When My Dog and I Were Chased by a Pack of Coyotes

1/21/2026

The day's trek was ordinary, until it wasn’t. A few inches of new snow muted our steps, and my 75 lb canine companion, who adores these hikes, moved ahead with easy confidence, nose working the air like always. The forest was still and tranquil, as if resting after the snowstorm.
Delighted to find the well-picked remains of a deer, my dog scavenged a bone to carry along on our walk. The remains, upon examination, were probably from a couple of days ago. Fairly close to a road, I figured it had been hit by a car and either died or was injured and became coyote food. The fresh snow around the carcass was full of their tracks, indicating a recent visit. Nothing unusual.
We meandered on, taking in the peace and quiet of the woods after a snowfall. After a mile or so, my dog tired of carrying the bone and let it drop. We kept going, descending a steep hill, passing the springs and crossing a meadow to reach the far side of the valley before beginning to climb the challenging slope that led to our way back.
Out of nowhere a loud, sharp sound startled us. I usually recognize most of the calls and sounds I hear in the woods here, but this one stopped us both in our tracks. We turned toward the call. Then things happened fast. The single call was followed by one long howl, deep and resonant. It was close. The space quickly flooded with yipping and higher-pitched voices. Unmistakable. We both spotted them at once, circling and calling in a frenzy, across the valley, maybe 300 yards away. A pack of five or maybe six coyotes.
My dog, leashed to my waist, was already pointing up the steep hill in front of us, urging me to move. The howls were braiding together, no longer chaotic, but coordinating, and in that instant the world narrowed to sound and instinct. We saw the pack unite and head down the incline, straight toward us. They could close on us in a matter of seconds.
Fight or flight? My body decided before my mind could argue. Our animal bodies chose flight. We ran. The world around me disappeared into a cloud of nothingness. I couldn't hear or see anything. I couldn't feel my legs, just the sensation of forward motion. Tunnel vision. Time stretched and folded in on itself; there was no fear, only motion. I couldn't see or even sense my dog at the end of the leash. We were a single animal, driven forward by something older than thought. I felt like I was encased in a giant ball of cotton, blind to everything, but moving.
As suddenly as it began, it ended. My thinking mind returned. The woods were silent. We were at the top of the ridge. No calls, no pursuit. Only the pounding of my heart. We slowed, then stopped. I turned, expecting eyes in the brush, bodies emerging from shadow. There was nothing. Just trees standing where they had always stood. And my dog, still attentive, but relaxed, looking around.
In the quiet that followed, understanding settled in. The coyotes chased, measured, and then decided. We were not prey. The pack dissolved back into the woods, as seamlessly as smoke thinning into air. Maybe it was never even us that they were chasing? I stood there longer than necessary stroking the dog, feeling his fuzzy proof of life beneath my hand. The silence was no longer empty; it was full. Full of respect, of relief, of the unspoken agreement that had just taken place. We turned back to the trail, not triumphant, not shaken. Just thankful.
In my rational brain, I knew full well that coyotes don't prey on adult humans, or dogs twice as big as themselves. And that the best thing would have been for me to just start making lots of noise and acting big. But that didn't happen. I did the wrong thing. If they had truly wanted to harm us, they would have closed on us in seconds. But that's okay. They didn't and I learned something that's still giving me pause to reflect and be grateful. After more than six decades, this body of mine still had a trick or two to show me.
Under normal circumstances, running pell mell up the length of that steep, uneven incline is not something I could manage. A slow trot, maybe. But I ran. Flight. Nature tossed me a bone and this body's adrenaline did not fail. Whew! Not a miracle, just a sign— I'm not done yet.

PS- After the big adventure, I want to be clear that I don't think coyotes are some sort of bad guy to be feared. They don't normally go after humans, and fear of them is rooted in misunderstanding. Like any wild predator, they'll take advantage of easy opportunities, including small dogs or cats. That doesn't make them bad guys, just wildlife acting instinctively. After hiking thousands of miles over decades, I've rarely spotted them while out roaming, despite myriad signs indicating their presence. Though I do hear them regularly from my backyard.
Seeing them so infrequently is not coincidence, it's evidence of how elusive and intelligent they are. There's a reason they're often called, “the trickster.” Coyotes observe, adapt, and avoid confrontation, moving through and around terrain long before most of us even realize they were nearby. They aren't out to challenge humans, they're just living alongside us, generally with caution, intelligence, and remarkable invisibility.
In the end, I don't know why or even if the coyotes were after my dog and me. Mistaken identity? By us? By them? Was there other prey nearby us? In any case, the situation was extremely uncommon and unique. Respect, awareness, and perspective go a long way. We returned to the trail the very next day.
Those coyotes gifted me rare insight, and an energy that's driving some new work. I'm grateful.