Essay #23: Deer

The white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) is ubiquitous in Ohio. Over 200,000 were "harvested" during the last hunting season, and yet our state still has a population of approximately 750,000 deer. When Jeremy and I were backpacking in Yellowstone, our guide stopped to excitedly point out a group of white-tailed deer in the distance. Dude, we did not come to Wyoming to see deer.

Because our home backs up to woods, we regularly spot deer in our front and backyard or walking down our neighbors' driveway. Once, the girls were playing outside and discovered a fawn nestled just next to our deck, left there while its mother foraged. Another time, I startled a family of deer in our neighbors' yard. The adults jumped the fence, but the baby was left inside, unable to find the exit. My neighbor eventually had to chase it out.

Not surprisingly, I also encounter deer a lot when I hike, particularly on days when the parks are mostly empty. I startled a group of four hiking in East Fork on Sunday, and I came upon two while at California Woods Nature Preserve today.

Even though I see deer regularly, I stop each time we meet. Partially it's because they're Ohio's largest mammal, and I have to respect something that weighs as much as I do. Partially it's because even though deer are firmly ensconced in the suburbs, sighting them still makes parks feel a little more wild.

Plus, the only other wild mammal I spot with any frequency is squirrels. Squirrels don't evoke much because they run away as soon as they see me. Deer, on the other hand, bolt--and then stop. Every time.

Take the deer today, which bounded across the trail as I headed uphill. It continued several more yards, down a hill, and then turned to consider me. Stock still, it faced me pensively, its black eyes locking with mine. There's no way I could just keep walking; it would be like ignoring the cardigan-wrapped old lady waving as I walked down the street. Instead, I also stopped, then finally called out "hi." (I'd called "Merry Christmas!" to one at East Fork.)

I'm not usually given to talking to animals or talking to myself when I hike. It's really just the deer. After a few seconds of eye-contact, the deer leaped off again.

I know deer are nuisances, resulting in car accidents and destroying home landscapes (a pesky deer ate the sunflower Clara had nurtured all last summer), but even worse, they eat important native plants like baby oaks. Even though I'm vegetarian, I don't have issue with deer hunting, which I know is necessary to control the population.

Still, encountering a deer, like unseasonably warm days, feels like a "gift." Yes, I'm anthropomorphizing, but I choose to believe that the deer takes notice of me, that I exist, that I'm someone. It regards me with something that feels like understanding.