Much to my chagrin and disappointment, I learned today a valuable lesson: Barack Obama is actually George W. Bush in sheep’s clothing.  To wit:

The Obama administration on Friday upheld a Bush-era decision to remove gray wolves in the Northern Rockies and the western Great Lakes region from federal protection under the Endangered Species Act.

Where do we go from here?

Idaho Gov. C.L. Butch Otter on Friday repeated his desire to get the first available wolf hunting tag in the state so he can try to shoot one of the animals.

“The fish and game population is really counting on a robust population of trophy animals to maintain that part of our economy,” he said.

Or more succinctly:

“Today is a truly disappointing day,” Defenders of Wildlife President Rodger Schlickeisen said in a statement. “Defenders of Wildlife will now move to sue Secretary Salazar as quickly as possible.”

“All the reasons why this plan was a bad idea when the Bush administration proposed it still stand today,” Schlickeisen said. “If this rule is allowed to stand, nearly two-thirds of the wolves in the Northern Rockies could be killed.”

Unfortunately, Obama seems ready to support this search-and-destroy mission with one of our most endangered and magnificent species at the heart of the matter.  With fewer than 10,000 animals in question, his administration has chosen a path of extinction over one of recovery.

Ken Salazar should be removed from his position without hesitation for being anti-nature and anti-preservation, let alone anti-wolf and a Republican in disguise.  Wildlife conservation in his book means loading the rifle for every hunter interested in shooting one of these majestic canines.

If you care about gray wolves, wiped out of the U.S. before the Endangered Species Act was put in place, or care about nature in general, feel free to call the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service at 1-800-344-9453.  Call during business hours as their voice-response system is calloused and cold.  Choose option “3” for endangered species and then option “0” to speak to an operator—or jump directly to “0” to get an operator if the damned technology vexes you.  Then shout your silly head off about this reprehensible and repugnant decision, one that will lead to the destruction of gray wolves throughout North America.

Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to mention Obama as a greedy Republican and destroyer of the world in all future references.  The impetus is on him to prove me wrong.

[special thanks to jenny for pointing this out to me; I only just today saw the story, but her e-mail pushed me to look into the matter]

I’ve been trying to capture presentable images of the coyotes living at White Rock Lake.

There are many of these creatures here, a veritable horde of them that stalk the night and howl both at the moon and at the sound of sirens.

Just a few weeks ago I stepped out on my patio after nightfall and heard a police siren far in the distance.  In response to that song, at least two coyotes no more than ten paces away broke into song, their howls filling the suburb and sending chills down my spine in wonder and amazement.

Yet coyotes tend to be nocturnal, not diurnal, so photography is difficult as it must take place in darkness and it must take place on the coyotes’ terms.

My results thus far have been less than admirable: reflective eyes dancing amidst trees, bits of fluff flash-exposed to the camera, and unrecognizable forms moving through forest and brush that might as well be the neighbor’s dog let loose from its leash.

But today as I walked about the lake, I dove into the woodlands surrounding the Sunset Bay floodplain—ticks be damned!  (And ticks I did find, by the way…  LOTS of them.)

Upon entering a thicket where bowers surrounded me, I slowed my already careful approach as I knew the natural cover most likely hid a menagerie of wonderful creatures.

A particularly large bower stretched ten feet/three meters away from me, its closest point resting at my feet.  I stood at its lengthy end without being able to see what lurked beneath it.

Slowly—Oh so slowly!—I stepped around the thick barrier of leaves and branches.

Closer than three feet/one meter from the beast, an adult coyote suddenly leaped to life from beneath its perfect camouflage.  I saw nothing but bouncing tail as it rushed further into dense cover.

I followed, already mad at myself for not seeing it before, already scolding myself for missing the perfect opportunity to snap at least one picture of this marvelous beast as it lay silently in its daylight bed.

The next view of it came with heavy brush filling every step between us.  The canine was nothing more than a shadowy movement seen in whispers betwixt branches and leaves.

I could see it only because I knew what gave life to browns shifting amongst browns.  The camera, on the other hand, saw nothing.

And I can’t blame it for its failing.

The coyote orbited with smart accuracy, always remaining opposite me with a hefty divider of tree and bush rising before us.

Eventually I left in the spirit of not wanting to aggravate.

When I returned home—and after I removed all the hitchhiking ticks who had taken advantage of the opportunity—I flogged myself for the barbaric failure that defined my day.