Touching the Wild

by Joe Hutto

  Boar, following the author like an affiliate.

  Although a most enormous and imposing animal, probably hovering around the three-hundred-pound range, Boar’s most conspicuous characteristic is his seemingly contradictory gentle nature. Polite to a fault, Boar rarely makes even the most subtle gesture to any deer—doe, fawn, or buck—that might project a suggestion of dominance or aggressive intent. In fact, on every occasion he will relent to all but the smallest bucks and surrender his space—even when a valuable food source is in jeopardy. For lack of better language, and all visible evidence to the contrary, I have to conclude that Boar is just profoundly insecure. After observing this buck and perhaps one or two similar deer for many years—deer that have displayed somewhat similar personalities—I now believe that these may be individuals that have been physically and emotionally traumatized to such an extent that they were never able to recover. These may be deer that have been thoroughly defeated—and now bear physical and emotional scars that will never fully heal. I am convinced that Boar is a gentle giant who was once hurt badly in combat, and he has grown to be a monumental deer with a powerful body but a fragile personality. All the while growing ever more handsome and statuesque, this unusual deer completely declines to risk life and limb for the opportunity to mate. Bubba occasionally appeared in the area of the herd during the rut, but Boar always vanishes until all rutting activity has ended. At the age of six or seven, Boar continues to grow increasingly massive antlers, although he has begun to lose points and length in his tines. Once sporting numerous small supernumerary or ancillary tines, he now displays a more typical configuration of ten overall points. Boar has passed his prime without ever emerging as a reproductive contender.

  The peculiar phenomenon described above may be attributed entirely to personality, as I have watched dominant deer become completely devastated in combat, with perforated necks and abdomens and even sustaining blinding injuries to an eye, and as an opportunity presents itself, these stronger personalities may reemerge to become the unchallenged superior deer in the herd. Ironically, however, it may be the buck with a more sensitive personality who becomes soundly and irreversibly convinced of his inferiority, then one day emerges as that extraordinary deer who makes hunter headlines.

  This past winter Boar and Bubba entered the area of the house from off the mountain just before dark. I offered the two big boys some whole corn that I had in a bag nearby, and as Boar ate directly from my hand, Bubba moved in especially close and nibbled on a small pile that I had left on the ground twenty feet away. The two deer finished their treat, and as night began to fall, both bucks slipped away back up toward the mountain.

  The following morning the entire herd of deer appeared nervous and fractious in a way that let me know some misfortune had occurred in the night. This behavior is all too common and absolutely unmistakable. Twenty deer climbed the foot of the mountain behind the house, lined up shoulder to shoulder, and stared intently out over the wide basin of the draw beyond. No question—somebody was dead. I stood among the anxious deer staring across a square mile of sage brush and rocks but could see nothing. However, the deer were all staring at a specific location farther out on the mountain. I had heard three or four wolves howling in that direction up the mountain two nights before, so I suspected that they had probably been involved in some mule deer mayhem. A small group of wolves—two blacks and two grays—had been active in the area, and I was aware of one other visitation two weeks before, but I was aware of no successful attacks. In fact, most deer deliberately avoid the wide upper basin of the draw during the night because of the predictability of large predators on that area of the mountain. But after several years, it had been made clear that Boar and Bubba were never true herd members and were always compelled or obligated to spend much of their time in that area.

  Very early the next day, I found the deer still nervous, and I soon observed the doe Blossom as she left a group of fifteen deer and headed up the mountain with an all-too-familiar intent—like she was on a mission—and I followed right along. Just as she had once led me to her dead fawn, Rosebud, Blossom led me straight to the top of the first rise a quarter-mile up the mountain. As we reached the crest and stood on the cliff face overlooking the basin, Blossom stared intently, and I immediately saw ravens, magpies, and six golden eagles feeding on a dark spot in the snow and sage bush another quarter-mile out. I bailed off a notch in the cliff, climbed down into the draw, and began striding up the other side. In these instances it is always a highly charged and disturbing sight as large numbers of scavenger birds burst into flight and begin to scatter all around. Panting heavily, I looked one hundred yards ahead and saw distinctive antlers standing above the level of the sage brush. At thirty yards, I knew with certainty that Bubba had been killed. The snow was still deep, but a multitude of scavengers, including coyotes, had been ravaging the remains for more than twenty-four hours. Bubba was completely disemboweled, everything but the contents of his stomach (rumen) had been consumed, both his hindquarters were eaten almost bare, and his ribcage was entirely exposed. I tried to reconstruct what had occurred but could only determine that there had been no combative struggle with signs of mud, blood, and hair typically scattered in a fifty-meter radius that would indicate the work of coyotes or wolves. There was no doubt—two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Bubba had been grabbed and pulled directly to the ground and died on the spot. This was clearly the work of a lion and probably a big one. Although damaged by the various scavengers, the neck and head were still intact, and as I searched for the telltale puncture wounds that characterize the powerful bite of a mountain lion, I looked within the mouth to check for blood that inevitably results from strangulation or a broken neck. There in Bubba’s mouth were kernels of whole corn, neither chewed nor swallowed, that I had given him only minutes before his death two nights before.

  I observed for days as the herd collectively examined Bubba’s remains on multiple occasions. The site began to look quite trampled by all the activity, as more than forty deer continued to inspect the now sparse raw skeleton that was gradually being disarticulated by competing coyotes and large birds.

  Two weeks later, a mile from the house, as I worked my way up the mountain slowly browsing, with perhaps twenty deer that included most of the larger bucks, we found ourselves near the site of Bubba’s attack. Ironically, as a documentary film camera rolled from the cliffs above, Boar was recorded carefully approaching his dead brother one last time in some seemingly heartbreaking effort to understand the consequences of this incomprehensible development, and perhaps how he was to proceed in a world that would now be unimaginably different. With great intensity and obvious deliberation, Boar leaned forward and studied the remains. After so many years, it seemed apparent that Boar had to somehow accept that his twin brother was in fact gone—that he would now be forever alone, and the only life he knew had also died with his lifelong companion. As three or four does joined this delicate moment, perhaps some final farewell was offered, for Boar merely looked up the mountain and, without a glance back, moved slowly away.

  Bubba in prime condition the day he was killed by a mountain lion.

  Bubba, the next day.

  Boar, alone at last.

  Having somehow made it my business to observe these strange things, I find a need if not a responsibility to offer explanations. But I am helpless to speculate and simply wonder—is it fair to suspect that only the human heart is left aching?

  Shadow

  Late during our second winter with the deer, a strange doe showed up one cold day with three fawns at her side. Unusual among mule deer, but not unknown, not only are triplets rare; three surviving fawns of advanced age are truly extraordinary. The two doe fawns were tawny and gray like their mother, who had an unusual head shape that immediately brought the vision of an Australian koala to mind. The third fawn was a peculiar little buck that was distinctive in his contrast to the rest of the family. This small deer not only was somewhat of a runt b
ut was also well defined by contrasting color patterns of dark and light. His head was also distinctive, with a bit of a pug nose and enormous black eyes that were filled with even more fear and insecurity than those of the other members of the family.

  At first we saw the family only in the evenings after the other deer had left the area, and we would turn on a back porch light and the four would scatter out of the yard. Soon, they became less fearful and would remain in the yard with a few other deer. Leslye quickly assigned names to the distinctive family, and they became known as mother Koala and fawns Teddy, Bear, and Shadow. I identified Koala as a doe I had repeatedly watched in a winter herd to the east that had been overtaken by a rural housing development and was now nearing complete extinction. In need of mule deer society, Koala and family gradually spent more time in our herd’s company but were nevertheless obligated to return to the confusing and dangerous misfortune of their home winter range a mile and a half away—now a tangle of trailers, houses, fenced lots, driveways, backdoor bow hunters, and domestic dogs. Gradually the family left our herd less and less often, preferring to stay in the relative safety and plenty of the ranch.

  Koala was an extraordinary mule deer, not only because of her large family but perhaps because the need to care for so many mouths had put heavy demands on her physically, and she was aware that things were not going well for her or her fawns. There was an unmistakable look of desperation in her eyes, and with a facial appearance that was absolutely adorable, she became an irresistible object of fascination. This doe made it clear that she was in need of some help; she knew that strange people were offering assistance, and she was smart enough to take advantage of a life-saving opportunity. In less than a month this deer made a quick decision that I was to be trusted, and one afternoon with the look of life and death in her tired eyes, she walked cautiously to my side and took feed directly from my hand. In that moment, her apprehensions vanished, and she came to me at any opportunity and was immediately glad to be scratched and groomed about her head and neck. However, Teddy and Bear remained more cautious, while the little buck fawn, Shadow, expressed a clear objective to come nowhere near me.

  Koala with the irrefutable look of sadness and disappointment.

  Koala’s flattering acceptance of my company, along with her delightful disposition and lovable appearance, was more than enough to win my devotion and my heart. Each day at dawn I would look for her arrival around the house with her beautiful fawns and the favor of her enchanting company.

  I was looking forward to knowing Koala and her family as an opportunity to further understand the ways and means of mule deer life. But this was not to be. In the midst of the last great snowstorm of that winter, both Teddy and Notcha’s buck fawn, Button, whom we had known like a family member, mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. Then, that April, I awakened to see deer lined up along the cliff just below the house, expressing dire concern over something below. Arriving at the crest of the rocks, I looked down to magpies and the distinct dark form of a dead deer in the willows. Within seconds of my arrival, I saw a small, telltale clip out of the left ear of the dead doe and knew immediately that Koala had been killed fifty yards from the kitchen window. The puncture wounds on the back of her neck revealed that a lion had struck in the early hours, and her abdomen had been opened with surgical precision, with only the liver eaten. The lion never returned to Koala’s remains, and I considered her death a tragic waste. This lovely deer was one of many mule deer attachments that informed me that this experiment was going to be, among many things, a lesson in the persistent realization of grief.

  Koala’s orphans after the lion attack.

  Shadow vocalizing. One of the few bucks to frequently display this behavior.

  Koala’s fawn, Bear, survived to produce a beautiful buck fawn named Panda, and although stunted as a fawn, he is now a delightful, healthy, but diminutive young deer sporting his second set of antlers. Bear was lost to hunters the following year, but Shadow survived to become a most handsome deer and, at last, a friendly, mature buck. He became one of the few adult deer who would consistently vocalize to me when I was near. Mule deer voices are used conservatively, and to be addressed by a veteran buck was for me the greatest of honors.

  Shadow’s disfigured left front hoof.

  To my dismay, Shadow wandered in one morning a few years ago limping horribly on his right front leg, and it was immediately evident that his bloody foot and pastern had, by some means, been completely crushed and raked. After much deliberation, I concluded that the only explanation for this peculiar injury would be a steel trap—probably set somewhere on the nearby mountainside by a coyote trapper. Somehow, this deer managed to pull free of the trap in what must have been a violent and explosive struggle. That the hooves were not pulled completely off the bone is phenomenal—yet more testimony to the mule deer’s ability to overcome extraordinary adversity. After several years, these wounds, which even involved compounded or exposed bones, have completely healed, but the foot is badly disfigured, and Shadow will always walk with a visible and obviously painful limp.

  Shadow on the cliffs with the author.

  By five years of age, Shadow was a handsome adult, though stunted, who would appear to a trained observer to be a much younger deer of perhaps two and a half years. His antlers remained well formed but small and without any suggestion of bifurcation. His eyes and face remained distinctly dark, giving him a brooding, mysterious, and somewhat aggressive appearance. But although Shadow was submissive to all the larger, more dominant deer of his generation, he appeared to be regarded with complete kindness and was never bullied.

  After observing Koala and similar behavior in several other mule deer does, I think Shadow was a case of partial mule deer adoption. In retrospect, I recall that although clearly included, Shadow never made any effort to nurse, always nervously hovered around his close-knit family, and certainly shares no physical similarity to any of his siblings or Koala.

  It is bucks like Shadow, Boar, Bubba, and Casper who have offered the most profound insight, revealing the extraordinary capacity—that “willing” predisposition toward adaptation that defines mule deer behavior most clearly.

  P A R T I I

  The Essential Mule Deer

  Whitetail doe and fawn. Photo by Marcia Murdock.

  Mule deer doe, Blossom, and fawn Rosebud.

  C H A P T E R E L E V E N

  Mule Deer versus White-Tailed Deer

  The mule deer of the American West is one of the quintessential “big game” species, extraordinary on many levels, including an unusual and recent evolutionary development forged from the rigors of their environment—brutal winters, lethal predators, and mountainous terrain. They have a remarkable intelligence, a complex society, and a finely adapted membership in a particularly difficult but magnificent ecology, occupying a vast range roughly corresponding to the often rugged ecology of the Rocky Mountain West, from northern Canada to Mexico. My earliest introduction to this species involved that primal relationship of hunter and prey. But having previously spent years with deer from every corner of the world in a research context, I quickly observed that there was something special about the mule deer, and, like most so-called game animals, they are far more interesting than either the contribution they make to the tradition or “sport” of hunting or their desirability as table fare. Of course, any authentic hunter becomes well aware of these facts and in many cases develops at least a genuine respect for this animal, if not a deep affection. Although this study will probably contribute little to the skills or advantages of the avid mule deer hunter, it is not meant to discourage hunting insofar as it contributes to the maintenance of a healthy, stable population and to the ultimate welfare of the species. But because it is the right thing to do, every hunter needs to know what it is, and who it is, he is actually trying to kill.

  It is difficult to describe the mule deer of North America without remembering that they are not merely derived from t
heir distant, white-tailed progenitor; DNA studies suggest that they actually found their genesis as a hybrid between that older species and the million-year-old evolutionary descendent of the whitetail—the black-tailed deer. Their mitochondrial DNA further suggests, more precisely, that the mule deer is in fact the result of unions between black-tailed bucks and white-tailed does sometime toward the end of the Pleistocene. Then, like its black-tailed relative, this new hybrid must have remained in geographical isolation for many thousands of years, dispersing and adapting to the various rugged ecologies of the Rocky Mountain West. Although seemingly convoluted, such reunions with an evolutionary precursor must have happened many times in the prehistory and development of life on earth. And so it could be safely said that the mule deer descended twice from the whitetail. The white-tailed deer, however, precedes the mule deer by at least six million years, whereas the mule deer has probably struggled to distinguish itself as a species for perhaps no more than fifteen thousand. It is still in its evolutionary infancy, a mere newcomer on the grand stage of life, a clever and malleable creature that had the fate of being challenged by a difficult land in a difficult time. Although the DNA of mule deer and whitetails is quite similar, the differences in the phenotypic, or outward, appearance, as well as behavioral differences of mule deer and whitetails, are great. But, then, as we know, chimps and humans are identical within a few percent of genes, so we shouldn’t be surprised.