encounters — blog 2

It's so cold I don't doubt what the online weather said: 13 degrees, feels like -5. It's near silent except for muffled traffic rushing in the distance. The air is crisp and clear as I walk behind a fence row dividing city homes from the park. Light snow covers the frozen ground. Every step a crunch. At the end of fence and houses, I enter the trees, and just a few steps in, a deer bounds away. I didn't even see it till its body bounded through the air. He doesn't go far, so I take a few, slow steps until we're in each others sight—an eight point buck, staring at me, snorting and stamping. We're breathing the same cold air. Our breath white. Another step. Another step. He stamps. Another ste—he bounds away, and another deer follows down the hill and through the brush. Gone.

I prowl and step slow. I listen, but they're gone. Following the way they went, I walk toward a flat spot among the trees, absent of brush. The trees are few and thin; the leaves and ground are compressed. I realize, this is where they sleep. The ground is white, except a cluster of vague ovals of open ground, where their bodies and leftover heat melt light snowfall. I stay back from their area and notice a lock-box mounted at waist height on a nearby tree, pointed directly at their quarters. Hmm, hunting or observation? Someone else is watching the deer.

It's surprising to see deer on consecutive trips. I stumbled upon them the first time, and this time, I've returned to their tramping ground. And maybe it's not that surprising, these white-tail deer (either odocoileus virginianus or o. v. borealis) are actually “the most commonly found wild ungulate” in the Americas. This group may have limited movement through Frick Park in the winter, I'm unsure. If snow isn't deep, they dig with their hooves to find moss and leaves. If there's heavy snow, white-tail eat twigs and branches. And it seems this area provides two distinct advantages. Their resting spot is near big patches of grass and winter-growing flora, from the clearing to backyards. The area rests on top of a hillside as well, which provides almost puts them in an intelligently strategic advantage for evasion and defense.

I head down the hill and weave through brush, silent as possible, through lumps of leaves covered in snow. Over the muffled tires and traffic, I hear something through the trees. It sounds like the clack of horns. A buck rubbing his rack against the bole of a tree? I hear it again. Two bucks fighting? With well-placed steps I head half way down the hill until I see something move below, a dark lump obscured by brush. It moves around. Oh, it's some guy in a black jacket and hat, gathering things, moving stones, throwing sticks. What's this creature doing?

I come out of the brush and onto the trail. Bike tracks and foot prints are pressed in the snow. Inarticulately, I think of Thoreau and preconceived notions of Nature and Solitude. I keep on the trail and keep my distance from the creature. He doesn't pay much attention to me, probably used to my type. I walk by, and he continues his work. There's a backpack sitting on a stump, and the ladder from last week is on its side. From him, from the wind? I think the milkjugs moved, but I'm not sure. What's he doing? It's my instinct to stay at a distance and wonder, instead of breach contact. I wasn't expecting him, and don't necessarily like that he's there. The spot was silent and solitary last week, and I expected the same. His presence, and not only that, his presence in my—my?—territory. This disjointed encounter stirs an odd feeling.

Later, at home, after reading and writing and studying, I wonder if that man has ever read Wendell Berry's “Stay Home.” Why hadn't he stayed home? Or was he at home? Was he the narrator and I the reader, or vice versa? “Don't come with me … I will be standing in the woods … Don't come with me.” This man disrupted 'my nature.' Maybe I interrupted his. I unconsciously sought solitude from humans and company with animals and the inanimate. Was he doing the same? Shit, I don't know. I didn't ask.

Seriously, why was his presence in a spot I expected to be empty so jarring? I'd seen the signs of others, direct signs of him actually—he was working on the unfinished stone steps—but I didn't expect the encounter. I didn't stop to talk, just followed down to the lowest point, then back up and out of the park.

At home, I wonder how the deer feel about us. Am I as unexpected to them as the man was to me? What do they expect each day? So alert. Do they expect nothing or always something? Do deer live with definitions and expectations? Shit, I don't know.

Frick Park draws me to it for its landscape and topography, and I enjoy hiking the decline into the valley and back up. I normally follow the bike paths and go by a spot that's cleared and planted with grass and new trees. At the edge of the woods, there's a grassy area with picnic table. There are baggies and blunt wrappers laying around—the remnants of nearby kids smoking pot. I avoid my regular path down the bike trail and go another way. It's a wide, muddy grass path behind a row of houses. The trail stays flat for a quarter mile and passes behind eight or nine houses. From that point, I cut into the woods and down the slope.

It's a familiar path used by deer instead of mountain bikes. Hooves and a pair of shoes are stamped in the mud. I edge down the hill to the clear-cut area. As I arrive, the air is cool, and there's only white cloud, no blue. I normally walk through the park to think and watch the passing scenery, like Thoreau's hillside sunset. Especially today, everything is soaked in rain as well; there's no where to sit, so I amble within the confined space of planted grass.

I watch for birds and small animals scurrying around, but none today. As I slowly pace around, there are planted trees with cages around them. Some small, others large, about 10 feet. I'm not sure yet what kind of trees are planted, there were three species including a pine of sorts. The pines, uncaged, did have long pieces of bark spiraled around the base of it, though. I wasn't sure why. It was done by an aesthetic hand, but for what purpose?

This area is full of grass and dotted with trees and has an odd feeling compared with other areas in the park. Maybe it's the visual obviousness of human interaction with the space, and I don't mean only the trees. There single bird feathers stuck in the tree cages. There are plastic food container thrown into some of the cages. There are beef jerky bags and plastic water jugs. There are bright blue plastic bags hanging from the broken limbs of fallen dead trees. There are two tall remaining trees in the middle of the open, one dead, the other alive, and no other tree is over 15 feet. Rocks are stacked and placed around. In one spot, someone started a staircase, but after three well-placed stones, ended the project for one reason or the other. There's another stone project much more complete, a semi-circle wall set into the hill, behind the stump of a small tree. After noticing the landmarks that demanded attention, I continue to explore the area.

It's unclear why the area is replanted. The entire space is on a slope, and on the upper half one type of grass planted. The blades are broader and dark green. On the lower half, the grass is thin and bright; it's more obvious that the grass was seeded. I continue pacing over the grass, within the border of felled trees that contain the grass, and finally walk to the top of the hill to stand. I stood for a while, watching the traffic through the trees. The rush of tires over the highway fills the background of my thoughts until I hear a branch crack and notice a deer. It grazes on the little bits of grass sticking through the snow and mud. Suddenly, two other deer move down the hillside. These doe and a stag search in near silence for food, barely noticing me. I stand as still and quiet as possible, but eventually they notice small movements and stare. They continued eating and me standing for ten minutes with no special spectacle. Eventually another stag and spike come along, but the rest began to move away, back the way they came. Stepping in the silent mud, instead of sticks and leave, I follow them, slowly.

Of course, they become scared and alert. White tails go up, but they don't rush away. The does run a few yards while the bucks stand and watch. The stalk goes on for the next twenty minutes. Slowly, I creep closer and closer until they are bothered, and then the cycle repeats. Over and over, I creep closer, and they run just out of sight up the hill. At the top, I spot them again and move in close until I lose them back down over the hill and into thick brush. On the way back through the brush, I came upon three more deer. A doe, spike, and another buck. The other had eight points on their horns, but this guy only had six points. Eventually, even they bound into the brush.

I head back to the car, glad I was in their way and they in mine. Our interaction pushing them and myself out of our regular course, disrupting the mental and physical path of our day.