Calling Coyotes

By Annette McCraw

While the world was quiet and dark, I nervously packed my little camo hunting bag.

License and call? Check.

Hat and gloves? Check.

Ammo and knife? Check.

Camera and batteries? Check.

While not the bag of a master caller, it was a good beginning for a thirty-one year old novice heading out on her first varmint hunt with two special people.

My sister-in-law Ginger was accompanying me on my first attempt at calling coyotes. To make this memory even more special, my dad was taking us out. My dad. Not just my dad, but my protector, my sounding board, my supporter, my friend; master caller, hunter and shooter; my personal shooting instructor and now my hunting partner. As we loaded up the truck and headed out, I tried to replay in my mind everything I had ever heard my dad say about varmint calling. I can do this, I told myself. I can do this.

Recalling each item one by one, I ran them through my head like a list of military orders:

“Keep movement on the stand to a minimum.”

“Know your target, the surroundings and what is beyond.”

“Keep your finger off the trigger until sure of your target.”

“Establish shooting zones with your hunting partners.”

“Know the signal to call off the stand.”

I can do this.

The world began to awake around us as we drew closer to our destination. The rising sun winked hues of orange across the land before us and my excitement increased before becoming nervousness once again. My anticipation was so high that when we reached our stopping point, I opened the door before Dad even had the keys out of the ignition.

While the buzzing of the open door alerted our prey near and far of our presence, I wondered for the hundredth time that morning how much of an embarrassment I would be to my father. With my head hung low, we added the last bits of camouflage to our hunting ensembles and made our firearms safe for walking. Dad helped Ginger and me one-by-one over ditches and fences to reach our stand. We had decided that I, armed with my purple shotgun, would call first. Yes, purple. What can I say? My dad loves me. Ginger would be seated to my immediate left with her rifle and scope to watch for anything coming in from a distance. Dad would be seated on the other side of the shrub to Ginger's left.

Lowering myself to the ground, I took in my surroundings and adjusted my hearing to the sounds of the desert. I found a comfortable sitting position and lowered my camo veil to hide my camo-encased hand which would blow the call. I waited until Ginger and Dad were set up and only the sounds of the breeze and nature could be heard by my ears.

The setting up of the stand only took moments, but during this time my mind returned to its anxieties. Would I embarrass Dad by doing something stupid? By not calling right? Will I miss an easy and perfect shot? To embarrass him would be the end of the world to me – my stomach flipped and flopped at the mere thought. I had to do this right. I could do this right.

I scanned the horizon trying to memorize each shrub, each branch, so I could easily locate any coyotes that might appear coming in to investigate the terrible racket I was about to make. Raising the call in my left hand, I took a breath and began making what seemed to be a sound worse than that of any wounded animal. I blew the call for about fifteen seconds and waited. How long was I supposed to wait? My mind went blank. Okay, count to thirty and try again, I told myself.

I can do this.

One more quick scan of the land and I blew again into my fox call. I repeated this sequence for about two minutes. Then, from somewhere off to my left, I heard the sound that I only dreamed I would hear that day. I cautiously looked towards Ginger. Did she fire? She was looking at me and I at her. The sound of the gunshot had come from Dad. Was I doing that bad of a job that he had already just given up and decided to do some dove hunting instead?

“That's it,” I heard Dad say. Ginger and I got up and ran over to the other side of the shrub. Dad was walking towards a lump on the ground. Bewildered, I asked, “Did I call in a coyote?” To answer my question, my dad held up before me the varmint of my labors.

I couldn't believe it. Had I actually done it? Did that bizarre sound I was making actually work? As I stood there, relief overflowed in me knowing I hadn't embarrassed my dad, that I had actually done everything right. Maybe not right to more experienced callers and hunters, but right enough for some crazy coyote to go, “Hey, what's that?” and walk straight into my dad’s crosshairs.

Back at the truck, with the coyote on the ground, I could only stare at it in amazement. Ginger and Dad were smiling at me and I couldn't keep the smile off my own face. Two minutes on my first stand, I called in my first coyote and couldn't have been happier to have anyone but my dad harvest it. I made it through one stand; maybe now I can make it through another. Even if future trips don't work out as well as this one, I won't soon forget how special it was with Ginger and my dad alongside me.

I did it, Dad!