Coyote Aria

“Good night, James. G’night, Ian.”

“Night, Dad.”

On Boy Scout campouts, the boys have to be reminded to go to sleep on Friday nights. Saturdays are a different story. The day had brought fishing, physical fitness testing and hiking, in addition to cooking and meal cleanup chores. Add an early morning start and even I was tired. The boys slept on the ground and dropped off as quickly as the rocks they threw into the lake.

It’s been nearly 50 years since I found the ground soft enough for a good sleep. I eased my aged body onto a low cot and zipped up my sleeping bag for an unusually cool night, but my slumber didn’t last long enough. I woke to the sound of coyotes—and not just a smooth wail. Their calls dipped and rose as if they were singing. I rolled over and savored this canine equivalent of a Verdi opera. Should I wake the boys? I’d have as much luck waking stones. I drifted back to sleep.

The next sound that woke me wasn’t so musical. A crack of thunder raised me halfway off my bed. I settled back down, but the driving rain was relentless. The single square inch of seam that hadn’t been sealed on the rain fly sent a steady drip of water onto my sleeping bag, but that was just the beginning. Morning cooking and breaking camp left us and our gear entirely soaked, but the boys were excited when we got home.

Sandi gave each of us a towel and a hug. “Did you have a good time?”

Ian’s words tumbled out of his mouth. “It was awesome, Mom. We heard a coyote while we were sleeping last night.”

“Two, I think. Maybe more,” James said. “They were singing. Most unusual.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.