A Glimpse of Snowy-White Tail

Nearly all of my encounters with deer have been distant, a quick glimpse of snowy-white tail as the rest of the deer disappears into the brush. Or the slow crawl in a vehicle after a mama and her babies are spotted too-close to the road, picking their way delicately across the street before disappearing into the brush with a flash of snowy-white tail. The common theme is "disappearing into the brush."

This morning on the Greenway I stopped to admire a flock of juncos fluttering, their wings turned translucent, backlit by the morning sun. I must have paused too long, too close; a soft rustle behind me drew my attention to...a quick glimpse of snowy-white tails as a couple of deer disappeared into the brush. I had been fumbling to get the camera to capture the juncos--unzip the backpack, carefully extract the camera, take off the gloves, pop off the lens cap, re-zip the backpack, forget to turn on the power--I didn't bother trying to get a shot. The deer were long gone, and while I was distracted the juncos had moved off to a less-photogenic location. C'est la vie.

I often wonder, after failing to photograph a deer or pheasant, if photography or hunting is the more difficult endeavor? Naturally as a photographer, I conclude photography is the more challenging: not only do you have to point and shoot at the target, you have to have proper focus and lighting as well. The angles have to work out, and the darn critter has to have its face turned properly to avoid shadows while hopefully getting a nice spark of catchlight in their eye. But of course, you can't feed your family with a photograph.

On the way back from my Greenway stroll, I again flushed a couple of deer in the same area. This time I was ready! Or rather, this time the deer were polite enough to turn and stare at me after their initial bolt, instead of moving rapidly out of my range. Mama and a big baby, just a few meters away, watching me watching them for what seemed like several minutes before the youngster grew bored and walked away--joining a third deer I hadn't noticed earlier.

 Mama turned to face me head-on and let out a small snort. I felt a moment of panic--the snort was reminiscent of the noise cartoon bulls make before charging (an unfortunate amount of my visceral understanding of the world came from cartoons; it still lurks below the veneer of proper education)--but, as I later learned, the snort (or "blow") was more a signal of apprehension to other deer rather than a warning to skulking voyeurs like myself. Moments later, she joined her two young and they went on their way and I went on mine.