of cover
0 - newly damaged joints
6 - ibuprofen lunch
The weather is dicey, the days short, the sport, company and aesthetics unlike anything.

Also see Shooting in Brittany for the dogs and food.

First (belated) Snow

Weeks overdue but welcome. Blogging resumes...

South Baldy 4 miles south, our highest (nearly 11,000 foot) peak, by John Wilson

Another Eulogy

[Phil's grandfather Johnny Foard was the other friend we lost this week. He was nearly ninety, a fine country musician, fiddler, and former professional hunter. Phil is in South America but sent this eulogy--SB.]

I'm sorry I'm not there. Selfishly, I'm sorry I'm not there. I'm sorry I can't see the outpouring of respect for this man I've loved so much. And because there was always something about my grandpa that seemed like the center of the world. I used to run away from home when I was little, and I always ran to the same place. I wish I could run there now. The center of the world. I remember my grandpa's birthday, hundreds of people coming from all over the place. I remember being so amazed by that gravity, the craziness of so many so different people being drawn so far to celebrate this one man. Not amazed because it didn't make sense, but amazed that I wasn't the only one who felt it. Because for a man who had hundreds of people adore him, I never once ever felt like I wasn’t the most important person in his life. I know I'm not alone in that. I also hadn't know before then that you could have porta-potties at a private residence. That also seemed a little crazy. You've got a rogue character like Johnny Foard and a few hundred of his closest friends, you don't want them running willy-nilly in your house, I understand, but it was surprising. He was the center of the world. I've never felt so elevated, so much more confident, so much more at ease, just by someone's presence. I always felt better around him. And so often that's all I was, only around him. We used to wake up early and drive out into the country to check traps and shook coyotes and all good things. We'd spend hours and hours together. He could talk about anything. I remember thinking that it was a bit crazy how well he understood me. He definitely had his great stories, and I'm sure you'll hear some today. But so often we'd sit in silence. He was always comfortable with silence, which I think is a high compliment. I catch myself now switching on music or tv or a movie, anything to make noise. And I think of sitting in his shop for hours in silence with him, his truck for hours with him, coyote hunting for hours with him always with these long, comfortable silences. It was always easy to be at ease with him. I imagine there was music in his head then. I imagine there always was. And I think of his music, his silence, the way we all always looked to him, how he was always the center of the world. He was always listening. He carried peace with him, happiness. He lived a long good life and died in the best way possible. I'm sorry I can't be there now, and I'm sad that I won't see him again, but there is no way to pretend that this amazing man hasn't been an amazing presence in my life, more amazing than I deserved, more amazing than any could. I'm glad for his peace now, his silence, the eternal music. I'll miss him forever. And I think we'll all agree that he was a good, kind man. I don't know, though, if it's really widely known that he also had very ticklish feet. Maybe there's a connection there, I don't know. I discovered this as a toddler, and put that poor man through hell. When I used to stay with my grandparents, once I was bored with listening to the crickets, I'd kinda sneak down and tickle his feet. I don't know how he felt being woken up like this, but it brought me tremendous joy. Still to this day it makes me smile to remember it. I don't know how I survived shenanigans like this, but he was a patient man.

A good man, a patient man.

That said, I also remember one day out with him, checking coyote traps. In one of them we'd caught a badger. So, we shot it in the head and threw it in the back of the truck. A little farther down the road we came to the next trap, got out checked it, replaced the bait. As we were walking back to the truck, though, we heard this scratching sound, and then this horrible high-pitched growling. The badger, it seemed, was still alive.

So I'm standing there, I'm too little to see into the back of the truck, so I'm just getting the sounds, and my grandpa is standing up on the back tire, with a baseball bat, just wailing on this poor animal until it's finally quiet. A kind man, a generous man. But I think I can tell you in confidence here today, he evinced no deep love for that badger. He drug it out of the back of the truck and shot it again. Throws it back in the truck bed. Soon, we can hear from the front seats that this badger has been resurrected again. Pull over, more clubbing, more shooting. He poked it with the bat just to make sure it's dead. It comes back to life. "Well hell," he says, which was his catchphrase. So we killed it a few more times, though I'm not 100 percent confident that it's not limping around out there somewhere today. He'd definitely won our respect. Of course he had. That much intense passion for life is hard not to admire. The badger had more than his fair share. He was no Johnny Foard, but still.

Two old (or old- fashioned) naturalists, and new photo series

Two old farts in the bar courtyard. John Wilson is an old style bug catching (or photographing) "stamp collector" naturalist like me, an Ohioan who retired from an Audubon sanctuary there to a remote homestead in the Mags-- somebody I can talk bugs, birds, and taxonomy with! Luckily he likes beer too. I am starting a local insect of the week photo with him though I expect as it gets colder it will become feeder bird or plant or...?

Painted Lady, Vanessa cardui, at 7000 feet in November:

James Trujillo, RIP

My friend James "Viejo" Trujillo died today after a long struggle with diabetes. I'll have a proper bio and memorial later, and a few stories. Raise a glass...

Update 8 November: his card. Normal service to resume after (still another) funeral...

(A happy Viejo story, previously blogged but worth repeating...)

... for a while almost 20 years ago he leased the bar. I was working in a corner there as I always have, when three junior cowboys from a neighboring county (guess which?) came in. One was offended by the sight of someone reading and was suddenly leaning over me: "Where you from?"

I said back with just a little less attitude: "Here." Went back to editing. Kid shoves me: "Where you REALLY from?"

"HERE!" I stand up as he says "Where'r you born?"

... I am answering and starting to push back, at which point James is suddenly between us saying "He told you three fuckin' times: HE'S FROM HERE!"

"He is... and you're not. Your money is no good; the drinks are on me. Finish up... then you and your friends leave, and don't come back."

They left and I said, "Viejo, you didn't have to do that." He replied "The hell I didn't! You drink your drink and shut up or I'll throw your sorry ass out too."

And one more for now with this wonderful language, a statement that only a cowboy could say. Around the same time as the last tale, some boors were badmouthing women in general on James's watch at the Spur. He took it as long as he could, then came over, put his hands on the bar, and said: "I don't know about you boys, but that ol gal I'm married to?-- she's one good son of a bitch!"

"Wasn't it a mighty storm?"

Our readers, perhaps sharing Matt's resilient spirit as below, seem to have survived the storm. But despite my early thought that it was overhyped, it was a STORM; maybe not the Great Galveston Flood as in the song, but one to remember. Stuart Hancock's photo below, from near NYC, reminds me of the two great hurricanes of my youth. One was in the fifties; without Googling I suspect the other was 66 or 67. The year may not be indelible , but the memories are...

Enjoying a Fine Recession

As Election Day approaches, one could be forgiven for thinking our country has never seen a harder time than now, nor faced a bigger threat than the wrong man being elected on Tuesday.

This is a triumph of salesmanship.  It is the power of vast stacks of cash that political speech can build a different world on top of the one we know and make us believe in it.

But to the point that we may not, in fact, be the richest people in the richest country in the history of humankind, I say thank God for that. It is a blessing, not a curse, that we have failed so far to completely equate value with money or finally replace our native wealth with container ships of stacked boxes.

I'll grant you that our native wealth may be easier to see in some parts of the country than others.  It may take a different set of tools and understandings to realize its worth.  But it is there, waiting for us to find it; waiting to be made into something good like spun hay into gold.

Tuesday morning I'll be standing in line at the polling station with my aggrieved and downtrodden neighbors.  I'll probably drive there, even though it's less than a mile away.  I may bring coffee from home, but there's a three-dollar cup at Starbucks if I don't want to bother.  I'll read a Kindle book on my iPhone as I wait.  And when I vote, I guess I'll vote my conscience.   

But Tuesday afternoon, I'll be hunting rabbits in a nearby field.  Chances are good that by day's end I will have slept, voted, worked, hunted and eaten three hot meals within a five mile circumference.  I will have enjoyed all the wealth of our Great Recession and some of the wealth that has not yet receded into history.

 

Part of the neighborhood deer herd, a healthy population that lives well on our landscaping.  My friend Tyler took a doe from this group last week by bow, shooting from a blind he set up near the swing set. He keeps several families in meat.  I put part of this one in a John Folse recipe for venison and vegetable soup.    

My friend Jeff from Chackbay wouldn't starve if the power went out for a year.  Chances are he'd be shipping meals up to us from the bayou, none of them short of delicious. Here's one of the daily rabbits his good redtail, "Alex," puts in the bag and where they often go from there. 

   

 
Bon appetit, my fellow Americans!

 

Autumn-- and October Country

Ray Bradbury- who despite his virtues was NOT a typical science fiction writer as one young girl memorably sang, though arguably great. (Google "F me Ray Bradbury YouTube")

Chad Love muses on this and after a suggestion I made last year prints one of the all time best opening lines:

Thesis: as Tom Russell is an un- hyphenated American songwriter, not just a country or folk singer, Ray Bradbury was an American writer, not a s-f or fantasy or Midwestern nostalgic one or Angeleno or (just) the guy who wrote the screenplay for John Huston's version of Moby Dick....

Bonus trivia: T H White was his fan.

The Pups- Pix o' the Week

Riss and Tavi, Nhubia and Taalai...

Radio Interview

My Living on Earth interview on the Eagle book is both scheduled (for next week) and available online. It was an unexpected pleasure to work with professionals who ask intelligent questions!

Indiana Jones is Denied Tenure

I have seen this several times over the years, as archaeologists like to chuckle over it. I ran across it again recently here and thought I'd put it up for the enjoyment of any who hadn't seen it.

January 22, 1939

Assistant Professor Henry “Indiana” Jones Jr.
Department of Anthropology
Chapman Hall 227B
Marshall College

Dr. Jones:

As chairman of the Committee on Promotion and Tenure, I regret to inform you that your recent application for tenure has been denied by a vote of 6 to 1. Following past policies and procedures, proceedings from the committee’s deliberations that were pertinent to our decision have been summarized below according to the assessment criteria.

Demonstrates suitable experience and expertise in chosen field:

The committee concurred that Dr. Jones does seem to possess a nearly superhuman breadth of linguistic knowledge and an uncanny familiarity with the history and material culture of the occult. However, his understanding and practice of archaeology gave the committee the greatest cause for alarm. Criticisms of Dr. Jones ranged from “possessing a perceptible methodological deficiency” to “practicing archaeology with a complete lack of, disregard for, and colossal ignorance of current methodology, theory, and ethics” to “unabashed grave-robbing.” Given such appraisals, perhaps it isn’t surprising to learn that several Central and South American countries recently assembled to enact legislation aimed at permanently prohibiting his entry.

Moreover, no one on the committee can identify who or what instilled Dr. Jones with the belief that an archaeologist’s tool kit should consist solely of a bullwhip and a revolver.

Nationally recognized for an effectual program of scholarship or research supported by publications of high quality:

Though Dr. Jones conducts “field research” far more often than anyone else in the department, he has consistently failed to report the results of his excavations, provide any credible evidence of attending the archaeological conferences he claims to attend, or produce a single published article in any peer-reviewed journal. Someone might tell Dr. Jones that in academia “publish or perish” is the rule. Shockingly, there is little evidence to date that Dr. Jones has successfully excavated even one object since he arrived at Marshall College. Marcus Brody, curator of our natural-history museum, assured me this was not so and graciously pointed out several pieces in the collection that he claimed were procured through Dr. Jones’s efforts, but, quite frankly, we have not one shred of documentation that can demonstrate the provenance or legal ownership of these objects.


Meets professional standards of conduct in research and professional activities of the discipline:

The committee was particularly generous (and vociferous) in offering their opinions regarding this criterion. Permit me to list just a few of the more troubling accounts I was privy to during the committee’s meeting. Far more times than I would care to mention, the name “Indiana Jones” (the adopted title Dr. Jones insists on being called) has appeared in governmental reports linking him to the Nazi Party, black-market antiquities dealers, underground cults, human sacrifice, Indian child slave labor, and the Chinese mafia. There are a plethora of international criminal charges against Dr. Jones, which include but are not limited to: bringing unregistered weapons into and out of the country; property damage; desecration of national and historical landmarks; impersonating officials; arson; grand theft (automobiles, motorcycles, aircraft, and watercraft in just a one week span last year); excavating without a permit; countless antiquities violations; public endangerment; voluntary and involuntary manslaughter; and, allegedly, murder.

Dr. Jones’s interpersonal skills and relationships are no better. By Dr. Jones’s own admission, he has repeatedly employed an underage Asian boy as a driver and “personal assistant” during his Far East travels. I will refrain from making any insinuations as to the nature of this relationship, but my intuition insists that it is not a healthy one, nor one to be encouraged. Though the committee may have overstepped the boundaries of its evaluation, I find it pertinent to note that Dr. Jones has been romantically linked to countless women of questionable character, an attribute very unbecoming of a Marshall College professor. One of these women was identified as a notorious nightclub singer whose heart he attempted to extract with his hands, and whom he then tried, and failed, to lower into a lake of magma. Another was a Nazi scholar he was seen courting just last year who, I’m told, plummeted into a fathomless abyss at Dr. Jones’s hand. And, of course, no one can forget the slow decline and eventual death of Professor Abner Ravenwood after Dr. Jones’s affair with Abner’s underage daughter was made public, forcing her to emigrate to Nepal to escape the debacle.


Demonstrates successful record in undergraduate and graduate teaching:

In his nine years with the department, Dr. Jones has failed to complete even one uninterrupted semester of instruction. In fact, he hasn’t been in attendance for more than four consecutive weeks since he was hired. Departmental records indicate Dr. Jones has taken more sabbaticals, sick time, personal days, conference allotments, and temporary leaves than all the other members of the department combined.

The lone student representative on the committee wished to convey that, besides being an exceptional instructor, a compassionate mentor, and an unparalleled gentleman, Dr. Jones was extraordinarily receptive to the female student body during and after the transition to a coeducational system at the college. However, his timeliness in grading and returning assignments was a concern.

Establishment of an appropriate record of departmental and campus service:


Dr. Jones’s behavior on campus has led not only to disciplinary action but also to concerns as to the state of his mental health. In addition to multiple instances of public drunkenness, Dr. Jones, on three separate occasions, has attempted to set fire to the herpetology wing of the biology department. Perhaps most disturbing, however, are the statements that come directly from Dr. Jones’s mouth. Several faculty members maintain that Dr. Jones informed them on multiple occasions of having discovered the Ark of the Covenant, magic diamond rocks, and the Holy Grail! When asked to provide evidence for such claims, he purportedly replied that he was “kind of immortal” and/or muttered derogatory statements about the “bureaucratic fools” running the U.S. government. Given his history with the Nazi Party, I fear where his loyalty lies.

To summarize, the committee fails to recognize any indication that Dr. Jones is even remotely proficient when it comes to archaeological scholarship and practice. His aptitude as an instructor is questionable at best, his conduct while abroad is positively deplorable, and his behavior on campus is minimally better. Marshall College has a reputation to uphold. I need not say more.

My apologies,

Prof. G.L. Stevens
Chairman

H/T American Digest

Musical Memories

I found this wonderful "paleolithic" video to one of my favorite Leonard Cohen songs. Though I doubt it was what he had in mind, it works for me...

The 'Net never ceases to amaze me. Looking at this, I said to Libby "First time I saw him was his first US gig, I think. The Newport Folk Festival, 1967. He looked like a rabbinical student, in a black suit-- sat and sung "Suzanne" into his guitar. And it was magical. Joni Mitchell brought him out-- she was wearing a horizontal striped mini- dress..."

I was wrong. The stripes were diagonal.

Rifle quiz

Pure fun for scholars of guns and readers of travel and adventure tales: how many things can you find in common on these little carbines? Oh, I will add one invisible addition for the bolt:

The first question is for tecchies; the second for readers and travelers: how many books and writers and scientists and... whatever-- can you list that mention or who used either?

Links

Why I stay in the Explorers Club.

Hilarious true gun YouTube (HT Massad Ayoob):

Ugliest taxidermy I have ever seen.

A laika hunting in the US, looking like a Gorbatov painting. (Thanks to Alex Schubert):

Vladimir Beregovoy's new pup Pavlik confronts a scary dinosaur (see Siberian Hunter on my Amazon page)

Credit Due

Early last July, Stacia Novy, a young military career woman, biologist, and falconer, e-mailed me an excited message that she had just been instrumental in finding the nest of a very little known Neotropical raptor, the Solitary Eagle (Buteogallus solitarius), in Belize. She attached this picture.

Unfortunately, since then, most published accounts have omitted her role, though if you do any Internet searching you will find, to quote, that she was the one who "... modified and applied traditional bird-tracking techniques... to follow the breeding/prey-carrying male eagle to the nest. This was a deciding factor, as the wild eagle was NOT radio-tagged and could not be followed any other way." She was more experienced with raptors than many of her colleagues.

Somewhere between discovery and official reporting, a competing group apparently took over the publicity; appropriation of data is regrettably common, but allegedly some of those now claiming credit were not even in the country. A short account of the discovery is available here-- scroll down-- in three parts, with her role mentioned. And apparently the North American Falconers Association will publish something next season. But it would be nice to get some "official" scientific recognition for her too.

Stacia with Aplomado-- no beginner in game hawking!

Fabre and Japan

This is not an analysis of the real importance, ignored these days except in Japan, of the pioneering ethologist of insects, the 19th century Provencal autodidact Jean Henri Fabre, who started life as a peasant kid herding sheep in the harsh hills of his home country, and later single- handedly invented the study of insect behavior while more or less foreshadowing the work of such 20th century greats as Konrad Lorenz and Niko Tinbergen. Suffice to say that the only personal artifact of Charles Darwin's I have ever handled was a straightforward fan letter from him to Fabre! Here is another-- there were several-- that even mentions homing pigeons!

Fabre is honored in his home town, Serignan de Comtat, in the wine country near Orange and the Rhone and Mont Ventoux, which has its own fascinating history. I visited that rather non- touristy northern part of Provence in the Nineties, and have have written about birds of prey and boar hunters and food and such there; a few of those essays are in On the Edge of the Wild. But I went there with a mission: to research Fabre, and make a pilgrimage to "L'Harmas", his house, garden, and lab, like Darwin's in England still preserved as though he had just stepped out for a minute.

But my fan worship, and Darwin's, paled beside that of the Japanese. I was warned, but still amazed by the arrival of a tour bus. In addition to being a student of insects Fabre was a Provencal patriot, almost a separatist, and not only spoke that odd old dialect so similar to the one my grandparents, born only a hundred- some miles to the east, did, but dressed as a Provencal herder all his days-- black cowboy hat (still sitting on his bench--I tried it on) and long black cloak like a cape, boots. He just added a butterfly net.

So did the Japanese. A westerner could only stare, amazed, as a bus load of thirty or so tourists disembarked at L'Harmas, in age from about 8 to 80, male and female, each and every one in full old fashioned south- of France cowboy kit, hat and cloak and all, plus nets-- and cameras. As this was the pre- digital era we are talking big SLR's with long lenses too!

Turns out the cult of Fabre is still alive in Japan 20 years later. First see this essay: "In France, with the exception of men of letters and entomologists, few have heard of Fabre. That oft-used contemporary yardstick of recognition, Google, counts 5,670 web pages in French for Souvenirs Entomologiques and 227,000 pages for Konchuki, its title in Japanese. Perhaps there is no Japanese who has not heard of Fabre... Japanese grade schoolers know more of Souvenirs Entomologiques than do French adults."

He is alive in every popular medium there; here is an "Edu- Manga"; a cartoon bio; here and here, two Anime characters based on him.

But I was alerted to the best by another clue in the article I quoted above: "Their [the Japanese] familiarity with the French scientist's life work is being exploited by Seven Eleven. The convenience store chain brought out this summer a Souvenirs Entomologiques series of limited edition gifts attached to the necks of soft drink bottles.. The series comprises eight pieces -- seven insects and a figurine of Fabre observing Minotaur beetles in a device of his invention."

How could I resist? It took some emails to Thailand and "Formosa", but I ended up with one famous Fabre insect, the "Carabe Doree", and Fabre himself, so detailed that his magnifying glass has a lens!

What is more, the appearance of Monsieur Fabre seems to indicate that his Asian fans respect and acknowledge his home culture. In Provence, the tradition of portraying all the professions of the country as Christmas creche figures, "Santons", lives on, and when I was there I bought several. See the character leaning over Fabre's shoulder? He is a local hunter, a "chasseur de Provence", complete with double gun.

Seton on the partnership

I thought I might have read about the legendary partnership of badger and coyote, and went looking for it in my set of Ernest Thompson Seton's wonderful seven volume illustrated work Lives of Game Animals, which he compiled in 1929 toward the end of his life. This work, by the way, is a lost classic, hard to find even in libraries, and if you should find one you should buy it immediately! It is worth it for the art alone, and there's nothing like it until Jonathan Kingdon wrote and illustrated African Mammals starting in the 1970s.

Under "friendliness", a correspondent of his named A. H. Hawkins wrote from Alberta: "I noticed on two occasions a Badger and Coyote travelling in company... Seated one day, eating our noon lunch, I noticed two animals coming towards us, and drew the attention of my men to the fact. We remained perfectly quiet, so that they came within 20 to 30 feet of us before seeing we were so near. The Coyote travelled ahead, and the Badger followed along as fast as he could, right at the heels of the Coyote.

"I could see no reason, not could I explain it in any way satisfactory to myself, and, although I asked several people in the West about it, the occurrence is still a mystery to me."

Cooperation continues

I've been making frequent visits up the road to keep tabs on Coyote and Badger, and I'm pleased to report that their cooperative hunting relationship continues. I first saw and photographed them on Sunday. On Monday, it was a dreary and rainy overcast day, but I did manage to find the pair again, just as Badger went aground and Coyote began a nap, so I left them alone.

Knowing that we animals are such creatures of habit, I searched out the pair again today. We had a skiff of snow on the ground, and it was still snowing, so visibility was limited. I found Coyote out hunting alone this morning, but tried again at lunchtime, once again getting lucky in finding the pair hunting together, seeking out prairie dogs. Badger came fairly close in my direction, but Coyote has wearied of my presence. All  my images are taken from the confines of my pickup truck, on a muddy roadway with lots of industrial traffic from the natural gas fields.

 Coyote wouldn't come closer to the road with me present (although I see they cross the road several times each day), so they resumed their hunting in the distance.

 Click on the photos to see the larger images. On Sunday it seemed that Coyote was the leader in terms of determining their direction of movement, but today Badger was definitely the leader.

 I've done a little research on what we know about the badger-coyote relationship, and in reality, we know little.

I found a note in American Naturalist in 1884 describing the "curious companionship of the coyote and badger," based on observations made in Wyoming. Samuel Aughey wrote: "Sitting on a lofty butte examining some fossils, I saw, several hundred feet below me, a coyote and badger walking together, and every few minutes stopping and playing. The coyote would go in front of the badger, lay its head on the latter's neck, lick it, jump into the air, and give other expressions of unmistakable joy. Its antics with the badger were very much like that of a young dog playing with another pup, or when meeting its master. The badger seemed equally well pleased."

I found some other scattered mentions, and a 1992 paper by Steven Minta describing the coyote's increased hunting success rate when the animals cooperate with badgers. Minta's study used 42 badgers with implanted radio transmitters on the National Elk Refuge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

I'm sure I would have been thrilled to witness this relationship wherever it may occur. But I find some pleasure in the fact that I am witnessing this in my own neighborhood, where coyotes are hunted, and amid active natural gas development. This is truly multiple-use land, and remains WILD.

The girls go on a hunt

 My coyote magnetism continues. Sunday afternoon as I headed down the highway en route to the sheep, a beautiful coyote with long gangly legs ran across the road in front of me. Laughing at the continued presence of these wild canines in my life, I pulled off the highway to get a few images of the coyote as she ran away.

But she didn’t run far. As I watched, the coyote ran through the sagebrush, but soon paused and turned. Instead of looking back at me, she was looking elsewhere. I strained to see what could be so interesting in her line of sight, and soon saw a red/brown fury erupt through the sage, headed right at the coyote. The coyote stood quietly, winking both her eyes at the approaching badger – apparently waiting for her companion.

Once the badger approached the coyote’s side, the pair took off through the sagebrush, hunting together companionably. At times the coyote would surge forward after some small prey, but would often stop and look back over her shoulder, allowing the smaller predator to catch up.

I had the distinct pleasure of watching badger and coyote as they zig-zagged together through the sagebrush for about 20 minutes. I never left the roadway, but remained in my truck, camera and lens out the window, with Hud the herding dog leaning on my shoulder, just as captivated by the scene as I. We watched until the two hunters continued on their merry way, out of sight.

I returned a little later in the day, hoping to catch another glimpse of the pair, and was rewarded by the sight of badger’s rump disappearing into a hole she was frantically excavating, with Coyote stationed nearby. As Badger threw dirt into the air, Coyote reclined on the ground, watching the excavation, and blinking her eyes as some of the dirt landed on her. 

Eventually Badger quit throwing dirt, but did not reappear above ground. Coyote got up and inspected the new hole before lying back down next to the hole, placing her chin on her paws and falling asleep. Satisfied, I left them to their slumber.

My apologies that the photos are not of better quality (they are severely cropped in), but they serve the purpose of proving my story true. I dared not approach for fear of scaring them away, or otherwise altering their Sunday outing. I did see both Coyote and Badger again later in the day, but this time they were no longer together.