Schneakin' Up On Bucks

 Every morning I get up in the dark. I raise the blinds and go back to bed to write in my journal. I write down my dreams, and then segue into whatever's on my mind. Maybe I plan something, start writing a talk, chew over something that's been bugging me, or just write about what I'd most like to do next. It's a hopeful journal.

Also hopeful is waiting for first light, to see if there's anyone out in the meadow. My heart pounds as the light comes up, especially if I see shapes out there.  On this morning, I saw two shapes in the path not far from the house. One was a pretty buck, and the other I couldn't quite tell. But from the way they were behaving, I knew it was time to suit up and get out there.

I schnuck out the front door, closing it soundlessly, and slunk over behind the Rose of Sharon. The clotheslines made a green cut across the scene, but at least I could sort of see what was going on from here.

 OMG! sparring bucks!

 It didn't look like a very even match to me!

 When they broke up I could see it was an 8 versus a spike. The big boy thought he saw something. I held perfectly still. And amazingly, they went back at it. With those damn green clotheslines still screwing up my shots.

This was not a pitched battle. It almost seemed gentle. Their motions were slow and smooth, without any of the furious pushes or shiftings of position you'd expect if they were really fighting.

The older buck had a beautiful high rack with long tines. I wouldn't call it massive, but it's my favorite kind of rack from an aesthetic viewpoint. I'd about had it with the clotheslines. I decided to go for it. So I waited until they went into another mini-match and then I took a deep breath and schlooped like Napoleon Dynamite across the open lawn. I raced over to the edge of the prairie meadow and buried myself behind the dead stalks of a big gray sunflower, holding my breath and staying down.

Oh so much better! And they never knew I'd done it. All hail testosterone and distracted bucks. From here, I could hear their antlers clicking together. It was so cool, with the sumac on fire behind them and the frost on the grass.

The older buck kept looking around like he sensed the presence of other deer. Maybe there were does around, and he could smell them. He wasn't 100% into the match.

 

 He could have annihilated the younger buck if he'd wanted to, but instead he just kept politely answering the repeated requests to engage.

You can see from the ear position that the small buck is feeling ornery.

He just kept buggin' the big buck.

I don't fully understand how antler fights work. How they keep from getting their eyes poked out. Especially when you have a tiny set of spikes and you're up against a long tined tree. I liked this next shot. Click on that one. You can see the whites of their eyes. As you can see I was shooting through the sunflowers, and they had no idea I was right there.

It occurred to me that the white throat and belly of a deer must have some powerful social signaling function, beyond the countershading camouflage value.  It's the white flag of surrender, perhaps.

And still that little cuss kept pushing it. Maybe he was practicing, knowing his battles would be for real next fall. It seemed to me quite charitable of the big buck to keep answering his challenges.

It isn't often you get to be present for a sparring match. I took a lot of photos. I'm going to save some for  the next post, because my gosh. A lot of stuff happened next. I felt so lucky to be there. It was as if I'd been given a Cloak of Invisibility.

Postscript: This morning, Dec. 9, I was schneakin' up on bucks from first light until 9 AM. What I was privileged to witness makes this look like child's play, literally. Gonna be a Deery December. Hope you like whitetails! :D xo jz

Remember Pinky?

You'll remember Ellen's twins, Flag and Pinky. Flag, the doe, is a regular in the yard now. I'm delighted to say that Pinky lives on, though he's much more rarely seen.

Here he is on January 7, 2017. Just wee buttons on his fawn forehead. Born in the spring of 2016.

This elegant little fellow tiptoed into the yard on October 5, 2017.

When he raised his head, I knew him.

There's that pale pink nose. And now he's got a graceful lyre-shaped set of antlers.

I see Ellen in his face.

He came back on October 18, and it looked to me like he'd had an allergic reaction to something--his eyes were pink-rimmed and his muzzle was bright orange! 

He had a line of beggarticks stuck over his left eye.

You can see his white spats, Ellen's mark.

It thrills me to pieces to have these pretty little bits of Ellen coming to my yard.

What a difference nine months make! Stay well, stay safe, dear Pinky. I hope I get to see you all grown up, like your big brother Beck.

Pinky  Jan. 7, 2017

Pinky March 11, 2017

Pinky October 5, 2017

Spike Buck

Canoeing silently at North Bend, I always have a deer encounter or two. Deer are curious about humans in silent conveyances. They'll stand and watch you draw closer and closer.

I've learned to paddle hard when I see a deer watching me, then put the paddle down and let my momentum carry me silently closer and closer.

I do that with all the wildlife, turtles, dragonflies, herons, woodpeckers, waterfowl, and especially kingfishers. It's a bit like shooting from a dolly. You have to swivel your body to accommodate the motion. I often wind up twisted like a pretzel, shooting back over my shoulder as my boat carries me up to and then past my subject. I also often wind up helplessly slamming into one of the ten bazillion snags in the water and laughing.

This lovely young buck has shed his red summer coat and the short gray hairs of his winter coat are just growing in.

I shoot again and again as he makes the decision to scram.

The ribs, never far from the skin in deer.

I marvel at the elasticity and springiness of deer, the potential energy stored in those haunches, the thump and bound locomotion that carries them kangaroo-like out of my sphere.

Ka-thump! Swish!

and he's gone.

He only went as far as the nearest shrubby copse, where he hid and watched me leave. Deer don't run any farther than they feel they need to, generally. He'd go on with his life and I with mine. But I had captured him, his liquid eyes and velveteen coat, in my magic black box, to look at again and again.