Touching the Wild

by Joe Hutto

  Prairie rattler near the house.

  We also live in an area where many species of large mammals are seen in abundance. Antelope or “pronghorn” inhabit the sage brush slope of the mountain in large numbers. While bucks remain in sociable fraternal herds, the solitary does begin fawning in the hay meadows in late spring and may be seen throughout the summer. The does and fawns gradually reunite in herds that continue to swell into fall. The bucks join the does as the rut begins throughout late summer and fall, eventually becoming polite members of the greater herd by December. Great congregations of up to two hundred may be seen around the ranch in winter as they alternately browse the sage brush and occasionally spill out onto the snow-covered hay meadows.

  Leslye holding a prairie rattler by the tail.

  When winter snows arrive, bears slip into their dens, while mule deer, elk, and moose must all migrate down out of high mountain basins and the timbered slopes that may be seen several miles up the mountain. We have observed only one bear on the Slingshot as he apparently fed on a dead fawn. Elk may be observed from our kitchen window on any winter day, often by the hundreds, as they pepper the steep open mountainside below the timber.

  Pronghorn moving past mule deer in the gulch.

  Higher on the mountain, the elk gather below the tree line.

  They rarely visit the Slingshot, but I see the occasional track of a cow elk that has passed through in the night. Neighboring rancher Ed King mentioned counting 175 elk in a meadow that borders us one half-mile to the north. For years I have combed the slopes above the Slingerland Ranch in spring looking for shed elk antlers near a dramatic feature of the Little Popo Agie Canyon named Wolf Point. Wanting to see some beautiful country, Leslye and I recently backpacked up from Nan’s house, spending three nights above Wolf Point, and we eventually hauled down six pairs of fresh shed antlers tied to our packs. From a ridge just above our camp in the timber, we could look down on the Slingshot—more than five miles and four thousand feet in elevation below.

  The Shiras moose has been in a steady decline in Wyoming for many years, but the magnificent animals may still be seen here and there, although not in the great numbers of twenty or thirty years ago. Because wintering moose prefer riparian habitat, Red Canyon and the three Popo Agie River drainages have always been a destination for these creatures.

  Our Wolf Point antler camp.

  Of course, with this many large animals surrounding us, their predators, too, are abundant. We live in the midst of mountain lions that in winter and spring are around the house day and night and leave their blood-stained scats below the cliff face for us to examine each morning. Unlike domestic cats, cougars prefer to leave their impressive scats uncovered, as if they should be admired by one and all. Coyotes are everywhere and band together in efficient killing packs in winter, effectively attacking mule deer and antelope.

  Wolves have populated the Wind River Mountains in recent years, and we see at least a few every winter in this area. Now the mountain basins above the Slingerland Ranch have a predictable summer wolf population, and both the Slingerland and the Nature Conservancy cattle suffer increased, but not yet unacceptable, losses as wolf numbers rise. As expected, elk numbers are beginning to decline in response to the wolf presence, but it is said that mule deer may be essentially defenseless when confronted by packs of this aggressive predator. Where wolves have dispersed or been introduced to islands off the northwest coast, black-tailed deer, close relatives to mule deer, were quickly reduced to extinction. It will be interesting to see how the Wyoming wolf reintroduction plays out, and only time will tell, as both wolf advocates and detractors have no real research data on which to base their opinions. For now the outcome is a crapshoot, but one thing is certain: the many species that were already in a state of decline now have to deal with the added stress of this powerful force on the landscape.

  Wolf track above the ranch.

  Other common predators that frequent the Slingshot Ranch include a healthy population of red foxes and bobcats, badgers, skunks, raccoons, and weasels.

  Bobcat in the yard, striking at a passing bird.

  I arrived at the Slingshot in May 2006, two weeks before Leslye, and began placing furniture and making some minor repairs and adjustments to the house. The first evening I looked outside the kitchen window, and standing by my pickup was a handsome young four-point buck, casually passing by. I thought to myself, “Great! We have a few mule deer around the place.” I had no idea that we had just occupied a house that was located directly in the center of a home winter range of deer that had probably been enjoying the rich diversity of this little canyon for at least hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Judging by the sparse scatters of flint chips up and down the rims of the draw, humans have been at least marginally aware of these deer for millennia.

  In spite of the diversity of our local ecology that supports an extraordinary abundance of species, it could be declared that this is, first and foremost, mule deer country. There are certain ecologies and particular habitats that seem to be characterized by a particular emblematic creature—the gilded thread that brings definition and clearly embodies the most essential spirit of the landscape. And the mule deer is that iconic creature. When walking across a plunging sage brush mountainside with small, steep-sided rocky canyons, awash in the color of spring flowers and lined with quaking aspens that enshroud sparkling, clear, rushing streams, it is the ever-present mule deer, quietly watching from some high promontory, that reminds us that we are walking on rare earth and that our presence is being noted.

  Bohemian waxwing.

  Leslye wearing a bohemian waxwing.

  Quail on a cold day.

  C H A P T E R T W O

  And Along Came Rayme

  Throughout our first summer on the Slingshot Ranch, we were peripherally aware of our resident mule deer, which we would see occasionally in the draw or browsing the sage brush, but as with wild deer everywhere, they maintained a distance appropriate for any creature considered a big game animal. The summer resident population appeared evenly distributed throughout the area, and by midsummer we began to see the occasional doe with fawns grazing the meadows in late afternoon. However, by October, all things begin to change in the Wyoming high country. Nights become cool, blanketing the highest peaks in snow, while aspen and wild currents begin to wash the landscape in blazing reds, oranges, and luminescent yellows.

  One cool afternoon in September, Leslye looked out the kitchen window, and standing in the front yard was a fine-looking mule deer doe. Leslye called me to join her at the window, and we stood enjoying the opportunity to admire this handsome animal, all the while assuming that she would soon become aware of our interest and move away. This deer seemed healthy and robust, with a new installment of winter hair well established. As we gazed from the darker interior of the house, the deer finally made eye contact. With ears canted forward and with large wet, black eyes, she stared back with great intensity and concern. We stood silent and motionless, certain that she would soon become fearful and the moment would be lost. However, to our amazement, she continued her obvious inquiry, which even included a quick halting step in our direction. But, then, she looked away, and without apparent fear or a backward glance, she slowly walked toward the back of the house and out of sight. Leslye and I finally made eye contact, and one of us quietly said, “Wow.”

  This doe became an immediate celebrity around the Slingshot, as she began to arrive each afternoon expressing some fascination with us that we, of course, always returned in kind. Soon we realized that she was a member of a family group, and when this particular deer entered the area around the house, we would also see her companions standing or browsing in the vicinity. One afternoon Leslye said, “The doe is in the yard,” and I replied, “Which doe?” Leslye said casually, “What about Doe-Ray-Me?—Rayme!” So, without realizing it, we had assigned not just a name to a wild deer but rather an identity, and we began a tradition that would eventually involve more
than seven years and well over two hundred individuals with names, faces, and distinct personalities. In a matter of days we could walk out of the house, and Rayme would remain nearby—perhaps moving a few yards away, but showing little of the fear one would expect from a wild deer. I began to suspect that this particular deer must have had some unusual experience with humans that would account for her peculiar behavior. I even called the previous occupants of the Slingshot to ask if they had known or developed some sort of friendly relationship with a deer. The answer was no—they had seen many deer over the years, but there was no deer that seemed particularly tame or especially familiar with people. After a few months, I also had opportunities to check with all the adjoining ranchers and landowners, and none seemed to be aware of such a deer. Having horses, we customarily kept a fifty-pound bag of horse cookies, sold as “outfitter’s wafers,” that we used for treats or inducements while training or riding. We would toss one to Rayme on occasion as we left the house, and in a short time she became quite fond of the treat.

  Rayme, the deer who started it all.

  Soon, Rayme became a familiar resident around the house, and we discovered that all we needed to do was walk outside and say, “Rayme!” and she would mysteriously appear within seconds. And Rayme had this peculiar habit of staring at us through the window at night. We have thermal blankets that roll down over the cabin windows for really cold nights, but with the nearest neighbor half a mile away, in one hundred years, there had never been a curtain hanging on a window at the Slingshot. As a result, we live in something that must resemble a fishbowl as we walk around the well-lit house at night. Although a little disconcerting, we eventually realized that Rayme would literally follow us as we moved through the house, going from window to window, fascinated with our activities. At 10:00 p.m. you would look into the otherwise black square of a window and suddenly make out the face of a deer, almost pressed against the glass—there was Rayme—wide-eyed and watching our every move.

  Rayme was a relatively large doe—a big, healthy-looking animal with a beautiful coat. Her facial mask was dark overall, with contrasting light markings around her eyes. Her crown was almost black, and her throat patch was pale. She also had large ears—even for a “mule” deer—and they were arranged relatively low on the sides of her head, a bit droopy, giving her an appearance that brought some element of the needy and the pitiful to mind. But, in all, Rayme was a handsome doe, and her rather painted-lady face was filled with expression. Ungulates or artiodactyls such as goats, cattle, sheep, and deer tend to lack the muscles that make facial expressions so obvious in creatures such as dogs, monkeys, and people. However, with enormous dark brown eyes, accented with those famously large, flirtatious eyelashes, plus the large and defining ears that were like semaphore flags, speaking mule deer volumes, this deer had a way of making her intentions known. Rayme somehow managed to make it perfectly clear not only that she was consumed with interest regarding our activities but also that she clearly wanted attention from us. There was something about our mere proximity that Rayme desired. For reasons that will always remain a mystery, Rayme found us—Rayme sought us out.

  After daily ranch chores were completed, and weather permitting, we took to sitting on the front porch in the afternoons, and after tossing a few horse cookies to Rayme and engaging in polite conversation, she would eventually lie down, twenty feet away next to the lilacs, and with heavy, sagging eyelids, comfortably chew her cud.

  Rayme’s family group soon observed that the ranch and the occupants were safe, and that there might even be treats involved. In a matter of weeks the entire clan of fifteen other individuals was entering the yard, and immediately our focus and interaction became dispersed, in a very personal way, throughout this little herd. By observing various personalities and physical traits, Leslye soon assigned clever and relevant names to each individual, as each seemed to look and behave in ways that made it easy to distinguish that particular deer, even at a distance. Of course we could not tell what the affiliations were between the adults in the group, but the does with fawns had provided us with evidence regarding the family lineages that would eventually be so revealing in studying the significance and dynamics of the family unit in mule deer society.

  We began calling one member of Rayme’s group Raggedy Anne. Anne was an older doe, judging by the disheveled look of her pelage, or coat, that had tuffs of hair standing up in irregular patches. She was indeed raggedy. Her eyes appeared tired, but also there was a look in her eyes—not merely one of age or even sadness—but tragedy. She was a shorter, stockier deer with a top-line that sagged a bit, suggesting that she had been a mother many times. Anne had big, soft, dark brown eyes with unusual flecks of gray that appeared when the sunlight shone across her iris. Although extremely wary of us at first, Anne eventually came to trust us to an extent that was remarkable and unexpected. Anne was with twins that first year, and we named her doe fawn Rag Tag because both ears had been ripped down to the base by coyotes when she must have been a very small fawn. When we met her at about four months of age, both ears were completely healed. Her brother, Frosty, was pale overall, and his light gray-brown coat was entirely tipped in snow-white, giving him the appearance of being covered in a uniform winter frosting. Both fawns were frightened and confused when in our presence and would only stand nervously on the periphery of the group when they were all near.

  We finally came to recognize a yearling doe in the group as being Anne’s doe fawn from the previous year, as she rejoined her mother in the fall. This beautiful yearling doe became Charm, in reference to black scars that girdled both her lower front legs, like bracelets, just above the hooves. Her entire body was covered in large, dark patches and lines from obvious scarring. She must have been horribly mauled by coyotes or a mountain lion when she was a fawn but miraculously survived. She also had big, soft, dark eyes with heavy eyelids tipped in long lashes, and they seemed to reflect some deep sadness like her mother’s did.