by Joe Hutto
Babe usually made his appearance on or about the last day of the regular season, and the only clue I ever had to his whereabouts was that he always appeared with his antlers rubbed on burned and blackened timber, indicating that he lived in a previously burned forest, or at least migrated through one. The nearest burned forest areas would be five miles up the mountain near Wolf Point above the Little Popo Agie Canyon, or ten miles further north on the Middle Fork/Sinks Canyon drainage. Upon his arrival, optimistic bucks would have already begun eyeing the arriving does that would be coming into season in a few weeks. Regardless of any presumptions made in his absence by aspiring young bucks, Babe reestablished the rightful order of things, not within hours of his arrival but within minutes.
It’s almost impossible to ascribe a phonetic spelling to the various mule deer voices, and most researchers just resort to poorly crafted approximations; for example, the master buck’s rutting threat vocalization has often been dubbed the “rut snort,” a totally inaccurate description of a phenomenal artifact of the natural world. There is nothing remotely “snort-like” about this voice, unless you are a half-mile away. In reality, the voice more closely resembles a single coughing, growling, territorial roar of the male African lion, or the similar barking roar of a frightened or suspicious bull elk in the wild. The “explosive rut-roar” better describes the stunning phenomenon of a three-hundred-pound master buck announcing his willingness to die this very moment for his authority to mate. Rutting bucks also emit lesser threat roars that are perfunctory and uninspired, as well as the occasional long, breathy growl meant to convey growing agitation with some other buck. This more subtle growling voice is nearly always accompanied by an unmistakable threat posture, with every hair standing straight out, changing a buck’s coloration from brown or gray to almost black.
Babe began his second year of dominance among this herd by arriving during the dark of night on the last morning of the hunting season. Mule deer season is an anxious time for me, of course, and most mornings I am up long before first light and often out in the yard counting noses, and as the sun rises, I listen to the report of rifle shots in the area. That particular morning I walked out the back door into the yard in absolute darkness (flashlights are considered rude, if not outright horrifying, to a mule deer) and stood there in the October chill waiting for my eyes to adjust to the ambient starlight. Before my eyes could begin to adapt, I realized there was something moving into my immediate space at about eye level and above. Something resembling a large face materialized only a foot from my face, which was somewhat disquieting, considering that walking into the night in a state of near-total blindness is never wise in this part of Wyoming. Suddenly I began to make out the shape of an unusually large pair of antlers, and although I had not yet laid eyes on Babe or his new improved antler configuration, I could tell without question that the distinctive shape I perceived in the darkness could belong only to him. Trying to suppress a fear resulting from my obvious, precarious, and vulnerable position, I could speak only one clear but cautious question as my heart seemed to compete for volume in the surrounding darkness. My simple inquiry was, “Babe?” Immediately I could see this great head lower a few inches as Babe relaxed—he then moved forward and sniffed my face. Relief of many sorts vied for significance in my anxious and confused state. It seemed almost impossible not only that Babe had survived another year but that, after six months and an entire hunting season of relentless persecution, here he was in the pitch black night, casually sniffing my face. I shoved a horse cookie his way, which he first inspected with his hot, steaming breath before it disappeared in his warm soft mouth. With a subsiding heartbeat, I relaxed and became aware of other deer that I could not make out, but were also milling around close by. I headed through the night in the direction of the equipment barn at the back of the yard to retrieve a bucket of grain.
Suddenly, in the inky darkness from ten feet behind, an explosive roar rattled all the buildings, along with my courage and any semblance of my remaining wits. My hair stood on end, and I almost buckled at the knees as Babe declared his absolute authority over this mule deer realm with a resonating muscular voice that was, until that moment, unimaginable. I just had no idea that a sound of that order of magnitude could originate from within a deer—even a deer pushing three hundred pounds. It was the ultimate vocal articulation of physical and emotional volition, and I now knew on a visceral level who Babe was—what Babe had truly become. Although I had always been confident that I could trust Babe—in that moment, in that complete darkness—I feared that if I had been deceived, had been misled, or had misjudged this monumental physical phenomenon and my relationship to it, this moment could be my absolute undoing. One of the foremost evolutionary biologists in the world with many years of hands-on experience with mule deer, after learning of the extent to which I had become involved, had given me a rather stern warning about the dangers of becoming too intimate with this particular creature, and I continue to regard his admonition with great attention and respect. This powerful animal had just issued a challenge to all the world—an unequivocal declaration that he would reign supreme or die, and from ten feet away, in the predawn blackness, I had no way of knowing if I had just been included in his world of possible adversaries—just one more rather minor obstacle obstructing his path to supremacy. Both my faith in Babe and any confidence in my good judgment were in that moment shattered. Under the best of circumstances, diverting any malevolent intent would probably be impossible at this close range, and, more disturbing, in this darkness I would never even see it coming. For one fearful instant, I considered that Babe might have already decided my fate.
After two more years of interaction, I realized that, in fact, I was entirely safe with this great deer. I knew without question that I could trust him with my life. There are probably those who would say, “Yes, but then what if his mood and our circumstances fell into some unfortunate misalignment—then what?” I have definitely taken calculated risks with certain wild animals over the years, but I do not have a history of being outright foolish while in the company of those with dangerous potentials, and a level of caution has served me well over the years. I have been naive on occasion—but not carelessly foolhardy. There have certainly been those few frightening encounters with a number of animals in the wild, but perhaps more deadly are those straightforward attacks by dangerously human-imprinted animals, which include three different species of deer, one cougar, one jaguar, a hamadryas baboon, and an eighteen-foot anaconda that was quite certain he could swallow me whole. Whereas some other deer, perhaps even some other mule deer, could prove dangerous under the perfect set of circumstances, I know Babe, and I am completely confident that he would never intentionally hurt me—regardless of circumstance. I have not allowed or experienced that level of trust with many creatures. But, though I speak confidently, there is only one thing of absolute value that I have learned by living—I can be dead wrong about anything.
During Babe’s fifth year with us, and after reigning as the dominant buck for more than two years, he was involved in a vicious battle in which his opponent’s antler tine completely penetrated his left eye. Although he remained victorious, his cornea was punctured and torn directly over the pupil.
For a month the eye appeared to be a gaping wound that drained day and night, and the possibility that he would regain even part of his vision seemed remote. However, in three months the eye had healed, and it appeared that at least partial function had been restored, but with an opaque scar directly over the pupil and dead center in his field of vision. Babe continued relentlessly defending his territory throughout the rut with total disregard for his injury and without any apparent impediment to his abilities.
The pupils of the mule deer eye, like those of many ungulates, are not circular as in humans, but rather arranged as a wide, horizontal, black orifice, giving a grazing prey animal that is keenly adapted to open space a greater range of peripheral vision and perhaps even a greater
sensitivity to any motion within the field of view. Although Babe’s vision was obstructed dead center, his vision on either side of the scar appeared to be quite good. Interestingly, during his convalescence, and as the rut began to wind down, Babe was trusting enough to let me wipe away the crusty matter that would build up around the injured eye every day. Although initially heartbreaking and perversely ironic to see one of his defining and magnificent eyes destroyed, Babe seemed to recover with only a quarter-inch milky white spot on the middle of his left cornea but with the interior of the eye still brilliantly brownish-black and crystal-clear. His eyes remained in every way as powerful and engaging as they had always been.
Babe before the rut.
Babe was blind in one eye, ragged, but victorious.
Babe, exhausted from the rut. Photo by Sammy Tedder.
C H A P T E R N I N E
Making a Case for Mule Deer Miracles
Although not among my few areas of modest expertise, I presume that miracles are not by definition theoretical but rather confined to the realm of the hypothetical. Try as we might, it is hard to uphold or substantiate a miracle with supporting evidence that might lend the phenomenon the credence of theoretical status. It is the paradoxical nature of miracles that they can only be discredited but never empirically substantiated. As a matter of protocol, scientific observation is generally obliged to remain removed from the realm of things theological or mystical, and it relies more properly on a foundation of hard evidence while observing phenomena in nature. I do, however, believe in the apparent magic that statistical probability provides the universe—and, given enough time and opportunity, most anything not only can but, in all probability, will happen. Upon close examination there is nothing arbitrary or ambiguous about probability. You know—enough chimpanzees, enough typewriters, enough time—sooner or later, somebody’s gonna write King Lear. We won’t, for the sake of this silly argument, bring up the complications of chaos theory, entropy, an extraordinary number of dead chimps, and all that. OK, no matter how many trillions of times a tornado grinds through even the most well-endowed junk yard, the outcome will never be a shiny, new jumbo jet. But, for example, let’s remind ourselves that in our relatively unremarkable little galaxy of many billions of stars, many planets like Earth must, statistically speaking, exist. Given that there are not millions but billions of such galaxies, Earth-like planets are not just common but abundant—perhaps innumerable in the most literal sense. It appears that even the unlikely and seemingly miraculous appearance of life overflows with statistical probability. When the lone survivor of a catastrophic plane crash tearfully exclaims to the media that God must have been watching over them, is there an insinuation that God was bloody well disinterested in the other 230 people who perished alongside? That would be a pretty shabby miracle and could more rightly be chalked up to some remote but nevertheless statistical likelihood of survival. Winning the lottery is not a miracle. Surely, given other more pressing concerns, a god would not engage in such tacky behavior, even if the recipient could really use a little cash.
However, there are times when something so good and so impossible occurs that it becomes difficult to avoid the divine intervention hypothesis—especially when our more objective perception is clouded by the involvement of those we love. Miracles are one of a few final resting places for all things unaccountable and the unresolved quest for explanation. As a lifelong student of the natural sciences, I am satisfied to acknowledge but one apparent miracle—that of fundamental and elemental existence—no, not “Creation” but existence. I’ll give the universe that one, but I once knew a veteran Buddhist monk who, when asked some hackneyed rhetorical question about God, said with an honest shrug, while trying to maintain a weary sympathy toward his inquisitor, “I simply have nothing to say about that.”
But to this end, I would like to present and possibly defend the apparently miraculous case of Shady—a remarkable and unlikely mule deer doe. Here, there is no appeal for a declaration of divination and, therefore, no ecumenical council of learned ecclesiastics need convene to hear the merits of this unlikely phenomenon. This is only a simple petition for the unbiased and objective reader to hear her story.
Raggedy Anne’s legacy is strong, living on and resonating across this landscape with progeny who are both rugged and enduring. Hers is a legacy of strength and courage tempered with wisdom. In our second year on the Slingshot Ranch and our second season with this herd of deer, Raggedy Anne’s yearling doe fawn named Charm was bred in the fall, producing twins the following spring. We eventually came to know these fawns as Hue and Shady, in reference to their differences in coloration. Hue, the buck fawn, was bold, of a dark color, outgoing and casual from the beginning, whereas Shady, a smaller, pale doe, was rather shy, much like her mother. Although both Charm and Shady were clearly interested and engaged in our relationship, they were also tentative and fragile in their temperament. But even as a small fawn, Shady displayed a desire to know us, while maintaining an inherent fear of the prospect of some possible betrayal. Fair enough. In such cases, I never encourage or provoke an interaction that obviously creates discomfort and conflict in a deer’s motivation to be near or to maintain a distance. Pressing a wild animal’s willingness to interact is often counterproductive if not destructive to the development or to the maintenance of a relationship. I never encourage close contact with a deer until she has first initiated or expressed a clear willingness. Mule deer can easily become accustomed to some form of proximity to a human, but the tendency toward flight and repulsion is the easiest of all responses to establish and reinforce in this prey species, and can quickly become the predictable reply to our company. And, besides, the best way to cultivate a curious mule deer’s interest in interaction is to ignore it entirely. Mule deer are much like domestic cats in this way—some simply can’t stand to be ignored.
Although born into the privileged genetic line of the Raggedy Anne maternal clan, Shady never acquired any of the presumption of dominance that some deer display, but rather chose a more peripheral and subordinate position within the greater herd. Her strategy was to be inconspicuous, to avoid attention from other deer and thus never risk an unpleasant confrontation. Without an unkind look or protest, she would consistently surrender her space to any other doe, buck, or fawn. Shady remained closely attached to her mother as well as to the protective shadow of her esteemed grandmother, Raggedy Anne. The three bore an uncanny family resemblance—although Shady had the most gentle and lovely face of any deer I have ever known—angelic, one could say. It was obvious that she found solace in the safe social space provided by her clan, and as Raggedy Anne lay dying for three days, Shady was one of her most faithful and constant companions.
While interacting with so many deer, it is often easy to overlook or ignore those individuals who remain more retiring, while favoring those deer who aggressively desire direct contact. When some cute little deer paws on your backside and fearlessly sniffs your face, it is difficult to avoid surrendering all your attentions to its affections. However, because of my particular interest in Shady’s maternal clan, I was inclined to keep close tabs on Raggedy Anne and her crew. Regularly, I observed Shady watching me from the distance as I interacted more closely with her other clan members. She always displayed a keen interest in my comings and goings, and I sensed that my eye contact was not only clearly acknowledged but desired. Shady seemed to derive some satisfaction from our mutual awareness of one another, and I found that each time I was among the deer, I always found myself searching the periphery for her gentle face. There was some interesting expectation in our familiar exchange. With just a glance and perhaps a kind word, Shady’s eyes would soften, and she would look away with apparent satisfaction. Like her mother, Charm, I was certain that our familiarity would eventually build a trust that could withstand the weight of our two profoundly differing worlds, and that one day Shady would afford me the gift of her confidence. One day I would feel her warm, soft nose on my face a
nd run my hands along those plush and opulent ears.
Like most yearling does, Shady was successfully bred in November of her second year. Predictably, she disappeared during fawning season, and, as we had hoped, eventually appeared in the lower meadow one summer afternoon with a fine-looking fawn at her side. She proved to be a doting and exemplary mother, like the does in the rest of her clan, and developed a powerful bond with her rapidly growing buck fawn, whom we began to call Lane and, with more familiarity, Lanie. The two were inseparable throughout late fall and early winter, when some does and fawns began to drift apart. It was comforting to see this shy young doe in the ultimate familial relationship, and motherhood seemed to possess her with a newfound confidence and a security in her abilities as a true survivor. Mule deer mothers are, by definition, warriors. All creatures beware the wrath of a new mule deer mom.
Every mule deer is defined by its many adversarial experiences. No mule deer has persisted a day in this world through good fortune and dumb luck. Every day these animals are confronted with multiple opportunities to die in an almost bewildering variety of ways. Every evening as I watch does and fawns reunite and slip into the inky, foreboding Wyoming night, I find that the analogy of an unarmed combat patrol heading off directly into the path of calculated but unknown danger always enters my mind, and, similarly, the morning often proves that vicious circumstances again prevailed as someone, predictably, has been lost to the night.