by Nick Neely
As I lingered in the Rogue, the water’s chill gradually seeped through my waders, and my long underwear, and I found myself basking in the warm, mildly intoxicating exhaust of the dredge. Yet there comes a moment—thigh-deep, having borrowed a mask so that you can plant your (now-tingling) face in a rushing river to study the blue neoprene humanoid slurping up the very wet earth upon which you stand—when you realize it’s time to suck it up yourself and take the polar plunge.
Rogue Aquatics, a dive shop, sits beside an open field with a Hay for Sale sign on Crater Lake Highway, just north of sprawling Medford. They rent only seven-millimeter wetsuits, about the width of a word like “frigid.” Such insulation makes sense, given that the Rogue drains off the snowy shield of Mount Mazama—the stratovolcano that blew its top seven and a half thousand years ago to create Crater Lake—and into Lost Creek Lake, where it flows from the lightless bottom of the reservoir’s dam to recommence the 215-mile journey to Gold Beach, past the homestead where I lived. But the mere act of wriggling into one of these wetsuits—past two bulbous ankles, over leg hair—boils the blood. From the rack, I then picked out a hood with a flamboyant orange, red, and yellow racing stripe. A pay streak.
“Just be careful you don’t rip the knees to shreds,” said Bob, the next day, “or you’ll have bought that suit.” His own were epoxy-patched to a ghoulish extent.
While Jason took his turn as waterdog, Bob offered up more sound advice: “Don’t worry about messing up—we’ve already messed up everything you possibly could.” “Sometimes I mow down the wall of hard-pack with two hands” (he made a motion, here, like a gangster brandishing a machine gun). “You want to hug the bottom, so you don’t get sucked away.” “Tuck the air hose into your weight belt so the regulator doesn’t pull out of your mouth.” “I pay close attention to my body, and I try to stop when I start making bad decisions.” “Don’t look up, or the current will blow you out of the hole.” “If a rock gets jammed in the nozzle, you’ll just have to bang the shit out of it, to get it loose.” Over the last several days, I’d watched Bob dislodge several vicious blockages from the midsection of the dredge’s suction hose; each time I had imagined a wrestling match, to the death, with an albino anaconda.
When Jason emerged looking purple as usual, Bob helped me strap on a forty-five-pound weight belt and eight pounds of ankle weight, which counter the current and the neoprene’s buoyancy. I cleared the regulator—puff, puff. Then, I porpoised. The water percolated through my tight wetsuit surprisingly slowly. But instantly, it was clear that this was the closest to being a river—to bedrock, as some like to say—as I had ever come, and probably ever would. As my adrenaline coursed, I looked out at a drowned field of stone. You might not know you were in a moving fluid, except for the undulating patchwork sky, and the bits of sand and wood that whirl past. And the unrelenting force.
The drone of the motor was almost completely snuffed out; mainly I heard the shush of the water, the clicking and clacking of stones, near and far. Of mountains peregrinating. Swiftly I crawled into Jason and Bob’s working “hole” and tried to catch my bearings. Looking to my side, I studied two small spotted fish, salmon fry perhaps, finning in place as if in an aquarium. For a moment I tried to emulate them, to lie still in my hold, to embody their contours. Miners often say that fish come right up to their armpits and eat the ambient bits of life they dislodge, the algae and larvae. Their kingdom was peaceable. My charge was to dismantle this refreshing, pacific view and send it up the hose, which hummed subtly electric.
As soon as I tried to start mining my own business, however, it was a different story. Picture a long, lean fellow using the fingertips of his left hand to cling to a horn of blue-green bedrock, as if it to the saddle of a bronco, while straining to drag a heavy corrugated hose (a lasso?) forward with his right. Quickly my view was clarified: A river of this nature couldn’t care less for a human being; it measures one’s strength and, unfailingly, finds it pathetic. Staying productive and in place was nearly impossible. So was seeing through the fog that consumed my mask, the rivulets that ran like snakes down the inside of its glass, and the silt I stirred up as I toppled the neat cobblestone wall of overburden the guys had entrusted me with. And when Big James revved up his beast again one hundred yards upstream, I was swamped by his plume of particulate. Bob’s form of “meditation” seemed a pipe dream then. More than gold, I sucked compressed air.
But I did experience several minutes, over the course of about forty-five, when I was suspended, like a proper aquanaut—like gold during a flood—in that place that Bob, Jason, and Ray loved. The learning curve is steep, but suction-dredge mining is a sport of strength, grace, and nerve, as well as destruction. In fact, to picture a body, then, might be to miss the point. One retreats toward the embryonic. Descends. The practice begins to soothe. You slip into a “time warp,” as Bob claims. As if it were true: Time is like a river. When I finally emerged, Bob summed up this phenomenon about perfectly: “You came up and said, ‘Five more minutes,’ and twenty minutes later, we ran out of gas.”
As the air became thinner, I felt an alarming tug on my mouthpiece: the anaconda! No, it was just my tender, Jason, saving me. I stood up, wobbled to the shallows, and unclipped the weight belt—splash—thankful to have survived the Rogue. Regaining my equilibrium, I returned to the dredge to eyeball my catch. Flipping over the rubber flap that streamlines the hose’s outpouring over the sluice, I stared down at the rills. Among the black sand in the grooves, there lay at least one conspicuous flake I’d unwittingly sucked forth. Plain and glorious, a speck. It seemed to wink at me, to become my mind: Ah, Nick, you can do better. Go ahead, retrieve that red gas can. Hell, why not just buy your own dredge? I’ll help you pay off the gear in a few weeks, or days.
A Guide to Coyote Management
Coyote can be detrimental to any number of natural resources, including livestock, watermelons, pets, and the economy. He is known to tiptoe about places he shouldn’t, like airport runways and Walmart parking lots.
Occasionally Coyote takes larger prey, small ungulates such as fawns, lambs, calves, and foals. The concern of this document, however, is primarily with domesticates; Bambi—another of the First People—is on his own.
Let’s keep in mind that Coyote warrants management in part because he feeds on calves by eating into the anus or enteric region. The coprophagic son of a bitch absolutely loves it. He can’t wait to do it again. “Up yours!” says Coyote—his mantra.
If you find a dead lamb, calf, or foal and suspect Coyote, first examine the neck and throat for subcutaneous hemorrhaging. Typically, bites to a dead animal do not cause hemorrhaging, although this diagnostic is unreliable if the carcass is old or widely scattered.
Among animal tracks, Coyote’s are smaller than wolf, smaller than large dog, larger than fox, smaller than yours, perhaps. His footprint tends to be more ovular and compact than dog or human; his step is light and regular, and always just ahead or just behind. Quiet, he is near.
By law you are allowed to kill Coyote year-round, if you have a hunting license. But as a gentle reminder, night-shooting Coyote with a spotlight is illegal in most states. Wait for a full moon, when he’ll come creeping along like the milkman, drunk on cheap beer, pissing morning glory, looking to sleep with your daughter and your dog.
Before we go any further, remember: The focus of managing Coyote should be damage prevention and control. Termination of Coyote and his legacy is not the goal. Coyote was here!
To start, a good fence goes a long way against Coyote. Until he decides to go around it. Watch him tightrope the barbwire along the highway just for show. He keeps a stepladder in his back pocket, a shovel up his coat, and the sun on his raggedy shoulders. He squats on top of fence posts, marking his miles.
His digging may be discouraged with a length of barbwire along the ground. Climbing may be deterred with an electric overhang. With enough barb and current, anything may be deterred, maybe even Coyote. He will be
kept busy scavenging the souls of other animals, such as the migrating antelope strung up across the range.
During a one-year study involving one hundred Kansas sheep farmers, seventy-nine sheep were taken by Coyote while in their corrals. He laughed all the way to the bank and thought about number eighty. Why’d he stop? Coyote despises round numbers. He hunts them in his sleep.
Yet only four of those kills occurred in lighted pens. Circling or blinking lights further increase the chances of frightening Coyote away. Alternately, use blue or red lights, because Coyote seems less afraid of those particular tints. Take aim as he steps into the color and begins to dance with his shadow, whispering to himself. Stay steady. Look through the sights to his stare.
Here’s an idea: Keep the radio playing all night. Coyote can’t stand talk radio, AM especially.
But beware, he digs most music. He keeps a half-torn, life-sized poster of Lil Wayne on the wall of his den. Hip-hop one day, he can be pretty darn country the next. And rock-and-roll? Of course: Coyote’s always ready to kick up some dust, to howl at some moon.
Park your pickup near the corral. Park it in a new place each sundown. Coyote will wonder: What is up with that restless Chevy? If that doesn’t do the trick, then spend a night in the cab. What could be better than blowing Coyote away from a blind with headlights? What could be more comfortable?
Careful, though—fall asleep, and you might wake up to Coyote’s bare ass spread wide across your dusty windshield, giving birth to the bobblehead on your dashboard.
Two words: propane exploders. But make sure to turn off these noise-makers at sunrise. If Coyote is killing your sheep during broad daylight, turn to page 102.
In twenty-four Coyote-depredation complaints recorded during a two-year study in North Dakota, propane exploders were recognized as most useful in reducing Coyote’s antics.
That is, until Coyote was simply “removed.” Much more effective for a while.
But when he returned, Coyote lifted one leg and urinated exactly where he left off, in the thistle at the side of the road. His piss sprang into the air and took shape, becoming the first goldfinch. Perhaps this is why goldfinches have always flown a bit wobbly, dipping up and down like telephone wires.
Electric guards are a more expensive, even more effective option. They strobe brightly and blare horrible noises. Place your EGs high up on posts or trees to increase the range of their effectiveness and to prevent your irritable livestock from destroying them.
Unfortunately no external chemical repellent is known to dissuade Coyote from killing a sheep. None is repugnant enough. Coyote, after all, is made of scraps of squirrel fur and glued together with piñon sap. He lost his first self, skin and all, gambling at a truck stop. It’s safe to say he’s made his peace with foul smells.
If an effective repellent were discovered, surely the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency would never approve it. Hell, because of the EPA, a number of useful toxicants are no longer listed here. Blame Coyote. It was Coyote who began the environmental movement. He planted the first magnolia on the original Earth Day. He has sat for centuries, waiting for it to bloom.
During a controlled study, Coyote showed some aversion to high-frequency sounds broadcasted within one foot (thirty centimeters) of his ear.
“No shit,” said Coyote, when later asked about the experience. He declined further comment. These words have often been misunderstood.
Try lacing a dead sheep with vomit-inducing salt. The technical term for this time-tested technique is “aversive conditioning.” Colloquially, it’s “gross.” Coyote will turn mangy tail, to be sure, and trot to the edge of the field, faced squinched tight, tongue dangling. “Fuck you!” he’ll yell out, and go in search of water.
Guard dogs can be effective against Coyote, depending on the terrain and experience of the dog. To raise a guard dog, select a pup from a good breed. Separate the young dog from its siblings after eight weeks and place it with sheep in a pen. Be sure escape is impossible. Let this socialization period last another eight weeks. Check the pup daily, but don’t pet it. The dog’s primary bond should be to the sheep. But first, before any of this, check to see that the sheep are not actually Coyote, wearing masks.
You should know, however, that guard dogs have been known to threaten children and cyclists. Consider whether you want to encourage such activity. In general, it’s best to follow the golden rule. What would Coyote do?
Donkeys, also known as burros, are gradually gaining in popularity as sheep-protectors. Eventually, they may replace guard dogs entirely. A jackass’s response to Coyote includes braying, exposed teeth, and a loping attack. They wholeheartedly loathe Coyote, though they are generally friendly to people. It may be because Coyote sneaks up on them through tall grass and rides them bareback.
Fact or fiction: More than one-fifth of Texan sheep and goat farmers rely on a jackass to safeguard their livelihood.1
Whatever. Llamas are the wave of the future. Someday they will replace donkeys as the best guard animal, because llamas befriend sheep within hours. Not surprisingly, 80 percent of ranchers who use llamas to guard their sheep are either “very satisfied” or “satisfied”—and that’s the truth.
They’re satisfied—are you? Damn right—every night, for hours, if you know what I mean . . .
No? Well, then try running your sheep and cattle together. Studies have examined the effectiveness of mixed sheep-cattle herds, and results show that Coyote kills fewer sheep. Strangely, no one knows why. Who can know why? Why is Coyote Coyote? Coyote?
The o’s in Coyote are for “ostrich.” Let’s face it: Coyote’s just plain suspicious of novel, flightless stimuli. He buries his head in the sand, like the rest of us.
M-16? How about M-44. This spring-loaded booby trap shoots sodium cyanide into Coyote’s open mouth when he clamps down on a baited capsule. Death occurs within seconds—dead serious. Unfortunately the effectiveness of the M-44 is hindered somewhat by EPA regulation in the interest of human and environmental safety. Additionally, it may kill your dogs.
Introducing the 1080! The 1080 Livestock Protection Collar selectively kills Coyote. Each twenty-dollar LPC holds three hundred milligrams of Compound 1080 solution. When Coyote bites your livestock’s jugular—ha!—he punctures the collar and swallows a lethal amount of toxicant. No, Coyote—fuck you!
Even better, 1080 is a slow-acting toxin. Death is prolonged. Coyote will cry. Coyote will laugh. He will watch the vultures circle to his eyes. At the end, Coyote will like the way the flies dance on his skin.
Trapping? Some people succeed, though it’s a lot of work. Hope is the thought of trapping Coyote.
A short list of items needed to trap Coyote:
1.A plastic bucket to carry items 2 through 10.
2.A No. 3 or No. 4 trap.
3.One seventeen- to twenty-three-inch stake for securing the trap.
4.A straight-claw hammer to carve a hole in the ground and drive the stake.
5.Leather gloves. Lord knows this is dirty work.
6.A burlap bag to kneel on for comfort. Keeps jeans clean, too.
7.Plastic sandwich bags to overlay on the earth, preventing dirt from getting under the pan of the trap.
8.A screen sifter for sprinkling dirt over the trap.
9.A rib bone—and not anything else—for leveling off the trap once set.
10.A jug of Coyote’s urine to attract Coyote.
If you have allotted four hours to setting traps, devote three to looking for Coyote’s signs, such as scat and tracks. Then, beat Coyote at his own game by using tricks to pique his intrigue. Place a long feather near the trap, for instance, and tickle his fancy. Or bury a ticking clock. Coyote will come around when it’s time.
Don’t leave scattered gum wrappers and cigarette butts. That’s littering. Coyote knows it and knows better. He refuses to clean up after you.
Do place traps near carcasses or parts of animals. Leftover sheep heads are choice. Sheep heads really
bring Coyote in. He’s got a closetful at home.
Check the traps every twenty-four hours. No, check that. Check them once a week and save yourself some time. Let the Old Man suffer, if he’s there. Better, anyway, to spend that time making sure that your livestock is not actually Coyote.
Unless, of course, you really want to shoot Coyote in the head. Unless, of course, you really want to hear Coyote sing.
The only Coyote fumigant currently registered with the EPA is carbon monoxide. Cartridges may be purchased to toss down Coyote’s burrow. Quite possibly, it’s the best way to have a “little chat” with Coyote and his family. This strategy is called “denning.”
In classic denning, a hunter stealthily advances downwind of Coyote’s home carrying a rifle or a repeating shotgun with heavy shot. He brings a dog to distract Coyote. He makes a call that sounds like the death squeal of Coyote’s children. Coyote emerges and chases his tail to within short range of the unseen hunter.
That’s when you pull the trigger. Pull it twice. Shoot the shit out of Coyote. Make a machine-gun sound through your teeth as you do.
Should he escape, drive stakes into the earth two inches apart at the den mouth and trap his pups. If he returns, shoot him, and then destroy his young. If Coyote does not return soon, destroy the pups anyway. Predation will often cease when the young are lost.