I know this because I walked out there early this morning. My footprints were the first human ones on the sandy path that was swept clean in the night. They were not the first prints, though.
I was way down the path, taking in the beauty of the marsh’s pale greens, browns, and yellows and almost to the beach when I noticed the small prints that I have seen there many times before.
I used to think they were cat prints – as in bobcat. But I asked the ranger at the state park. “Look closely,” he instructed. “If the claws are out, it is a coyote. Cats pull their claws in when they walk.”
The claws were definitely out. Coyote.
I stood up then and surveyed the marsh, wondering. “Was he still there? Was he watching me? Coyotes don’t attack humans,” I thought. “But would they if in a group?”
These are the kind of thoughts I sometimes have when I am in wilderness by myself.
I continued on the path, following the coyote’s tracks, over the last rise of dune to that beautiful beach. It was low tide. The fog was thick.
On the beach, I walked the long stretch of sand that is passable only when the ocean is pulled out. Near water’s edge, there were fresh tracks -- one small and one from an animal whose weight pressed deep into the sand. Round and round the tracks went as if a mother and pup had been playing in the night.
Continuing on, I pondered the Scripture of the week, my monthly sermon preparation. At the north end of the beach, a pattern for worship had emerged.
My work complete, my mind quiet, I headed to the bench at Franklin Point for my morning sit. There again were the small coyote’s tracks.
I followed them past the bench to the edge of the point where rock meets wild sea. Sitting, watching waves and birds, I could almost feel him behind me. Once I even turned to look for the wild coyote whose tracks I had been following all morning, wondering, “Does he also follow me?"
