Beast Hunting in my Back Yard

A Capitol Forest creek similar to the one by my home

There’s an old pearl of wisdom that says that a writer should write what he knows. Personally, I think that writers should write what they love, which will motivate them to do the necessary research to make the story feel authentic. But even research can’t help with some types of writing, and that’s where a writer’s imagination comes into play. This is especially important to fantasy writers like me. After all, there’s no life experience or research that can tell you exactly how it feels to ride upon a dragon. Still, there are occasions when life experiences can be an inspiration for fantastic scenarios, and this week I had one of those experiences.

First, some background. I live on the edge of Washington State’s Capitol Forest, consisting of over 90,000 acres of temperate rain forest. This is where I grew up, and I’ve always loved having so much greenery and animal life nearby. I’ll often watch red squirrels and hummingbirds out my window when I should be working, and there’s a small family of deer that I encounter nearly every day while walking my dogs.

Of course, there are downsides to living in such close proximity to nature. My family has kept chickens for several years now, and we’re always on the lookout for predators. I’ve seen a hawk dive-bomb past my second-story window more than once, and we’ve had our share of raccoons, coyotes, and even the occasional mountain lion sighting. I understand that there have been bear sightings as well over the years, though these are happily very rare.

Still, though taking care of the chickens is primarily my responsibility, I rarely have to worry about their safety. Mostly I just keep them fed and watered, collecting their eggs and trying to keep their pens in some state of working condition. I also let them out every afternoon to roam a bit and pick at the scratch and greenery.

Last Wednesday, I had just finished these daily chores and was sitting down to get back to work when I heard a terrible ruckus outside. I ran downstairs to the sound of excited squawks and went outside to find all of the hens hiding under a rhododendron bush while several roosters clucked defiantly as they strutted out in the open.

My first thought was that a hawk had dove at them, but a quick inspection of the nearby trees showed no raptors in the area. I then set about searching around our property, and soon found a sad little pile of white-gold feathers near the creek that runs past our home. Standing over the scene and trying to puzzle out what had happened, I spied a single feather a few yards away on the creek bank. I was suddenly compelled to follow the trail. 

A close-up view of a devil's claw

I rushed back up to the house and pulled on a jacket and my work gloves. For some reason I felt that I had to have some sort of heavy implement in hand, so I grabbed an old garden hoe and made my way back down to the creek to begin following the trail of feathers. It was slow going. Ferns, fallen branches, and treacherous devil’s claw (also known as devil’s club, a nasty plant that grows up to ten feet tall and is covered with thorns) slowed my progress to a noisy crawl. The underbrush also made tracking difficult as I spied each feather, fought my way to it, then had to stop and search until I could find the next one.

It wasn’t until I’d been on the hunt for several minutes that I realized how excited I was. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I think part of my excitement came from a sense of determination brought on by a feeling of duty. Taking care of the chickens was my responsibility after all, and it was my job to track down the killer of one of my charges. There was also the thrill of discovery. Could I find the next feather? Would I find the victim, or even the killer?

It was another minute or two before I realized that there was a little fear in me as well. From my time spent living on the Navajo Reservation in New Mexico, I’d had some experience dealing with wild dogs and I felt reasonably confident that I could handle myself if the chicken had been taken by a wandering stray. But there were other possibilities. What if it was a coyote, or even a mountain lion? I suddenly started looking up into the trees with as much intensity as I searched the ground, wishing I’d brought something more formidable than a garden hoe with me.

As much as I’d like to dramatize this experience, I’ll stay totally truthful in this account. I’m not a great tracker, and nearly gave up several times while searching for an errant feather. When the trail finally ran out, I looked around for several moments before resolving to give up. I turned, and suddenly saw the still form of the golden hen lying under a nearby drooping cedar. I jumped and my heart raced, but the killer was long gone.

I never found out what killed the bird, though I suspect it was a coyote, spooked by my unstealthy advance through the brush and dropping its prize for a hasty getaway. I’m sure there are those who will laugh at what may seem like a simple task given emotional weight by a well-exercised imagination. But looking back at it now, I’m certain that this experience will stay with me for a long time, and who knows? Perhaps even the great beast hunter Keltin Moore will gain some inspiration from a would-be tracker following feathers behind his home in the forest.