Killing Coyote

Don't worry my fair-hearted liberal friends...no animals were killed in the creation of this post.  Actually, no animals have ever been harmed when I join Danish Cowboy on his evening coyote calls...

Canis latrans, more commonly known as the coyote (two syllables, silent "e" at the end, please) is a common resident of the prairie.  He feeds on a multitude of foods ranging in size from grasshoppers to lambs, the latter of which has made him an enigma to the modern day rancher.  While we don't have sheep on our place and the coyotes generally tend to leave the newborn calves alone, Danish Cowboy was taught years ago by a friend how to call coyotes in from miles away. 

You start by picking a clear evening with minimal wind, just before the sun sets.  You hide the vehicle you are driving and walk amongst the hills, siting in the rifle, testing the wind, observing your surroundings, picking the perfect spot.  Then you take your coyote horn which is shaped like a small megaphone with a reed and let a "Yip!  Yip!  Howl!" out across the calm prairie air.  Then you wait. 

On this particular evening, Danish Cowboy left the female half behind on a hill 200 yards to the south of the hill he chose for calling.  There is a reason for this:  the last time he took me coyote calling was several years ago, pre-children.  I sat and waited patiently while he made his calls but then nature called and so I quietly went about the art that is known as prairie peeing and was quite abruptly told to stop and NOT MOVE.  A coyote had snuck in unbeknownst to us and I'm afraid the glare of white skin may have scared him off.  He blamed the failure of that calling expedition on me, but let's be honest:  the Danish Cowboy coyote call is one that produces results in terms of real coyotes howling back, but not in terms of bringing an actual carcass home. But fear not!  His son recently shamed him in to returning to coyote calling.  So he reluctantly agreed to let the bad luck known as me accompany him on his last trip and then promptly left us behind.  

Which was fine for us because my little gal is all about the self-portrait and the examining of rocks for cool specimens and not so much about patience and weird animal calls and scanning many square miles of wildness for that proverbial needle in a haystack.  

So at this point on a coyote calling expedition, you are still waiting.  You perhaps let out another "Yip!  Yip!  Howl!" on the call.  If you're lucky and are well versed in coyote-speak, the animals that are out there will answer back.  Listening carefully to the series of barks, howls and yips that they reply with can tell you what they know.  They might be telling one another they've found food or trouble.  They might merely be saying hello to see if any of their tribe is nearby.  I've sat on the edge of a coulee with Danish Cowboy and his friend while they conversed with multiple animals for half an hour after the sun went down.  It's not all about the kill, folks.

The winter sun expires far too early and far too fast in the middle of December and our luck ran out.  No coyotes came at us this particular evening and Danish Cowboy was resigned to merely taking his gun for yet another walk in the hills.  

Had a coyote or two come running in to the gentlemen that evening, my son was prepared for the detail work.  At four years of age, he has perfected the squeal of a dying rabbit.  Apparently this call along with a small "mouse" squeaker that probably came out of some cheap dog toy is irresistible to a coyote and will bring him running without fear towards the lair that has been set up unbeknownst to him.

I'm not at heart a hunter.  I never will be.  But these late afternoons spent on the hilltops, reading the world around us, are irreplaceable.  You hear the coyote calls, both real and contrived, echo across the land and the silence in between is deafening.  If a coyote is venturing your way, a magpie will often follow (a bird which is a rare sighting in this part of the state and a delight for me to see as I so enjoyed them when I was in Missoula).  You watch the sun go down, you have time to observe your surroundings.  You see traditions passed from father to son, mother to daughter.  You learn about your world and it is easy to connect with it when you're talking the same language as the animals around you.  

Adventures in Landscaping

I've always wanted a pond...

... so I built one.  This small area in front of the house was formerly occupied by annual garden beds.  My mother-in-law planted, literally, hundreds of flowers here every summer and tended to them with great care.  Annual flowers and I do not agree so well and while I tried to continue this tradition for a few years, it never looked nearly as nice.  So with one of the garden beds being a preformed pond liner sunken in to the ground and the hole already created once potting soil was removed, I tore in to the project earlier this spring.  Except it kept raining and I kept wondering if a water feature was really something I wanted.

 But I did want it!  Danish Cowboy got in to the spirit of things by gathering rocks both large and small, crumbly and sturdy, mossy and not and the adventure began.  With a waterfall and filter in place, things looked great.  Except it needed some life to it, so I bought some plants from eBay and some slimy almost dead water lilies at deeply discounted prices from Lowe's.

 And then it started growing algae so I decided I needed some aquatic life.  The kids and I ventured out to a little stock dam to gather tadpoles...which turned out to be surprisingly more difficult than I ever imagined.  And when one of the kids had enough of wading through muck comprised mostly of cow shit, he threw his boot way out in the water.  So I had to wade through the poop to recover the boot and still we only came home with six wily tadpoles.

 We had a tadpole relocation party later that day so that Cluck-Cluck 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 could check out their new homes.

All that hard work really paid off because we never saw the little bastards again.

I did sneak out with a flashlight a few times and glimpsed them swimming quickly in to a hiding spot, but I fear that the introduction of Danish Cowboy's minnows may have finished them off.

The original plan was to add a few goldfish to the pond, but living in eastern Montana, there aren't too many goldfish or koi breeders within driving distance.  And have you checked out the price of a pond goldfish lately?  $30 so that I can wake up one morning and find it floating in my pond?  No thanks.  Free minnows from our plentifully running prairie streams will do just fine.  Although I'm still a little torqued that they ate our tadpoles, what fun it was to throw squirmy little fishies in to the water. We already have plans to expand it a bit next year and add more depth to some parts of it.   

In other news, mud continues to be an issue.  My little boy is growing up to believe that spring planting season is all about avoiding getting stuck, when in reality it is typically about praying that spring precipitation will arrive.  Old men and young boys alike are in awe of this year's rains.  With water randomly running out of hillsides, creeks that have been running for weeks on end (rather than the usual 3-4 days), and tractors bogged down across the countryside, no one really knows which way to turn.

One thing is for certain, though:  tractors, both big and small, are in need of a good bath.

Courtesy

When the majority of people in our society invite their neighbors over to help them with a project, they offer them drinks or maybe order a pizza or two.

Not us.  We choose a different route and wet down the old, dusty manure in our corrals so it doesn't get into people's noses, eyes, boots and shirts.  Also, it allows Danish Cowboy to unleash the inner fireman that is present in all men.   A couple of neighbors are headed to our place tomorrow to help condition the calves which means applying Verified Beef tags, administering vaccinations and checking the general overall health of the overgrown babies.  We like having their help and we want them to come back so we offer them muddy manure.  Hey, it's a gesture.

Treat your neighbor well, you know?

The Other Herd

Perhaps I've been locked inside for just a few northern nights too long, but the wildlife is starting to weird me out. I don't mind the great horned owl hooting in the early evening as his silhouette is clearly outlined in the treetops and I don't mind the lonely coyote howls echoing across the prairie. What I do mind, however, are those pesky rabbits: the white-tailed jackrabbits, to be more specific.

Not only do they destroy the trees in our groves and cause our dogs endless moments of consternation when their zigzag pattern makes them elusive prey, the signs of them are more prevalent than the occasional cow pie gracing our yard.

There doesn't seem to be a square inch of territory within a 1/4 mile of our home that hasn't been tracked by these creatures, and it's easy to see why when you look out our kitchen window:
These creepy animals run in herds. As I snowshoe across the prairie, it is not unusual to see a gang of 50 or more jackrabbits meet up with another gang of 50. They move like a school of fish in the ocean as they hop across the snow. I suppose I should feel sorry for them as typical members of the hare family prefer solitary conditions unless stressed by a serious lack of winter forage. However, with hundreds of tons of hay just across the hill from where they are living, my compassion is fairly low.
The way they are tan in the summer and then we wake up in December and they are suddenly white, the way they look larger than they really are as they bound across the snow (I thought three of them were deer the other day), those ears, the fact that rabbits are living in herds. It just doesn't add up. Welcome to the northern plains, where the herds of hares roam, free of the constraints posed by barbed wire. Who needs bison when you've got all this?

Moonlight Ramblings

The moon was scheduled to be at its brightest moment of the year this past Friday evening and it did not disappoint. I arrived home just as the sun was setting over the snow covered prairie and quickly donned gloves and a coat for some photographic opportunities of said lunar object. Rather than starting with the northeast sky where the moon was rising, I was drawn to the sun setting quickly on the western horizon and the haunting call of my resident great horned owls. Yes, they are mine. No, nobody else around here appreciates them.


"They eat my pheasants," Danish Cowboy whines.


Pheasants are dumb. Pretty, but dumb. Even if an owl could eat a pheasant, the owl would still be my favorite.


Owls are awesome. They are a little spooky. When you approach, they tend to not fly away, but rather watch you like a hawk. They fly from fence post to fence post on late evening jogs, accompanying you on your journey in an eerie sort of way. They sit on my deck late at night and hoot at Danish Cowboy and I as we watch television. In fact, I think they are so smart that actually are watching television.


My last pair of great horned owls died an unfortunate death when they flew into a major power line west of the house several years ago. Actually, this was two separate events. One flew into the line and caused the well to shut down and left us without water. We fixed it and a few days later, perhaps in a fine show of solidarity, the other owl did the same exact thing. When Danish Cowboy reported these events to me, I was so sorrowful that he didn't even make any snide remarks about these creatures that allegedly eat his pheasants. So given this history, I'm glad that a new pair has taken up residence with us.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, the moon. It was way too cold to stand outside and take pictures. Suffice it to say that it was bright. It lit up the prairie as though it were 2:00 in the afternoon. Moonlight on a snowcovered prairie has a glow that you just can't know until you've seen it.

The 12 Days of Christmas #5

This cat is the reincarnation of someone I once unknowingly made fun of. What goes around comes around, right? Well, this cat is the come around part. I don't really care for the feline species in general, although I am partial to momma cat, who gave birth this past spring to the single orange kitten shown above, and in so doing created a daily battle of wills about who is allowed in the house and who is not. Dogs and people are allowed in the house. Cats are not.

That cat is also one of the reasons that my bird feeding fancy is suffering. Cats eat birds. Birds stay away. So I am left with boring but cute little sparrows and chickadees although I hold out hope for stray cardinals and woodpeckers.
Argo is the other reason that my bird feeding fancy is struggling. Danish Cowboy once bought me a wood and plexiglass bird feeder for Christmas. I filled it and excitedly hung it out in the tree grove awaiting the arrival of the birds. The birds did not come. And Argo smelled the corn and pulled off the feeding tray, emptying the contents across the snow. So I nailed it together and attached it to a wooden fence post. Argo ripped it apart. I nailed it back together and attached it to a fence post that Argo could not reach. All was well until I tied him next to the bird feeder while saddling him and you guessed it, he ripped it apart. The bird feeder was so full of nails that I couldn't align the plexiglass in it and we had to ceremoniously discard of it in a fire. I took to scattering seed across the snow for the birds to peck at, but this was neither convenient nor satisfying.

So my frugal self grudingly gave in to my dreamy self and I bought a new feeder. And though I know that there are birds using it under cover of darkness or some other time when I'm not looking, I have yet to really see what they are or capture them in a picture. However, winter is long and only beginning and I hold out lots of hope for the cold days ahead.