I drove up the road a mile, swapped places with my hunting partner, and he drove us back toward where we had been. Along the way, he slowed enough that I could slip out of the passenger side door near an elk carcass we had dropped by the road where it was hidden by a 4-foot-high embankment of snow that had been plowed off by the county road crew.
I set up in the planned ambush on the opposite side of the carcass, a slightly elevated but hidden stand with a great view across an open field.
My first sequence of squeals and squalls was still echoing when a coyote came trotting down the oak brush slope of a distant ridge. The big dog stopped on the dike of a still-distant irrigation ditch.
I tried every sound I could coax out of three mouth calls and a diaphragm call.
The coyote didn't move one inch closer.
My mistake had been howling alongside a well-travelled county road. Even with a fresh road-killed cow elk for enticement, that coyote wasn't crossing a vast open field. In all likelihood, the combination of regular daytime vehicle traffic and the fact that a few locals and the landowner who had given us permission to set up our ambush had been taking potshots at any coyote caught out in the open. This had made the coyote road-wary.
That same open field eliminated any chance of my stalking closer, so I snugged the forearm of my 220 Swift in the soft snow on top of a hard berm and packed more snow under the butt for a solid rest. A range finder indicated the shot would be just over 550 yards. There was no wind, and the coyote was sitting upright facing me, offering a very makeable if long shot for the pinpoint accurate rifle and a carefully tailored long-range Swift handload.
I held a bit high, put final pressure on the trigger, and saw snow kick up on the slope behind the coyote.
Seemingly in slow motion, the coyote toppled over. Not a shot of choice, but the longest I have ever made.
Esta historia es de la edición January 2023 de FUR-FISH-GAME.
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Esta historia es de la edición January 2023 de FUR-FISH-GAME.
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