Bear and Coyote - A Story

In the 1890s Charles Lummis lived among the Isleta Puebloan Indians of New Mexico.  He was a stranger and suspect but they allowed him to sit with them in the evenings as they retold stories around a small fire in one of the close adobe homes of the complex.  They were careful to let him observe only certain parts of their lives.  They were careful to let him hear only some of their stories.  This is one of those stories told a different way.

One spring, Bear, black and sleek after his winter rest, sat on his haunches on a ridge at the base of the Manzanita Mountains in the Juniper and Pinyon Pine shadows.  Below him he could see a man, one of the Isleta, diligently plowing the pale earth for the spring planting.  Bear watched for a long time.   The man worked hard for a long time.   Bear knew the man couldn’t see him because he was careful to shift his place so that he never appeared to be anything more than the Juniper tree’s shadow.  Further off, Bear could see the winding path of the Rio Grande River.

In the late afternoon, Bear left his prospect and went  to visit Coyote, who was an acquaintance.  Coyote, his wife and his pups, lived in a remote canyon well situated for his foraging expeditions.  Spring was one of the few good times of year for them.  Many creatures that barely survived the cold, wind and snow of the New Mexico winter died then or were so weak that they could be preyed upon by Coyote and his family.  They were busy.

The two predators greeted each other warily.

“I’ve been considering, Friend Coyote,” Bear said.  “I think we should work together and plant a field.”

Coyote yipped with amusement.  “Whatever for?”

“So that like the Isleta man we will have food in the fall and winter.”

Coyote quickly considered the idea.  He recalled all too clearly winter’s stab of hunger, the sorrow of not being able to provide for his new pups.

“And,” Bear added, “so that there will be no difficulty between us.  I propose we agree now upon how we will share the harvest.  I suggest you take everything that grows above the ground and I will take everything below.”

“What would we grow?”

“Potatoes.”

All the hot summer long Bear and Coyote nurtured their field.  The rain came easily in the early part of the year and soon their field was filled with the luxuriant leaves of the plants.  Later in the summer it was very dry, the leaves wilted and the rain came less often but that was perfect for potatoes.  When the frost came and it was time for harvest, the plants and leaves shriveled and became nothing more than a black tracing over the pale ground.   But underneath were fine, rich, delicious globes.

“My portion of the harvest is useless,” Coyote observed with sorrow.  He had expected so much, particularly in the spring when the plants grew so quickly.

“It is unfortunate,” Bear agreed.  “But we made an agreement.”

Coyote was inconsolable.  He could foresee the cold, hungry season before him and his family.

The next spring, Bear came to Coyote’s lair again.  “It was a difficult winter for you, Friend Coyote,” Bear said.

Coyote didn’t answer.  He just watched Bear in his nervous, slightly frantic way.   It came of always having too much to do.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Bear said.  “This summer we should work together and plant a field so that like the Isleta man we will have food in the fall and winter.  And this time, so that there will be no trouble between us, I will take everything above the ground while you will take everything below.”

Coyote stared at Bear but could draw no conclusions from the sagacious face and black eyes.  But it sounded like a good idea.  “What would we grow?”

“I have been studying the Isleta man,” Bear said.  “I think it would be a good year to grow corn.”

So Bear and Coyote worked hard, like the Isleta man, and grew corn.  But in the fall when the stalks yielded many sugary cobs for Bear, there was nothing below the ground but the spider web roots of the plants that were impossible to eat.

“I understand you now, Bear,” Coyote said.  “You will never trick me again.  Ever.  I shall hunt and forage as I always have.”  And he trotted away, back to his family to tell them the terrible news.

Bear went the other way, back to his ridge and sat on his haunches for a long time considering the view in the gentle western, autumnal sun.  And, as the sun was setting he decided he would share his great store of corn with Coyote.  He went once again to Coyote’s lair with the good news.

But Coyote gave his long sorrowful howl and yipped telling Bear to go away that there was nothing he could say that he would listen to.  So, finally, when it was dark, Bear wandered away to sit alone on his ridge and study the stars.

Lummis says that is why, according to the Isleta Pueblo people, Coyote and Bear have been enemies ever since.

Late, one afternoon in August of 2008, my cousin Robert and I were returning with a group from a climb up a nameless mountain in Svalbard.  Our guides, who carried rifles because of the possibility of encountering polar bears, were well below us in part because it was a place bears were never seen and because Robert and I were intentionally hiking slowly to enjoy the afternoon light, the pleasure of walking alone and being last off the arctic mountain.  As we descended a ridge we came across an immense, fresh polar bear print in a patch of black mud that hadn’t been there that morning.  Someone had been watching us.  Someone might have been watching us at that moment.