BY ANN OWSLEY
In the fifties, on our ranch in Woody Creek, my siblings and I were expected to spend our days outside: all dogs and children out the door. We were the newest addition the valley, my East Coast mother living out her lifelong fantasy of owning a ranch in the West. The only ranching we did was the small herd of cattle that lost money at auction every year.
Our border collie, Freckles, was fully suited to running all day, herding livestock. One day, he went missing; my dad finally found him on the mesa and brought him home in the back of the truck. His feet had been bound with baling wire and he’d been shot through the head. Sad for us, bu no surprise, because he was an unstoppable chicken chaser, and we didn’t have chickens.
The rancher who shot him had ever right to protect his livelihood for this domestic pet, and even we children knew it. It was the price of freedom for Freckles. Whose fault was it? Ours, for letting him run.
Ranchers back then shot all predators in our valley: coyotes, foxes, badgers, raccoons, bears, cougars, bobcats, domestic cats and dogs. We understood how important it was for them to hun game every year. They killed for the survival of their livestock; they hunted for the survival of their families. Deer and elk were dressed out completely, every part of the animal used for something, right down to old family sausage recipes.
My older brothers, with their .22s, took a different approach: they shot all animals that moved across their vision: magpies, chipmunks, gophers, anything with fur or feathers. They would quickly hid carcasses from me or suffer all damnation from my mother. It was apparent to me even then that my brothers killed for the sheer, exuberant fun of it.
Around 1968, some other, newer transplanted residents got the idea to start fox hunting in Woody Creek. Without asking permission, they cut holes through our fence and began putting in gates and jumps. It was a very status-oriented activity, with the little jackets and the fancy tack, the expensive horses and dogs, they stuffed the shirts of the privileged few. We still had ranchers here then, and they were hysterical with decisions. The vicious activity quickly died out, probably from its own weight.
But here we go again. A man up Little Woody Creek has reintroduced this blood sport in our valley. Theses hunters will tell you they’re actually not after foxes, but coyotes, as if that distinction makes it okay. Coyotes, foxes, bobcats, mountain lions: they all become terrified when horses and dog packs thunder into their habitat and threaten their cover or dens. Many of the females lay off nursing.
Coyotes appear to be monogamous, and couples may remain together for several years. The coyotes is intelligent and playful, like my dog, and able to run swiftly. However, one of its weaknesses when being hunted is that it turns back while running, to gauge the distance of its pursuer. This look back can slow it down enough to cost it its life.
Hunting dogs are bred especially for stamina, not speed, so the pack takes a long, slow, yet relentless time at pursuit. This gives the huntsmen and women a nice day’s ride on horseback, a reason to be out in the fresh air, a reason to get together with like-minded others and harass our wildlife– for the sheer, exuberant fun of it.
There were coyotes in Woody Creek when I was little, but we rarely saw one, the ranchers having pretty successfully reduced their numbers. As a child who played all over Woody Creek, I never saw a fox. There weren’t heards of elk in the valley as there are today.
Today, there are no more ranchers in Woody Creek and very little resembling agriculture. Watching the predators return has been thrilling for most of us, a wonderful story of recovery. Word passes quickly among the neighbors at any new sighting: a new litter of fox kits, eagles nesting or fishing, bears trudging up the stream, a flock of vultures or wild turkeys. There is no protection for the hunted. Because Colorado is still considered a ranching state, most of the treasured predators in the valley are legally “harvested,” with the blessings of the Division of Wildlife. Our hunting neighbors can, for the small price of a hunting license, oversee the mutilation and death of the animals we all love to watch, winter, spring, summer, and fall. Although Pitkin County has serious leash laws, packs of hunting dogs are legally exempt from them.
In the case of our own neighbor, he’s been boxed in as much as possible. The adjacent Little Woody Creek, Woody Creek, and White Star property owners have all denied him permission to ride onto their lands with horses and hounds. However, it’s interesting to note that, on the other side of his property, the Chaparral development has an exemption in its otherwise tough stance on dogs in sensitive wildlife areas. As our neighbor was one of the first purchasers of property at Chaparral, this explains why we’ve seen him hunting with his pack of dogs on what the Woody Creek Caucus worked hard to try to make protected lands.
Beloved children and pets are not released outdoors in a city without supervision. Where we have predators on the lookout for a split-second meal opportunity, we have to think about who has first rights at freedom in Woody Creek; decide who is predator and who is easy prey.
I choose the cougar and the coyote over me.
