Whenever coyotes wake me with their yipping and yapping and howling and all those nocturnal carrying ons, I almost always smile. Usually, I'll raise the window, then listen awhile before going back to sleep, a little bit happier and more content than I felt before the coyotes' riot of a serenade.

A long time ago, I went to school to study animals. I understand that my rowdy neighbors are simply predators going about their lives, canid types struggling to survive and hunt another night, wild critters driven to feed the pups, hairy, mangy and without the house manners of our terrier. I get all that about instinct and survival. I do.
But coyotes seem to enjoy their requisite night adventures a little more than they must to survive. (I suspect coyotes refuse to read all those textbooks about their habits.) Coyotes populate much Native American mythology. It isn't surprising that they are known as "Tricksters". Scoundrels. Notice how often they're depicted with smiles on their scrawny faces. I think coyotes enjoy what they do. They hunt, they eat, then they wisely spend the hot afternoon in their dens, belly up, just scratching the occassional flea and waiting on moonrise. Not a bad way to handle the stress of surviving.

If you still doubt my theory, contrast the embarrassing passion of coyote songs with those mournful, complaining brays burros so diligently provide. (If you've never heard a burro bray, imagine stripping the gears of a semi while stomping a sleeping tomcat's tail. Repeat five or ten times to complete one bray cycle.)
I like burros. I even paint them.  I suspect that if coyotes were stuck in the sun all day, penned up in a dusty, grassless corral, their songs might be more abrasive on the ears. But I truly think burros, by nature enjoy belly-aching about their lot. Much like the rest of us.

I haven't led a charmed life, but mostly, I've been lucky enough to spend the bulk of my days doing what I love. (Notice I didn't make a bold statement about being lucky enough to consistently make money doing what I love. That's another braying burro entirely.)  I love to do a lot of things, so neither have I spent much of my life being bored with my days. Just the opposite— I tend to do so much of what I love to do, periodically, I need to hibernate. This, so I won't start braying at every passer-by.
 
The symptoms that induce braying come on slowly. My back starts aching from standing at my easel so long.  I begin snapping at my husband and scolding the devoted dog for her devotion. I'll cuss nastily when the phone rings, then scold the parrot for cussing. I skimp on exercise. All mail gets tossed into my to-do box, which, of course, increases the stress level. I find myself consistently serving meals on paper plates and thinking about what wine to serve with microwaved Spam.  I avoid social obligations, or participate by going thru the motions, which means I forget good friends' names and excel mnore than usual at social blundering. Painting becomes, if not a chore, at least something else on my growing to-do list.

I can start braying, for sure. But that doesn't endear me to my friends and family. Better to join the coyotes.

This holiday season proved especially hectic. Painting had consumed much of my time for several months. I'd done zilch in the way of Christmas shopping. (Not a smart plan when you live three hours from the nearest shopping mall and enjoy a less-than-high-speed Internet connection.) Not surprisingly, I got sick and spent several weeks on antibiotics. I couldn't get excited about decorating, cooking, or partying.

We decided good as normal life is, a real vacation was overdue. Time to retreat to the den and go belly up awhile!




We spent Christmas in Big Bend country. Okay, we live in Big Bend country. We chose to travel our backyard, to explore the quiet, empty borderlands south of us. New landscapes to paint, places we can only scratch the surface of in day trips from Fort Davis. We used to spend the week before Christmas camped in the Chisos Mountain's Basin of Big Bend National Park. This was like returning to our roots, revisiting special places in our own (immense) wild neighborhood.

Silent places. Country with spotty phone service and no dress code except for wide-brimmed hats and sturdy boots. Places colored with history, wrapped in yarns, populated by ghosts and by delightfully eccentric people who, like Jim and me, used to be someone else in some other place. (We 're not running from the law, mind you, but we are a long way from city life and the cockpit of a jet.)




We made the right call.  Coyotes woke me last night. Then, the coyotes woke the burros.
Oh my. What a night it was. I guess you could call last night's symphony the best of both worlds.
There's a saying in Terlingua:  once you cross the old cattle guard on the road into town, you can be anybody you want to be.
I've chosen to be a coyote again.

Happy New Year!   (And may you be anybody you want to be in 2009!)

To see what I do when I'm not listening to coyotes and burros and the like, please, visit my website!

You might also enjoy a local's take on Terlingua— Ara is a chef turned biker-nomad-photographer who bases out of Terlingua and Study Butte. We never bumped into him this trip, but his musings and his photos go way beyond mine. www.theoasisofmysoul.com