Search for news stories concerning coyotes and your town or state and you’re likely to find a lot. I did this recently, searching all three southern New England states; the stories ran the gamut from pet and jogger attacks, to a particularly odd story about a homeowner who used a game camera to capture a pear thief, the culprit was – you guessed it – a coyote that was leaping into his pear tree to eat the pears!
I have grown up around the burgeoning population of coyotes and have had dozens of encounters over the years. As I tell my daughter when we’re trudging through the woods and hear their signature howls, “We smell like shampoo and deodorant to a coyote and that registers as something to avoid.” I believe that, wholeheartedly, and my experiences parse that out. But at the same time, I recognize that a sick or starving animal might take a chance out of desperation and that’s what, I believe, is at the root of most of the violent human and pet encounters.
For the majority of New-Englanders, coyotes are invisible, only confirmed by their howling and made into a problem by news stories. As a lover of the outdoors, I don’t think of them as a problem that needs to be solved. Maybe if I had chickens or sheep, I’d feel differently. But when I see a coyote in the wild, I immediately freeze, in an effort to prolong the encounter. It’s almost like seeing a ghost, because they’re so adept at slipping out of view before we can spot them.
I think the greater issue is the size of the population. When populations, of any species, grow, human encounters become much more common because our respective territories are forced to overlap. Sometimes I read these posts online or citizen interviews in articles, people claiming that ‘something must be done!’ and I brush it off as entitled soccer moms trying throw their Land Cruiser tax bills around as a reason why their insistence should carry more weight.
But the other night visited a freshwater pond in Rhode Island, a place surrounded by woods and farms. It was full-dark when we arrived and a rising half-moon hung low in the eastern sky, the night was cool, windless…silent. When I say silent, I mean we had barely heard a twig break, no frustrated herons squawking, no mystery rodents fleeing through the crunchy leaves…just the occasional honk from a flock of geese that was moored up in the safety of the middle of the pond.
Then, a single coyote let loose with a lonely bark and howl. Milliseconds later, another from across the lake answered and then, it happened. A cacophony of howls erupted from all sides. Seemingly dozens from the farm fields behind us, a small group from the neighborhood across the water, soloists from the dark woods to the north and a chorus of puppy-like yips that seemed to originate from reeds directly behind us. The lake was infested with coyotes, which meant that we were effectively surrounded by these ghost-dogs of the night.
I stood in awe, as a chill zapped down my spine. This was both an amazing and unsettling moment; I suppose it was the only way we could have populated the obscurity of the shadowed woods and stalk-studded fields that surrounded us. But the illusion of being alone was shattered and it became possible to feel each member of the receptive audience that was actively listening and scanning the quiet dark, near and far.
My research says that the eastern coyote typically travels in packs of four to six and each pack commands between 5 and 25 square miles. What I was hearing, was far beyond four to six animals. I made a generous estimate of what I felt was within earshot and – including the lake – it only covered about 2.1 square miles. It’s possible that the lake itself was an intersection of multiple territories, and the stillness of the night allowed the sound to carry in from further afield…but in either case, their numbers were well beyond what I would have guessed.
So maybe I have to rethink my belief that the coyote situation in New England has been sensationalized into a publicly accepted problem. And I’m sure someone will email me and claim that I was hearing one pack and that they make more noise than I think. But I know what I heard, with distinct voices coming in from all corners of the lake and the land beyond its shores, there’s no doubt that there were at least three times the typical pack. And, as if I needed more convincing, there were two more of these far-reaching outbursts in the hours that followed.
I was struck with the idea that ‘this’ probably happens every night, but without ears to receive it. I had to sympathize with all the kids who were pulling their blankets over their heads and pets that crouched tethered, silent and listening. But as I stood, engulfed in their echoing calls, all I felt was lucky and vividly alive.
