Dear Deer

 The day before the snowshoe trek, I'd stood beside Chairman Joe at his stove in the Shedeau while he made pita bread. He flattened soft dough balls into circles, and I watched each one brown and puff up on the hot skillet.  Before Teresa, Joe, Jim, and I set out the next day, we gobbled one of these pockets, overflowing with scrambled eggs, bacon, and drippy cheese. Joe knows that mighty fortification is necessary for a snowshoe walk in Roseau, and he takes good care of his guests.

Midway through the hike, a zig-zaggy bloody map on the snow forced us to stop. Deer attack, Joe declared immediately, his voice calm and direct. Teresa nodded soberly in agreement, but I gasped and looked around in disbelief. We were unwitting witnesses to an atrocity, and I was confused. "Where are all the bones?"  I begged. Despite the pale rust-red blood that had soaked into the snow, there was no trace of any animal. "Bones are booty," Joe explained, "Like doggy bags, the wolves carry back to eat later at the den." Although I chuckled at CJ's gallows humor, I winced as I stood and stared at the bloody traces. 

Part of the enchantment of our visit included poetic glimpses of deer herds darting in and out of the trees outside the McDonnells' windows. I'm an emotional swirler and a meaning maker, so as I tried to take all this in, my sense of things downshifted from idyllic to harrowing. The sun was out, the sky was a clear blue, and the temperature was zero. Along with the frigid air, I had to breathe in the biting fact that animals eat each other. I was overdue for letting go of my naiveté. 

As we left the scene, my eyes caught on a tawny scrap of deer fur. I went to grab it, found it stuck in the crusty snow, and had to stab at the ice with a stick to release the frozen wad. Everyone had walked ahead, and I continued alone, palming the fur in my jacket pocket. I felt a bit like a thief because deep down, I sensed I'd just found gold. Once back inside, the deerskin patch began to thaw, and I worried it might start stinking. I was eager to bring it home intact, and despite my fears of it spoiling or getting damaged in the process, I succeeded. 

The skin dried well, and the fur has retained its tawny beauty. Just as the wolves made off with bones for later noshing, so had I scavaged this bit of fur from its natural setting and taken it for my own.  I couldn't find words to describe the force behind my desire to have it, but I sensed its talisman power to save. 

In The Wisdom of Wilderness, Gerald G. May writes about a reverent connection he feels when he touches the bones of an animal that has died in the wild. It was like that for me out there on that walk, and I continued to ponder my heart's response to the stark reality of predation, which Joe and Teresa took more in their stride. May’s reflections encourage readers to accept the isness of things and things in nature as they are.  My need to take the fur from its natural setting speaks of my desire to connect to and (as if I could) rectify, redeem reverse, such horrors. I call myself out again for naiveté, but who doesn't love Bambi?

Having brought the patch back from Minnesota to Virginia, it's odd that I haven't yet found a proper resting place for my little patch of fur. I tuck it here by some books, then decide it belongs in a drawer where I tuck it and then forget it for a while. I've tried to write about it many times but get stalled. Once, I forgot where I'd put it and panicked until I found it again. I have it right here next to my laptop as I write.

Wilderness is everywhere, May says. You don't have to go tromping through [the McDonnell's] woods to find it. He says [y]ou may find it in a local park, an open field . . .you may even find it in your own room, or in your own body and mind. He adds that the natural world can inspire the best and soothe the worst within us. 

Like most lovers of nature, our unspoken expectations when setting off that morning were for tranquility, peace, and perhaps a restoration of spirits. This walk, however, was different in the way it disturbed - the fact that animals are not moral agents provided no comfort to me that day. Blood is blood, is blood, is blood, after all. The fur I salvaged from that snowy scene of natural predation continues to invite me to consider my part, my natural tendencies to attack, control, trample boundaries, and or otherwise behave at another's expense. When walking in the woods, one never knows what might be out there to find. 

Dear Deer