by Joe Hutto
Because this is my personal project, it comes with no definitions or expectations. I make my own rules. Even though I adhere to certain self-imposed rigor, I am not one of those detached observers who has been instructed to or will simply refuse to intervene. I never trust nature to just “take its course.” There is clearly a time and place for that detachment, but we have a special arrangement here whereby I literally trust the deer with my life, and they trust me with theirs. These deer are not merely the subjects of my mule deer study. They are more like family, and that relationship and that level of involvement alone provide the vehicle for a special access into their lives. And although they have no expectation of my intervention in a time of crisis, I’ll go to almost any extreme to protect them. For me, there is nothing to be gained by the death of a deer.
After so many years of interaction, all the deer still remain in every way and in every situation completely wild, and this phenomenon has been demonstrated to me in a thousand ways and in a thousand different circumstances. The terms of our association are clearly and solely defined by these deer. Even though they treat me as a creature who casually shares their landscape, I still must conform to a set of specific expectations. For example, my approach must be indirect. I must not engage in uninterrupted eye contact. My clothing must not vary drastically—no coats or hats with which they are unfamiliar. Furthermore, odd objects such as backpacks and, in particular, any object carried in my hand may create great concern. However, with a little time, most articles become accepted, as their curiosity eventually overcomes their apprehension.
If I attempt to join the deer in a remote location, I find that they display extreme caution at my approach, even at a half-mile. If my identity is unclear, they will become uncomfortable with my presence and will begin to walk away at a quarter-mile. If I fail to identify myself or they have failed to recognize me personally, they will begin to stot and trot in the opposite direction. However, these deer have come to know a particular vocalization and will immediately relax and allow my approach when I initiate the identifying call. With tack-sharp eyes, the deer are fully capable of recognizing me personally at two hundred yards, and often indicate without question that they are satisfied that this is their familiar shadow striding through the sage brush, not a suspicious stranger. Should another person accompany me, even Leslye, with whom they are perfectly comfortable, they are clearly made fearful by the approach of more than one individual. It is only with considerable vocal reassurances that they will allow our approach. Even with our longstanding familiarity, they are still made uneasy by any direct linear approach or uninterrupted and constant stares. Deer etiquette requires an indirect, leisurely, meandering approach, with eyes more often averted. And, rather than barging into the group, I will slowly work my way into their vicinity and then allow them to gradually work in around me, as I am often joined and greeted by a few of the more familiar individuals. Obviously, my direct proximity to any deer is a significant source of reassurance and a consolation to other deer in the distance. After a few minutes of curious stares by a few of the more tentative individuals, I am assimilated into the herd, and my presence is no longer a source of concern. I then seem to be of little interest, attracting no more attention than any other member of the group would receive. Immediately, normal browsing behavior ensues, along with all the various forms of casual mule deer social interaction.
There is absolutely nothing that I could do to compromise the deer’s inherent wildness. These creatures are intelligent, entirely cognizant, and totally disinclined to ever jeopardize or betray their better instincts for survival. Above all else, mule deer are survival obligates. I now understand that the suggestion that a human could rob a wild mule deer of its innate will to survive through some form of habituation reflects a naive understanding, or at least an overwhelming underestimation of the species.
The following year, as our fourth winter season approached and thirty-five or forty deer began to return home, we were thrilled to see that little Peep had returned. To our great relief, she appeared to be a healthy and well-developed yearling. She was immediately glad to be reunited for some treats and for multiple grooming sessions. Surprisingly, her appearance was exemplary for any mule deer, and although she was relatively short, her conformation was robust, with straight, sturdy-looking legs, her pelage was impeccable, and her facial appearance was absolutely beautiful. Even though she was mercifully ignored when near the group, Peep was still viewed as an outsider.
Peep, giving the author the head nod.
I anxiously awaited Flower’s return as well, but as the weeks passed into winter, I realized, sickened, that, like Cappy had the year before, Flower must have also met with some misfortune over the summer. Sadly my relationship with these two beautiful sisters had been all too quickly ended, and in spite of so many fascinating deer faces and personalities milling about my life, I was all too aware of the empty space that these two losses had left. In a single glance across the herd, their absence was conspicuous.
However, early one winter morning, I looked through a herd of twenty or more deer, and my mind grabbed hold of the specter of two deer I had known so well. There they were—as if Cappy and Flower had somehow been returned to us, not as the mature, healthy deer I had come to know—but as fawns. Although alert to the impossibility of the moment, they appeared—absolutely unmistakable in their appearance and demeanor. Immediately, I realized that these two small deer could only be Flower’s two fawns. These were the cookie-cutter image of their mother, and in all probability Flower had been killed and separated from her family only recently, and the fawns had somehow found their way home—perhaps by following some of Flower’s affiliates as they migrated to this winter range. It was heartbreaking to think that Flower had been so close and not survived the gauntlet back home, but she had afforded the world, and us, the consolation of these two beautiful, healthy young deer.
Interestingly, both fawns displayed little or no apprehension and both moved into my direct proximity within a day of our first introduction. Just as human infants in the womb come to know their parents’ voices, so, too, must the fawns in utero have become familiarized with my voice prior to birth and therefore may have recognized me as some vaguely familiar and safe presence in their ecology. In any case, these two seemed to immediately recognize me as their family member and friend, and in two weeks they both were as casual with me, as if I had raised them from birth. Wanting to honor and help perpetuate the lineage of Flower and Cappy, Leslye assigned the names Blossom and Petal to the twins, and, like their mother, they would come to occupy a great space within my life. The Flower lineage has proven to be a persistent and prosperous one with two more successful generations of offspring. Blossom and Petal thrived in their first winter season. But early one morning Petal wandered in, covered in frozen blood and torn to shreds from a mountain lion attack. She was thoroughly mauled, with scarcely a square inch of skin without deep parallel cuts and scratches where she had been raked by enormous paws. How she survived an attack that was so devastating—how this cat had so completely ensnared this fragile little creature, yet it somehow managed to escape such a vicious grasp—is a mystery. Torn, bloody, and battered, with deep cuts on her rear that exposed the muscle tissue below, she hobbled around the yard for two days, pained and confused. Amazingly, no infections appeared, and in a week her wounds began to close. However, an open gash across her forehead exposed the bone, which remained visible, dry, and bleached white for six months. Petal fully recovered from her physical ordeal, and the visible scars seemed to finally disappear below her luxurious pelage. Now, as you dig down through the dense hair on her forehead, she shows barely a mark.
However, there may have been other, more subtle damages; immediately after that event, she began to display an unmistakable look of worry that to this day has not left her beautiful face.
Blossom (right) and Petal (left).
Perhaps because of the demise of their mother, the knowledge of
historical migration was lost to Petal and Blossom, for they became local resident deer and have since spent their spring and summer in our proximity. Petal has the tendency to become secretive and private during fawning, and only after several weeks will she begin bringing her new fawn up close for an introduction. Blossom, on the other hand, views me as a privileged insider and stays near for the births of her fawns. She even allows me to accompany her in the afternoons as she goes to rejoin and nurse new arrivals, behaving as if I am nonexistent, as she and her fawns call to one another and are reunited each afternoon with me standing at their side. So, too, her fawns seem to treat me as some rightful participant in their lives and are inclined to merely inspect me with a couple of sniffs administered nose to nose, but then casually return to the more fascinating and compelling business of nursing. The trust that this otherwise fierce and protective mother shows me at these times is inexplicable and humbling. However, as darkness nears, I always dread the time that I must return to my world, and they must furtively fade into theirs; then, my often sleepless apprehensions run wild until we are again reunited the following morning.
Because of their relationship to Flower, both Blossom and Petal appear to have been born into the privilege that comes with the status of their high-ranking mother. Blossom in particular seems to have quickly ascended into dominance in the greater herd, and is not shy about aggressively reinforcing her status from time to time. Both deer are larger and more robust than Flower. If any possible threat appears in the area, it is Blossom that abandons all caution and leads a charge of angry deer headlong into the face of danger—to attack coyotes, badgers, and cats, both wild and domestic. When any affiliated deer or fawn has died or been killed, Blossom is the bold one who seeks to tirelessly explore every death and its possible causes and implications. She sniffs and examines the body, and then stays close, revisiting the site many times. I keep an eternal vigil for scavenger birds that indicate any death in the area. Few creatures die in a two-mile radius of which I am not made aware in mere hours. However, now I also keep an eye on Blossom as she wanders about on her various explorations, and her demeanor will immediately alert me to any misfortune that has befallen another deer. Blossom has literally led me to the site of several dead deer.
Blossom awaiting new fawn. Photo by Dawson Dunning.
Blossom suffering with new fawn on the way. Photo by Dawson Dunning.
Blossom with newborn fawns, just 24 hours old.
One summer, Blossom gave birth to twins but lost one fawn within a few days. The surviving twin, Rosebud, became Blossom’s pride and joy. Although born sickly, she thrived and lived for four months as a delightful and perfectly healthy fawn, but she was later again stricken with a mysterious illness that took her life in three days. With Blossom at her side, I watched helplessly as the little one lay sick and eventually died on the creek below the front meadow within a few meters of her birth site. Blossom maintained a constant vigil over Rosebud’s remains for ten days. It was only days later that any predator or scavenger dared go near this dead fawn. I had known this fawn since the day she was born. My empathy for Blossom’s grief, combined with my own sense of loss, remains a source of great sadness. For weeks thereafter, Blossom revisited the location of her fawn’s death and stared from twenty meters away as Rosebud’s scant remains were gradually consumed. Along with Rosebud, a certain spark left Blossom’s eyes and has never fully returned.
Blossom’s fawn Rosebud with friend.
Because every mule deer is profoundly individual, every relationship I have had with these animals has taught me unique things about their extraordinary range of behavior, about their highly developed intelligence, about their individual participation and experience of mule deer society, and about individual capacities to allow this strange human creature into their lives in a myriad of differing ways. It would be inaccurate to say that one deer is more interesting or extraordinary than another. However, in this ongoing experiment, Blossom represents one true enigma, and is most clearly cast from a mold that is different from that of any other mule deer I have known.
Once in midwinter, after losing two fawns in one week to attacks by packs of coyotes, the deer alerted me to a lone coyote apparently stalking on a sage brush slope several hundred meters away. Becoming outraged, I decided I would fire in his direction, even if the price was terrifying the deer. Slowly, I moved as far away as practical from the herd of about twenty deer without alerting the coyote. However, in her usual bold manner, Blossom chose to follow me, one hundred meters from the others. With only open steel sights, I was far out of range of a pacing predator, but still I raised my Winchester and squeezed off a shot. The bullet hit ten feet ahead of the coyote with an explosion of dust that greatly impressed the animal, and he bolted up and over the ridge as fast as a coyote can run. I looked behind to my immediate left, and there stood Blossom—her complete attention focused on the retreating coyote. The other deer far behind were startled but motionless and attentively trying to fathom what had just happened. I re-slung my rifle on my shoulder as Blossom followed me back to join the herd.
If some predictable “curve” of mule deer behavior exists, Blossom is so far outside the norm as to be at once a delightful source of intimate information and knowledge about this phenomenal species, but also disturbing, in that she is so bold and self-assured that I fear for her terribly. I worry that she may be the one deer I have come to know who is inherently fearless of humans in general. Ordinarily, when these deer leave the confines of our small ranch—and they do every day—I have a general understanding of their wanderings, but the precise destinations and possible interaction with other humans remains a bit of a mystery. We have dear friends who live in the closest adjoining ranch a half-mile away. Colt and Mary are frequent guests and have met many of the deer on multiple occasions. They very readily recognize certain individual deer, and various deer have allowed them to actually touch or handle them on several occasions while in our yard. These deer, of course, find their way to our friend’s lush hay meadows almost daily, and may be found around their house, barns, and yard with some regularity. Our neighbors have commented many times that even the familiar deer that they clearly recognize by name—deer that they have been allowed to handle while near our house, are completely unapproachable when visiting their ranch and house. These friends feel very protective and would never do these deer harm, but I am nevertheless consoled that the deer appear to be cautious in other locations.
The many threats to these particular mule deer include a major highway only a mile and a half away. In close proximity to the highway exists a complex and disorganized maze of a dozen or more houses and trailers, grids of driveways, fenced yards and small livestock enclosures, a multitude of dogs, and, most disturbing, an array of differing attitudes about the virtues associated with the proximity of a mule deer. Strong opinions may vary from simply the acknowledgment of a beautiful guest, to those who consider this animal to be a “goddamned nuisance” that damages fruit trees, gardens, and landscape plants. And, of course, many simply see the mule deer as a few pounds of fresh meat that may be legally and readily harvested in your backyard from the convenience of your back door. This is all in addition to the presence of large predators, brutal weather, disease, and the ever-present possibility of winter starvation. These are threats that represent a few of the potentially lethal impediments facing every mule deer, every day of their lives.
Blossom.
A local farmer once suggested to me in all seriousness that, as a logical solution to “the mule deer problem,” we should go ahead and kill as many as possible and give the meat to the poor, because “they are all going to die somehow anyway.”
It is only through an incredible level of intelligence and resourcefulness that any mule deer survives its first year. With so many obstacles, the overwhelming mathematics of probability eliminate any possibility of the existence of a “lucky mule deer.” By the time a deer survives one year, it has probably evade
d death more times than can be counted. This fundamental reality cannot be overemphasized.
And so I remain mystified that this one unusual and strangely bold deer—Blossom—has managed to elude an early death. As she approaches her fifth year, I cannot account for her continued presence in our lives. I can only guess that my fears regarding her welfare are an underestimation of her awareness of the human threat. But clearly while in my presence, Blossom represents a persuasive mule deer ambassador who will boldly introduce herself to any strange human visitor. Blossom has the power to change people’s understanding of a wild animal in ways that would be otherwise unimaginable. Always to their great surprise and delight, Blossom, with complete confidence, readily greets an unsuspecting person who may have stopped by for business or some casual visit with curious sniffs to face and hands. Most of these Wyoming residents only know this animal, if not as a desirable game animal, at least as a dreaded and persistent obstacle on the highways. More than once I have heard someone say with astonishment, as if they had never entertained the possibility, “I’ve never touched a live mule deer before!” And, more important, after only a brief introduction, I have had these same people—from carpenters to cowboys—ask specifically about this special deer they may have met a year ago, and perhaps for only five minutes. “How is Blossom? Is she still OK?” No one has ever met Blossom who did not immediately fall in love with her, for she is simply an irresistible enchantress. She is adorable in every sense, but, significantly, people recognize some undeniable and powerful substance in this creature, and “cute” would not be the first description that comes to mind. And, far from seeing Blossom as occupying a status of a “friendly and lovable pet” in my life, I admire this remarkable being as one of my greatest teachers, and my respect for her is absolute. I should be half as competent in my life as she is in hers. Because she has been a vital and inspirational part of my life every day for almost five years, I cannot now imagine an existence without this important relationship. I dread the day when I must come to terms with the actual depths of my emotional entanglement with this creature, for she has enriched my world beyond comprehension.