A WORLD UNTOUCHED
As I left the cabin in Townsend, I was greeted by an unexpected, but welcomed, surprise. Nearly a half-inch of newly fallen snow already covered the ground, and small flakes were continuing to fall. I knew I would need extra traveling time this morning, and so I checked my gear once more and headed for the Cove. Entering the park, I followed Laurel Creek Road toward my destination. Laurel Creek Road winds its way along the creek for which it is named and makes the ascent up Crib Gap before descending into the mountain valley about nine miles from Townsend. Snow glistened in the headlights at every turn. There were no tire tracks on the road ahead of me. For as long as I can remember, cutting the first track through new snow has excited me. Like a temporary disguise, new snow helps us imagine a world less touched by human beings. The empty soda can that someone thoughtlessly discarded on the forest floor produces a gentle swell in the landscape that is indistinguishable from the swell of the rock or stick that lies next to it. The road itself looks more like a natural clearing in the timber than a thoroughfare carved by machine. Unfortunately, the illusion does not last for long, especially in the most heavily visited of our national parks. For the moment though, I was alone in an undiscovered world.
As I awaited the opening of the loop road, only a handful of cars pulled into line behind me. It seemed odd to me that so few people had come out to enjoy the snow. I expected to see many other photographers on such a morning. Later I learned the reason for this small gathering of cars. Apparently, icy conditions had forced park officials to close the road into the Cove shortly after the last car in our little group had taken its place in line. The Cove itself is only a few hundred feet higher in elevation than Townsend, but the Laurel Creek Road rises to approximately 2,000 feet as it crosses over Crib Gap. Making the ascent can be difficult when the road is snow-covered. Because traffic tends to turn the snow cover to ice, the first cars have an advantage.
For a change, lightly falling snow, rather than fog, limited my vision as I followed the ranger into the Cove. Only a few deer fed in the fields between the entrance to the Loop and Hyatt Lane. Finally, I found an eight-point and two smaller bucks pawing for acorns just opposite the Missionary Baptist Church. It was the first good buck I had seen that morning, and apparently it was the first one anyone had seen because the small procession of cars behind me followed right on my heels when I pulled into the parking area near the church.
A gust of wind drove fine flakes of snow against my face while I mounted a lens on the tripod. The larger buck paused to stare at the group of photographers and onlookers assembled near the road. I depressed the shutter for the first time that morning as he stood framed against the bows of a pine tree. As he fed away from the road, I followed him up the ridge. Seeing how unconcerned he seemed to be with my movements around him, I decided to shadow him for the rest of the morning. When he moved east through the woods towards Rich Mountain Road, I realized that the other photographers had forsaken the chase.
A blanket of snow covered the forest floor, tapered slivers of white rested upon overhead branches, and tiny flakes continued to rush earthward. The world was silent except for the rhythmical scraping of hoof against earth as the buck turned over snow and leaves in search of acorns.
He fed on acorns among the hardwoods east of Rich Mountain Road for nearly an hour, then angled back up the ridge. Before crossing the road that looped its way up the side of the mountain, he paused to rake a small pine tree with his antlers. No longer interested in feeding, he continued his ascent. He crossed Rich Mountain Road once more and headed straight up the spur on the far side. I leaned into the ridge and dug the side of my boots into the earth to stay upright as I followed him up the steep, slippery incline. He broke into a gentle trot, moved off the east side of the spur, and disappeared over the adjacent ridge line.
At first I just stood there feeling a bit disgusted with myself. Had I pushed him too hard? He'd seemed oblivious to me earlier. Stressing an animal anytime, and especially in winter, is never my intent. Then I remembered a similar situation I had experienced a few months earlier, and so with a hunch in hand, I hurried to the point where the buck had disappeared from sight.
When I eased over the ridge I could see the buck in the hollow below. Once again he appeared completely relaxed. He was moving slowly and even paused once to paw for acorns. Feeling better about my hunch, but still not completely sure, I approached slowly. He showed no evidence of alarm as he moved up the spur that split the north end of the hollow. He stopped about three-quarters of the way up the spur where the earth leveled slightly. Like a posted sentry, only his head turned as he stared east for a few moments, then west, before looking back down the hollow towards me. As he examined the area, I knew my hunch was about to pay off. When all was to his liking, his knees buckled and he assumed his mid-morning bed. He had chosen a classic whitetail bedding location. From this position he could easily detect approaching danger, and with a few strides he could put the ridge line between himself and his pursuers as he made his getaway.
As I watched the bedded buck, I thought about his efforts to elude me. Acclimated whitetails often show little regard for human onlookers by bedding out in the open away from the security of cover that hunted populations usually seek. Only occasionally have I encountered deer in the Cove that seem to display an innate survival behavior. Prior to bedding, these deer sometimes engage in what I refer to as a "distancing maneuver." Although Cove deer are accustomed to people, sometimes something within some of them urges them to separate themselves from the human beings before selecting a bedding site.
While the buck lay in his bed chewing his cud, the last snow shower of the morning moved through the area. Eventually the sky brightened, and, where the sun touched the earth, the carpet of snow gave way to the wet leaves beneath it. The buck arose and began moving down the mountain. He once again searched the forest floor for acorns. He moved east onto a partially sunlit bench where only traces of snow remained. The bench, a small leveling of the landscape before the mountain continues its ascent, was dotted with small evergreens. After feeding for about a half an hour, he bedded again. This time he made no effort to distance himself from me before coming to rest on the south slope of the ridge.
I knelt in the leaves just below his position. Sunlight warmed my back and illuminated the deer's head and neck. The sound of several deer moving up the west end of the ridge caught my attention. A light breeze touched my face as I turned toward the sound. When I glanced back at the bedded buck, I saw that his rack was tilted against his back as his nose pointed skyward to test the breeze. When he saw the group of deer top the ridge and head across the bench, he came to his feet and gave chase. He closed the gap quickly and overtook them as they moved up the mountain. Although I could not see the composition of the group clearly as they moved through the trees, I suspected that the scent of a doe in estrus had been the motivation for his dash across the bench.
Silence returned to the forest and I sank back into the leaves exhausted. As I glanced at my watch I realized that it was just after one o'clock. In the thrill of the encounter, I had lost track of time. After a brief rest I moved down the mountain in the direction of my truck. The snow had melted. The illusion of an untouched world had ended. The vision of a whitetail moving through a world cloaked in white persisted.
