Primal Estate: The Candidate Species

by Samuel Franklin

  Rick had read that there was evidence of surface dwellers, like the ones who would have lived here. They eventually moved away to live in the cliffs, now also a national park at Mesa Verde, for protection as people resorted to cannibalism. “Food chain reorganizations can really motivate a people,” Rick muttered quietly.

  He stood still for a moment and looked around. There were possibly a dozen very large pits in this one area. They were all full of and surrounded by the stone that had been the structures’ walls. Rick thought about how they must have never imagined, while their little village was humming along, that it would ever have reverted to this.

  Rick thought how silly all cultures are. They conduct themselves as if they will always exist. Humans always seem to think things will get better. But that has never been a natural law, only a hope. The hope of improvement is the luxury of civilization that distracts us from the simple survival that confronts most animals on a daily basis.

  From the clearing of the ruins, Rick could see he was very close to the trees he was trying to reach. This makes sense, he thought, as a settlement this large would have been established close to a good source of water. There must be water at those trees.

  He continued downhill and came to a steep ravine on his left with a slight trickle of water. He continued down the drainage and came to a small, deep pool of crystal clear water, no larger than a few bathtubs, shrouded by the plant life it supported. What a gem in this barren place! He saw in his imagination Indian children getting in trouble for peeing upstream when their parents sent them to fill their jugs. He saw teenagers of the past who were in love sneaking a skinny dip and having a splash fight in an attempt to accidentally touch each other. And now there was nothing here but an almost silent trickle, overgrowth, and a lonely 50-year-old man looking for something to kill. This is a good place to remember, he told himself.

  Rick moved on quickly. As long as his feet fell on stone or sand he could be almost completely silent. And he made sure he was. He reached the bottom of the canyon, traversed the dry creek bed that thick foliage hid, and worked his way up the west side of the drainage, back uphill toward a rocky, sparsely-treed slope full of ledges and small boulders.

  Rick found a small ledge facing south east. Right in front of the ledge was a thick juniper tree, whose branches filled out all the way down to the ground with just enough room for him to wriggle his way in.

  It was a great spot. He needed protection from the rear, which the ledge and the trunk and branches of the tree provided, and a good view to the front, which he had sitting with his back to the trunk. The branches filled out the space around him, but not enough to obscure his view. The breeze was in his face, guaranteeing he was downwind of anything that heard his call. The brighter it got during the course of the day, the more he would be sitting in relative darkness of shade under the tree. His full camouflage completed the package and made him virtually invisible. Rick pulled up a mesh hood that covered just the left eye and settled in.

  Having protection from the rear was important as Rick was predator hunting. This is a relatively sophisticated type of hunting where the human predator produces the call of a wounded animal that makes the non-human predator think that lunch is about to be served. The non-human predator quietly, slowly, sneaks up on what it believes a ready meal. Meanwhile, the human predator remains that meal until he can see and kill his rival. In this country, the non-human predator could be quite a variety of animals. Today it was coyote that Rick had in mind. Fox, bobcat, and mountain lion were always an option, but the chances were slim. Out here coyote were common.

  Rick recalled a friend that once told him of a bobcat that jumped down from the ledge he had his back to, and landed right on his head. Marc had been in full camouflage and the bobcat, looking down from above, had no visual cues to identify the source of the sound. The bobcat, not knowing what or where that sound must be coming from, but knowing with all certainty that if he jumped in its general direction, with fangs and claws deployed, a meal would produce itself from somewhere. Marc was justifiably startled, as was the bobcat. The mutual rush of realization, with the startled movement of Marc from the sensation of claws on his head, the smell of human suddenly coursing through the nostrils of the cat, both, needless to say, for that moment, wanted to be rid of the other. The bobcat jumped off Marc’s head and ran before he could rally with an accurate shot. Rick wondered at how amusing it was that the hunter wanted to call in the cat as close as possible, and ended up wearing, for however briefly, the feline on his head. And yet nothing seemed to go right…that unscripted adventure, again.

  Rick felt right beneath his tree and began to call. The green plastic cylinder previously in his pocket now sounded like an anguished rodent singing its death song. Rick started slowly. The first call was very weak, almost silent. If there was already something in close, Rick didn’t want to crack the silence so suddenly as to scare it away. He called, then waited five minutes, called again and waited two, called again and waited ten minutes. His next series was a little louder.

  On the first call of this series, a good three hundred yards away to Rick’s front and left, a stealthy beast, headed in the direction of the water hole, had stopped to sniff a deer print in the sand. Unconsciously the animal’s left ear moved from forward to straight up, and yet the nose continued to sniff. On the second call, the head rose from the ground and lifted to its full height, both ears up.

  Two miles north up the same canyon lay Carson, Rick’s son. He had been dropped off in the dark prior to Rick reaching his parking spot. His dad had shown him a good location earlier that week and suggested it would be an interesting place to use his new binoculars to glass the canyon for something moving through and, maybe, call a bit.

  The canyon wasn’t as deep there nor edged with cliffs, and might provide a good long range shot. More than anything, Rick just wanted Carson to be out early and get some fresh air. Carson knew this and complained a little, but ultimately enjoyed it. He was pretty accommodating for a sixteen-year-old. Plus, he had a lot of things on his mind and this gave him a chance to really think about them. He’d gone a long time living without his dad, and participating in these early morning shenanigans made them both feel close, even though they were not hunting together.

  As usual, his dad had gotten up way too early, fed the dogs, made his shirtless sprint down to the mailbox, then back, and then cranked out as many pull ups as he could on the bar by the garage before coming in. He did this all the time, regardless of temperature. The colder it was, the faster he ran to the mailbox. He skipped icy days to avoid injury.

  Carson had gotten up just in time to watch him run back up the driveway. Seeing the old guy in shorts, bare chested, with prematurely gray hair and beard, running the 200 yards from the mailbox made Carson chuckle. It was 29 degrees outside. Dad thought he was pretty hard core.

  Carson had lived with his mom for eleven years and moved in with his father just about a year ago. The change had been good for him. It was tough at first. Not only were there the issues between his divorced parents that he had to deal with, but there was a dramatic change in lifestyle. His mom lived in Denver, and now he lived in the sticks. Most of the people around Cortez worked as either cattle ranchers, bean and hay farmers, or in the tourism or service industry. There wasn’t much else. He’d been having some health issues in Denver and that, along with the neglect by his alcoholic mother, prompted the courts to grant his dad’s demand for custody.

  That’s when the real changes started: exercise, fresh air, a new diet. His dad wouldn’t let him eat anything unless he’d killed it or it grew at some organic vegetable farm. No candy, chewing gum, soda, nothing any normal kid enjoys. Occasionally Carson would cheat and eat something he wasn’t supposed to, but only when he was away from the house. For the first few weeks, Carson’s favorite word was “Auschwitz”. Even though he was getting plenty of food, he always seemed to feel empty inside. His dad told him it was all in his brain and that he h
ad to come down from all the “crap” that industry had him addicted to.

  Carson’s cancer had been diagnosed about eighteen months ago, and Rick’s lawyer had made a pretty good case that his mother’s condition was contributing to an unhealthy environment. Now Rick had to endure almost constant complaining from his ex, Sarah, about Carson not getting the proper care, the right doctors, or enough medication. It was starting to get on Rick’s nerves, but he still loved having Carson live with him. It was victory in a battle that had cost him eleven years and half his net worth.

  Carson was very aware that his dad was thankful that this change happened right when it did. Dad thought he could help him live a healthier life, and quite possibly, Carson thought, he could. His last checkup showed that his tumor had stopped growing and maybe even shrunk a little. But the doctor said that he’d also lost about ten pounds, and it may have been a result of that. Carson didn’t know, but he did feel better. The doctor questioned his father about the weight loss, concerned that he might not be getting proper nutrition. Rick almost flipped but then got control of himself. He turned to Carson, right there in front of the doctor and asked, “Son, how many pull-ups could you do when you started living with me?”

  “Two,” answered Carson, with a slight rolling of the eyes that only a teenager can perfect.

  “How many now?”

  “Eleven.”

  Rick looked at the doctor with a glare only a man who knows he’s right can perfect. “See ya next month.”

  Rick was required by the government to bring Carson every month to get checked. They were waiting for the mandatory appointment to see a surgeon about removing the tumor, but the surgeon was backlogged and Rick wasn’t allowed to go elsewhere; otherwise, he risked being fined and charged more for Carson’s coverage. There was also a matter of the drugs they were trying to force him to take. They made Carson sick and weak. Rick had researched the drugs and threw them out. He swore Carson to secrecy, and both insisted that Carson had been taking them on his weekly questionnaire. If Rick’s wife found out about it, he’d lose his son.

  Carson looked out at the canyon and somehow knew he’d get better. He had his back to a big rock that was at just the right angle, and he had soft sand under his seat. He felt like he was in a recliner. He put his small pack behind his head. The canyon spread out before him. It was getting warmer and the winter sun was on his face. It felt good. Knowing he had hours to wait in that location with plenty of time to glass it or make use of his new call, Carson gave in to his drowsiness and drifted off to sleep on his comfortable stone easy chair.

  From eons of genetic experience, this lion knew that if she had the slightest sensation that something had been heard, then there was something out there. Why would her ears move if there hadn’t been a sound? She was a system of infinite perfection for her environment, tuned to seek, catch and eat, and the faintest hint of a signal had just been detected. Her only option was to seek. But only part of the system, her ears, had been put on alert. And though hearing was important, that wasn’t enough to satisfy her feline curiosity. The process of the hunt was an intricate package, and, instinctively, a more complete picture of the situation was required.

  She stood listening for a moment in an attempt to identify the sound as living or nonliving. This first filter would potentially eliminate wasted effort. Before she could determine this, her legs began moving her slowly, quietly, toward the sound. She didn’t think about this movement at all. The sound must be of the living; otherwise, why would her legs move her there? The wind, the walls of the canyon, and an infinite number of other variables competed for her attention. But the supercomputer that was her brain made calculations of the variables so quickly that she was soon zeroed in on the general direction that was correct. She quickly realized that she would not be able to scent this noise maker, as the wind was at her back. This would have to be corrected before contact was to be made. With all the care expected of any feline in sneaky mode, she made her way through the brush, around the boulders, and over the prickly pear.

  Then it came again. The sound flashed images through her mind of past kills and her consciousness settled on jackrabbit. If one of those was injured and couldn’t run, this would be an easy snack. Then the more lucrative possibilities imposed themselves over the image of jackrabbit. A coyote distracted while eating a jackrabbit stuck in her mind and things suddenly got more interesting. Then instinctively, caution kicked in and more intricate images came. A coyote stalking an injured jackrabbit, a hawk sitting on a branch above an injured jackrabbit, teaching its offspring to hunt, or a fox dragging it to its young. The possibilities quickly multiplied and would only be limited again with further information. All this occurred to the lion as she crept slowly but continually toward the sound, monitoring its distance, assessing its tone, and compiling a visual image of the source, continually readying a response to every situational variable in her imagination.

  Four hundred yards directly to Rick’s front and right, a pointy muzzle probed the breeze. The sound of a meal was piercing the air, but there was nothing to sniff. Thoughts raced at the coyote. Gotta close. Too far out…move fast…nothing else can beat me...must be first…will fight for it…would rather not though…must take direct route…must make time…the others are gonna love this…

  The coyote made haste to cover ground, his nose continually scanning for the scent of prey or competition. His salivary glands started producing, which moistened his mouth and nose, making his scenting even better. His excitement was nurtured as the sound grew louder. Occasionally, when he hadn’t heard it for a while, he stopped. If it was moving, he didn’t want to blunder into it. So he listened each time and moved in that direction quickly and carefully until he thought he might have gotten disoriented in the brush, then waited to listen again. Making his way as best he could, he closed the distance to a full belly.

  Rick had been sitting cross legged, calling for about an hour, and was starting to get stiff. He was thinking about changing his position but instead flexed the muscles in his legs. This changed the pressure points on his body. That’ll buy me another half hour, he thought.

  He looked over the desert by moving only his eyeballs; he saw no living thing except some birds flying over the mesa to his right. His blue eyes were pretty good for distance. On the gun range on a good day, he could see .223 caliber hits on paper targets at fifty yards. Lately, though, he was beginning to wonder how long this would last. He had to strain more and more.

  It was starting to warm as the sun rose higher. Rick set a goal. If nothing showed in the next half hour, he’d take literally a minute to slowly put down his rifle and a couple minutes to shed a layer. He knew from experience that whether he was fishing or hunting, making himself unprepared seemed to make something happen. If he was fishing and took a sandwich out of the cooler, he’d get a hit. If he was hunting from a stand and closed his eyes for a wink or two, some animal would appear…always seemed to work that way.

  Rick kept with his calling cycles, mixing the sounds and the timing into what he thought sounded like the agonizing drama of a jackrabbit being trapped, then scared, then wounded, then stuck, then threatened, then lonely, and on and on. It was a wild theatrical auditory masterpiece of carnivorous horror being orchestrated by a poor, defenseless, fat, juicy, make-believe rabbit.

  The lioness knew she was close and purposely diverted to the right of where she thought the sound emitted. A more complete picture was needed, and that required scent. She must know exactly what was happening. Boulders were all around her. She saw only with her ears as the brush and boulders rendered her vision useless. She must have scent. Was there blood, intestines, feces, of what animals, in what condition? She was too pure a huntress to let anything slip. She purposely put the boulders between herself and the sound maker whenever she could. The slight breeze at her back generated a picture in her mind of a scent cone blowing, spreading downwind of her own body and of a second cone from the noise maker’s b
ody. Her scent cone could not intersect with the prey’s cone. The first part of her body to reach the prey’s cone must be her nose, and she must reach that cone before she was discovered. With the realization she was passing the sound maker to her left, she began to circle in the same direction, scanning scent. It must be here soon. Crouching lower and lower she moved forward.

  The coyote could now see to his front, beyond boulders and sagebrush, a large juniper tree with a small ledge behind it, a few leaps away. It seemed that the sound was coming from the ledge. His prey would be trapped. He knew he was almost there. He slowed a little and sniffed a little more. Nothing. Looking up toward the ledge, the sound…

  The lioness had reached the top of the ledge from directly behind the noise source. The branches of the juniper tree hid her meal, and she shifted her head from side to side trying to get a better view. It must be there. She wanted this meal. It was right in front of her, but she could see nothing.

  The hair on his back stood erect in a moment as every pad on his four paws immediately launched him straight into the air as if the ground was on fire. Ambush! Lion! With the flexibility of an Olympic diver his body contorted in mid-air, facing him in the opposite direction, and he began convulsing his legs trying to gain traction to run while still three feet off the ground. He was dark for a coyote and for the brief moment that Rick saw him, only fifteen yards to his front, he almost looked like a wolf. Rick’s surprise left him completely unable to shoot or even move for that matter; everything happened so fast.