Touching the Wild
Page 22
Occasionally I will find an engorged tick on a deer’s ear that needs removing, and, interestingly, in most cases, there is no doubt that the deer is completely aware of the tick and is eager and delighted for me to remove it. Often a deer will want to sniff and examine the dreaded creature to make sure that I have in fact successfully dislodged it. The deer’s gratitude at this time is unmistakable. However, some deer, like some horses, are sensitive about having their ears handled, and although they don’t actually try to move away, they simply try to pull their head away when you grab at the tick. Many times I have literally had to restrain a deer with one arm as it tries to pull its head away, but, again, there is no real resentment or fear associated with this restraint, and never any response that would approximate an escape attempt, and certainly no hostile reaction. These behaviors are outside the realm of things that I could have anticipated, and to my mind often border on the outrageous, appearing to defy a logical behavioral explanation based on models of predictable responses having possible survival advantages and evolutionary significance. After several years, I am left without explanation, and although these observations probably have no real bearing on understanding the true nature of the mule deer as would be appropriate in a more rigorous and strict ethology, this predisposition to communicate and interact far outside the boundaries of what might be expected from any wild species is fascinating. These qualities may at least denote an animal with extraordinary ability to understand and adapt. Perhaps it is the plasticity and malleability of this creature that is so remarkable, and my only possible explanation is founded in the mule deer’s obvious predisposition to be reasonable.
The author intervening when Will displays “jealous” behavior toward another young buck.
Working in and among so many individuals, often in direct proximity, I occasionally get the entire weight from the hoof of a two-hundred-pound deer on my toe, which can hurt, and I just shove the deer off. Occasionally a sharp-pointed antler will accidentally poke me here or there and can also be painful under just the right circumstances. And, of course, on a few occasions I have moved or turned suddenly and inadvertently struck a deer on the leg with my heavy boot, or perhaps jabbed someone with my sharp elbow on his or her tender nose or face. These deer have never taken any kind of offense based on such a misunderstanding, nor reacted with fear from what they clearly interpret as an accident, not the result of my intent or any anger.
Also, I must mention that mule deer appear to be profoundly sensitive to pain. These deer are constantly receiving minor injuries from altercations or accidents with other deer or objects in the environment such as sharp sticks, rocks, barbed wire, or cactus hidden beneath the snow. Although obviously a fine design for a fleet, athletic prey species, these digitigrade, even-toed ungulates have managed to concentrate an unimaginable amount of stress on the smallest possible bones in the smallest possible space, and every mule deer spends much of its life suffering and recovering from chronic and predictable hoof and leg injuries. Hoof injuries are a perpetual plague in all mule deer. And of course there is barbed wire everywhere, which is always a source of injury, both minor and horrific. There has never been a more perfect and deadly fawn trap ever devised than the common “hog wire” or woven wire fence. By the time any deer reaches one year of age, she is covered with scars from wire cuts. Deer show suffering with gestures that can be interpreted only as dramatic responses to injuries. A blow or wire cut to the leg while crossing a fence may result in a deer’s holding the injured leg up for a few minutes and trembling in some unmistakable expression of agony. If the pain is unusually severe, the deer lowers its head in a particular posture, then often opens its mouth wide in a manner that looks, for all the world, like a silent scream. It is a heart-wrenching sight but, in most cases, subsides in a few minutes. Mule deer will also on occasion respond to an immediate injury with various cries and whines—particularly when the injury arrives from their own mistake or misstep, and therefore is not accompanied by fear.
All of this suggests to me that mule deer are sensitive creatures with far more complex capabilities than we know, and perhaps there are subtleties in their behavior and interaction that are outside our immediate ability to understand. This ability to apply reason and then adapt in unexpected ways is clearly phenomenal, and it is difficult to speculate on how deep this understanding and intelligence runs.
With an unexpectedly wide diversity of personality and character types, I find that I anxiously await the next intriguing individual, the next remarkable possibility that may show up in my life. And then, perhaps, together we can explore ever greater levels of communication and interaction—for me a deeper understanding of the mule deer but, more important, a deeper understanding of one another. Now, when I look into the wide, open face of some strange deer who has suddenly entered our midst, or when a trusting mother brings her young fawn to me for that first meeting, I look into those bright, intelligent, inquiring eyes and see only the possibility of the inconceivable.
Mule deer and wire fences—a perpetual plague.
Dare to look into the eyes of this animal.
On Eye Contact and Trust
Mule deer are immediately made suspicious by any admiring gaze, however—even if the intent is entirely innocent. A predator’s eyes are its most efficient and highly evolved weapon. The eyes initiate the pursuit—they lead the charge. The eyes are the tips of the talons, the leading edge of the arrow, or the spire point of the bullet. They are first and foremost the author of destruction and death to any prey animal. It is no wonder that any cautious creature is likely to view the intense, well-focused eye with suspicion. It is also an irony that trust can be established down the barrel of this same gun. It is testimony to this deer’s ability to reason and discriminate, in essence, to evaluate a possible predator’s actual intent. The mule deer has survived as a species, in part, by these finely tuned powers of discrimination. So, in building trust, we must be careful how and where we point our weapon.
I see the deer on the mountainside, casually browsing, as if unconcerned with my presence, a quarter-mile away, but, in fact, I am being watched—not just my every move, but also, more important, my purpose—my intent. But, then, I am the watcher—the observer—the one who with eyes averted obsessively attends to their every move, their every nuance. Our subtle but distinctly common interest is separated by rocks and sage brush, but our familiarity—our gaze—divides the intervening space into decreasingly smaller increments, until our mutual inquiry connects us in an almost intimate embrace of shared curiosity. Our eyes connect again, as if to say simply, we are here now, I see that you exist, and I acknowledge and allow your space, and you grant and acknowledge mine. We have, by all these simple definitions, established a particular relationship. By averting my eyes, I am acknowledged in my willingness to share the companionship of this moment. The deer’s eyes are averted in a similar gesture of acknowledgment and acceptance. An etiquette has been observed, and we have granted one another individuality. By no means has trust been established, but a respect has been granted. Some meager foundation has been laid, and, now, a bridge could possibly span the distance between our worlds. Our bridge is based on suspension—the suspension of arrogance, of superiority, of presumption or judgment, and, by these definitions, a most fragile relationship is upheld but is now remarkably freestanding.
And if we acknowledge this connection day after day, those threads of acceptance become lines of trust, and eventually the span is lessened, and our bridge is reinforced and strengthened. The forces that draw on this bridge are grounded merely in the symmetry of mutual consent that teeters precariously on an unspoken edge of honesty. Even the suggestion of betrayal will send this fragile edifice crashing into ashes. But, as long as this perfect balance is rigorously maintained, we are now free to bridge our worlds and explore one another as two creatures who share the prospect of greater understanding.
P A R T I I I
The Mule Deer in Crisis
C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
The Predators
Mule deer, like so many herding, flocking, or schooling animals, are considered to be “prey species,” and it could be said that all such species are, in terms of both physiology and behavior, forged and in many cases ironically sustained by their predatory adversaries.
Predictable cycles of feast and famine—population boom and bust—always define the natural world and the existence of every species. Animals respond to abundant resources with lower mortality and increased survival. However, as the carrying capacity of the land is reached, increased consumption eventually degrades the habitat. Predators respond to increased populations of prey species with a corresponding tendency toward population increase. Resources are eventually exhausted, predators abound, and, of course, prey populations begin to decline in response. The equation is very simple. As with small rodents or rabbits, these cycles may run their course in only a year or two. In the case of the largest mammals with lower birth rates, these extremes in population may take a decade. But, make no mistake, the inexorable decline over many decades in mule deer, bighorn sheep, and moose populations threatens to result in the virtual disappearance of these species from the landscape.
Ironically, predator species in this part of the West appear to be thriving. Coyote populations have been increasing steadily for decades, mountain lion numbers appear to be at historically high levels, and the newly introduced gray wolf is dispersing and proliferating in numbers that were never predicted by even the most optimistic prognosticators. This powerful predator may work wonders as a management tool for the elk that have prospered into a state of near irrepressible numbers for half a century, but for the many other large game species that have not fared well in recent decades, it is only another devastating factor in the lives of creatures already facing seemingly insurmountable odds. The wolf may be the perfect animal in a perfect world, but that is not the one we live in. For the species in decline, this reintroduction could not have come at a worse time. Even if its impact is modest, the wolf could have the direst implications for the possibilities of any long-term recovery in these animals, who are actually the ones who are in a truest sense endangered. Packs of wolves have been described as capable of killing mule deer with near impunity, although not yet a significant limiting factor in our area. Cases of mature mule deer bucks successfully fending off attacks by lone wolves have been well documented, even when such attacks lasted for hours. But this would be the rare exception involving heavy, well-armed bucks.
Coyotes kill mule deer, especially fawns, but an adult mule deer may have better than a fighting chance when confronting a lone coyote. However, it is well recognized that organized and cooperative packs of winter coyotes kill mule deer adults and particularly fawns with regularity. I have reconstructed this struggle many times in the snow, seeing the chase, the animal surrounded, the initial capture with frantic yaps and growls, and bleating deer with dashes of blood and handfuls of hair outlining the struggle. The deer is dragged to the ground and continues to be slashed and torn by hundreds of relatively small teeth, the nose is torn off and eaten, and then, at long last, the abdomen is ripped open, and the deer is disemboweled. Finally, the still-beating heart or major artery is exposed and severed, sending several great spurts of brilliant red blood spilling out onto the snow. Only then is the horrendous agony ended. The pack continues to tear and fight over the carcass, and by first daylight, there is barely a scrap of meat left for the ravens and magpies. The detachable parts have all been hauled away, and only a bare rib cage and the distended paunch remains, containing the vegetative contents of twenty-four hours of hard-earned browse. It has been my observation that the majority of coyote kills involve fawns who are already somewhat encumbered with snow and ice, and in almost every case a nearby fence has been involved to slow, redirect, or ensnare the inexperienced deer. Furthermore, thawing and melting create large ice dams that then form frozen ponds up and down the creeks and drainages. These ponds then become covered with a light skiff of snow, creating the look of level ground. First-year fawns appear to be completely unaware of this hazard, and once forced onto the ice, deer hooves are entirely useless, and trapped fawns are killed almost 100 percent of the time.
Coyote.
Mountain lion populations have soared throughout the West. The success of game regulations and citizen compliance is the key factor in the population surge in many predator species. Historically, Wyoming had working cowboys covering thousands of square miles of back country, moving cattle from one range to the next throughout the spring, summer, and fall. Every cowboy carried a rifle on his outfit and customarily shot, or at least shot at, every mountain lion he saw. Clearly not the best management tool, but, needless to say, lions became rather reclusive and very difficult to get a look at. Sadly, for many reasons, a working cowboy on horseback is an exceptional sight in Wyoming backcountry today. Encouragingly, game laws with teeth bigger than a mountain lion have persuaded folks not to shoot every living thing they see, every time they see it. Now, however, we may be confronting a little too much of a good thing as the pendulum swings in favor of the cougar, which some say has now reached population levels that are hovering at historic highs, and is even described by some as an “infestation.” A local outfitter who merely trains his dogs to hunt, but does not kill the lions on the adjacent ranch, has “treed,” identified, and photographed eight distinct individuals—all within sight of our house and ranch. I have always been a romantic about the awesome big cat and relished every sighting and confrontation that I have had—including a disquieting event wherein I was momentarily grabbed by a large male. Fortunately, I was in the company of another person who intervened, or I surely would not have come through it without a scratch! But now I find that the old equation “familiarity breeds contempt” is changing my view of this powerful presence on the landscape. I have seen and encountered more lions in the last five years than I had seen in the previous forty.
Mule deer are the preferred prey of mountain lions, who for tens of thousands of years have apparently maintained a healthy balance. It has been observed that a lion may kill as many as one mule deer a week, so one lion taking fifty mule deer in a year is undeniably a sizable dent. If mule deer were proliferating as they should be, this could represent the proper stabilizing force in maintaining mule deer numbers in a steady state of equilibrium in a given habitat. However, mule deer are in a steady state of decline for many reasons—the cougar is now just one of many contributors. Mountain lions are a legal game animal in Wyoming, and quotas for lion harvest are rigidly defined and enforced. To my knowledge, only two have been killed in our Table Mountain area this year, but already the annual quota for the greater area has been met. In six years I have come to know the mountain lion, not with the same degree of familiarity as the deer, but our observation of one another has been at times quite personal. I observe the lions’ comings and goings almost every day, which often includes their surveillance of me and my yard, my house, my horses, my automobiles, and, of course, the deer. There is rarely a time in cooler months when all of our activities are not being keenly observed by this somewhat arrogant predator. They regularly pass through the yard and don’t hesitate to inspect the house up close, as we commonly find fresh tracks around the back door, the out buildings, and even the parking area. Early one morning, as the sun shone across the side window of Leslye’s car, a perfect paw print came into view, representing clear evidence that the big cat decided to actually take a look inside the driver’s side of the vehicle.
Cattle appear helpless to protect their newborn from this powerful cat, but then domestic cattle represent an unnatural and readily available food source. I’ve observed dozens of kills during spring calving season on the surrounding large ranch that prefers not to actively “calve” but rather let cattle rely on their own wits and ingenuity—proven historically to be a ba
d idea. It seems that lions are so competent that it is only the flood of multiple births that allows some calves to survive. Unlike the kills of the coyote or the wolf, lion kills appear to be relatively efficient, and death comes swiftly most of the time, but the unfortunate fact is that in most instances, lions will merely open up the abdomen of a freshly killed calf or deer and eat only the heart and/or the liver and then are off to the next easy kill. I find this behavior increasingly hard to admire. I have observed and kept an eye on one hundred or more individual lion kills, often for many days, and even employed as many as five infrared, motion-activated trail cameras on these sites. I have but rarely documented a return visit to a kill site by the lion. Yet the bold lions leave their telltale blood-stained scats every night under the cliff face that falls just below our house. It is my suspicion that lions often “scentmark” their kills, thus persuading the smaller scavenger species such as coyotes to stay clear, so the remains are gradually picked away by scavenging birds, and the majority of the animal is wasted. There is a rare exception to this rule that is often romantically documented as “typical mountain lion behavior”: the mountain lion with cubs will often cover her kill with brush and debris and revisit the site many times. But without the desperate need to feed hungry cubs, that rarely happens—at least in this ecology.