Notes from the Wild Folk: Coyote, Her Fur, and the Flowers of the Dunes

Out at Abbott's Lagoon, where the summer fogs hang thick and a family of river otters splashes through the fresh blue water, there is a narrow path at the base of a great sand dune, flanked on the other side by cattails and lagoon, where not so long ago a bobcat patrolled up and down on the regular, presumably from a resting place in the willows, catching marsh birds, the mice who run the dunes, the rabbits out in the scrub.

Recently, I heard tell from other trackers that there seemed to have been a change of guard—the bobcat seemed to have gone elsewhere. Yesterday, a tracking friend and I went rambling along the lagoon edge and through the dunes. We followed the trail where once the bobcat(s) walked. The tracks in the sand were loose and indistinct, and we could not determine whether they were bobcat or coyote. The tiny footprints of deer mice skittered everywhere. 

Then, we began to find small clumps of fur. 

Above is the largest clump we found. All of them contained some combination of coarse, sturdy, long guard hairs banded black, white, golden or rust, and a rough, wavier undercoat. Guard hairs are generally the hairs that lend an animal's coat its characteristic color, while also wicking away moisture and retaining body heat.

Whoever was scratching herself, snagging on bushes, or shedding, she left an excellent trail! I've never tracked by bits of fur before, but when we crawled into a thicket of willows that comprised the entrance to some sort of resting place, or den, or hideaway, we found several more matching guard hairs caught on the bark or in the humus below our hands and knees.



Guardian oak (or poison oak) characteristically guarded the thicket about seven feet in, so we didn't make it very far, but the stiff guard hairs in our fingers were like little treasures, with the story of a recent creature's passage in them.

We didn't want to linger long, because we felt we were trespassing on someone's secret and guarded front doorstep. (And what a doorstep! You can see the willows below to the left, and the beginning of the lagoon to the far right.)

While it is always a good idea to keep the mind and heart full of questions and myriad possibilities when tracking, and while I am no expert in the identification of small scraps of fur, we were very much reminded of the pelage of the coyote as we examined the hairs, and felt their coarseness. That banded black-cream-rust color very much matches the general coloration of these clever, quick beings. 

Coyote portrait, by Christopher Bruno

Out on the great sand-dune above the willow-den, where the coyotes sidetrot, the bobcats prowl, the deer wander, the deer mice skitter, the raccoons amble, all leaving the stories of their passage in lettered trails, we sat for a time amidst this netted skein of wild lives. At our feet, the dune strawberries made their own constellated nets, somehow surviving on sand, in salty air.

Tiny dune primroses (a fraction of the size (probably 1/10th!) of the evening primroses so similar in appearance that are flourishing in the garden) reached out through the sand and bloomed their bright primrose yellow. They must be drinking the salty fog alone, for there is no other water here at this time of year. 

Together, it seems to me that the dune strawberries and dune primroses must know the secret stories and lives of the animals who pass through the sand at dusk and dawn and the middle of the night; they probably know if it is a coyote or a bobcat who, for a little while, rules over the willow patch with its magnificent front porch. 

And we wondered, all along—was there a coyote watching us from just beyond, in the thick scrub of the hills, bemused that we would crawl on all fours into her hideaway, and take a few of her hairs like pieces of an old enchantment?

For Coyote is a wise old Creator, and knows well the ways of humans...

There is an old story says the world was made by Coyote, who got stranded at the top of Mt. Diablo when the ocean waters were high and right up around its craggy neck. He threw down mats of tule. These became land. He blew feathers from his paws, different kinds, and these became people. His wife, little Frog Woman, helped him, swimming. The world, born right out of Mt. Diablo, a womb of schist and granite, silica, sandstone and coal. The world, held up in the paws of Coyote, nudged gently by Frog.

There is an old story says once there was no death in the world, but Coyote brought it, saying yes you will hate me for this, but how else will there be renewal? How else can we all fit?

There is an old story says Coyote lost his daughter, and went to the Land of the Dead to bring her home again, alive, but in the last moment, carrying her up a mountain, he slipped, he looked back at her, he lost her truly, forever. Then, he cursed the laws he had made, but it was too late to change them, and so he howled long, knowing now the sorrow of humans.

- excerpt from my The Seven Dwarves of Mt. Diablo

Announcing: the Gray Fox Epistles

The Gray Fox Epistles, illustration by Bendix Carabetta, © 2013 (Drawn with redwood stick in India ink)

This wild, fox-pawed, starry eyed project is my offering to the stirring seeds & sap of spring, still underground in winter, but moving upward. In honor of Imbolc, (and at the very moment of sunrise on this day) it is my ewe's milk offering of rambling magic, given over to your hands and to the wily ground. With your good graces, it will take off running, and leave fox-prints in its wake! Without further ado, I introduce to you:

In brief:

I am launching a story-via-letter project called the Gray Fox Epistles. Subscribers will receive one of my original tales every month, in their physical mailbox, printed, packaged and wax sealed beautifully and with scraps of woodland leaf or feather included. All stories will be at least 2,000 words in length, and previously unpublished.

They will all be retellings of deep old myths and fairytales, the kinds that have passed on through centuries, through many different wild landscapes. These retellings will be re-rooted in the wilds that I know-- redwood forest, tule marsh, northern coastal scrub. They will be walks into the mythscapes & landscapes of the soul, and also very tangibly and vividly rooted in the wild cycles that I am always learning here, on the edge of the central coast of California, a state named for the legendary Amazon queen Calafia and her island of wild women and gold.

It is up to you to root these tales in your own heart and place. They have paws. They leave trails. Go, take them outside with you, see where they will lead you.

You can find samples of my story writing here (for tunnels & tallow), here (mad ladies & birds), here (for bones), here (for post-civilization elk herders) and here (for a Catskin), to get a sense of what you might receive via post.

(If that is enough to tempt you, skip down to the bottom for DETAILS & LOGISTICS! Or just SIGN UP ABOVE TO YOUR LEFT to receive the first tale in March )

In more detail:

 Stories are meant to be shared from hand to hand and mouth to mouth, by firelight or starlight, gifts of otherness and the unkept edges of our own hearts. They are meant to be consumed, and then walked across the prairies and the alleys of your life. Subscribe to Gray Fox Epistles, and once a month, a gray fox will trot through your living room with a beautiful letter in his teeth, hand-addressed, with a tale inside.

Imagine a woman (like the lady painted with redwood, in black ink, above!) wearing a big felted cape patched full of pockets. In each pocket is a folded-up tale. She is walking down the country road, toes in the dust, toward your town. A gray fox trots beside her, catching Jerusalem crickets and berries in his teeth. He leaves paw prints that are the stories of the wild. Together they are up to their teeth and fur in tales—tales from the mole tunnels and the woodrat lodges, tales from the alder roots and the spiderwebs, tales from the trunks of abandoned cars, tales from the fiddles and water-towers, the tents and teapots of our own hearts. Tales that are deep-rooted in the human and more-than-human worlds, passed down through the ages. They have weathered the centuries, and always come out new.

This woman and her gray fox are the spirit of the Gray Fox Epistles, a project that seeks to re-create the magic of the wandering tale-bringers of old using the newer magic of our wireless webs. Together, we can create a new form of story-sharing, a glistening web of connection facilitated by the Internet but made material and embodied in monthly letters that contain original versions of old, old tales. Each letter is a work of hand-crafted art, on beautiful paper, with a small monthly surprise of feather, leaf, fountain-penned note, or any other scrap of wonder I can find. 

Details &  Logistics:

Stories will be delivered on the new moon, roughly the 10^th of the month for the whole year 2013— that time of darkness when tales take on a special richness. All work is of course original, previously unpublished, and copyrighted by me. It is fresh from my inky hands.

Subscribers will have access to a Blogger site, where reflections on the tales, as well as suggestions for upcoming retellings, can be voiced. In addition, the blog will feature the original version (and variations) of each month's story.

Subscribers will also, every few moons, have their names tossed in a hat and drawn to see who will receive free felted goods (such as a felted holder for all your Epistles) or original woodblock printed illustrations by Bendix Carabetta.

Subscriptions are $9.00/month for U.S. residents and $11.00/month for international subscribers. Subscriptions received by the 3rd of the month will receive that month’s letter. Any later, and the subscription will begin in the following month. A minimum of 65 subscribers will be necessary to keep the project alive.

Forgo two lattes, or three chais, or whatever hot beverage you like to buy, per month, and receive instead a truly beautiful, hand-packaged tale-letter in the mail. Then brew up your own hot treat on the stovetop and sip while reading!

SIGN UP USING THE PAYPAL BUTTON ON THE TOP LEFT CORNER to receive the first tale on March 11th. It will be based on the Children of Lir, a gorgeous, tragic, profound Welsh myth. Once I have a steady group of subscribers, I will offer 3, 6 and 9 month discounts. And please EMAIL me at grayfoxepistles@gmail.com with your interest or questions. 

© Bendix Carabetta, 2013