I’m convinced that coyote hunting isn’t about killing coyote, but about the rush of fear and adrenaline! Click here to read Part 3 – Where Frank and I are frozen in fear, hearing the sound of a large creature crashing through the woods, not twenty feet away!
“Don’t move – it’s a bear!” whispered Frank.
“What? Where? Should I shoot it?” I half-whispered/half-screamed back.
And then the sound was headed back down the road we had hiked up – and it was gone.
We stood tense, guns drawn, safety off, and breathing air slowly and quietly for a few more minutes – before making a move.
Frank’s best guess was that the bear had been in a tree, hiding from us, and a branch had broken, which made the crash sound, followed by the startled bear (which usually move much more quietly) rushing through the leaves and tall weeds was the rustling we heard as he tried to get as far away from us as possible. The coyotes didn’t want to be near a bear, which is why they didn’t follow us to the top of the hill.
Black bear are nothing to trifle with. They don’t usually attack humans, but a frightened bear, a hungry bear, or a bear protecting it’s young will make quick work of man.
Frank and I then had to make our way back down the mountain – we had decided that the hunt was off – and we were going to make as much noise as possible – so that the bear would keep his distance, as we followed his path back out of the woods.
I’m convinced that coyote hunting isn’t about killing coyote, but about the rush of fear and adrenaline! Click here to read Part 1 – where Frank Bruzzi and I had started up the mountain – with my complete lack of night vision.
Frank had a portable loudspeaker, and was playing a tape that contained the eerie sounds of a wounded rabbit. That sound – a high pitched painful squeal was creepy – and being in the dark, knowing that it was attracting an entire pack of predators made it even more creepy.
Within minutes, we heard coyotes calling to each other on the distant hilltops – with a yip yip yowl and then another few minutes later – and we could hear the pack as they circled us.
Frank’s head mounted flashlight had a red filter – that barely lit things up, we couldn’t see more than twelve or fifteen feet away from us. Of course, those coyotes came in close – just close enough that we could hear their panting and padding, as they circled us as we walked up the hill. We saw some occasional eye-flash as the red light hit their eyes, but for the most part, we could only hear them. I was pretty frightened! I clenched Frank’s coat and held my breath as we trudged up the logging road. He was enjoying it, I was scared to death.
To be Continued!
As I look back on my high school days, I remember many great memories with many great friends. But for some reason, the adventures I had with Frankie Bruzzi are the ones that make the best stories.
I am convinced that one doesn’t got coyote hunting to kill coyotes. But rather, one goes coyote hunting to get the living feces scared out of him.
It was dark, and late. My friend Frankie Bruzzi showed up at the door, and said, “Get your gun, we’re going coyote hunting.”
Mom and dad nodded in approval, and despite the fact that we were unaccompanied by an adult, we hopped in Frank’s car and took off, guns loaded, and ready to kill us a wild pesky canine.
Keep in mind, that due to some genetic malformation, my pupils don’t dialate. They stay pinpont all the time, which means I have no night vision. It’s a long and sordid tale of syphilis, several generations ago, and the strange way that it has altered the genetic receptors that control pupil dilation. It has baffled many eye doctors, as it appears in very random places in the family. Great Grandma’s sordid past surely makes for some interesting tales at the ophthalmologist’s office.
So, up on the mountain we go. I’m holding Frank’s shoulder’s like an awkward prom date trying to dance from behind, as we hit the dark logging road, lit only by Frank’s red headlight.
To be Continued!