As the days wore on, she saw more of these beasts, both large and small. The small ones were clumsy. Come to think of it, so were the big ones. She learned they weren’t clever but she needed to keep some distance. They didn’t like her at all. That was fine by her. As long as they kept apart all was right.

Food was good here. Lots of it. She wanted to bring her mate up here, show him the freedom. They were mated for life, as all good coyotes are.

The men here were few. So were the hard trails and metal colliders. This was good coyote country.

She woke under a fir tree, the branches preventing rain from dripping on her. A scent drifted in the wind and she stood and waited for the animal to show itself. Her ears pointed straight forward and her eyes widened. She heard the gentle sound of branches swishing against fur and then bending back in place.

Panting came from the south and a flash of teeth appeared between fluttering leaves.

She growled and backed up, prepared for battle.

When the stranger emerged from the blueberry bushes she yipped and circled. The other coyote did the same. They met noses and licked each other’s snouts.

It was her mate.

They ran and licked and yipped, cleaning each other’s coats and playing. They sprinted out into a field and bounded after each other, tails hoisted, paws and legs splayed out.

They chased voles into burrows and caught some of them, snapping them up and gobbling them down. She paused, stuck her muzzle into the air and twitched her nose. A scent blew down from the north, something she knew she had to follow. Her mate gazed at her, his fur ruffling in the breeze.

She led the way and he followed.

Bob Sanders

BOB SANDERS

The Toyota pickup raced down the driveway and spun out onto Julip Road. At the last second Matt yanked the wheel to the right, towards the highlands.

Soon the road narrowed and hunks of slate protruded from the dirt like fossils. He rode the cloth bench seat like a rodeo horse as the truck creaked and lurched. After a mile he hung a right at a muddy two-track besieged by tag alder and chokecherry. As the road dipped, water flooded the low spots. Bog country.

The pickup was decked with skid plates and high clearance, so he wasn’t too worried. Soon spruce and fir clotted the roadside, although calling this a road at all was generous. Branches fingered the truck and swung back into place. Blotches of mud squelched on the windshield and sprayed up in the rearview.

Now this was his idea of a proper road.

He smiled and steadied the wheel.