by Joe Hutto
The mule deer’s future rests in the wise decisions that we make and, to a great extent, the ethical values that we hold dear. If we let reason lead our way, this remarkable animal still may have a fighting chance to remain an icon on the Western landscape. But the mule deer has in essence run out of options—ecological, biological, and evolutionary. Fate has not dealt these deer a good hand, and the question is, are the hands in which they now find themselves caring and competent? The choices are no longer theirs but ours.
The hardest part of my job. Photo by Dawson Dunning.
C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N
Updates on Old Friends
Babe
Babe surprised me in fall 2012 by showing up earlier than usual, and his appearance coincided with the onset of the regular gun hunting season, which this year would last for nine days. Immediately upon his arrival, he was called on to set things right by engaging another enormous affiliate of the same age, whom we have come to know as Homer. Having arrived two weeks earlier, this imposing buck had incorrectly presumed that he would be the dominant deer at last. Poor Homer instantly received a sound thrashing in a true battle of titans that, among other humiliations, broke a large piece off the main beam of his right antler. Babe went unscathed. Because he was a lifelong known affiliate, Homer did not choose and was not forced to leave the area but simply resumed his position in the regular hierarchy, and although remaining a little sullen, made no more of his new arrangements.
Sadly, I quickly observed that Babe’s damaged eye had continued to deteriorate throughout the summer, and he was, at last, completely blind in his left eye. He was now distinctly more vulnerable to predation, and of course this hunter-savvy deer who had survived so many seasons would also be completely blind on that side to the approach of a distant human. However, PBS had begun to film a documentary of these deer, and with their help this year we had succeeded in securing thousands of surrounding acres from hunting. We felt reassured and could breathe a little easier knowing that Babe had a reasonable chance of surviving the hunting season yet one more year.
As the hunting season wore on, I remained constantly vigilant as in previous years, but with more confidence that we would not experience the heavy losses of prior years. We had become aware of several kills that had occurred just to our south on a small property that is hunted heavily, but none were individuals from this winter herd. On the last night of the hunting season, as I worked near the house and while Leslye was involved with chores at the corrals, we both heard two distant shots just as night began to fall. Neither of us was in a position to know the exact direction of the shots, but we were both disturbed and suspicious that they may have come from the protected land above us on the mountain. Because of the dark conditions, I made no effort to hike back up the mountain to look for trespassers or illegal hunters. However, the following morning at first light I stood on the cliffs behind the house and glassed carefully up the mountain. Then, a mile and a half in the distance, I saw the dark shape of a pickup truck in an area with no trail or vehicle access. My heart sank. Quickly I grabbed my rifle and took out at a run as Leslye watched from the cliffs and called the Wyoming Stop Poaching Hotline. I had run barely a mile when I stopped to glass a dreadful sight another half-mile ahead. There were three people dressed in hunter orange who were dragging a large deer slowly across rough terrain toward the waiting truck. Obviously, someone had killed a deer the night before, and he had returned with reinforcements to help drag it out. Only one of the men appeared to be armed. I continued running through the sage brush, up and down steep ravines, until I could get a better view. Again I stopped to glass, and at one quarter-mile, there was absolutely no question about the great deer who was being pulled along the ground. Even at this distance, Babe’s antlers were unmistakable. I immediately began preparing myself for an encounter that was going to be at least disturbing if not outright dangerous. The three were so consumed with the task of dragging this big deer across rough land that they completely failed to see me coming in the distance. I popped up fifty yards from the men, who quickly viewed my unexpected presence with astonishment. I do not consider myself a particularly imposing presence, but it was probably clear by the look on my face that this was not a friendly visit. I reminded myself over and over again to exercise all possible restraint.
Fortunately for me, all the hunters were polite and distinctly contrite as I introduced myself. I explained that the land was completely off limits to hunting and that no one had received permission to hunt here in two years. They had in fact trespassed, not on one posted property but two. And, I explained, this deer was an important player in an ongoing research project and was intended to be prominently featured in a documentary film on mule deer. The individual who had actually killed Babe apologized for what he said was a misunderstanding, and I advised him that the game warden was on the way.
I hurried back to the ranch, and Leslye screamed in anguish as I passed and told her that Babe was dead. Jumping in my truck, I met the game warden at a predetermined location on the highway, and he pulled the hunter’s truck over as it went by and then made the arrest. Feeling sick and angry, I thanked the warden and just walked away from my old friend and companion, Babe, now just another dead deer lying on the back of a flatbed truck. I felt strongly that Babe’s remains deserved to come home, but in all poaching cases, the carcass is confiscated, the meat is processed and donated to a needy family, and the antlers are retained as evidence to be presented in court. I notified the two landowners of the violation and never inquired about the outcome of the case. I was later advised by the warden that the hunter was not going to contest the trespassing charges. But, whatever the outcome, I could find no consolation in any of it. After going to such extremes in an effort to create a somewhat safe haven within such a vast area, that this one particular deer was killed among so many other possibilities appeared to be a cruel irony that to this day seems strange and irreconcilable.
It has been some months since Babe was killed, but his death shook me to my core, and the depths of our longstanding relationship have become apparent as I miss his powerful but gentle presence every day. Now I realize that, for me, Babe had come to represent a profound and important figure—not just some enormous deer that I had closely observed for six years, but more like a wise and exalted brother—one that willingly offered and contributed so much to my life. I will always be richer for having known this extraordinary, intelligent being, and humbled that he allowed me to share in the intimacies of his existence. Babe had a favorite place near the house where he often chose to rest, and now when I look at that location, I still expect to see his statuesque silhouette in elegant repose. Babe was many things, but among a long list of perhaps more significant superlatives, he was also just a big, gentle tough guy who was impossible not to love. I have never regarded another living being with more respect and admiration.
Babe approaching for a visit.
Shady and the End of Miracles
Not wishing to diminish the significance of Shady’s triumph, I will say only that in biology or the individual experience, if triumph actually exists, it is never a prevailing state of existence, but rather always transitory and conditional, if not ephemeral.
Shady’s fawn was not only unexpected, but practically inexplicable. I have never observed such maternal devotion in any other living thing, and unlike other does that traditionally leave their fawns well hidden throughout the day, Shady was determined never to leave her fawn’s side. Employing no small effort and determination, I concluded that this deer simply refused to abandon her fawn for any period of time, and was always faithfully hovering somewhere within a fifty-meter radius. I must admit that the daily sight of this unlikely mother and fawn was not only amazing; it was also an inexhaustible source of joy. Clearly, this crippled little deer had been made whole. At last the fire in her eyes was rekindled, and she was again fully invested in the business of life.
Four full weeks into the unlikely lif
e of her fawn, I awakened early one morning and immediately saw Shady frantically running with her distinctly awkward gait from one location to another in the creek bottom just below the front meadow. This was the all-too-familiar heartbreaking scenario played out as some mother deer tries in vain to somehow turn the tide on a fate that has already swept away the most passionate and motivating experience known to living things. Of the various possible stages that might describe mule deer grief, acceptance is the most difficult. Shady’s fawn was surely dead, and in desperation she was attempting to find a way to set things right. Within minutes I knew the exact position of the fawn as she repeatedly rushed to its location, examining its remains, and then would once again frantically run out in some futile attempt to prove that it was not in fact dead, but lost. Shady was forced to jump across two fences as she rushed back and forth across the creek and meadows in a state of near panic. At one point she jumped the fence in the front meadow and hobbled over to several does with fawns who were browsing tender alfalfa. Pathetically, she limped first to one fawn and then to the next, sniffing each in hopes of somehow disproving the grim reality in which she was now bound. Then, again, she hurried down the meadow, across one fence, then another, rushing to her fawn that she clearly knew was dead.
I have seen this desperate behavior displayed by does who have lost their fawns on more occasions than I would want to recall, but somehow the observation of this crippled doe in such agony for having lost the only kind thing that had happened to her in two years was almost unbearable. Throughout the day she ranged farther and farther from the site of the dead fawn, scouring the countryside and calling with a longing voice that I could distinctly hear two hundred yards away—then, remembering, she would go shuffling back yet one more time to the fawn’s location. That evening she became increasingly exhausted from running constantly in a crippled condition with no rest, food, or water, and then made one more attempt to jump the barbed wire fence by the lane. As if the universe had conspired to heap even more insult and agony on this gentle creature, her front leg caught the top strand of wire, and she was completely upended—rear end over front—flipped and cruelly slammed to the ground with such force that I could hear the thud from the house, causing me to worry that she may have broken her back. By some convoluted means, she landed under the bottom strand of wire and lay there momentarily, as if the life had been knocked out of her with one final crushing blow. As I stood on the porch with bolt cutters at the ready, she raised her head and with a struggle managed somehow to drag herself from under the fence. As she stood trembling with her head low and her lifeless rear leg touching the ground, it seemed all the verve and spirit that existed in this remarkable deer must by now be completely destroyed. Shady appeared dead on her feet—I had just observed the thorough unmitigated breaking of a deer’s heart. There could be nothing left.
The following day I wandered to the site of the dead fawn, and there among the willows along the creek bottom lay what would otherwise appear to be a perfect healthy little spotted fawn. Shady had done her job well. The big cat had only removed her heart and liver through a neat incision in the abdomen just below the ribcage. It appeared that the fawn had been killed for a mere morsel. My heart ached as I saw the site trampled by Shady’s anxious hoof prints.
Throughout her many ordeals, Shady had been one of the most innocent and hopeful creatures I will ever observe, but as I watched the bright light of joy and optimism leave the eyes of this brave little deer who had struggled so desperately, I feared that in that moment, the light may have left mine as well. And as this tragedy unfolded, my heartache turned from complete helplessness and disappointment to some stark revelation involving the fundamental nature of this wretched universe. At some point, Shady made eye contact with me as I stood nearby, with a familiar look—a desperate longing—an open-eyed gaze that I had seen so many times before when offering her aid. I could bear neither my helplessness nor her disappointment and had to simply turn away.
Shady survived this ordeal, and, drawing on some endless well of courage, regained the strength to join her mother. Since her mother, Charm, had recently lost both her fawns in their first days, and had already rejoined with last year’s surviving fawn, Bangle, it appeared that the three were reunited in some communion of shared sorrow—Bangle with broken jaw, Charm with deep, stratified sadness in her eyes and lame on her right front foot for some reason, and now Shady with only three viable legs and a crushed spirit.
Still, Shady’s existence and the existence of her fawn were triumphs—fleeting, but triumphs nevertheless, deserving of recognition and celebration, for they are clearly outside the bounds of ordinary expectations. When assessing the cards that life often deals to those innocent individuals found poorly situated somewhere within the normal range of random variability, that Shady survived and that she had a fawn was, without question, a handful of aces.
The Eyes of Shadow
Recently, a deer wandered into the backyard and lay down in the plum thicket. The plum thicket has always offered an occasional deer some haven or refuge from annoyances such as high wind, blowing snow, burning sun, the hubbub of mule deer society, and possibly even predators. But late spring had arrived. Most mule deer had forged ahead up the mountain to the prospect of more abundant green pastures, and only our native resident population of deer remained in the area. The buck with two inches of velvet showing was obscured by vegetation, and because his winter facial mask was almost completely shed with only tattered remains, I couldn’t easily identify him. But with the demands of spring ranching tasks and the return of abundant browse for the deer, I paid little attention to a deer on a warm day in search of a little shade and solitude.
While involved with some menial but demanding ranch task the following day, I marched to the equipment shed in the backyard, and in my blind obsession failed to notice the buck still lying in the plum thicket thirty yards from the side door of the shed. He bolted out of the thicket in fear, which seemed odd, suggesting it was not one of the more familiar deer. However, as he ran, I observed a distinct limp in his front quarter that reminded me of Shadow, but I assumed it must be another injured deer that I had observed in the area for over a month. I would be very surprised if Shadow had behaved in this way, considering our long-term relationship and his relative degree of trust. Again I dismissed the significance of the occasion.
Two weeks before, however, I had found four strands of barbed wire in a section of nearby fence where a deer had become ensnared to such an extent that all the wire was twisted into a single rope-like tangle that I could not untwine with my gloved hands. There, scattered on the ground below, lay a double handful of deer hair, with several shreds of skin with hair attached. The forces that bound this wire together in such a single mass must have been enormous, and it seemed impossible that a deer could have avoided critical injury in such an entanglement. Because barbed wire is a leading cause of mule deer injury and death, I had maintained a constant vigil for such an injured deer, and although deer are perpetually displaying all manner of wire cuts, no deer had appeared with deep lacerations or other severe injuries. The next day I immediately observed that the nervous deer had returned to his bed in the thicket, and I knew something was not right. While not wanting to flush the buck again from his bed, I approached carefully and, with cautious words of assurance, soon found myself within a few meters. As we made contact through the thicket, the great eyes staring back at me were completely familiar. I spoke softly: “Shadow?” Although I had not seen this deer in weeks, he responded with a look that was unmistakable, and I knew without question that Shadow was in trouble.
Shadow remained in the thicket in the exact same location, although his position changed daily, suggesting that he was up and moving on occasion. I placed a heavy rubber tub of water nearby, as well as a container of grain. And spring was well underway, with suitable mule deer browse abundant and within easy reach. On occasion I would observe the troubled deer closely and offer words of
encouragement but normally kept a distance that would not make him feel uncomfortable. Curiously, even with close-focus binoculars, I could discern no overt sign of injury, and he still maintained the weight and the overall appearance of the healthy, robust deer I had known all winter and spring. Although surprising that a deer in distress would choose the yard, there was no question that this was in fact the safest place he could possibly find, and he obviously understood this.
Orphaned at an early age, Shadow was one of those individuals cast into social limbo, and although accepted and generally ignored as a peripheral herd member, he was always without any true affiliation, either maternal or fraternal. I was probably the only creature who had ever shown Shadow any true interest or ever suggested that his company was desirable; as a gravely injured young deer, he had always been somehow aware of my investment in his well-being. We were in many ways attached, and here, in his desperation, he had clearly chosen to come to the safety that he knew surrounded this place.
By the fourth day Shadow had become completely sedentary, remaining in the same position with his head lowered to the ground. That morning I entered the house after observing him for several minutes and reported to Leslye that I thought Shadow was dying. At midday, he curled his head back like a cat sleeping and put his head across his flank. At some point in the afternoon I feared he could be dead and approached close enough to see that there was still a gentle rise and fall in his ribcage. Only once the day before had I seen him stand but then immediately lie back down. Later in the day he was lying with his neck outstretched but periodically raised his head in a way that suggested he was in serious pain. It just seemed so unlikely that this fine, robust specimen of a deer, at last in his prime and who had successfully overcome so many adversities, could become deathly ill in such a short time. While never approaching too close, I began a constant vigil from a few meters away as I became increasingly aware that my attachment to this particular deer was profound. After so much history and so many years, Shadow was not just a subject in my mule deer study, but had become an important member of my family—and I was his.