Touching the Wild

by Joe Hutto

  Graciously, our neighbor posted signs and told other neighbors that trespassers and poachers would no longer be tolerated. Our neighboring property was formerly part of a large historic cattle ranch in the area, and, as a courtesy, an elderly member of the original family who lived nearby had been given permission to allow certain hunters on the property at her discretion. However, she was told that this year only antelope hunters could be allowed on the property. Somehow the new instructions got confused by the woman, and she allowed two hunters to come onto the ranch. They drove directly across the property, and within sight of the house and at long range, they shot and killed Lanie standing at Shady’s side. Our adjoining rancher was saddened by the misunderstanding and reminded the elderly woman of the new policy, and the two men were unaware that they had made any sort of mistake. They were interested only in obtaining the meat and had merely killed a fine-looking legal game animal in Wyoming. Lanie was not a deer that would warrant even a short hunting story at work the following Monday—he was just a few pounds of meat in the freezer.

  An innocent mistake had been made, and it was impossible to be angry or cast blame. All we could do was feel loss for a gentle young buck whom we had come to know and love because of special circumstances, but it was impossible not to feel grief for the plight of Shady, knowing that, once again, she had been terrorized and, worse, that she had lost her only fawn and companion in such a cruel way. How much suffering, cruelty, and misfortune was this little deer going to know in her brief but extraordinary life? Now it seemed fate had further condemned Shady, and she was surely destined to live out her remaining life in the unnatural agony of mule deer solitude.

  Shady returned to our yard late the following day, and the disappointment in her eyes was palpable. Her loneliness was now complete and irreconcilable. She had learned to look to me for consolation and hope. That she could still have faith in any personal relationship with a human seemed far too generous, and possessed of some extraordinary virtue that filled me with wonder and with shame.

  Historically, with the exception of the length of an official season, mule deer have remained an unmanaged species in Wyoming with near-complete disregard for a population that has been in decline for decades. In an environment where mule deer never live out their potential life expectancy, it would have been asking too much to hope that Shady would be around for many years. There was always that nagging understanding and expectation of the inevitable. But, then, that same inevitability joins and defines us all in a type of biological companionship. If nothing else, we share the inevitability of death with all living things, and, ultimately, I find some consolation in that.

  Throughout the following spring and into summer, Shady, like some mysterious ephemeral being, roamed the surrounding hillsides and meadows, appearing with irregular predictability. She would often leave the area of the house in the afternoons with Charm and the remaining members of Anne’s maternal clan, but soon we would see her hobbling along in the distance as she fared as best she could alone among rich, new summer browse and the bounty of wet, irrigated meadows dotted with a smattering of purple, flowering alfalfa. Still, she was all too aware of her impairment and that her immobility limited the diversity of browse that she could access on any given day. So, we still had the comfort of seeing Shady every day, and she retained full privileges and access to feed and grain. Shady was not always punctual in her visits—punctuality is not a mule deer characteristic—but she was entirely dependable.

  Raggedy Anne’s survivors: Shady, Bangle, and Charm.

  Inevitability ultimately rules the day—the absolute prevalence of probability—and around the first of June we were aware that Shady had finally failed to return. First a day, then two, and by the first week we knew that we had finally seen the last of this sad but adorable and inspiring creature. By some means that we would never know, Shady had at last left our world. It was impossible to be bitter. There was only an emptiness in our physical space, our hearts, and our minds—the space that an extraordinary and unlikely mule deer had so richly occupied for so long. That she had survived for a year and a half was simply beyond explanation. She had never been a burden or an imposition, but more like some very complex but ultimately lovable addition to our lives. One remarkable deer had taught me so much about a species, about life and struggle, but ironically had even taught me things about myself. I am still trying to learn lessons from the privilege of knowing Shady, but I’m suspicious that ultimately it all has something to do with integrity.

  Finding it difficult to put Shady to rest in my mind, it was the demands of ranch life, writing books, and now even filmmaking that were putting miles and a busy life between me and an experience that was probably going to take years to assimilate and fully understand anyway. That summer, our lives were further complicated and consumed by an inconvenient drought, a plague of grasshoppers nearing biblical proportions, and three teams of draft horses pulling mowers and rakes who behaved more like rodeo rough stock than the docile creatures we had always known. And, to top things off, after a summer engaged 100 percent in irrigation, mowing, raking, baling, and stacking, like every other rancher in this part of Wyoming, we were down nearly 80 percent on our hay crop.

  But throughout the summer we were delighted to meet all the new little deer faces that were gradually being introduced among the resident summer herd, and each afternoon a small congregation of enthusiastic fawns would lighten our day and make us realize that life does not hinge on a single crop of hay. It is hard to even be tired when you’re watching spotted fawns playing tag in the side yard with cottontail rabbits. Sitting on the front porch late one afternoon, sipping a beer after working with Jack and Robin’s teams all day, Robin finally made the observation and commented as a chipmunk ran across someone’s boot, “You guys have really got the Disney thing going out here.”

  Toward the end of July, after the haying operation was complete and all the bales had been gathered from the meadows, does and new fawns would mother-up in the lower front meadow two hundred yards below the house each evening. Leslye and I would pass the binoculars back and forth, watching the new fawns play and interact as they began to establish important social ties that would endure for the rest of their lives. One particular afternoon, we could see a small group of deer below the meadow, and we easily recognized Charm’s conspicuous black scar on her flank, along with her two yearling does faithfully following nearby. But then I asked, “Who is that other doe with the dark little fawn at her side?” Leslye grabbed the binoculars and stared intently for what seemed like a long time. Then, in a quiet monotone of utter disbelief, she said cautiously, “It’s Shady with a brand-new baby.” Without another word she handed me the binoculars, and I immediately recognized Shady’s characteristic limp, just as the little fawn ran under her shriveled leg and enthusiastically began nursing.

  Shady had apparently disappeared early into complete secrecy to bear her fawn, long before we could discern that she had, by some mysterious means, gotten pregnant in the fall. I can safely say that I have never seen a more beautiful sight or known a happier moment in my life. Shady lives—she has a fawn. I rest my case.

  C H A P T E R T E N

  Buck Friends

  I have come to know many mule deer under many different circumstances. Meeting newborn fawns who eventually grow into adults is a surefire way of gaining entry into the lives of these deer. However, young mule deer bucks often pioneer new territory as they have occasion to leave their ancestral home range. Consequently, many of the bucks I come to know are fully mature and completely unacquainted with the close proximity of a human. I had known Babe since he was a small spotted fawn, but many, if not most, of the bucks I have come to know have entered my life as young or even older adults and complete strangers. Most mule deer bucks are not inclined to cultivate relationships with an unpredictable and ultimately frightening human. Perhaps my greatest revelation in this entire study and certainly a source of great joy and satisfaction has co
me from occasionally gaining the trust and establishing a true and intimate relationship with one of these definitively wild creatures.

  Many local game birds, such as chukar quail, Hungarian partridge, sage grouse, or pheasants, like most living things, in fact, are horrified by the sight of a human, even at great distances. I am amazed when I see these same creatures running around the legs of enormous mule deer and even merely skirting around a bucking and stotting fawn that is irresistibly inspired to play with these birds. Then, when these same birds see my approach at two hundred yards, they either sprint away through the sage brush or burst into flight and disappear a quarter-mile away across the canyon. All creatures fear the human animal like no other, as if it is hardwired into the genome of most animals, causing me to wonder, evolutionarily, what have we done to become so loathsome to almost all living things? How could this have come to pass in such a relatively short geological time? No other predator on the landscape, regardless of how formidable, is regarded with such abject horror. Even the mule deer possesses the same genetic revulsion to the human animal—with more justification than most—so I am continually amazed that this organic divide—this evolutionary abyss—can be spanned by any means. For a fully mature and wild mule deer buck to somehow possess the capacity to receive my immediate company—or, even more outrageous, my companionship—is always astonishing.

  Casper

  Casper arrived as a young adult several years ago and earned his name as the palest mule deer I have ever seen. He is truly ghost-like on the mountainside among the sandstones and sage, and I can pick him out of twenty deer a mile away. Casper has struggled inordinately with the various physical ailments that plague so many of these deer, including persistent multiple necrotic lesions that originated in the bone of his maxilla and mandible. These abscesses of the soft tissue and bone first appear as large swellings, and may eventually erupt though the skin. Once the common endemic bacteria Actinomyces bovis becomes pathological as a result of some mechanical introduction into the gums, pallet, or bone, and more often exacerbated by a compromised immune system, it can be at least persistent and stubborn, if not ultimately and horribly fatal. In addition, Casper was infected with the papilloma virus, which is common in mule deer, causing disfiguring, tumor-like, dark, gray, smooth, hairless growths that may range from a centimeter across to golf-ball-size. These soft or even gelatinous “warts” can occur anywhere on the body and normally represent only a temporary nuisance, as they eventually become strangulated by their own weight and fall off. Then, like juvenile warts in human children, they tend to never reappear. In some individuals with faltering immune systems, such as Casper, papilloma can reoccur year after year, and if occurring within nasal cavities or the tissues around the lips or eyes, it may represent life-threatening handicaps that can interfere with breathing, eating, and vision. Casper has struggled terribly with all these difficulties, and all I have been able to offer is some much-needed, highly nutritious supplemental feed, as well as the occasional unconvincing reassurance that he is still handsome.

  This young adult deer immediately sought me out and within weeks of his arrival allowed me to scratch and groom him as if I had known him since he was a fawn. But Casper is clearly a rare mule deer success story, as he seems now to have at last “outgrown” his various maladies, and although he will always be stunted, today he presents a relative picture of health despite some difficulty in breathing because of scarring and trauma within his nasal bones. Nearing five years of age, he has grown a fine-looking set of antlers, and although of a rather small order of magnitude, they are nevertheless impressive, with six symmetrical points on either side. He often bucks and stots playfully around me when we are near, shaking his head and ears at me provocatively, and as his excitement builds, his breathing impairment becomes loud like the sound of a big, snuffling dog, alerting me to his approach. Often before I realize it, his big, black nose is in my coat pocket in search of a horse wafer, and as I turn, twelve pointy antler tines are nearly in my face.

  The author on the mountain with Casper and others.

  Mule deer sustain injuries of every description, including various gunshot wounds that have not proven fatal. With every mature mule deer clearly visible at one half-mile in this vast country, no deer reaches an age of four years that has not been shot at on multiple occasions. Casper was shot in the shoulder last year with a relatively small caliber round at such an extraordinary distance that the projectile arrived with barely enough energy to penetrate the skin and muscle over his scapula but not pass through the bone. The wound began to fester, and in three months the bullet was finally ejected in an outpouring from a cyst of necrotic fluid filled with hair and a .22 caliber lead that was barely deformed. Casper was never made visibly lame throughout the entire ordeal, and now he shows only a trace of a scar.

  Casper recovering from a gunshot wound.

  I don’t know for sure if gratitude is one of the many interesting qualities inherent in the mule deer personality, but without question Casper clearly recognizes me as his only invested advocate in this world. But, for a multitude of other, more important reasons, we are pals.

  Boar and Bubba

  Early one cold December morning, several years ago, I was out with the deer on the mountain slopes behind the ranch, and I looked around to see two rather enormous bucks standing on the periphery in knee-deep snow with wide eyes clearly asking the immediate question, “Why are we not all running?” These were two big wild deer, completely confused that I could be surrounded by thirty-five deer that seemed to be oblivious to my presence. The two stared intently as I pretended to ignore them, but their discomfort became too great, and they quickly moved down the canyon to the draw below and disappeared. These deer were probably twin brothers, about three and a half years old and seemed to have dropped out of one identical genetic mold. Although these deer were in no way inclined to be near me, they did discover that winter had arrived and that I had begun placing alfalfa in the area in a preemptive effort to ward off starvation. Soon the brothers began taking advantage of the opportunities. Gradually the big bucks began to hover on the periphery of the herd and were indulged by the other males not only because of their imposing physical stature, but, more important, because of their deferential etiquette and a complete unwillingness to involve themselves or disrupt the existing masculine order of things.

  Although the two bucks shared an uncanny similarity, Boar appeared somewhat more robust, with an aggressive look that Bubba did not share. Boar had the appearance of a true warrior, whereas Bubba was the shyer of the two deer and seemed to project a humble air. For that first year, both of these deer were barely indulgent of my proximity. Boar was and is to this day a gigantic specimen of a mule deer—perhaps the largest mule deer I have closely observed—but, curiously, even after two more years, he never seemed to be a contender in the hierarchy of deer. He never challenged Babe for dominance, though he was distinctly heavier and with much more antler mass than any deer in the area.

  Boar and Bubba—socially isolated, but inseparable twin brothers.

  In fact, each year he would mysteriously disappear at the onset of the rut without a trace and then conveniently reappear after the reproductive dust had finally settled. For a couple of years I assumed he was off to visit another winter herd that might not be attended by a creature so formidable as Babe. Although Boar had minor scarring on his face, suggesting he had known mule deer combat, he always returned immediately after the rut with no broken antlers, no visible wounds, and still apparently in the same prime condition that he displayed before the rut.

  Evolutionary biologist and mule deer researcher Valerius Geist had observed that, for mysterious reasons, “master bucks” will on rare occasions abstain entirely from the rut, becoming solitary and then perhaps inadvertently preserving precious winter reserves and enduring the seasonal hardships in better condition than bucks that had been rigorously competitive. He suggested that these deer accumulated more imposing
size and vigor and then might reenter the rut as more dominant competitors in future years. After three years, I became certain that Boar was just such a deer. I came to know Boar closely, and after so much time, he seemed to consider me an admittedly odd but safe member of his herd. To my absolute delight and amazement, he eventually came to trust me to some degree and cautiously lets me handle him and on occasion hold one of his massive antlers in my hand while I scratch his disturbingly powerful neck.

  Brother Bubba always remained suspicious, however, and never allowed me closer than twenty meters, but he was in large measure inseparable from his brother, so if Boar was in the area, Bubba was not far away. Perhaps it was the bullet that penetrated his left rear hoof two years ago that convinced him that all humans were equally untrustworthy. Bubba’s hoof was a mess for months, leaving him with a conspicuous limp, but surprisingly it did heal in a year, and upon his arrival this summer, he showed bad scarring but with no real deformation, and he walked without any sign of a limp.