If you look almost exactly in the center of this photo, you'll see the coyote howling—it had quite a repertoire. Click on the photo to enlarge.
...and the secret location of stolen dog biscuits in a tete a tete.
Sometimes, no matter how well you're doing, life can seem extraordinarily difficult. This difficulty may come in the form of actual physical hardships or in other less visible forms, such as emotional and mental trials. It seems that life is constantly testing your commitment to it.
For me, lately, it's been difficult camping. I know that some of you live for the times you can get out, but when you're out all the time and really have no way to do climate control, it can get hard—it seems it's always too hot or too cold or too windy or too something. Even a full moon, in all its beauty, can be hard, as you have nothing to buffer you from an all-night light and accompanying insomnia.
But then, sometimes, in the midst of it all, you have times of complete and indescribable sublimity.
A few days ago, I decided to go to the Sand Flats, above Moab, for a few nights, as the place was totally deserted, and a big rain was coming in, making my favorite place north of town impassible. Plus, I like to hang out with my raven friends, Quoth and Broken Feather, even though they always wake me up early, wanting breakfast.
The first couple of nights were nice and quiet (and rainy), but the third day, some mountain bikers from Boulder, Colorado came in and set up their camp right next to mine.
Slickrock fins after a good rain
I prefer solitude, so the next day I broke camp, heading back north of town, hoping I could get into my usual spot. I knew it would be iffy, as there had been plenty of rain, and there's a big sandy wash to cross, plus sticky bentonite clay everywhere. I did manage to get in, much to my delight, but I was very tired by the time I got there. It wasn't just a physical fatigue, but an overall malaise. Autumn in the air made me feel unprepared and worried.
I leaned against the truck for a bit as the dogs explored around, then the evening suddenly took on perfection, and it continued on into the night, a feeling of pure delight. I can't really even describe it.
Cassie looks for old forgotten biscuits from last time we camped here, but the ravens stole them.
A coyote stood on the hill above us some 200 or so feet away and began yipping and singing songs I've never heard before. Some people call them song dogs, and for good reason. My dogs weren't so sure what to think, and they sat quietly by me.
There's something about true wildness that commands respect and contemplation, an admiration of creatures able to make a living out in the harsh desert. The little wild dog sang for a good 20 minutes, as I set up my tent, then it faded into the night. I watched it for a long time through my binoculars before it got too dark.
But it wasn't gone for long. As darkness fell, it started up again, only even closer, and it was accompanied by a whole pack of buddies, all singing along. I've heard this pack many times out there before, but never so close. Since my tent zipper is broken, I was kind of worried about the dogs getting out during the night, so I didn't want to encourage visitors—so I turned on the car lights and the pack disappeared. I did hear them again in the middle of the night, but not as close.
I don't know why, but I felt like I had been a part of something very special—well, I do know why—because it was very special.
I'm in town just for a day and am heading back out tomorrow for a few weeks, so posting may be sporadic. Until then, may your evenings be filled with coyote song, and may someday the song dogs teach us the words, as we have a lot to learn from them.
I'll take a raven at the end of the rainbow over a pot of gold any day.
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