Final installment. Once again: at Piute, mule deer were part of my day-to-day existence. I firmly believe that living alongside card-carrying wild animals who accept one’s presence rather than displaying overt fear falls under the rubric of Right Livelihood. On the other hand, I haven’t really underscored here that our “relationship” was somewhat artificial. In a sense, having a hunk of compressed salt on a stump thirty feet from the cabin door was comparable to putting out seed for the tweety birds. Over time, I gradually figured out that an entire network of six-inch-wide trails, like spokes of a wheel, led directly to that salt block. There was a sizeable contingent of “regular customers” but many of the salt-seekers—obviously much more skittish than the locals—came from farther afield and only on occasion. Bucks usually came alone or with a couple of their bros. ◦◦◦◦◦ One more comment: a doe mule deer reaches sexual maturity before they’re two. So, during my eighteen seasons at Piute Meadows, I may well have gotten to know nine or ten separate generations—nine or ten generations of fawns who first came to the cabin with their mothers…fawns whose mothers, they could sense, weren’t overly concerned about that strange two-legged creature standing there. So they were generally very calm and curious, sniffing the air. I cherished seeing the innocent, inquisitive looks on the delicate faces of each summer’s new crop of bambis.
2 Jul 1993 ◦◦◦◦◦ Fabulous full-moonrise not long after sundown; perhaps one of the most stirring dusk scenes I’ve witnessed here. Missed the actual rising (too bad) but there was all this other stuff to take in: scudding low clouds and high thin cirrus in the west, all of them all orangey-pink, casting the true alpenglow on mountaintops. Everything shimmered with unearthly light, dozens of overflow-pools in the meadow reflecting silvery-pink, many moons in a line mirrored on oxbow ponds and river. Deer at the salt block when I first came out to witness the spectacle. Guess I startled them good because they all spooked, sprinting out of the yard and across the meadow pell-mell, thrashing and splashing through the marshy places. They leapt en masse into the river and swam across—a great watery ruckus it was. In the otherwise silence it sounded like a shark feeding-frenzy. I was mesmerized. Such drama & lights & silence-shatterings!
5 Jul 1995 In the evening I saddled Red and rode across the river, leading Val—off to reclaim the crosscut and tools left stashed at the tree we cut out the other day. But first, scrambled up to the vantage point to take photos and grok the aerial view of Lake Piute. [The river was in full flood after a heavy winter and half of Upper Piute Meadows was under water.] May never see it like this again. I’d turned the horses loose in that bit of meadow just across the log bridge knowing they wouldn’t wander off (this being one of their favorite hangs). From my view-spot I watched them happily grazing away. Once back down, grabbed their halters and went after them. Found Red and Val placidly munching green grass alongside a small herd of deer including one buck…a pastoral scene indeed. Even more so since the deer paid me no heed as I caught up my two—just carried on grazing, no more than fifty feet away. They stood there watching as I led Red and Val away, didn’t bolt into the woods as expected. The encounter left me with that special glow, the feeling of being just another player in this grand drama, standing alongside my peers. As time passes, the locals seem to accept me more and more as just another fellow forest critter. Love it—even if this is nothing more than a private fantasy.
11 Jul 1996 ◦◦◦◦◦ Out on the porch writing, heard this very strange sound coming from across the river. Looked up and saw a doe racing across the meadow toward the sound. She did this spectacular arching leap from the river bank—a good 12 feet, I’d say—and landed KER-SPLASH! in deep water, swam the rest of the way, clambered out, disappeared into the forest. Whoa! What was that about! I’d have to guess that the sound was her fawn’s distress-cry. The frantic-mother thing sure came across—in spades. ◦◦◦◦◦
25 Jul 1996 ◦◦◦◦◦ Riding past the sedge-lined pond near the back fence, I saw a doe’s head poking above the greenery. She’d been bedded down in those tall, cool sedges through the hot hours. Made like I didn’t see her until we passed, then looked her right in the eye from thirty feet. Busted! She had her head down by this time, those ridiculous mule’s ears lowered to the horizontal. Spoke to her in my most dulcet-est tone; soothing nonsense, just tryin’ to be friendly. She didn’t bolt. ◦◦◦◦◦
13 Jun 1997 ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at the cabin in the eve, sitting on the porch on one of those folding metal chairs with folded horse blanket under my butt against the cold. All socked in but not raining at the time. Had seen a doe bedded down under the little grove of lodgepoles out in the meadow. I watched as she got up, stretched, and headed (west) for the forest. She had to cross a little ox-bow pond first, which was beautifully reflecting the lower slopes of Hawksbeak Peak, all cliff and snow, so the light in that crescent-shaped pool was a mirror image though the rock parts reflected more of a purple hue. The reflected snow, radiant white, cast an unnatural ethereal glow into this shadowy corner of meadow-world. The doe broke through this mirror and waded into all that light, so graceful with that halting deer-walk—tentative, cautious, with a pause before each step. Ripples spread out in circular waves, surrounding her with an expanding halo. Apart from the river’s rustle all was silent, a near-silence made more pronounced under the thick cloud cover. A scene from Eden before me, original and perfect, so placid and pastoral and gentle on the senses. Entranced, I was trying to let all this sink in. But the spell was broken when the doe came to a full stop halfway across the pool, squatted…and took a leak. (I could hear the tinkling stream clearly over the river sounds, it was so quiet.) This caused me to laugh out loud, ha-hah! Talk about anticlimax! So much for utterly romantic nature-vignette….
11 Jul 2000 ◦◦◦◦◦ Took my bath at last light. Carried pad and towel down to the gravel bar, first time this season. I looked up and, thirty feet away, there was that big five-point buck walking towards me. Hadn’t seen me yet, I think. We—the cat and I—stood there staring and he approached even nearer, curious. A marvelous encounter. Does are one thing but I can’t remember being so close to a wise old-timer, at least not with such openness.
14 Jul 2000 ◦◦◦◦◦ Last evening, up in the hammock, I watched a doe way out in the middle of the meadow, at least ¼ mile away. She was running towards the cabin (salt block…) and gracefully leapt the fence. Lovely sight, not quite sure why so stirring. ◦◦◦◦◦
19 Jul 2003 Up after the robins but woke to their second chorus. [Robins begin calling at first light—talking to each other as they wake up—then “sing” a bit later and on into the morning.] A foggy meadow. Stepped out the door to see what kind of day I was in for, saw fog over all, and then froze: two does and a pair of tiny spotted fawns had moments before left the salt block and were heading north right past the cabin, just beyond the porch. I watched this modest parade go past, ten paces away with the fog and dewy grass and half-hazy trees—a most exceptionally picturesque tableau. I was shocked by just how dissimilar-looking the non-sibling fawns were: different shades of brown, completely different spot-locations and -patterns…even in the shape of their heads and the way they moved. Their nonchalance told me that their mothers have probably known me since they were about the same size and had signaled to them that I was “okay.” None of the deer have ever trusted me, truly accepted me—ever. They always run away if I appear suddenly or come a little too close. But if I’m out in the yard when they arrive—standing still or moving away or showing no interest, not looking directly at them—they’ll tolerate my presence. (Especially if the cats are there, too.) The fact that the moms just didn’t dash off with their kiddies when I came out was quite a display of limited acceptance. As always, it made me feel…good.
©2023 Tim Forsell 23 Oct 2023
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