A Coyote Drank My Latte: Encounters with Suburban Wildness


My father loves to golf. I don’t. When I’m visiting home, I will occasionally play. Dad and I catch up, and I watch the turkey vultures ride the thermals that rise off the chaparral hillsides above my childhood neighborhood. On one such trip, as we approached the ninth hole, we topped a rise that looks out over the fairway and surrounding landscape—hills above, houses below. As dad teed up and waggled into position, I noticed that just off to the north side of the cart path, the golf course abruptly ended. The contrast between the electric-green grass and the brittle-brown…


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