Touching the Wild Read online

  Offering Anne some food.

  One morning I couldn’t see Anne from the cliff face and wandered down below. Walking up the creek fifty yards, I immediately saw her lying among the willows, another twenty-five yards ahead. There, under a low, dense canopy, she had found a more solitary place to lie, just upstream by the flowing water in a well-protected, steep-sided, and shady spot. She looked concerned, so I spoke in a soft voice to reassure her who I was, “Hi, pretty girl,” but kept my distance so as not to disturb her. The date was May 8, and Anne remained in this one spot for two more days. It was clear that Anne had not eaten in days, and for a time I suspected that she may be trying to abort a premature fawn, but, whatever the cause, she was without question deathly ill. Leslye and I, without laying out any plan, just naturally began a round-the-clock vigil, checking on Anne every hour or so throughout the daylight hours.

  Raggedy Anne’s daughter Charm.

  Raggedy Anne, sick.

  The following morning at first light we were disturbed to see ravens and magpies feeding on the far ridge above the draw. Thinking the worst, I grabbed my rifle and climbed down through the rocks and tramped a half-mile to the top of the ridge. The birds flushed, and upon arriving at the site I was relieved to find the remains of a cotton-tail rabbit that had been killed by an eagle or coyote. On the route back down I passed by Anne’s previous location, and there she lay, exactly where I had seen her the day before. Again I spoke to reassure her, but judging by the swollen and stressed look in her eyes, I saw no way she could survive. If she was in fact having difficulty with a fawn, it was probably not going to abort, and she was at least four to six weeks too early for giving birth to a live fawn.

  On the morning of May 10, as the sun rose over the eastern ridge, I could see immediately that Anne had climbed one hundred yards above the creek-run and was now on the opposite side of the draw, on the sunny side of a smaller grassy tributary draw, lying with her head lowered. As I watched, she stood up and walked a few feet and immediately lay back down. I noticed that Anne’s older daughter, Rag Tag was lying opposite her, just a few yards across the draw. By afternoon, most of Anne’s immediate family had joined her, including Notcha, a close affiliate, whom we had not seen for days, assuming she had already migrated the week before. Obviously, the deer were being “with” Anne and were all standing or lying nearby. As Leslye watched, the youngest fawn, Randy-Dandy, walked over and began licking and grooming Anne on top of the head for several minutes as she lay with head erect and eyes closed.

  Late that afternoon, all the deer began to wander away browsing, and as Leslye watched at sunset, Anne began a brief struggle. She tried to stand and immediately fell to the ground kicking. Leslye ran to get me, and just as I arrived Anne made her final kick and apparently lay dead. We watched without a word for thirty minutes, and without seeing any movement or breath of life, we knew Anne had died. She lay on her left side with her head positioned slightly downhill. We chose not to approach her in the unlikely event that she could still be alive and become frightened in her final minutes.

  May 11, Mother’s Day. I walked out on the cliff face just after sunrise to see Anne lying exactly as we had last seen her. Rag Tag was lying nearby and stood up. She walked over and stood above Anne’s body, sniffing and observing her closely. Rag Tag remained with Anne that day, and by afternoon most of the herd was lying with Anne, while several others lay in the willows just below.

  Monday, May 12, early morning. I arrived on the cliff face to see Rag Tag, Mandy, and Randy-Dandy standing next to Anne, and then the three gradually began moving up the hill. Rag Tag walked back down to Anne’s side, peered down, and seemed to study her intensely. That afternoon I saw a magpie fly up from Anne’s location. I then walked to the cliff face to see the does, Crescent, and her fawn Retta in company of four other fawns, including little Possum. The deer encircled Anne with heads lowered, carefully observing with ears pressed forward, but then after several minutes, they began slowly moving up the hill with occasional glances back down. Anne’s youngest fawn, Randy-Dandy, suddenly ran back to Anne’s outstretched body and cautiously leaned forward, legs extended and neck outstretched with ears canted down towards the lifeless form. Randy was obviously torn between staying at her mother’s side or proceeding ahead with the group, but after several conflicted turns of the head, she relented and, with backward glances, trotted ahead to join the group.

  By afternoon, most of the deer had reassembled around Anne, including Randy-Dandy, Rag Tag and her brother Frosty, now a mature buck, along with Anne’s previous year’s fawn, Mandy, and the oldest daughter, Charm. Several other deer lay nearby, including Charm’s fawn Possum and even little Peep.

  Tuesday May 13. Leslye appeared on the rim of the cliff face shortly after sunrise to find Rag Tag lying close to Anne. Rag Tag remained close for most of the day and was eventually joined by several others in the afternoon. With Randy-Dandy and Charm the last to finally leave Anne’s side, all the deer apparently left the area that evening, beginning their belated spring migration. At last the deer had determined that Anne was truly gone, and she would not be joining the migration. She would be left behind. Perhaps for the first time in many generations, Anne would not be the intelligent light that guided their way. Some other deer must now carry her torch to far mountain pastures.

  That afternoon I ventured down to the site where Anne lay, and observed that she had chosen a sunny and pleasant location with low sagebrush and spring flowers all around. Holding her head in my lap and stroking her nose and muzzle, I recalled how many times I had felt that warm, soft nose and mouth on my hand and how many times I had run my hand down those big, luxurious ears. The other deer were now all gone, and in that moment it became clear that our mutual obsession with this lifeless form—theirs and mine—was at least in part born of the same need—the need to see these sunken eyes filled again with her kind and ancient wisdom. Even in death, Anne was still offering me her instruction. Suddenly it became clear that this was not just another nameless, faceless dead deer lying on the ground—and surely I have examined hundreds. Now I understood that this was something significant and meaningful—something truly profound—a real life with a real history—something even monumental. This deer had known adventures, adversities, joys, triumphs, pain, and tragedy. She had known the cool, green meadows of a thousand perfect summer days, and the unimaginable hardship of a thousand bitter days of winter. She had been a leader, a protector, an educator, a role model, and a warrior—she was the consummate model for successive generations to follow. Anne’s was a rich story written by the ages—she had earned her place among the most fit and exemplary of survivors that had, in some similar way, also blazed a trail for her. Now her family once again bravely wandered up the mountain, quite literally walking in her footsteps and perpetuating a living legacy of more than ten thousand mule deer summers that have come and gone before.

  Anne was a powerful presence, and it never occurred to us that we might someday be without her in our lives. How could so much intelligence and substance quickly become so fragile and lost? I carefully laid her head back down on the cool earth beside a big bouquet of dandelion flowers that Leslye must have left earlier in the day. Dandelions were always Anne’s favorite.

  That evening I read back over my daily field notes that I kept during this process—this phenomenon of Anne’s passing—in an effort to somehow objectively assimilate the unexpected and moving events of the last several days. Had I just observed and experienced caring, mourning, and grief in a family of mule deer? Had these deer been making a conscious attempt to understand the significance and implications of what had just occurred? How was I supposed to view, record, or interpret these events? Who was I to make assumptions about the depth of another creature’s innermost sensibilities? Could I even begin to speculate on the possible breadth of their experience without engaging the inevitable human predisposition to deny them the significance of their complex lives, and the existence of their
clearly exquisite emotions? Again, it became abundantly obvious that, as humans, we have no privileged access to reality. Realizing that I could not evaluate or even fathom the significance of what had just occurred before my own eyes, I closed my journal on Raggedy Anne and refused to look at it for three years.

  Anne’s skeleton still lies exactly where she died, and, interestingly, no scavengers or predators ever disturbed her body. The location is a particularly beautiful spot, so it may be only coincidence that many deer from Anne’s family find that location a suitable place to spend hours in repose—or is it possible that they still recall or even long for Anne’s powerful but gentle presence? Life is so much more complex than we know, but I seem to grow increasingly helpless to speculate on these things. Ethology, in its pure and most honest form, is primarily an exercise in revealing the magnitude of how little we know about living things—the futile attempt to apply an empirical methodology to all that is abstract, subjective, qualitative, and undeniably mystical.

  C H A P T E R S I X

  Living Among the Mule Deer

  It was in the same year that we lost Anne that I discovered I was welcome to join the deer in their various expeditions across the mountain. Late one afternoon in midwinter, after interacting with the deer and feeding them some treats, I began wandering along with little Peep. Peep was at least partially imprinted on me, or at least desperately in need of someone. Without a mother, she knew only that life was not on her side, but she had recently learned that I was the only being who was fully invested in her unlikely and fragile little life. So I unconsciously assumed that she would accept my company under any circumstances. As twenty deer were leaving the yard and browsing out across the north meadow, I thoughtlessly stayed at Peep’s side as she browsed along, and in fifteen minutes, I looked up and we were a quarter-mile from the house. I could see that although my proximity was completely familiar to these deer, I was getting the occasional curious inquiry from many, as my company was unusual outside the compound of the house and barns. However, as the well-dispersed herd browsed in a wide, hundred-yard radius around me, it became clear that I was easily identified as an arguably odd but nevertheless acceptable accompaniment to their activities. The sun had set behind the mountain, so after about thirty minutes I left Peep’s side, returning to the house. Looking back, I noticed that all the deer had stopped browsing and were attentively watching my progress back across the meadow. For the first time I had suspicions that I might be in a perfect position to begin observing the mule deer under more natural circumstances. Now, perhaps, I could begin observing and, in some sense, living their life—free of the unnatural effects of the house and ranch.

  For weeks I continued to follow Peep or Rag Tag out in the evenings for a little walkabout, and in a month my company went almost unnoticed. Still, I found that if I tried to approach the deer after they had left the compound without me, they would become uncomfortable, and some would start to move away. But as long as I was “among” the deer, they seemed to remain at ease and appeared to be entirely unaffected by my presence. And, interestingly, a few of the deer that had remained suspicious or fearful around the house generally ignored my presence when we were in the field and would now on occasion busily browse around my feet. Logically, they were more comfortable with me in their world than when they had been with me, in mine.

  One of our morning excursions took us out toward the wild upper slopes of the mountain, more than a half-mile above the house, and we then dropped over a small ridge overlooking the draw. Suddenly, we were isolated from any suggestion of human habitation or influence, and we were alone on native, wild ground with fifty uninterrupted miles of mountain terrain above us to the west and more than 120 miles to our north and south. It was as if the umbilical had been cut and some unlikely but more ideal relationship had been born. Although less than a mile above the ranch, I was in wild country with more than twenty wild mule deer that were now actively browsing and alternately scouring the area for possible danger with near supernatural sight and hearing. As they buried their heads back among the sagebrush and snow, I realized that I was occupying no more interest than any other member of the group. I was now living among mule deer.

  Heading out with the deer at dawn.

  Stunned, my improbable and privileged perspective became crystal-clear, as with new eyes I began to see the near-impossible beauty of this perfect part of a perfect landscape. Mule deer, sage brush, snow, and mountain became indistinguishable. Where did mule deer end and sagebrush begin? This singular vision of a creature so perfectly interwoven into the ecology instantly transformed the way in which I perceived this remarkable animal, but also forever changed my understanding of its significance as an indivisible component within the landscape.

  It is startling to find yourself in a definitively wild ecology, casually mingling with a definitively wild creature. After months or even years, you suddenly realize that you are with an animal that under normal circumstances would find your company, even at a quarter-mile, disturbing if not intolerable. Yet, here you are in its midst—not only sharing the landscape but, in essence, being accepted as another member of the herd. Walking and casually browsing, often side by side, you hear the soft crunch of sharp hooves as the deer gently glide down through the snow to the frozen earth below. You hear the chorus of plucking sounds as warm, delicate mouths pull and tear at the tender tips of bitter brush and sage. The perpetual, rhythmic prattle of twenty orbiting mandibles combines to create a faint, almost contented drone in a radius around you. Placing your hand on a strong, well-supported back, and running your fingers down through dense, warm hair, you can feel the sturdy, muscular pull on the rough vegetation that is securely anchored in the compact mountain soil. A liquid black eye watches and comfortably acknowledges your touch, but simultaneously remains focused on the task at hand. Twenty pairs of large, sensitive ears continuously scan the surroundings, carefully discriminating between the scuffling and munching of the herd, my own clumsy boots, and the plodding shuffle of six black cows several hundred yards below us in the draw. Alternating heads pop up periodically, focusing with tack-sharp eyes and uncanny hearing. Reassured of no unwelcome footsteps or undesirable silhouettes, they return to the unrelenting business of browse.

  How to learn what a mule deer eats.

  In the vicinity of the house, many of the deer will be suspicious, but somewhat accepting of strangers. But when leaving the confines of the house and yard, they become entirely unaccepting of humans. Mule deer naturally maintain a perpetual eye on the horizon, and even while literally in “hands-on” direct contact, they are completely alert and attentive to any unwelcome human or other predatory figure that could appear on the skyline, one half-mile away. On more than one occasion, a silhouette has suddenly appeared on the far horizon as a distinctly human form, and I have almost been trampled by the explosive flight that has occurred. This flight response is one of only two scenarios in which I have ever felt in danger of bodily harm from these animals. The other is the rare occasion when two dominant bucks—one nearly always a stranger—engage in mortal combat. Often with no preliminary posturing or gesturing, an enormous deer seems to come out of nowhere. The power and violence unleashed is unimaginable when experienced at close range, and they are oblivious to anything that stands in their way. I am constantly reminded that the acceptance that I have been granted and enjoy exists only in a small radius around me. And in no way do they consider that my proximity affords them any safe haven.

  Interestingly, the innate fear that is hardwired into almost all predators regarding a human presence is disturbingly absent when I am in the company of deer. This is a privileged perspective when the goshawk or the bald eagle perches thirty meters away, but disconcerting when the mountain lion appears. There is an old saying in this part of the West: “You don’t have to be faster than the bear—you just have to be faster than the other guy.” Invariably, after the deer have scattered, I am left standing face to face with the sourc
e of their flight. After more than thirty years of perpetual exposure to these possibilities, it is now my somewhat well-informed policy to never allow any formidable predator the exclusive right to make all the important decisions. When in the field with these deer, I may be seen with a rifle slung over my shoulder—for my protection and theirs—and I have not hesitated to use it on more than one occasion.