Stay home, the forecast said. We didn't listen.
The first night started under a waxing crescent moon with lightning flashing across the western sky. We had just dragged a coyote back to the truck when I heard thunder. A quick look at the radar showed a wall of red and orange pushing in from the southwest.
I looked at Justin and said, "We've got time for one more."
One more turned into two.
By the last stand, the wind was building and the sky looked like an electrical short circuit. A coyote was slipping in downwind while the storm closed the distance. We counted down and dropped him just before the sky opened up.
By the time we hit the highway, the storm cut loose with high winds and a torrential downpour. That last coyote left us just enough time to get out of there.
The next night wasn't much different.
We didn't make our first stand until after 1:30 AM. After that it was sprinkles on our backs, wet grass up to our shins, and dragging damp coyote fur from stand to stand. By daylight, the truck smelled like wet dog, mud, and ideas that only make sense in the dark.
By sunrise, only one stand hadn't put coyotes in the truck.
Storms shortened one night. Rain delayed the next. Twenty coyotes in two days—some things don't change.
The older I get, the more I'm convinced the memories that stick are usually made just past the point where most people find a reason to head home.
America.
Somewhere out there is a version of this weekend where we stayed home, listened to the forecast, got a full night's sleep, and never got wet.
I can't remember a single thing about that guy.
But I'll remember this one for a long time...
The first night started under a waxing crescent moon with lightning flashing across the western sky. We had just dragged a coyote back to the truck when I heard thunder. A quick look at the radar showed a wall of red and orange pushing in from the southwest.
I looked at Justin and said, "We've got time for one more."
One more turned into two.
By the last stand, the wind was building and the sky looked like an electrical short circuit. A coyote was slipping in downwind while the storm closed the distance. We counted down and dropped him just before the sky opened up.
By the time we hit the highway, the storm cut loose with high winds and a torrential downpour. That last coyote left us just enough time to get out of there.
The next night wasn't much different.
We didn't make our first stand until after 1:30 AM. After that it was sprinkles on our backs, wet grass up to our shins, and dragging damp coyote fur from stand to stand. By daylight, the truck smelled like wet dog, mud, and ideas that only make sense in the dark.
By sunrise, only one stand hadn't put coyotes in the truck.
Storms shortened one night. Rain delayed the next. Twenty coyotes in two days—some things don't change.
The older I get, the more I'm convinced the memories that stick are usually made just past the point where most people find a reason to head home.
America.
Somewhere out there is a version of this weekend where we stayed home, listened to the forecast, got a full night's sleep, and never got wet.
I can't remember a single thing about that guy.
But I'll remember this one for a long time...
