Porcupines

The porcupine is one of my favorite animals. In the Indian myths he has a dry wit and is one of the few characters who can outwit Coyote and get away with it. As he ambles through the stories he makes a marvelous sound: qoobin ... qoobin ... qoobin....

I'd heard there were porcupines up Juniper Canyon so I make the trek to have a look. Protective of his sensitive nose and his even more sensitive ego, Coyote stays at home, curled up by the fire and dreaming of himself.

I park my rig at the end of the road and crawl under the gate.

Near dusk the canyon is alive with the songs of birds, the glow of fall leaves and the slow swirl of fog that hugs the creek.

The only trails are animal trails. My tracks cover tracks of jackrabbits and deer and raccoons, across drifts of sand the sage brush has refused to hold on the slopes. Junipers look like shadows the gathering fog has captured.

This is a world cars have never found.

My trail disappears. Deer scramble over the ridge sending rock slides tumbling my way. The sky is full of fog and as gray as sand.

As I give up on porcupines and climb the ridge to the easy trail back to my rig, there he is: Porcupine Old Man, not ten yards away, cropping the fall grass. He is as large as a tumbleweed and not the least concerned with me. He moves slowly: qoobin ... qoobin ... qoobin....

Shadows and fog follow me home. Coyote hasn't budged. In the warmth of the fire, he trots through a dreamtime world that porcupines have never found.