JULY MORNINGS
Every season among whitetails has something unique to offer, but late July is an extraordinary time in the Cove. The cycle of antler growth is nearly complete and bucks can still be found grouped together in large numbers. Later, in the fall, the bucks become more solitary as the mating season approaches and the competition for does begins. Exactly why some of the Cove bucks band together in large groups is not clear. Perhaps their numbers create an effective defense against the predators that also inhabit the Cove. Or, perhaps, they use this time to note the size and strength of the bucks around them in order to avoid unwise challenges in the future. In any case, I have come to expect a grouping of bucks in the vicinity of Hyatt Lane. The numbers vary, but some sort of buck club has formed in this area during each of the last several seasons. Together they enjoy lush and full vegetation, abundant food, and a life as comfortable as it ever gets for a white-tailed buck.
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The handlebars vibrated as I abandoned the smoothness of the loop road and directed my bike onto Hyatt Lane. Darkness had already given way to the purgatory of half-light that exists when dense fog cloaks the landscape. The morning light was not going to change quickly, and I would not have to worry about a parade of cars coming into the Cove for several hours. On Wednesday and Saturday mornings during the summer, the Loop Road is closed to cars until ten o'clock to accommodate cyclists and hikers. So I didn't feel the usual sense of urgency that encourages me to find deer as quickly as possible in order to take advantage of the soft light and to stay ahead of the growing number of other deer watchers that accumulate as the morning wears on.
I crossed a small drainage ditch about a third of the way down the lane, chained my bike to a fence post, and readied my equipment. A large group of bucks had been frequenting the clover fields in this area, but there was clover on both sides of the lane so it was difficult to predict where I might find the deer that morning. I based my decision on the deer activity I had seen the night before and headed towards a large strip of clover west of the lane. The strip parallels a thick fence row near the mid-point between Hyatt Lane and an overlook on the loop road to the northwest. The fence row shelters the small tributary that, on its way to Abrams Creek, parts the expanse of open fields. Queen Anne's Lace, foxtail, and purple top also grow in the field, but clover dominates.
Although I knew that the temperatures would climb rapidly over the next few hours, for the moment, I was glad I'd worn my long-sleeved shirt. I knew it would help to keep me warm when I left the road to wade through the wet grass that separated me from the clover strip. Nothing short of chest waders can prevent me from getting soaked from the waist down when the dew is heavy. Worse, I often photograph near the ground by working on my knees, and so, even in relatively short grass, I manage to get wet. My spouse thinks I take pleasure in discomfort. Although it is true that I thrive on very early morning hours and I don't mind cold temperatures, hiking around in wet clothing and boots is not something I necessarily enjoy.
Because wetness seems to be an unavoidable state on most summer mornings among the deer, I have learned to accept it. I approach this condition like a swimmer testing the water. Some take the plunge off the diving board, while others slowly wade in from the shallow end. On mornings when a deer is in sight, I tend to be the diving-board type. Today, however, I could see barely forty yards, and no deer were in sight. I decided to take the long way around and follow the tractor path through the field in an effort to stay dry.
The path led me to the north end of the clover strip. Once there, I worked my way south through the middle of the strip. Although I had yet to encounter any deer, I could still see only about forty yards ahead of me. Because the field was quite long, I pressed on.
I heard the sound of deer running toward me before I could see them. They burst into view and I was suddenly surrounded by more than a dozen antlered deer. Although they appeared somewhat startled at discovering me in their path, they were clearly more interested in whatever it was that had sent them my way. They stopped all around me and stared back in the direction from which they had come. Although I never confirmed the source of their anxiety, I suspected that a red wolf had sent them my way. I stood motionless waiting to see what they would do next. One by one, they relaxed, and resumed their feeding.
My decision to take the long way around to the north end of the clover strip unknowingly put me on a collision course with the deer. Gaining the confidence of a group of bucks was what I had in mind when I left the road that morning, but having them come to me in such fashion was more than I had imagined.
As the fog lessened, I noticed that another group of deer fed near the other end of the field. When I realized that this second group also had antlers I paused to take count. In all, twenty-six, antlered deer shared the clover field with me. The fog was lifting, but the field was still not visible from the road. No one knew we were there.
Finally, the veil of fog raised to reveal a beautiful summer day. As I glanced over my shoulder I saw two more antlered deer entering the field behind me. One of the bucks sported an exceptional set of antlers. After he walked past me, I set up behind him. When something to his left caught his attention, he stopped in mid-stride. I turned the camera on end and positioned the buck in the lower right corner of the viewfinder, his body leaning into the frame. Almost motionless, only his tail twitched from side to side. When his tail joined the rest of his body by pointing in the direction of his gaze, I released the shutter.
On one occasion, a ten-point separated himself from the group of deer I was working and fed toward me. As he approached, I photographed from near ground level. When he reached the minimum focus distance of my lens, I backed away and waited for him to close the distance between us again. At this range the texture of the skin that covered his developing antlers caught my attention. The covering looked like something more closely associated with a child's stuffed animal, or an Elvis painting, than a living creature. Yet it blended perfectly with the softness apparent in the rest of his features. I couldn't help but think how different he would look in the coming months when a much tougher appearance would replace these gentle features. Soon he would rub off the velvet covering to reveal a hardened set of antlers, slip on a longer, thicker winter coat, and, during the rut, feel his neck nearly double in size. We repeated our little dance until he had backed me nearly the length of the field. Eventually, when I held my position, he veered to my right and left the field on the way to his bedding area.
When I think about late July in the Cove, I think of bluebirds ushering a second group of fledglings from the nest, afternoon storm clouds dragging a curtain of moisture across the landscape, sunlight on its way to Abrams Creek filtering through the greenery of tall trees, a mother bear leading her growing cubs towards their first autumn. Amid all the wonders of summer in this place, images of deer with velvet-clad antlers are among my favorite.
