The coyotes were lit up—responsive, vocal, talking back to everything. I took six off a single stand. It wasn’t rushed. One of those slow, methodical hunts where every move feels deliberate, like you’re letting it come to you instead of forcing it.
On the stand I got six, I set up and opened with a howl. Two groups answered—one straight out front, one off to my right. A single came in on a string; dropped him. Call him The Loner. Swung right—and there it was. Heads bobbing through the green wheat, ghosting in and out like they were riding waves. I dispatched two more from that group. Ghosts in the green.
After that last shot, I heard one losing its mind right at the call—screaming, tearing at the ground. I spun on it and dropped him quick. Screamer.
Scanned right again. Another one way out, circling wide, trying to get my wind. While watching it at a distance, I scanned back on the first downed coyote… and there’s another one standing there, nose down, sniffing his comrade, trying to figure out what just happened. Dropped him too. Comrade.
At that point I figured it was over. Too much shooting, too much noise. And I knew the ones in the green wheat were going to be a pain to recover. So I started replaying the video in the ATRIS 650 V2 LRF to rewatch where they went down—using the video like a map, trying to burn landmarks into memory to mark with green lazers.
While I’m rewatching those heads bob through the wheat again… I scan my surroundings, and another coyote. Standing there. Same spot. Sniffing the first two like nothing just happened. I got back on the rifle. Sixth one down. Circleback.
Took longer to find them all than it did for the stand to unfold. Western quiet fell over us, the moon a cold witness to six ghosts at my feet. April night, bright and alive—but I was the only one breathing.
Six on one stand isn’t something you plan—it’s what happens when everything lines up, and you don’t rush it. This was the stand.
Then it started…
They just kept popping up… like IRGC leaders.
On the stand I got six, I set up and opened with a howl. Two groups answered—one straight out front, one off to my right. A single came in on a string; dropped him. Call him The Loner. Swung right—and there it was. Heads bobbing through the green wheat, ghosting in and out like they were riding waves. I dispatched two more from that group. Ghosts in the green.
After that last shot, I heard one losing its mind right at the call—screaming, tearing at the ground. I spun on it and dropped him quick. Screamer.
Scanned right again. Another one way out, circling wide, trying to get my wind. While watching it at a distance, I scanned back on the first downed coyote… and there’s another one standing there, nose down, sniffing his comrade, trying to figure out what just happened. Dropped him too. Comrade.
At that point I figured it was over. Too much shooting, too much noise. And I knew the ones in the green wheat were going to be a pain to recover. So I started replaying the video in the ATRIS 650 V2 LRF to rewatch where they went down—using the video like a map, trying to burn landmarks into memory to mark with green lazers.
While I’m rewatching those heads bob through the wheat again… I scan my surroundings, and another coyote. Standing there. Same spot. Sniffing the first two like nothing just happened. I got back on the rifle. Sixth one down. Circleback.
Took longer to find them all than it did for the stand to unfold. Western quiet fell over us, the moon a cold witness to six ghosts at my feet. April night, bright and alive—but I was the only one breathing.
Six on one stand isn’t something you plan—it’s what happens when everything lines up, and you don’t rush it. This was the stand.
Then it started…
They just kept popping up… like IRGC leaders.
