Encounters on a Morning Walk
I’m never quite sure what or who I’m going to meet on my early morning walks. The path is similar, yet each day is different. Each month and season has its own flavor of fading moonlit shadows and dawning light, unique and distinct from the others. The desert flora and fauna wax and wane in numbers and vitality through those seasons, too. But they’re always there.
The badger was a surprise. They're normally very shy and human-averse. Nevertheless, there he was, slipping behind a creosote bush. I could just see his striped face peering at me from between the branches as he waited for me to pass by. I took out my phone in hopes of a photo, talking quietly to him all the while.
"Just stay there for a sec while I get my phone," I said to the badger. "I didn't mean to scare you. That's it. Shh. Shhhh. Just give me one more moment. Quiet, quiet. That's it."
As I spoke, he waddled off a few yards to find another hiding spot behind a cactus and paused again. By this time I had my phone and camera ready for him. When he made a quick dash across the path I'd just walked along, I raised my phone. Perfect! I managed to snap his photo when he was in the middle of the path, before he disappeared into the desert scrub.
I've lived in Tucson for a quarter-century, and have been hiking and walking in the deserts and parks for much of that time. Every time, those walks and hikes included some sort of wildlife encounter ranging from up-close-and-personal to distant sightings. The animals themselves run the gamut from the very small to the surprisingly large. Most of the bigger animals have appeared during hikes in the local mountain ranges. The encounter with the badger happened within the Tucson city limits, in a regional park that borders desert scrubland and a public golf course.
The more usual type of encounter is simply seeing a bird or animal from a distance, long after it's heard or seen you and is making itself scarce. City animals, however, have become habituated to some level of human presence. You can get quite close to these creatures before they'll scamper away. Some animals will even follow you.
The coyote was walking ahead of me on the paved path when I saw him. Because I was alone and walking quietly on the smooth pavement, he either didn't hear me or — more likely — had heard me but wasn't concerned with my presence. He was facing away from me, heading in the same direction, and intent on something ahead of us both on the path.
I couldn't see very far around the curves in the path, so I kept quietly walking behind the coyote. I was trying my best not to startle him by closing the distance between us or by making any untoward noises. Soon the path straightened and I spotted what was holding the coyote's interest. There was a man well ahead of us who was walking two medium-sized dogs. The coyote was interested in the dogs, not as food, but because of their size and appearance. I like to think he understood that they were canine cousins of his. Perhaps he couldn't understand why they appeared to be attached to the human by strings. If he could understand that, perhaps he thought the dogs had a pet human, rather than the reverse. After a few more moments of following the man and dogs, his curiosity must have been satisfied. The coyote stopped and looked at me over his shoulder. He had heard me and knew exactly where I was. He just wasn't concerned. A moment later he turned and trotted off into the mix of creosote bushes, cactuses, and flowering desert plants that lined the road.
Newcomers, and many Tucsonans, who aren't familiar with native wildlife are often concerned when they see coyotes nearby. Coyotes are, however, mostly harmless to humans, although they take quite a toll on stray cats and very small stray dogs. The behavior I saw on that hike is somewhat typical, but it's more likely for a coyote to make himself scarce before you even see him. Some Native American tribes have other thoughts about coyotes. Most tribal stories involving the coyote - or perhaps Coyote - name him the Trickster. His presence can indicate trouble on the horizon, or not. He may just be there to encourage you to laugh more. Or not.
There are eight softball fields in the park where I usually take my morning walks. Patches of desert brush comes up close to the edges of those softball fields, and I see scores of desert cottontails most mornings. They come out of the desert before dawn to munch on the fresh green grass in the well-watered diamonds, having crawled under the chain link fencing to get at their breakfast. The rabbits are very much habituated to people walking on the paved tracks that encircle the fields, but they still scamper if you get too close to them. Oddly, they tend to run in the direction you're walking. They'll be out in far center field and, as you walk along, they will run toward the fence — toward you — and crawl under the fence ten feet in front of you in order to run into the desert on the other side of the track. Surely, after dozens and dozens of generations of rabbits have seen people passing by, you'd think one of them would figure out that staying in the fenced-in field was much safer than bolting for the brush.
On occasion, the rabbits' propensity for escaping to the desert can lead to deadly consequences for one of their family. You see, they exhibit the same behavior when they see a coyote or bobcat as when they see walkers. They'll leave the safety of the softball field, run toward and ahead of the approaching coyote, and try to escape under the fence. They are, of course, crossing to the same side of the fence as their peckish predator. Nevertheless, the rabbits do it with obvious and quite predictable consequences. All you'll ever see of these encounters is a bit of rabbit fur caught in the grass or an unlucky foot left behind.
A flash of movement alerted me that something was moving through the widely-spaced creosote bushes to my right. I stopped and let my gaze move along until I saw the movement again. The creature was unmistakable. The quick, darting head movements, the dark penetrating stare, the flashing crest, and the long tail lifting and falling with the movement of the head crest. It was a greater roadrunner. As I watched, he flicked his tail side-to-side as he scanned the area for food. He was definitely hunting. Unlike the cartoon version, real roadrunners rarely eat seeds. They much prefer living, moving prey. They will kill and eat whatever small animal, insect, or reptile they can catch. Their hunting methods recall the movements of the dangerous velociraptor of Jurassic Park fame. A smaller flash of movement caught the roadrunner's eye and he dashed forward to spear a small lizard trying for an end run to relative safety in the nearby rocks. The roadrunner's quick actions, dagger-like beak, and fiercely spectacular hunting ability made me very glad they're only about 8 inches tall.
There are dozens and dozens of species of birds native to the Sonoran Desert. The most common bird in my local park, by far, is the dove. You're most likely to see or hear the white-winged dove. He's slightly bigger and much louder than his cousin, the mourning dove. Great black ravens appear in the park from time to time, too. Twice the size of their smaller crow cousins from back East, they also seem to be smarter. They act as if they like watching humans. Especially if those humans are out in the wilderness. They'll fly over two or three times just to see what you're up to. If you hear a rasping croak from above, you'll know you're being watched by a raven.
The snake was coiled in the middle of the trail, nearly invisible despite the bold black diamonds on his back. He was enjoying the early morning sun, but we'd startled him with our heavy footfalls as we hiked up the hill. The loud buzz of the snake's instinctive and immediate reaction was hair-raising. If you haven't heard an alarmed rattlesnake somewhere near your feet, it's difficult to describe the sound or feeling. If you have heard that sound, I don't need to describe it. You're already remembering.
Thankfully, I was walking in front with my companion just behind me. My self-trained reaction to a rattling rattlesnake is to immediately stop moving. You have to locate the rattlesnake before you make any further move. If you step the wrong way you could inadvertently end up in greater danger. This particular snake was about three feet in front of my front-most foot. Once I saw it, I simply stepped back out of range of the snake, then stepped back one more step. I was completely safe.
My companion's reaction, however, could have put us both in danger. She immediately tried to run. Unfortunately, our trail was on a rocky, cactus-covered slope. Had I allowed her to run, she likely would have fallen and hurt herself. Possibly quite badly. I grabbed hold of her arm as she started to bolt and just held her in place. She was, after all, behind me and was in no danger whatsoever from the snake. While she desperately wanted to run, I held her arm and talked to her to calm her down.
"There's nothing to be afraid of right now."
"But there's a rattlesnake! He's going to get us!"
"No," I said, trying not to laugh. "He's just scared because I got too close. Now that I've backed away, he's already calming down. Don't run. You're going to hurt yourself!"
The snake was calming down, just giving intermittent little shakes of its tail to remind us it was still there. In moments, even that had stopped.
My companion continued struggling, but was starting to relax a bit. "I'm scared! Can't we go?" she cried.
"I know you're scared," I said calmly, "but there's no longer a reason to be that frightened. You're behind me and he can't get you. The snake doesn't want to attack either one of us. Besides, he's surely more scared of me than I am of him!" I know it's a trite comment, but it also happens to be true. "Now please calm down. Just relax." I let go of her arm. "You don't have to get any closer. Let's just watch to see what he does. I'm betting we'll be able to continue our walk in just a minute."
With my companion clutching my arm while she peered around my shoulder, we watched the snake. Sure enough, he'd determined for himself that he'd had quite enough sun — and bother — for that morning. He slithered off the trail and into the desert, disappearing under a bush. We watched for another few moments as the snake continued to move away from the trail and deeper into the scrub. At that point, we were able to carry on with our own little adventure without any further incidents or memorable encounters.
Tomorrow I may walk a bit earlier or a bit later. I may see an owl that I haven’t seen for a month or two. A new friend I just met last week might come around the next curve. The black-tailed jackrabbits may sneak off into the tangle of creosote bushes and cholla cactuses before I’ve had a chance to spot them. The only constant on these morning walks is me, yet even I am different than I was yesterday.