Face to Face with a Predator in Central Park

It's two thirty a.m. and I'm walking alone through Central Park. Although an apparently foolish thing to do, I am probably safer here than in many other locations around the city; at least in my mind. It's a cold night and few predators are likely to be out. That is what I tell myself as I alternately float and slide on the snow blanketing the paths and fields of the Big Apple's green sanctuary. The icy air envelops everything in a magical sheen. Frozen particles swirl through the air and then plummet to the ground reflecting the light of the city on their way to Earth. The assemblage of trees in this man made forest, quivers with the northwesterly surges of breeze which, now and again, intensify into gusts of wind that shake off the snow and ice from thousands of leafless and emaciated branches. Everywhere, all seems innately electric and fantastical. No doubt my condition contributes to the perception of my surroundings, just as it contributed to my decision to go for a walk in the park at such an unusual hour. Although experience has taught me that alcohol is no friend of common sense, once I have sufficiently partaken of the fermentation of molasses commonly known as rum, experience becomes mysteriously irrelevant; its lessons and guidelines, easy to ignore; a realization which I came to at a fairly young age and steered me away from a full time career in spirit consumption. You wouldn't know it of course, if you saw me on certain days of the year. That night was one of those days.

It was a night for celebration. After being dragged through the hours towards the day's conclusion, selling what I wouldn't buy for myself, the trade show we had come to attend was finally over. Now we were deserving of some form of release. In this case release took the shape of rum and cokes. It took the shape of ten rum and cokes, to be precise. For a hundred and sixty-five pounder I posses exceptional tolerance to the fire water and I react in uncommon ways to its influence. After hours of deflation at the corner bar next to our rented refuge, the girls simply wanted sleep, I wanted to walk. Their exhaustion and singleminded desire for a bed allowed me to flee in the opposite direction as they pitched and rolled into the interior of the elevator I had brought them to and which delivered them safely to our temporary roost. Outside, walking uptown on the intermittently deserted Columbus Avenue, I am re-energized with anticipation of my planned excursion through the park. I jaywalk across 78th street and continue towards 87th at a brisk "thru-hiker" pace, both to quickly cover ground and to stay warm in the 20 degree air.

The park is still but for the occasional tremble of leafless branches under the caress of a light breeze. Pausing at the southwest corner of 87th and Central Park West, I pretend to talk on my cell phone as a patrol car rolls by with two of New York City's finest checking me out but showing no interest. When I am satisfied they are too far to notice, I jog across the avenue and enter the park by vaulting over the police barrier with the PARK IS CLOSED sign prominently displayed. I immediately look for shadows from which to reconnoiter my planned route without being seen by a patrolling officer. Bushes by the side of the path offer sufficient cover and here I pause once again. Although I feel childish and irresponsible in the commission of the misdemeanor, entering the park on a night like this is simply irresistible to me while in my altered state.

It's difficult to stay in the shadows as I head south between trees and boulders that don't always deflect the light from lamp posts. I move fairly quickly to stave off the cold so my attempts at concealment become doubly difficult. The oaks, maples and birches distract me from my fear of being discovered and soon I forget that I am trespassing; the woods commanding my full attention as I head to the south end of the park at 59th street. I must have walked the equivalent of 15 blocks along one of the park roads when suddenly I feel the urge to look behind me. When I do, what I see chills me to a stop, my heart quickens to a trot, I inhale deeply and for a moment am unable to exhale. My alcohol impaired vision not withstanding, I trust my eyes and know that what I see before me is no illusion, it's a coyote! There is no mistaking it. His appearance was comparable to that of some breeds of dog, but unlike the domesticated friends of man, the coyotes wild nature was readily observable. I was face to face with a wild predator in the middle of a metropolis; the contradiction was poetically ironic.

He seemed surprised at being detected and stopped fifteen to twenty yards to the north of me. His gaze shifted from me to his surroundings and as he looked east and west he also tested the air for any scent. By now my heart was racing and my breathing excited but not as a result of fear; he was small, and although a highly successful predator, no threat to me. As I watched him I wondered if he knew that. Why was he following me and where the heck did he come from? Light from the lamp post behind him revealed his tracks as a line in the snow joining my tracks from the west. He had waited for me to pass and had then fallen in behind me about fifty yards back. I speculated briefly on the reason but soon entered into a state of admiring contemplation of the strange creature before me. I had seen coyote in California and elsewhere but had never been so close to one. I had never seen coyotes in a setting quite like this one; it was surreal if not hallucinatory.

Wile E. fixed his gaze on something behind me and then went of in a delicate canter towards the rise that stood between us and the West Side, disturbing the snow and drawing a line of tracks up the hill where he stopped and looked back. As I mumbled, " Don't go," a voice behind me breaks the spell, "Sir, what are you doing?" I am startled by the two officers sitting in their patrol car a mere fifteen feet away from me. Wile E. had detected their approach but I had been too enthralled by our encounter to notice.

I reply a little too excitedly with, "DID YOU SEE THE COYOTE!?"

"Sir, where are you from?"

"Puerto Rico, but did you SEE THE COYOTE?"

"You can't be in the park at this hour sir." The officer at the wheel says from behind droopy, tired eyes.

"Alright!, but did you SEE the coyote?"

I need affirmation of my encounter and become slightly irritated with the officer's indifference but he then finally responds with, "Yeah, we got a couple living in the park, but you have to walk on out sir."

"Wow! Alright officer, I'm heading out. Thank you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight sir."

I walk out of the park unto 5th Avenue debating wether I should go back and examine the coyote's tracks, but with the tempered flow of adrenaline I am beginning to feel the exhaustion of a long day and night. I express my gratitude for the experience to whoever or whatever is responsible and I begin to walk back towards the upper West Side routinely looking over my right shoulder towards the trees, hoping for one last image of Central Park's unlikely new tenant.