I stood up from the moonlit shadows of the hay bales, when a voice startled me from behind.
“So, you got them?”
My earlier text message to the landowner had not received a response; “If you’re not busy, step outside into your backyard and check out this thermal. I’m by those hay bales. I just shot two, but they are on the other side of the creek. Do you know of a place I can cross without getting wet?”
I directed my green laser at the furthest coyote and then pointed to the closest one next to the creek as he observed the scene through my scanner. He drove me around the section, across a bridge, and then navigated through the thick cover on a two-track road from where I had just called the pair. It was a bumpy ride, and one of the coyotes slid off the flatbed, so it didn’t appear in the picture. We chatted about various topics, and he expressed his gratitude for all the coyotes I had dispatched from his land. He then drove me to another two-track to make it easier to access the center of an adjoining section where he often hears them howl. I mentioned that I wouldn’t be hunting late due to work in the morning.
I initially planned to make only a couple more stands. I set up south of the barn shown in the picture and called in one coyote, which was then answered by a group in the adjoining section. I moved on those coyotes and managed to call in a double into an open field, all shapes and forms illuminated in shades of silver. Despite telling myself that this would be the last stand, I couldn’t shake the voice inside me saying, “Just one more.” That seems to be the story of my life: “Just one more.”
I trudged on into the early hours of the morning. Walking under a bright moon feels like being in a world in between—one that doesn't quite belong to either day or night. The silvery light spills across the land, draping everything in soft shadows and glowing highlights. Textures fade, and objects lose their color. In these moments, I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing to the extreme.
“So, you got them?”
My earlier text message to the landowner had not received a response; “If you’re not busy, step outside into your backyard and check out this thermal. I’m by those hay bales. I just shot two, but they are on the other side of the creek. Do you know of a place I can cross without getting wet?”
I directed my green laser at the furthest coyote and then pointed to the closest one next to the creek as he observed the scene through my scanner. He drove me around the section, across a bridge, and then navigated through the thick cover on a two-track road from where I had just called the pair. It was a bumpy ride, and one of the coyotes slid off the flatbed, so it didn’t appear in the picture. We chatted about various topics, and he expressed his gratitude for all the coyotes I had dispatched from his land. He then drove me to another two-track to make it easier to access the center of an adjoining section where he often hears them howl. I mentioned that I wouldn’t be hunting late due to work in the morning.
I initially planned to make only a couple more stands. I set up south of the barn shown in the picture and called in one coyote, which was then answered by a group in the adjoining section. I moved on those coyotes and managed to call in a double into an open field, all shapes and forms illuminated in shades of silver. Despite telling myself that this would be the last stand, I couldn’t shake the voice inside me saying, “Just one more.” That seems to be the story of my life: “Just one more.”
I trudged on into the early hours of the morning. Walking under a bright moon feels like being in a world in between—one that doesn't quite belong to either day or night. The silvery light spills across the land, draping everything in soft shadows and glowing highlights. Textures fade, and objects lose their color. In these moments, I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing to the extreme.
