Coyotes

I took a hike yesterday.  I was in a huge park system very close to where I live; reportedly the largest park located within a major metropolitan area in the U.S.  I don't know if that's true but you can start at one end and hike for 30 miles before you get to the other end, and most of the time you're by yourself.  The only folks I saw yesterday were the sporadic runners drifting by, nodding briefly in my direction.  Still, the park is in the middle of a good sized city; it's hardly the wilderness.

One kid slowed and popped out his headphones: "I think something has been following me; maybe a coyote," he said.  "I was pretty scared.  Just wanted you to know."  The bastard drifted on, having planted many, many seeds of fear and paranoia in my fecund brain.

The facts are probably this: nothing was following him; if something was following him it was nothing more ferocious than a squirrel or hedgehog; there aren't any coyotes within 10 miles of the trail; and if there were, they would be smart enough to stay away from something that weighs 10 times as much as they do.  What do coyotes eat anyway?  Probably mice.  Certainly not 180 lb men.

To my credit, I continued walking.  The very small smart part of my brain - the part that would have pondered the probable facts and reacted like a sane individual - was completely overwhelmed by the rest of my brain - the parts that love problems and fear and imagined my shredded body, covered in coyote saliva, being discovered by a much more fortunate hiker later that day.

I picked up a big stick and whacked it against a tree.  I continued to hike.  I decided the stick was not enough weaponry so I picked up a rock with a pointed end.  I tested its heft in my hand, judging it to be big enough and sharp enough to do some real damage to an attacking coyote, but not so large that it would prove to be too heavy to swing effectively or to burden my hike, which was onerous enough exercise.  I moved forward, swirling around from time to time to make sure no coyotes were trying to sneak up on me.  If I had brought a loincloth I could have stripped down and completed my caveman impression.

At some point I tossed those two ridiculous things in the weeds.  Is it any wonder that I drank, being so fond of fear?

One of the things that I do when I hike by myself is to concentrate on my breathing: breathe in - let god - breathe out - let go.  This practice helps me shut off my overactive brain and gets me In The Moment.  The Moment is a good thing because I'm usually in fine shape at any particular time.  It's when I go into the future that I get into trouble.  And I'm in the woods - the whole idea is to enjoy the environment.

I'll tell you this: when I was doing the caveman thing, scanning for murderous coyotes, I was in the moment.  Fear does occasionally have a purpose.