by Joe Hutto
The orphan named Peep.
Anticipating the worst, I was out standing in the snow before sunrise checking on the status of the new orphan. I was heartened to see that the deer in question was not only alive but actually nosing around in some frozen alfalfa cubes from the night before. The little deer stared at me for a moment and then, with a few words of encouragement, walked directly to my side with tail straight up and took a handful of wafers. While Leslye watched from the back door, the fawn finished an entire pocket full of horse cookies just in time, as fifteen more deer heard us crunching around in the snow and came running. As I walked back in the house, Leslye lamented, “What a poor little peep of a deer!” The little creature had followed me to the back door and stood belly deep in snow, staring at me though the glass with swollen, sleepy eyes and great, sagging ears, obviously confused about the concept of “house.” As it squatted to urinate, the question was answered once and for all—this pitiful little peep of a deer was a doe fawn.
We were soon astonished to learn that Peep had not wandered in alone but in fact was somehow affiliated with a rather hefty and unfamiliar three-and-a-half-year-old “loner” buck who chose to stay the winter, becoming known eventually as Rufous, in reference to a distinctly reddish crown. Obviously, Peep had attached herself to this kind and gentle buck as she frequently came and left the yard in his company, trailing along in his footsteps like a fawn would follow a doe. On several occasions we would see Rufous resting across the draw with Peep lying at his side. Although I never observed him grooming his little companion or showing any other maternal-like care, it was clear that he at least allowed this unusual association to occur. Although I would not suggest that this was a potential case of buck-fawn adoption, Rufous’s stewardship and knowledge of the landscape offered the only explanation for this fawn’s unlikely survival.
Soon Peep was an almost permanent fixture in and around the yard. She made herself available for any excuse to eat, and I began feeding her several times a day. We attempted to offer her a relatively balanced diet of the nutritious horse wafers, along with some cracked corn and mixed grains for complex carbohydrates that might provide some quick but sustained energy for chill resistance as well as a little roughage to keep things moving along. Months of starvation had left Peep’s pelage in a shambles of dull, dried, brittle hair that stood erect, especially around her head and neck, in an almost fruitless effort to preserve as much body heat as possible. Starvation had also formed edema in the tissues surrounding her eyes, providing her with a look of complete exhaustion. The only thing that she seemed to have going for her was a lack of a particular respiratory infection that seems to inevitably plague unthrifty, starving fawns in our area.
The common bacteria Pasteurella multocida can cause an infection characterized by ocular and nasal discharge and an occasional but not persistent cough. It is a slow, progressing death sentence for a starving fawn, but in some adults it is merely a strangely stubborn ailment that can last for months—or more. In at least two cases, I have known adult does that have persisted with this low-grade infection for more than two years. In its acute stages, I suspect it is a likely culprit of septicemia and pneumonia. This pathogen is normally endemic to the mucosa of the upper respiratory tracts of many ruminants. Pasteurella is allowed to gain a foothold, becoming pathologic when the immune system becomes compromised by various predisposing stress factors such as inclement weather, elevated parasite load, malnutrition, or some other more primary infection. Peep was the perfect storm of predisposing factors, yet she seemed to have a healthy respiratory system.
The author offering Peep some much needed nutrition.
At first, Peep was comfortable or possibly just oblivious to the touch of a human hand. But within days I realized that she was not just starved for food and merely tolerant of my touch; she was starved for both food and affection. Clearly she had gone many months without the attentions of her mother and was desperately touch-deprived. Late one morning, in the comfort of the warming sun, I dropped down on my knees and, with one arm across her chest, began grooming her with my hands about the head and neck. Only momentarily unsure about this close proximity and partial restraint, she suddenly went limp in my arms and appeared to fall into some sort of semiconscious torpor as I continued to gently scratch and rub her. It seemed as if her hunger for physical contact had also reached crisis proportions. Each day after a satisfying feeding session, I would hold Peep and remove any engorged ticks that I found and would spend sessions gently scratching along her ears, neck, and chest, searching for small ticks that had become embedded but had not yet begun to become engorged. In a matter of a few days I managed to relieve the little deer of her chronic tick infestation, but she would prevail on me for physical contact two or more times a day. Her need for affection seemed boundless.
Fawns with mothers rarely suffer from winter ticks. Does must have a remarkable ability to rid their fawns of the pests before they can become a bother. Furthermore, deer have places on their bodies that are completely inaccessible with either their mouths or hind hooves and therefore cannot be reached without the cooperation of a family member or close affiliate who might be willing to engage in a little reciprocal grooming. There is a line between the neck and shoulder that cannot be reached, as well as an area around the chest, sternum, or “brisket.” And of course, even though ears are totally accessible with the rear hooves, it is difficult to extricate a tick from a floppy ear with a hoof. Those unfortunate individuals without well-established social connections are forced to endure this perpetual frustration. Invariably, if I can convince any peripheral deer without close social connections to allow me to touch it, it will thereafter identify me as a friend as I act as its tick relief. Although older bucks do engage in mutual grooming on occasion and frequently accept grooming from their older mothers, many never have this opportunity and are grateful to discover that I will be their surrogate family member—if and when they are feeling the need for a little attention or tick removal. It is interesting and often moving to observe that initial awkward moment when caution is suddenly transformed to an instant of recognition that may quickly attain the proportions of a revelation, as perhaps long-lost maternal memories are stirred. With undeniable appreciation, the recipient seems to relax into some state of sensual bliss. It is interesting to note that although gestures of kindness are easily misinterpreted when expressed by a human toward another species, there are distinct occasions when these gestures are recognized, enjoyed, appreciated, and even reciprocated. Clearly, the expectation of kindness does not seem to exist as a common experience among most living wild things. However, it does seem that some species have a capacity to care for others and to receive care outside the maternal experience. The mule deer is a species that undeniably harbors an expectation of affection and the nurturing consolation from within its society. It has been a great and unexpected joy to share and understand the importance of that expectation in the lives of these deer.
A moment of bliss for Peep, a small fawn in grave danger.
Offering consolation to a desperate little deer.
Sometimes, if I was involved with the attentions of another deer, I would feel Peep rubbing her head briskly on my leg, as if prodding me with an imaginary set of antlers, and if that did not gain my undivided attention, she would begin pawing me with a tiny hoof—letting me know that I should be properly focusing on all her needs. And focus I did—for Leslye and I both agreed that Peep was perhaps the most adorable and irresistible creature that either of us had ever known. Although Peep was getting the best nutrition I could provide, her condition was so dire that I felt that her survival throughout the rest of a long, hard Wyoming winter was unlikely. Because her coat was thin and badly deteriorated, it was difficult to resist the urge to bring her in at night when temperatures were well below zero. But finding her suitable accommodations inside a house might be difficult and possibly even terrifying for a wild, five-month-old fawn. On at least two occasions we
have had curious deer follow us into the house through a carelessly open door—with no catastrophes—but, still, the possibilities are frightening. The panic/flight response in wild mule deer, once full-blown, appears to be 100 percent nonnegotiable.
Although all the cards seemed to be stacked against Peep, she proved to be one of our great success stories. With most orphans that arrive late in the winter, the best you can hope for is to merely arrest their decline and hope they can hold on until better times. With no place to go but up, Peep actually managed to gain some weight during that winter with constant feeding, but I suspect she deserves most of the credit for having the cast-iron constitution of an unusually tenacious survivor. We have had fawns die during winter who seemed to be initially in much better condition than this little deer. However, Peep was not of this herd, and even after one year, she was not treated with the respect that a legitimate member of a maternal clan could expect. Fawns are rigorously socialized by their mother as well as by the mothers’ affiliates, so within weeks of birth, fawns begin their schooling in the proper rules of mule deer etiquette. It was clear that Peep had been principally self-schooled, having no concept of mannerly behavior, and her indiscretions were often brutally chastised.
Once, after swatting a dominant buck on the head for what Peep perceived to be an inconvenient competition for a bite of food, the outraged deer lashed out with enormous hooves in an attack that I thought might kill her. Typically, the larger bucks are gentle and totally indulgent with fawns, but Peep’s indiscretion was by all indications not merely rude but a painful assault to the ears of the big deer. Her behavior was deemed egregious and could not be allowed to pass. Gradually Peep learned that there were dire consequences to rude behavior, but it was obvious that her ignorance of the social graces put her at an even greater disadvantage in gaining acceptance in the herd.
Life in winter is a strange paradox, where human existence is somehow compressed and contracted in this otherwise vast and unconstrained space. Diagnostic symptoms may vary from extreme restlessness, irritability, or, in the worst manifestation, complete psychosis. “Cabin fever,” however, is poorly named, as evidenced by the fact that even working outside every day, snow or shine, can have only a mild palliative effect but is still not a remedy. This strange sense of confinement may in time become overwhelming, but then one day around January, mysteriously, you are rescued by a sudden emancipation of the spirit as life becomes, again, seemingly boundless in the white polar landscape. This welcome liberation may be merely the recognition that time has not actually slowed, space in this case is constant, and it is only existence and the human perspective that is relative. In the dead of winter, a simple trip to the barn can become, under certain circumstances, a complex expedition involving multiple layers of wool and high-tech clothing, an LED flashlight with enough blazing candle power to knock a raccoon to its knees, and, often, a firearm of .30 caliber or better. Ranch life has always been endlessly absorbing, and we are merely the next in the line to serve this place, perpetuating a 140-year-old continuum—no, a tradition—which in large part involves a seemingly infinite variety of demands and the inevitability of, day by day, incrementally falling further behind because of various forces that include the pull of some poorly understood but inexorable gravity. Just like horses and cattle, people also come and go on a ranch. One does not own a ranch—one merely chooses to serve a ranch. No human has ever caught up with the needs and demands of an old, hardscrabble homestead, and many of the good intentions that were never quite realized seventy-five years ago still lie there in a pile, waiting for the next well-intended, ambitious individual to pick up the gauntlet and make yet one more noble try. An old working ranch is the perfect antidote to the futile human expectation of actual achievement. A sagebrush ridge in front of the house bordering the draw is dotted with the caved-in, rock-lined, rectangular depressions of unmarked graves—people who, no doubt, lived hard and died tired. When does the keen knife edge of human ambition dull into a mere quest for survival? Perhaps it relates somehow to those “lives of quiet desperation” that Thoreau was always harping about as he often expressed opinions about the futility of the agricultural lifestyle. I can relate, perfectly. One might ask, “What was the attraction—why would anyone bother—why would these people go to this much trouble in this unlikely place?” Surely, with nothing more than an old wagon, a tired horse, and perhaps a serviceable rifle, someone made a remarkable decision and said, “I think I’ll try to make a life here.” Here! Imagine—no tractor, no chainsaw, no water at the tap—in what was essentially an un-irrigated desert with any available water frozen hard as steel for four months, not to mention a full three miles straight up a mountain to the nearest house log or firewood. I can only suggest that it has to do with some powerful, spiritual substance that is inherent in this strange and conspicuously hostile landscape. The land is possessed of some quality that inspires us all to confuse our dreams with the actual physical possibilities that our lives can achieve. Each of us is proof that the human capacity for overestimating our own capability is boundless. For some, this land becomes an irresistible siren’s call. Finding ourselves run hopelessly aground, we are deaf to the cry of reason, and we are made blind by the magnificence that surrounds us. And although on every fundamental level it always costs more than it comes to, it appears that there is some irresistible romance or some inevitable seduction, and many are inclined to fall perilously in love with a hopelessly brutal piece of this earth. In this part of the West, there is a well-articulated and accepted tradition to live and die for “the brand.” Upon first realizing the pervasiveness of this defining cultural concept that still, to this day, resonates in many people’s consciousness, I commented, “Really?” Yet here we are—living and dying a little bit every day for our little “spread.”
Peep’s unmistakable plea for contact.
Slingshot in winter.
We do not leave home often, and when we do, it is normally with some level of resentment and perhaps dread. Invariably, upon crossing back over the cattle guard, one of us remarks, “Let’s don’t ever go anywhere again.” As we pile out of the pickup to unload supplies, we hear the scolding nicker of abandoned and resentful, overfed but apparently starving horses, and deer rise from their shady, long-suffering daybeds, meandering ever-so-slowly toward the house. Accountability is demanded as we are made aware of our neglect and irresponsibility.
Deer seeking rest and asylum in the yard at Slingshot.
C H A P T E R F I V E
Anne of a Thousand Days
Spring had finally arrived in that third year, and the first harbingers of true spring were emerging all around, as dandelions began to carpet the yard, creek banks, and meadows in lush green and brilliant yellow. They were a welcome and a glorious sight, replacing the pervading dull grays and browns—the colorless, corporeal remnants of past lives. This ubiquitous little flower is not only a feast for the eyes but a feast for the palate for all creatures. The greens are a delicious addition to any salad, as are the full yellow flowers, and every chipmunk, deer, and bird gathers the first floral bounty of the new season. As spring gradually moves further up the mountain, the fearless blue grouse may be seen gorging on hundreds of the delightful yellow flowers. When backpacking in the high country for days or weeks at a time, I always include a small plastic squeeze bottle filled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and enjoy a fresh green and yellow dandelion salad every evening. Spring is always occurring at some elevation throughout the entire summer, and even on the highest alpine slopes, eventually, there is the ubiquitous dandelion mingling among the rare tundra flora. That humans consider the delightful dandelion a plague in their sterile suburban environments speaks volumes.
Although the dark, shadowed, timbered slopes above the ranch were still blanketed in heavy snow, the time for migration was at hand. Ducks and geese arrived by the thousands, the raucous call of sandhill cranes could be heard reverberating from every distant meadow, and all the bu
cks had shed their antlers with new velvet replacements well underway. A few of the deer started to disappear as their migratory urge became irresistible. The prospect of lush, green, flowering meadows and the sound of rushing snowmelt are the siren’s call that must be obeyed. Abundance and prosperity beckon with the recollection of lavish, green mountain meadows blanketed with purple, blue, white, and yellow, while the echoes of bird song and cascading waters speak to the memory of long, lazy days and perpetual cool summer breezes. Ancient reminiscences call to the tired heart of a winter-weary mule deer.
Although accustomed to Raggedy Anne’s daily visits throughout the winter, we began to notice that she was spending more time than usual around the house. The apple and plum trees were festooned with swollen flower buds, along with the golden currants and flowering gooseberries. Blood-red box elder blooms had erupted a week before and were now clumps of red and green maple “keys.” It was that brief time in spring, when the entire world begins to look like a complex and inviting mixed salad. The tender, purple-green leaves of every lilac shrub and tree created a wall of edible foliage over their ragged and gnarly winter skeletons. Deer enthusiastically snatched at the emerging lilac leaves, contributing a good seasonal pruning to every specimen within reach. Mule deer are ravenous for new green vegetation in spring, so we naturally assumed Anne was just taking advantage of the abundance and variety that the yard could provide. However, Anne rarely ventured far from the yard, and would even remain after her family had browsed off onto a distant sage brush slope, grazing on a carpet of tender emerging cheatgrass or the fresh, tender growing tips of big mountain sage, rabbit brush, and antelope bitter brush. Anne would lie for hours under the protective cover of the hedge rows surrounding the yard, moving only periodically to browse and then find a new protected spot to sleep and chew her cud. Unconsciously, upon leaving the house, I would glance around and look for Anne’s head and ears in silhouette somewhere nearby in the dense undercover. She would often stand by the back door as if asking for a deer treat, but we noticed that after eating one or two, she would merely sniff the wafer and, then, as if disappointed, wander back to her small refuge and lay down. In two more days, Anne refused all handouts and we never saw her browsing—clearly something was not right. When deer become injured or ill, they segregate themselves from other deer, perhaps because mule deer society can be taxing, and they are aware of their vulnerability. It soon became obvious that Anne was becoming solitary in a most disturbing way. Her own family members were still in the vicinity, seemingly waiting for her cue to migrate. Anne even became uncomfortable in the relative safety of the yard, and one day wandered down into the draw, seeking more solitude along the creek bank among the thick, scrubby willows. But even though she changed locations throughout the day and night, she seemed to always remain within sight of the house. We would locate Anne during the day or first thing in the morning by walking out on the cliff face and eventually find her lying somewhere below and always near the creek. Once, at midday, I saw her standing motionless just above the creek in an uncomfortable posture with head lowered—leaving no doubt she was in distress. But we were also consoled to see that Anne’s family was never far away. She was most often in the company of her most recent fawn, Randy-Dandy, and last year’s fawn, Mandy, who would lie with her, along with Charm, Possum, and Rag Tag, who were usually close by or nosing around in the nearby willows.