Through our campsite, the pack of coyotes pushed their way around the middle and edges, lapping up anything that wasn't in animal proof boxes. Tuna, pbj sandwiches, magic markers, a purple hoodie, and everything else that had a slight taste was eaten, except for the people in tents.
I could hear the baying and then the paws and finally the munching of wild animals on loose gritty sand. I woke early that weekday morning and refused to get out of my tent--until coaxed by a colleague, another teacher, who knew well my fear. This was my first night and early morning at Joshua Tree National Park.
When I think back on that time in September of 1990, what comes to mind is how afraid I was. There it is, I said it: scared shitless. The next few days (I can't remember how long we were there, perhaps a day or two) meant searching for coyotes everywhere. While rock climbing, I thought I saw them. Bouldering up a steep, steep hill, I could swear that they were right above the next rise. Finally, scanning the wide plane, looking over 29 Palms, the US Marine Base in the distance, was I able to release the tension I felt and had been feeling since birth, maybe. I got a hint of the vastness of my small presence in the desert, in the world really, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. It was at that point that I became calm.
Only in the teeth of truly scary moments do we face what is most urgent in us. Gain ground and get perspective. Truly, it's not difficult to do, unless you live in the flatlands of some plain or prairie--perhaps even the steppes of Russia. Even then, our imagination does not fail us--in our minds' eye. Unless we are lodged in some ghetto of our own choosing, deep in the corner near the back in the belly of the beast.
