by Joe Hutto
In the past, I labored under a common presumption and misconception about this remarkable cat. After hiking and riding horseback for many decades through thousands of miles of Wyoming backcountry, I regularly surprised and observed every wary species of native wildlife, but, with only a precious few exceptions, I never saw the mountain lion in spite of abundant tracks and signs. My logical assumption was that the lion was possessed of near supernatural powers and managed to slip away long before I could come within its proximity. Now I know for a fact that lions are not overly wary, and if they are, they do not choose to slip away before the rider or hiker arrives, but merely lie low as you pass close by. Mountain lions will “flush” from your immediate approach—more like the response of a covey of quail at your feet than any behavior you would expect from a robust, predatory mammal.
But then the mountain lion is what it is, perfect, tried and true—and could care less about my judgments and opinions. Just like our own species, the mountain lion knows much of want but knows and cares little about waste when the illusion of abundance abounds.
When out on the mountain with the deer in winter months, I always carry my old .30-30 Winchester slung over my shoulder. After so many decades, it is more like an extraneous bodily appendage, of which I have no awareness. Living every day for months and even years in the wild with various prey species, I have discovered a curious and now disturbing common denominator. If I am standing in the immediate proximity of my wild associates, every aspiring predator species, seemingly without exception, appears to forgive my otherwise terrifying humanity, or I simply become invisible and lost in the crowd: a paradoxical and somewhat disturbing privilege. As a result, I often find myself standing only meters from large birds of prey, such as red-tailed hawks and golden eagles, as well as formidable predators, such as coyotes, wolves, and mountain lions. I, of course, stand with a silly look on my face while I watch my various companions flee in abject horror. At that point a predator may well choose to continue a pursuit after its prey or on occasion decide that my presence has interrupted its hunt. To date I have never actually been confused for prey, but I keep it high on my various lists of possibilities and expectations. I have literally had wild turkeys killed at my feet. Even though I honestly never expect a situation to arise that would call on me to shoot a mountain lion, a bear, or a wolf, it is foolish to let a formidable predator have the only vote on who lives and who dies today—regardless of how remote the possibility.
Mountain Lion just above the ranch. Photo by Sammy Tedder.
Canadian evolutionary biologist Valerius Geist—a lifelong and true backcountry “field man”—suggests that any human in a wilderness-like setting that supports populations of large predators should always carry a defensive weapon. His theory is that an armed individual unconsciously walks and moves more boldly and is unknowingly less likely to project an air of inferiority and vulnerability. Predators make their living keenly observing and interpreting body language, and I think there is validity in his observation. Having allowed myself to become exposed to a couple of situations where I was clearly in peril—helpless, in fact—with my fate resting entirely on the disposition of a vastly superior and overwhelming force of nature, I vowed that in the future I would always operate on a more level playing field. It may be only Samuel Colt that makes us equal.
Bears in the neighborhood. Leslye’s hand for scale.
Photo by Sammy Tedder.
To many people’s surprise, we do not live in a 1950s Walt Disney fantasy, and, sadly, all the stereotypes about the concepts of “wilderness” and the “balance of nature” are largely theoretical and mostly theatrical and literary fantasies, perpetrated by the desire for some meaningful order and even some element of kindness and generosity in our vision for the natural world. Order, predictability, and the notion of an overriding virtue are attractive ideals and may have certain validity in a truly natural state, and perhaps may be validated statistically over thousands of years, but definitely not decades or even hundreds—and definitely not in the world in which we live today. The wolf does not cut the sickness from the bone, but merely kills the thing in front of him—good, bad, or indifferent. In fact, it has been well established that wolves kill injured or infirm animals in about the same percentage as they occur within the population in general. In other words, if one in ten animals in a herd is compromised, about one in ten kills will involve these individuals. In large part, Mother Nature is simply not a nice lady. She holds little regard for logic and conservation, and definitely not for compassion. That which is “natural” needn’t be presumed to be somehow righteous or confused with the distinctly human concepts of good or bad. There is extraordinary order in the natural world—that order is often achieved by way of a paradox that can be profoundly chaotic. Nature, although exquisite, magnificent, and somehow ultimately elegant, is likely—perhaps even predisposed—to be messy.
If you want to get biologically brutal, the truth is that we are all prey species, and whether the agent of death is a saber-toothed cat or a prion-induced encephalopathy, sooner or later most organisms will die by the designs of some other. This is the most fundamental, if disquieting, premise that defines and ultimately unites all living things. If it so happens that you are eating your fellow organism with regularity, by conveniently assigning the hapless creature to the category of all things merely edible, it becomes easy to rob it of any significance outside a possible meal, thereby relieving the dining patron of any possible responsibility or consideration. Whether scientist, hunter, consumer, or predator—we are all guilty of robbing the other living creature of its significance as an individual. It’s not that biology dictates that by consuming other living things we are necessarily behaving in some evil manner—I am not a vegetarian—but it could be logically inferred that every living thing should be regarded with at least a modicum of respect for who it is. Regardless of your particular relationship with another creature, it is still an individual—it is still someone. If we are thoughtful—even caring—beings, it seems the very least we can do is avoid robbing any other being of its “oneness.”
Because many prey species are also game species—and in the case of mule deer, a big game species—they have become an economic institution—a source of revenue, however meager. So, a government biologist must spend his valuable time and our tax dollars collecting 320 “eviscerated carcass weights,” to put some seemingly mathematically relevant figure on the annual “kill” and “hunter success ratio,” rather than actually finding out something significant about a deer species in decline. It is the bane of every wildlife management agency and every wildlife biologist that wild creatures are principally defined and considered in primary terms by their relative economic contribution to state governments. Either a thing is a “resource,” natural or not, or it is deemed to be of little value and thereby possessing little significance. But, at the very least, it is the means by which a creature may “buy” its way into the minds if not the hearts of our citizens—this is the nature of the beast as seen through the lens of our civilization.
I am thoroughly and deeply rooted in the tradition and culture of hunting since my earliest recollection, and the process was never considered a mere interest or hobby—and certainly never a sport. For better or worse, hunting appeared to be an obligatory component of my DNA, just as surely as a cat has a specific response to a mouse. As an objective observation and without a note of pride, I must readily admit that I have been a deadly proficient hunter. I don’t know if my history should warrant praise or condemnation, for I am a true hunter, and I have surely killed them all. But, now, disturbingly, I have an internal conflict that is becoming irreconcilable.
I see humans in orange clothing scouring the landscape in $20,000 ATVs, “tricked out” with advanced electronics and transporting hunters equipped with extraordinary high-velocity rifles with laser, light-gathering, range-finder scopes, and I feel something sickening and visceral churning inside. In this day and time, it s
eems an animal is likely to be killed not by a real hunter but a “sportsman” launching an incomprehensibly expensive and highly technical “special ops”—or a laser-assisted airstrike that may come silently from a half-mile away. I am appalled as hunting becomes defined by big money, which has successfully ingrained the notion that for any ordinary hunter to actually kill an animal, in addition to some version of the aforementioned vehicle, he or she now requires advanced combat technology—preferably of “tactical” quality (an important buzz word in sporting goods these days). Often, hunters must be further provided motivation and inspiration in the form of the abundant hunting videos that occasionally descend to the level of snuff porn. Watch as your beautiful game animal is struck by a two-hundred-and-fifty grain bullet traveling at 3500 feet per second. Then, as the film slows the motion down and repeats the moment of bullet impact over and over and over again—staring transfixed at the monitor—satisfaction visibly washes over the hardware store clientele. Watch the strange, almost hypnotic delight, as again and again the hydrostatic shock ripples through the body with a devastating force fully capable of stopping a tractor-trailer. Finally the film advances, and as the creature kicks on the ground, a cheer goes up from the crowd celebrating the “kill” with jubilant high-fives all around—like their team just scored a goal—like the rival has been defeated. They then line up to buy products with names such as “The Devastator,” “The Terminator,” “The Eliminator,” or, one of my personal favorites, “The Guillotine.” The sporting industry has drawn on modern civilization’s most important technical and tactical advancements in off-road transportation, electronics, and weaponry, providing hunters with hardware and software that would be suitable in modern warfare. Now, as our Wyoming legislature voted to allow the use of silencers on these same weapons, the once-definitive concept of “fair chase” has become a preposterous ideal. These overwhelming advantages being directed toward any unsuspecting wild animal has veered so far out of perspective as to become not merely outrageous, but just another perverse human phenomenon. Tragically, these attitudes have become so pervasive in hunting “consciousness,” that after more than a decade, we have a whole generation of hunters that don’t know any different. Because of the obvious economic advantages, government has become entirely complicit in this mentality.
As in the consciousness of ancient hunting societies that always recognized their relationship to their prey as noble and even sacred, today I know many hunters who still pursue animals with respect and ethics—individuals who rightfully enjoy and take pride in the process, but also recognize, acknowledge, and honor the enormous sacrifice an extraordinary animal has made. I continue to view the hunting tradition—this process—this primary relationship of predator and prey entirely correct within certain ethical boundaries. I consider hunting infinitely superior to letting someone else kill your animals for you and placing the remains in hermetically sealed packages at the grocery store. If you are going to kill and eat an animal, you should first have to look it in the eye. And, of course, I recognize the role of hunting as a vital and necessary tool in the management of many species. Still, I have become in large part ashamed to be identified with a new and more pervasive culture and the economic interests that seem to have hijacked the remaining integrity from an admirable tradition.
While living in the company of so many unsuspecting animals who have become the objects of complete neglect and, simultaneously, the targets of Western civilization’s most advanced and lethal technologies, I wonder how many times the crosshairs have brought me into view as some distant hunter scans the herd that surrounds me in his quest for the mythical trophy ram or buck. For this reason and for a multitude of others, I am beginning to identify the various creatures with which I live not as the game animals I once studied and pursued, but rather as defenseless victims. I recognize that much of my perspective and the apparently irreconcilable dilemma in which I find myself is a departure from what some would describe as a more detached and objective point of view. But my keenly objective point of view is from the mountain looking down, and I am clearly beginning to observe distinctions between the many possible predators with which we share the landscape—and the incontrovertible enemy below.
A brief acknowledgement from mighty Homer.
C H A P T E R S I X T E E N
The Trouble with Mule Deer
Mule deer are under assault at this time in history in ways that are unprecedented. An animal that has the potential to live twenty-five years in captivity, but in the wild might ordinarily expect to live an average of nine to thirteen years, will now rarely survive six. This troubling statistic is equally true for both does and bucks. The possible reproductive life of a doe has been cut in half, and the recruitment of new fawn-bearing does is diminishing each year. Population numbers are down in much of the West, and in many habitats that once represented an ideal historical stronghold, mule deer numbers have plummeted by a staggering 50 to 70 percent in the past twenty years. And in many ecologies in Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Nevada, and Montana that once supported vast numbers, mule deer are absent entirely. We should be asking, “Why?” The irony of this particular statistic is that once an animal has vanished, its population numbers vanish from any census count and therefore from public awareness.
This Table Mountain herd has slipped by 30 to 40 percent in seven years, and two adjacent herds, which I have also monitored closely enough to recognize individual deer, have ceased to exist entirely, with the few survivors now joining our group. A fourth herd to our immediate south diminished to only a few individuals and then ceased to exist entirely during the 2012 hunting season. Only one doe with two fawns survived, and in lonely desperation they have now joined our herd. We watched the attrition occur daily as they were irresistibly drawn to illegal bait sites to the east.
Mule deer sex ratios tend to slightly favor bucks fawns over doe fawns, but bucks tend to have an especially high mortality rate over the first two years of their lives. Bucks are always stressed by the rut, and for reasons that are poorly understood, they are less likely than does to recover vital nutrients in summer when better browse is available. However, does will manage to become impregnated even when does outnumber bucks, even in the extreme. Buck-doe ratios of mule deer two years and older commonly vary from 40 percent bucks to as low as 10 percent bucks. Moreover, there has been evidence suggesting that does who have been physically stressed will tend to have higher ratios of buck fawns. Bighorn sheep are known to have the same response to stress, but in both cases, the result is always the same—poor recruitment of new replacement females to provide future offspring for the herd. This herd has been experiencing inordinately high numbers of buck fawns for several years, with 2011 skewed by a particularly lopsided ratio. In the fall of that year, with only ten fawns surviving among this herd of approximately forty deer, eight were bucks and only two were does. Such a skewed ratio of doe fawns to bucks can hardly be attributed to random variation. Although both doe fawns survived their first winter, neither apparently survived to return to their home winter range the following fall. In other words, there was zero recruitment of replacement does for an entire year. This represents a hole in the breeding population that will reverberate through this herd for many years. If this trend is representative of mule deer populations at large—and there is ample evidence to suggest this has been a trend, not for years but for decades—the continuation of doe/fawn hunting permits is poor management practice, to say the least. Furthermore, migrating does should be returning to their winter range in autumn fattened and happy from a summer spent in the most ideal forage conditions. In recent years these migrating deer have been returning to winter ranges in September and October in a progressively malnourished condition. Does with twins are especially hard-hit, of course, from the added stress of two hungry mouths. In early October, summer coats are shed, and winter coats should be fully installed. But in the past few years, winter coats have not fully emerged, and we see ribs and vertebral
spines when healthy deer should be plump and ready for the rigors of a long winter. Their dire condition becomes even more apparent as I run my hand down their backs and sides. Not only are they emaciated; they are sick. Returning does in wet years and in dry have persistent low-grade infections that are passed directly to fawns, who then have poor survival rates, and often these survivors remain impaired throughout their lives. With some does looking like concentration camp victims, I shake my head and remind myself that, beginning September 1, she and her underdeveloped fawn are still legal game animals in the state of Wyoming.
The recruitment of deer who have become isolated by the gradual disappearance of other adjacent herds began four years ago and now appears to be complete. So, although this group has been steadily composed of around forty deer, our actual losses have been merely replaced by these few survivors from surrounding herds that have slipped into extinction. Causes for the adjacent herd disappearances are many and complex and include factors such as urban sprawl and rural housing development, which subdivides the landscape into small lots or acreages with fences, yards, and dogs. As it turns out, and by no surprise, the habitat in which humans invariably prefer to live in the West is precisely the same habitat that best supports mule deer in winter. We prefer and they require the rich variety of browse along the fertile diversity of the canyons, creeks, and rivers. We have chosen their ecology—and now, after so many thousands of years, they must attempt to coexist and adapt to a radically changing world that is not of their making. The many so-called “urbanized” mule deer who appear so oblivious to the humanity that surrounds them are, in fact, profoundly stressed by the company they are forced to keep. They are desperately trying to survive in spite of a thousand unnatural impediments and boundaries—to an ecology now unrecognizable and incomprehensible. They are not domesticated; they are not tame—and they are in no way “habituated” to the teaming mass of human urbanization that surrounds them. The habituation that has occurred is our own, as this beautiful artifice of the natural world unknowingly fades past the veil of irrelevance into invisibility. Furthermore, owners and occupants of forty-acre “ranchettes” can be resentful of sharing their landscaped yards or meager pasture land with deer and antelope, who are occasionally compared to an infestation of grasshoppers. And, of course, such a tract of land when subdivided into five-acre lots is more lucrative than all the hay grown in several lifetimes. Struggling small-time ranchers often find the opportunity to make the easy dollar irresistible.