High Desert Howls: A Coyote Hunt with the Boys

The desert stretched for miles in every direction, painted in shades of gold and rust under the late afternoon sun. Sagebrush clumped across the rolling terrain, their dusty green blending seamlessly with the brittle cheatgrass. The wind whispered through the valleys, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant juniper. This was prime coyote country, and we had come prepared.

It had started as an idea over a few cold beers—one of those plans that might never leave the table. But this time, we followed through. The guys—Tim, Ben, and Scott—had loaded up their rigs, checked their rifles, and gathered enough supplies for a weekend out in the high desert. We were here to call in coyotes, and we had the secret weapon to do it: my FOXPRO electronic caller.

We set up on a slight rise overlooking a dry wash, where the ground sloped into a tangle of sage and rabbitbrush. Tracks in the dirt told us coyotes had been through recently, likely hunting the jackrabbits that had exploded in numbers this season. We found a good shooting position behind some scattered rocks and settled in, scanning the horizon while I placed the FOXPRO about 40 yards ahead, nestled between a couple of tumbleweeds.

As the sky darkened, I powered up the caller and selected a rabbit distress sound. The moment the first high-pitched screams echoed through the still air, the atmosphere shifted. The desert, once quiet and indifferent, suddenly felt alive. We hunkered down, rifles at the ready, scanning for movement.

It didn’t take long.

Tim spotted the first coyote trotting in from our left, its ears pricked forward, eyes locked on the sound. I cut the volume slightly, letting the call wane like an injured animal fading fast. That was all it took. The coyote broke into a lope, closing the distance fast.

Ben was up first. He steadied his .223 and exhaled slowly. The shot cracked through the night, and the coyote dropped mid-stride.

“Nice shot,” I muttered, grinning.

We let the call play on. Another pair of eyes glowed in the distance, reflecting in the last bit of light before darkness fully settled in. This one was more cautious, circling wide, testing the air. Scott made a soft kiss sound with his lips—just enough to pique the coyote’s curiosity. It stopped, broadside at 150 yards.

I barely heard the rifle bark before I saw the coyote crumple.

“That FOXPRO is pure magic,” Scott whispered, grinning as he cycled the bolt.

By the time we packed up for the night, we had three coyotes down and had passed up on a fourth that never quite committed. Sitting around the campfire later, cold beers in hand, we swapped stories and laughed, the kind of easy conversation that only happens out here, where the world is big, and the worries of home feel small.

The coyotes had howled in the distance, their eerie chorus reminding us that they were still out there, still kings of this rugged land. But tonight, we had won.

Tomorrow, we’d be back at it again.