Wily Coyotes. Or, *&#$! Coyotes.

I am a master of all things hunting. Wait, let me qualify that. I am a master of all things hunting when compared to my coyote hunting “skills.” I have shot coyotes. I have called in coyotes. To date, I have not called in and shot a coyote.

This has been a nigh on 14-year quest. I bought a Lohman Circe rabbit-in-distress call when I was 16. It’s occupied every day pack, fanny pack and backpack since then, collecting lint, but nary a coyote pelt. It’s been wailed on from North Carolina to Colorado to South Florida and has done an excellent job pulling in fox, bobcat, crows, hawks, cows, deer, and one wild boar, yet only one coyote in South Carolina that circled through the brush and winded me.

I remember clear as day the first coyote I saw in Florida. Back in ’94 we were driving into a piece of private property early one morning to deer hunt in Manatee County when this big ol’ dog ran into the headlights. Today – and I’m not encouraging or endorsing this in anyway, kids – he probably would’ve have died in a hail of gunfire from either of the two in the front seat, but we were slack-jawed at the time. The yote just trotted in front of the Bronco, looking back to tease once in a while, then finally off into the imagination. Since then, the coyote has been a creature of mystique for me – of course, one smelly mutt I popped in Cedar Key about ended that.

A couple years ago I purchased a Johnny Walker digital call. Wait, that’s not right. Johnny Stewart digital call! Johnny Walker is what I drink to console myself after the hunt. Silly me. Out of sheer desperation, I also acquired a Mojo predator decoy that flips this cotton thing around in an attempt to distract incoming predators. Let me tell you something. Listening to that caller for more than 10 minutes will cause dementia and horrible, ghastly thoughts. It’s deranged, especially the fawn bleat that’ll almost make you want to join PETA. And watching the cotton ball device – while I believe the theory is sound – just reminds me how much I love to blow money.

This last weekend at Upper Hillsborough WMA, I put these last two toys to the test. My coyote calling-and-killing chastity remains sacred.

The dog came in from the right out of a sea of palmettos. Of course, this was off my wrong shoulder as I faced downwind overlooking a fire trail. I turned my head ever so slightly, and that was it. He spun back around and into that rattlesnake-infested oblivion. Stupid!

I hate to admit this, but aside from blasting the occasional one from a tree stand, that story pretty well illustrates my hunting experiences with coyotes. If I can beg a pardon from the Turkey Hunting Cult, I believe a gobbler is much more forgiving to movement than a coyote - a deer especially is. You know that old saying that if a turkey could smell you’d never see one? Well, guess what? You’ve just described the Southern Coyote. The parallels between hunting the two are striking. Calling to an animal in thick brush where calls only travel so far. Each animal has fantastic eyesight and hearing, and the coyote has the extra advantage of a functioning, no, superior olfactory system.

My strategy was to face downwind to intercept the dogs as they circle the source of the noise. Dad would guard the upwind side. Both of us carried 12 gauge 3 ½ magnums stoked with heavy turkey loads. The shotguns were perfect for this brush work in a small clearing of trails between a cypress head and aforementioned palmetto flat.

I’d hit the rabbit squealer button, and the card would play for about a minute. Then silence for five to ten minutes before hitting it again. I’d do this three times and move along. Well, this coyote came at the end of the third sequence. I was covered head-to-toe in a Scent-Lok ghillie suit, and he still saw just the mere twist of my neck from 60 yards away.

Coyotes have been in Florida now for a few decades, but the hunting literature has not caught up with them yet. I enjoy watching guys air them out on TV in places like Montana, but it’s a different ballgame in the South. Stay mobile and try new things. That’s about the best advice I can give. There are plenty of them here, but they are wicked smart.

I’ve been reasonably successful in most manners of hunting in which I’ve endeavored over the last 17 years. I’m not going to give up, but the coyotes about have me beat.

If anyone has any advice to share, please do.

Hunting the Deep Freeze

That sugar or scrub sand that is so prevalent in parts of Central Florida is some nasty stuff. One spring I feared a rain-soaked road of it would swallow Dad’s old diesel suburban. I'd paused to glass an open field for gobblers and happened to look down as this quicksand enveloped the tires. We were sinking. Luckily four-wheel low chugged us to safety.

In the summer, this dirt is baking hot. It’s inhospitable. Snakes love it, as do scorpions and spiders. And during any time of the year, game tracks are distorted to dimples making it impossible to discern what had passed through. At the very least, this ankle-turning sand makes even a simple hike seem like an interminable hump through the desert.

This weekend, though, the sand was frozen hard. Only with a quick bounce would the earth give way to crumble. Other than that, it was like walking on pavement. And in the pre-dawn darkness of Sunday morning, the trail to my stand sparkled in the flashlight like one of those whiny Twilight vampires.



Twenty-four degrees the truck thermometer read. With apologizes to my Northern friends, that’s cold here, easily the coldest I’ve hunted in the state of Florida. Icicles hung from palmettos and scrub oaks. Saturday, the sleet pelted me in the tree stand as I got texts from my sister saying it was snowing in town. Record lows throughout the state. Weird.

Just for fun I’d spit on the rail of my Summit Viper to see how long it’d take to freeze. My phone kept shutting off mid-text or Internet search, the circuits seized by the cold. And the tweety birds in the tree ahead of me looked like little brown cotton balls or monster dust bunnies as they gripped their perches with ruffled, shaking feathers. The woods were quiet. This made it all the more surprising when the coyote showed up.

In all honesty, on public land, in this weather, almost any warm blooded mammal was going to catch an arrow, a coyote especially. But, I always underestimate them. As he trotted behind some bushes following a trail that’d lead him within 15 yards of my stand, I stood to draw. How he saw me through the myrtles, I won’t ever know, but between gaps in the branches I saw him lift his head, gaze the 20 feet up the pine where I stood, raise his tail and bounce right out of the area.

And that was it for my Upper Hillsborough WMA bowhunt. Spent just shy of nine hours on the stand between Saturday evening and Sunday morning freezing my keister. Strange thoughts dominated my hunt.

“I wonder how warm it’d be if Han Solo showed up and rolled Tauntaun guts on me?”

“How the hell did the Jets win/Cincy blow that game?”

“I bet they find me clinging to this bow like Hatchet Jack.”

I guess my other moment of excitement was when the bottom half of my climber escaped me during the descent down the pine. Dressed in so many layers I wasn’t exactly limber, and I was in a big hurry to return to the seat warmers in the Dodge.

Anyway, in haste, I didn't exercise the proper caution I normally would this high up and failed to properly secure my boots in the holders. As you can guess, they slid out and the foot platform went bouncing down the tree, settling cockeyed against the trunk when the safety line – the same line that had recently been tied back together; not confident it would stay together – took hold. I’m tall, but I could just barely extend my boot toes to touch the suspended half. I contemplated the situation.

“Dad’s on the other side of the property, I have the truck and keys. It’s 30 degrees and I’m still at least 15-16 feet up this pine. Hmm. After the fall do I bleed out, freeze to death, or does the coyote finish me off?”

I’ve always said safety straps are for those afraid to fall. I’ll be buying mine before September. I took a breath and used my 3rd grade gym training to lower myself on the rails of the upper half of the stand like balance beams. I managed to get low enough to jockey the foot rest back onto the tree, then slowly worked the stand back to the ground. By the way, my flimsy gloves helped none on that cold metal.



Ugghh. At first glance, the spot I sat was a goodie though it was close to a road, usually a no-no for me when hunting WMA’s. My original haunt had been violated by a lock-on some miscreant had erected on converging trails in a transition zone between a thick cypress head and palmetto flat I’d scouted months prior. Compromising, I wandered a few hundred yards to the west and settled on my location thanks to a fresh rub on a well-used trail. I fell victim to that temptation, ignoring some of my common sense.

For starters, there wasn’t crap for them to eat here unless they headed for the palmetto flat, which I expected them to do. But then again, I was hoping the deer would venture into the open on public land, which is foolhardy in itself. Tracks pummeled the firebreak road walking in, but who knows when they were made or what time. Wish I had spent more time scouting, but it was a busy fall and winter.

Dad had it right. He hung his climber on a shift between the tall pines and an open cypress swamp. In the swamp there was still some browse, and the scrub oaks surrounding the area were dropping acorns. He saw four deer, including a nice buck that was a little out of range.

On the ride out Saturday night, some guy had a little six point hanging at the cleaning station. It was a scrub buck for sure – small body and spindly antlers, but good for that hunter enduring the cold and coming out on top. I thought about that buck all night hoping to get my chance, but it wasn't to be.

And like that, my deer season is over. Fitting the weather was so strange as it has been since September when I started. Looking forward to finishing off duck season and maybe some hog hunting. For sure, I'm taking my predator calls back to Upper Hillsborough to settle the score with one coyote.

It should be warmer.

Asleep in the Stand - Hunting Links: The Coyote Edition

I'm not real sure what got me thinking about coyotes today. Heck, it's been a full three weeks since I've seen one. Maybe it was my dad who asked to borrow my predator caller, Mojo decoy, and .17HMR that bounced my mind this way. Perhaps it's the recognition that it's been one year since I've been off my Georgia lease where I'd listen to the yotes moan their misereres in the quiet cold of the December gloaming.

Whatever the reason, I have Song Dogs on the brain.

Dad's plans were thwarted, not by Wile E. himself, but someone who was supposed to meet him, but didn't, and yadda yadda.

I've killed a few - none that would have been any burden to man. Just those that happened by at the wrong moment. I've set out to intentionally kill more, but...well, they are about the smartest blasted animals I've run across. You need to be fully camoed, watch your scent, and cover some ground to unearth canines bedded in thickets. Hunting them in the South is supposedly a different sport than in the wide-open West. I've called a couple in. Killing them is a different task. Hopefully in February I'll get another crack at some.

Anyway, coyotes have been in the news a lot lately. Back in November I ran across this article about the dogs interfering with taxiing airline at Raleigh-Durham International. As if the airline industry doesn't have enough to worry about.

Coyote attacks on suburban house pets is also a fairly common evening news segment in Florida these days. One pack ruined the Thanksgiving holidays with it's taste for something other than turkey...guess Fido doesn't contain Tryptophan.

Florida and North Carolina aren't the only states suffering. Georgia, as I mentioned above, hosts a sizable population of coyotes. Officials there are trying to get the word out about the dangers of these animals, mostly rabies and attacking pets. As proud as Georgia fans are, I bet a hungry yote dog would give Ol' Uga a run for his money.

If you want to know more about these mini-wolves, the FWC has information here.

But really, all you need to know is well-written here by James Swan at ESPNOutdoors.com

If you're looking for a thrill this postseason, order up a rabbit sqealer and give coyote calling a try. If I'm ever successful, I'll share what worked for me!!!