Where the Wild Things Are
This morning I went for a walk in the desert, one of my favorite things to do when I come home to Tucson. My parents live close to Saguaro National Park on the east side of town, and it’s a five-minute drive from their house to a trailhead that can lead you to a quick out-and-back stroll or to a multi-day backpack deep into the Rincon mountains. It’s a place I’ve been hiking since my college days, and I don’t think I feel more at home anywhere.
As I pulled into a parking place, a coyote crossed the road in front of me and trotted into the desert where I was headed. He looked fat, sassy, and well-groomed, which told me he’d been eating well. I grabbed my water bottle and banana, locked the rental car, and headed for the fence.
I noticed a sign posted that warned of mountain lion sightings in the area near where my two favorite trails intersect. Since I was walking alone, that gave me pause for a second. As I signed into the log book at the trailhead, I noticed I was the first hiker of the day. That also caused me to stop and reflect for a moment. I was carrying my cell phone and my dad knew where I was going and when I would be back. I was walking and not running, giving me less of a look of breakfast to a hungry mountain lion. I didn’t have much to throw at one, though, should we come upon each other on the trail. I had my water bottle and the banana. Car keys? Cell phone? I figured I would just make myself large by unzipping my black hoodie and spreading and waving my arms while shouting as loud as I could. Never having encountered a lion in person, I don’t know if that works, but it’s what they always tell you to do. I then offered a small blessing to the mountain lion so he would let me share his space for a little while, making life safer for both of us.
I decided to walk a more well-traveled trail that would take me away from the area of the reported sightings. I set off at a comfortable pace just as the sun came above the peak of Mica Mountain. The morning was exquisite — the air was fresh and sweet after several days of rain and I took some comfort in noticing the still-steaming pile of horse droppings that told me a mounted park ranger was out on patrol. As I walked, I listened to the rasping call of the Gila woodpecker and the soft cooing of quail in the underbrush. The sounds of civilization melted away.
I was about a quarter mile from the trailhead when, from behind me, between me and the car, came the screeching and squealing of a pack of coyotes on the chase. If you’ve ever had the consummate pleasure of hearing coyotes keen, you know it’s a sound you won’t ever forget. It’s high-pitched, unnatural, and otherworldly, but it always leaves me feeling connected to my own state of being alive. I stood still as the intense noise moved from my right to my left. They were probably less than a hundred yards away, racing through the mesquite and cactus, most likely in pursuit of a rabbit. Then the sound subsided, either muffled by a ravine or stopped because they had caught their prey. As I moved on, I noticed that the birds had gone silent.
I started to see scat on the trail, and whatever animals had dropped it had dined well — it was full of tufts of fur. Some of it was coyote, but some was distinctively feline. And some of it was fresh, less than a few hours old by the looks of it. By this time I was about halfway into my three-mile loop, and the birds were singing again, so I kept moving forward. I was walking along a rocky ridge when I heard the faint clatter of rockfall off to my right. I stopped and heard another faint sound like the scattering of small rocks. I waited, holding my breath. The birds had stopped again, and the stillness was interrupted only by the sigh of the slight morning breeze winding through the saguaros. I scanned the area off the trail for any sign of movement. Nothing. I walked on, cautious and alert, until I heard it again. My pulse began to race, but then I had to laugh at myself. The sound was nothing more than water sloshing in the bottle in the right pocket of my sweat pants.
I finished my hike, signed out at the trailhead, and got back in the car. As I unpeeled my banana, I gave thanks to the wild things that had allowed me to visit their environment for a little while, and I sent the mountain lion another blessing for a long and safe life.
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