There are three of us at first. We wander together for over two hours covering more than half-a-mile, though my feet never moved. With the magnification of my spotting scope turned up to high power, I follow along on the foray to investigate promising odors, signs of past travelers and imaginatively turn my head at the slightest of sounds that meet tall, pointed ears, but not my own. The space between us—approximately 2 miles—does not matter to my two coyote companions, my guides really, as we ambled about in the vast openness of Lamar Valley; they were two small dog-dots in a vast open plain of blinding white and scattered cottonwoods.
Yellowstone coyote (NPS photo)
During my graduate school days in the forests and mountains of south-western Virginia, we earnestly recorded every predator that was sighted on the study area during daily field work, both avian and mammalian. And in all those 3 1/2 years, I only ever saw two coyotes and those were both fleeting glances that lasted mere fractions of a second. The lack of sightings was not for lack of coyotes—their tracks and sign were everywhere—but with dense vegetation, nocturnal habits and the fact that an adjoining county had just instituted a bounty on them, the ‘yotes kept a low profile. In stark contrast to this—when making my first sojourn to Yellowstone—I, like many people, burned through two rolls of film on that first encounter with a road-side coyote. Little does one realize at the time that such encounters are actually common, to the point of being expected in the Park. In fact, it could be said that it is downright “easy” to observe coyotes in Yellowstone Park. Sadly though, once this abundance of sightings of coyotes or any other animal is realized, it soon turns to apathy. “Oh, it’s just another coyote,” is an oft heard refrain; likewise with bison and elk. The opportunity to learn about the Park from one of its most wise and cunning residents—the trickster—the song-dog—Canis latrans, has been lost. An extreme example of this happened to a friend working as a seasonal ranger a few years ago; he happened to be out in the Lamar Valley providing impromptu interpretation, known as “roving,” when a Japanese family came up to him in a state of ecstatic joy—they had just photographed their first WOLF! Eager to show my friend the shots they had captured, the father of the family scrolled through beautiful shot-after-shot of… you guessed it, a coyote. “Not a wolf!?” the father exclaimed. And before anyone could say a thing, he had erased the entire series of photographs.
Playing second fiddle to the “show dogs,” i.e. wolves, is a tough role to fill from a Rodney-Dangerfield-respect sort of way. If you can manage to put all of that aside, you are in for an incredible treat as you come to understand a new facet of the Park you never knew existed before—from an equally unique perspective. Whereas in forested locales, coyotes operate in a world shielded from detection, operating like shadows, passing back and forth between myth and reality, their visibility is accentuated by the wide open spaces and unexploited, i.e. non-hunted, status in Yellowstone.
I watch as this pair followed their noses. What I discover is that this female—by the fact that she squats strait down to urinate—makes a sharp left turn mid-trot, having found something beneath the untouched snow. She stops, sniffs intently, then begins to dig. Whatever she finds is unworthy of eating, but does deserve a focused spritz of urine; “mine,” she seems to say. The male comes over to investigate after she leaves and does his own half-serious, raised-leg urination, then kick-scratches—that backward kicking maneuver that you’ve
A pencil field-sketch of the alpha male coyote illustrating his husky physique & unique tail gesture.
probably seen your dog do after leaving its own mark along a walk. These behaviors make me think that this is the alpha pair of the pack. Was it late enough in the year that the females, like female wolves, who will typically raise their legs to scent mark along with the males during the mating season, have returned to squat-urinating ways? Just before I reposition, their ears perk and their heads swivel to the south; seconds later they howl. I hear nothing on account of distance but see their heads being thrown skyward and their mouths open wide. Then, seconds after the motions, the most feeble of sound filters its way through the distance to my ears… “yip, yip, yap, yip, yip”.
They join two others and in a matter of minutes, the 4 are heading eastward at a heightened pace; they are on a mission. The alphas with their dustier markings, silvered with age, more filled-out bodies and more deliberate actions, let the two youngsters lead the way. As with wolves—the alphas don’t always lead. But then there are five. The fifth is trotting away even faster to the east looking back over its shoulder at the other 4 bringing up the rear. It is clear from the behavior of the fifth coyote, that it does not belong. The 4 cease their pursuit and mill about in a spot where the interloper had been bedded. Noses go to the ground, raised leg urinations are performed, as well as some decisive kick-scratches for good measure. Having made his statement, the alpha male with his hackles semi-permanently raised and his tail slightly uplifted, turns on a dime and trots back westward. Interestingly, this particular alpha male doesn’t hold his tail in a banner-like way, i.e. not in the horizontal or upwards posture of others, rather, he only straightens the initial few inches and then lets the rest fall where it may. Subtle, to be sure, but each animal is an individual through and through; make no mistake, however, it is still a distinctive mark of rank.
Further watching reveals that the alpha male has a dark marking on his right elbow—mange perhaps? After a few hundred yards they begin to slow in their pace and become more at ease. One of the pups has high, light colored ‘side panels’ on its belly that go halfway toward its back, the other pup has the same, yet on the hind leg as well. Before sacking out for a long snooze atop a low bluff, the pack encounters something of minor interest. The alpha male walks over in a most nonchalant way, does a half-hearted raised-leg urination, then does an overtly, lazy kick-scratch—done more out of obligation than desire. There is a tired feel to it. He stops, looks back at the alpha female and the other pup that are lagging behind, then walks off. He is an aged coyote, a veteran of life; every movement has context, every howl has meaning and he, most certainly, has stories to tell.