Across the Gambel Oak; Life Lessons from Grandpa & Coyotes–by Brandon Hill (ZX#4)

The most humane way to kill a trespassing raccoon is to gas it. I know this because my Grandpa told me so, and I witnessed on occasion when the unlucky scavenger made its way into the family cabin. I know how to win a Pinewood Derby contest. I know this because my Grandpa taught me the trick of graphite lubricant to the wheelbase of a sleekly carved piece of wood. The man probably humbly won (or, ahem, advised many boys on how to win) more Pinewood Derby contests than he had children, toes, fingers, blades of grass, and grandchildren. I know how to sail a 4 stage model rocket into the sky because my grandpa taught me to do so. The Saturn 5 won the show that day. I know that each stage demands powder that will keep the life-saving parachute from catching fire. I know how to catch a fish because my grandpa taught me how to bait a worm and salmon eggs. I did not learn to swear or drink because of my Grandpa. Best anyone can tell, he never did either. A fact my Grandma and extended family are still in awe of. I know how to shoot a gun because my Grandpa taught me how to do so. I know how to be a good husband because my Grandpa taught me how to do so. I know the importance of Midway because my Grandpa taught me so.

On a lone winter day, I escape to the Foothills to hike, see the views and procrastinate from the modern routine. I typically listen to podcasts or audiobooks but on this day I do not. Instead, I have a suspicion that I will see wildlife, and I must be present. If I am lucky, I will see a fawn and doe. If I am really lucky, a hare or even bobcat. The pandemic has been long and arduous and I am weary for wildlife interaction. I continue on, but there is no sight of anything other than the pesky mountain bikers. The ground is frozen dry. The vegetation slumbered for another 2 months. The sage barely resembles itself. The horizon, however, is blue and mighty and proud. The city below hums as though the world hasn’t changed. I pause, reflect, and move along.

Sometime, between giving up and flatly forgetting, I catch movement from my left eye. Along the mountain slope trots a juvenile coyote. I stop, we make eye contact, and we agree neither are here to harm one another and so we continue on. He, 20 yards up the mountain ridgeline. I, sticking to the human-grazed trail. We cohabitate in this environment for 10-15 minutes, and then, he is gone. And so am I.

On the day I found out my Grandpa died, I was fishing in Midway (Utah). A place that held enormous childhood memories for me. The family cabin where I hunted fossils in the quarry; a stone’s throw from the deck. Where I learned about trilobites (because he told me about them). It’s where I learned about the calming death vs that of a bullet to the head for a raccoon. Where he taught me how to fish. A place where I saw my first mountain lion. A place I learned how to catch lizards and snakes and safely return them to safer places. The scientific approach of sourdough pancakes. A place where my grandpa showed me how to be a man when I didn’t even know it.

The breeze was flat. The fish were supple. The valley landscape was beginning to emerge from winter slumber. Dots of green, yellow, pink, and blue materializing from the spring temperatures. I stared at the transcribed voicemail in part shock and relief. The old man had lost something the last few years, but he was now gone. No chance to regain anything. I turn to guilt. I was not around as much as I should have been the last 20 years. I call my mother and receive the news. I plop down into a calm, shallow eddy. I cry.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I talked to a coyote?!”, my Grandpa explained, with a sly cock to his smile.

“No”, I reply.” He already knows this, of course, and he is ready for the next line of delivery before I’ve even finished my reply.

“When I was a baby, in Panguitch, mom left me on the hood of her car. I sat for a while, and after some time, some chay-otes came by.”

I wait for the punchline.

“One of those chay-otes comes right up to me and looks me straight in the eyes, like he was deciding on whether he was going to snatch me and eat me or something. Instead, he just left me there. I was just a baby!”

My Grandma rolls her eyes with her silent expression. “Oh, Grant!”, they read. I am not sure if he is serious or joking.

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It has been months since his death, and I sometimes forget about him in the day-to-day goings of life. Sometimes I wonder what hurts worse; that we hurt so badly when someone leaves us, or the pain we feel when someone’s memory begins to erode from our day-to-day lives. They slowly slip away as we carry on, the grip between the living and the dead slowly loosening.

I am hiking in the Foothills looking – hell, searching – for connection and meaning. This time of year, there is not much living aside from Lulu-Lemoned housewives and dogs in the hills. “Howdy, ma’am”, I say as a blond 20-something passes me by. She seems cheery and happy and full of life. I, in search of it. I press on up the last incline towards the peak. I straddle the south side of a ridgeline and move towards the pass connecting the north ridge to the south. Then, just as I clear a thicket of bare Gambel oak, I see him. Dead across from me on the other side of the ravine, stands a lone coyote. We lock eyes, and I am uncertain if we are startled or expectant of one another. I begin slowly moving up-trail. The wind softly blowing down canyon at us. He follows suit. For 30 yards we walk. Parallel to one another. He, on one side of the dry, gutted ravine. Me, on the other. For a moment it feels like we are hiking the same path and the valley below us disappears. I pause again, to see if he is still there. He pauses. We lock eyes again. I consider the moment. And in that delicate instance, I knew my Grandpa was still there.

Brandon Hill is a Utah native and a small business owner who lives in Salt Lake City. In his downtime, he is an avid fly-fisherman, outdoor enthusiast, skier, poor golfer, and sometimes writer. He is married to his wife Rhea, and they have one dog, Truman. 

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