It’s Fawning Season

Now is the time of year when, as you wander through field or forest, you may be lucky enough to spy a reddish-brown lump peering up at you from the grass.  More likely, you’ll miss it and wander by.

In Georgia, late spring to late summer is fawning season for white-tailed deer.  A doe may give birth to one, two, or even three fawns, each weighing 4-8 pounds.  Fawns can stand soon after birth, but aren’t able to keep up with their mothers for a week or so.  Their best defense is in stealth.

For one thing, they have very little scent compared to an older whitetail. There is fawnredderenough for a doe to recognize her offspring, but not enough for her (or a coyote) to easily trail it.  Their second asset is their reddish-brown color.  That seems counterproductive until you realize that most predators don’t see well in the red range of the spectrum; like many color-blind humans, coyotes and bobcats cannot easily distinguish between red and green, so a reddish fawn in green grass is pretty unobtrusive.  Furthermore, they are dappled with white spots.  Perhaps it breaks up their visual pattern  further, or perhaps it mimics the dapples of sunlight filtering through the leaves.

But this camouflage only works if the fawn is absolutely still, even when danger is near.  A frightened fawn’s breathing becomes slow and shallow, and its heart rate plummets.  I’ve seen fawns so still I wasn’t sure they were alive; they wouldn’t move even when touched.

Does feed their fawns several times a day.  After each feeding, the fawn leaves the doe and curls up in grass, under bushes or in some other cover;  this way, the doe’s own scent won’t  draw a coyote or other predator to the fawn.  Until the mother calls for it, the fawn lays motionless and quiet, safely hidden in forest thicket, field, or even backyard — I once found a fawn hiding under my truck!

To come upon a fawn is a treat.  Unfortunately, many people who find one  assume the mother has abandoned it.  Too often, these well-meaning folks will carry the young deer home and either try to take care of it or call a zoo or nature center.  Either way, the doe has lost her fawn, and the fawn has lost any chance at a normal life.  “Rescuing” fawns that aren’t in trouble never ends well for the animal. It is very difficult to provide the right nutrition and attention for any infant, and even if the deer lives to adulthood it may lack the skills to survive in the wild.   In addition, requests for assistance with fawns overwhelm wildlife rehabilitators at this time of year, keeping them from helping animals in genuine trouble.  A couple of years ago I had to collect a fawn from someone who tried to be helpful but couldn’t support the animal.  With no rehabilitators to take it, I had to put it down.  I don’t want to have to do that again.

If you find a fawn, the best thing to do is walk away quietly.  If the animal is in a dangerous place – such as in a road or a field about to be plowed – it is okay to move it out of the way, preferably to a shady spot.  Touching a fawn briefly will not make the mother abandon it, but taking it home will!

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Stepping Back to Spring

spring flowers

I drove through the Great Smoky Mountains around mid-May.  I started the uphill climb in Cherokee, North Carolina, which (at around 2000 feet above sea level) has been shed of icy mornings for about a month and a half.  I drove through a canopy of mature, deep green.    By the time I reached Newfound Gap, some 3.000 feet higher,  the days of frost weren’t nearly so distant.  Temperature drops with increase of elevation, on the order of 3-5 degrees F per 1000 feet.  So just as the greening of the land creeps northward, it also crawls up the mountains.  Here, on the ridge line that marks the divide between Tennessee and North Carolina, the new leaves were bright green.  In the Autumn, the progression will reverse, with leaves flaring and falling on the ridge before those in easterly Hendersonvile properly start to turn.  So the southern Appalachians have growing seasons as short as those of Ohio or Pennsylvania. Yet with abundant rainfall and moderate sunlight, the mountains are mantled in lush growth.creek-thumbnail.jpg

A Quick Visit to “The Wall”

I found an excuse to make it back to my old stomping grounds for a few days last week, and carved out time for an evening walk to “The Wall”, the ruins of an old stone bridge  on which are tied many memories.   We’ve called it The Wall all my life, and for me it is the focal point of the 200-acre woodland.  It is my church, it is my touchstone, and I think of it often.

On pavement, the walk from the road to the creek would have scarcely been a 3 minute stroll, not the 15 minute creeping meander it turned out to be.  Here, enfolded by forest, I feel compelled to tread quietly, to watch my steps, to look around and listen.  So much to note:  more sourwoods here than I remembered… a neighbor’s horse left its calling card on the trail… armadillos have been rooting through the leaf litter…another old shortleaf pine has fallen victim to time… a loud snort tells me a deer has spied me before I noticed it.  As the warm May air rustles the leaves far above,  I turn off the path, stopping to brush humus and leaf litter off a small fire ring laid down 30 year ago by a smooth-faced youth with a less seasoned view of the woods; then I continue downhill to the Wall.  Loose rubble fills  the space between two massive stone walls, each wide enough to walk on. I perch on the highest end stone and silently survey the land, from where the creek rounds the bend to where it fades away behind fans of leaves.   Birdsong pierces the chuckling of the water tumbling over rocks.  Last year’s tropical storm left several trees lying across the creek, but at the moment the woods are dry enough that the resurrection ferns are curled and brown.Wall snake

The photo of the rocks above isn’t from the normal angle I shoot the rocks because I wanted to include a bystander.  Look down near the base of the tree on the left.

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This fellow is a northern water snake.  He stayed put from the time I saw him as I climbed down the rocks until I left the area half an hour later.  They aren’t venomous, although they’ll bite if they feel cornered and can be aggressive in defending their territory.  I’ve never seen one of these on our land before, and when I came out the next afternoon, the snake was nowhere to be found. The woods are full of life, and you will miss most of it unless you keep quiet and alert.

When you are out and about, try stopping and see what you can see, hear what you can hear.  Be still, and Nature will come to you.

The Seven Sisters Oak

The southern live oak (Quercus virginiana) is a stately icon of the coastal South.  Exceptionally hard, heavy,  and difficult to work, the live oak was much used for ship in the days of tall ships;  Georgia oaks were used in the construction of the U.S.S Constitution, famously nicknamed “Old Ironsides.”  The live oak is so called because it retains its oval leaves throughout the winter.

Mighty tree

This spring I was fortunate enough to visit what is considered the largest southern live oak, named the Seven Sisters Oak.  This magnificent Louisiana tree bears seven sets of branches leading away from the center trunk and spreading to a mighty crown of 139 feet.  The limbs, each massive as the trunk a lesser oak, are decorated with Virginia creeper and resurrection ferns, and many bow gracefully to rest on the ground before rising skyward again.  The ancient trunk is just shy of 39 feet in circumference, and I expect the multiple trunks and the convoluted growth is part of the reason for the wide range in age estimates (from 300 to over 1,200 years).   I took a few photos, but the scale of such a tree really cannot be adequately captured except by standing under its canopy.

mighty tree 2The National Champion tree stands on private property near the shore of Lake Pontchartrain; the owners maintain and care for the majestic oak. I am grateful to them for their care and for allowing the public access to the tree.  I am also grateful to the generations who recognized the value of this legacy over the value of the timber or  cleared yard space.

Smoothing the Scars

 

Wall and vine

Although I live in the Coastal Plain of middle Georgia, my family has 200 acres of woods in the Piedmont region of northern Georgia. It is a beautiful property, with stately oaks, hickories, and beeches, but the sharp eye can see the wounds Nature has scabbed over.  Everywhere are gullies and thin rocky soil where farmers asked more of the land than it could provide. Here is a the hole where a moonshiner kept his still, and there is the echo of a sunken road now paved with oak leaves.  An old wall by the creek — probably the remains of a bridge, or possibly a mill dam — is a focal point for my visits when I journey back there every few months.   Humans have altered the landscape to suit their desires for nearly as long as they’ve walked these lands,  and they’ve been especially good at it in the last three hundred years.  Yet, as always, Nature makes do.  Plant succession will turn a fallowed field to a pine woodland in a score of years, so what hope does a Mississippian mound complex have against Nature with a thousand years to work with?

woods road

Pondering the Value of Life vs. Legacy

Some two years ago, I watched a video of some men taking sledgehammers to statues built by workers who were dust and forgotten millennia ago.  My first thought: These people need to be stopped.  My second thought: These souless people need tKellsFol292rIncipJohno be put down lest they destroy anything else.  And  my third thought: Why am I getting worked up over some statues and tablets when people are being slaughtered?  Good point.  Of course, I have been getting incensed at the executions, the torture, all the brutality done in the name of some version of God or another.  So then I ask myself how one hold the loss of an artifact and the loss of a human life as in any way equal in tragic value.

Here is what I came to.  Each unique human life is of immense importance so long as it continues. Life is finite, and when it ends, it’s gone.  Some lives leave a legacy.  This may be found in children, friends, or students that the person affected during life.  When a person has gone beyond memory, there are physical objects – objects of art, things crafted – a book, a bridge, a violin, a vase, a map – these are relics of legacy.  Time first steals our memory, then works to destroy other legacies.  Libraries burn; buildings decay or are torn down; moth and rust and misfortune tear away the heirlooms of the dead –the inheritance of the future.  Age and rarity makes these relics more valuable.  A paperback may be so worthless as to end up in the free book bin after one read.  But what is the worth of the first run of Walden? Or a book printed by Gutenberg?  Or an Anglo-Saxon letters scribbled on a scrap of velum?  Or lead sheets with Roman lettering, or Demotic on papyrus, or cuneiform on accidently-baked clay?  What about paintings on a cave wall?

Such things, the legacies of the forgotten generations, are truly humanity’s heirlooms, and as valuable in their way as the more direct and tangible wealth of today – land, water, and so on.  Both the present lives and those legacies of past lives must be defended from those who see the value in neither.Vallon_Pont_d'Arc_banner

Images from Wikipedia Commons

Homage to Cernunos

Hunting is an often-contentious topic, and this isn’t helped by the fact the concept means different things to different people.  Say “hunting” and one may think of providing food for the family, while another may picture millionaires posing over an elephant.

In my experience, one of the broad groups that leans in the anti-hunting direction is the pagan community.  For every note on my feed that is favorable (or at least accepting) of hunting, there are dozens who see it as abominable.

The following is an article originally published in Touchstone, the journal of the Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids.  Republished here with permission of the author. Let me know what you think.

 In Homage to Cernunos: A Modern Druid’s View of Hunting

The hunt is a common theme and a powerful symbol in Celtic mythology. How many stories are framed around hunts, finding the action “one day while he was out hunting” (or “while her husband was away hunting”)?  Even today, modern Druids and Pagans identify with, and venerate, the Horned God – as Cernunos, Herne, or in another guise.  Yet, in the Pagan community, the issue of hunting is fraught with contention.

No doubt there will be many readers who believe that hunting is wrong.  Druid opinions range from “I think hunting is great” to “hunting for sustenance is okay, but not for sport” to “killing another living thing is wrong.”  In the greater population, the hunting controversy becomes tangled up in issues of class, politics, and even nationalism.  Just as in any human community, it is easy for a group to be reduced to a negative caricature to an outsider’s eyes.

I grew up the son of a wildlife biologist in a rural part of Georgia, in the southeastern United States.  Hunting was a normal part of life.  Rifles and shotguns were stacked on the rack by the front door, and deer heads decorated the walls. My father was a hunter from youth, providing food for his family and later ours; he passed his skills and knowledge – a mixture of native field-craft and scientific study – to me.  My parents still hunt.

As a biologist myself, I can speak to reasons why, in this region and in this time, hunting deer is necessary. White-tailed deer breed without regard for either their welfare, nature, or us.  When deer overpopulate, they over-browse, removing all edibles as far up as they can reach, even eating bark off roots – not to mention the farmer’s crops.  Bringing back cougars and wolves is not feasible, so without hunting, deer numbers rise until most of the individuals suffer a lingering death due to starvation and disease.  By then, the land has lost much of its resiliency and natural diversity and takes many years to fully renew.

As one among a community of hunters, I know hunting is important to people for many reasons.  It is true that most hunters of my acquaintance feel pride at taking a particularly large deer, but a fine set of antlers is seldom the overriding reason for hunting. A deer on the ground means meat in the freezer, and among some struggling families, a successful deer season means the difference between health and hunger the rest of the year.  For those omnivores without access to organic meat, wild game is both organic and generally healthier than store-bought beef or pork.  Concerns for ethics are assuaged by comparing a factory-farmed life and stress-filled final minutes of a cow versus the quiet, free life and sudden and unexpected death of a hunted deer.  Finally, a good hunter is more immersed in and aware of nature.  I know hunters whose working knowledge of bird and beast, tree and forb, and the yearly cycles of their hunting ground would awe many Druids.  Many speak of their time on the hunt as a spiritual experience, bathed in the peace of the forest.  Through their connection with the prey, they enact a ritual known to their forebears stretching to the dawn of time.

From a broader standpoint, hunters and anglers (in the United States) fund the preservation and restoration of wildlife habitat through excise taxes and fees, helping game and nongame species alike; this funding source dwarfs the financial contribution of birders, hikers, and other “non-consumptive” users.

As someone on a Druidic path, I have pondered my own reasons for hunting. To non-hunters, I have stated all of the reasons above.  But in private reflection, I turned the notion around and looked at it in the context of a religious obligation. I eat meat, much of it factory-farmed – a situation which, if pressed, many people would say they dislike but few ever think about. These animals are raised and killed by faceless strangers, their lives sacrificed so that I may buy prepared food. But in the Autumn, I enter my sanctuary woods reverently.  I proclaim that I have not forgotten that my plastic-wrapped food was once a living animal – an animal which fed on plants which were in turn nourished by the sun – and in token of this acknowledgement I will perform the sacrifice myself, at least this one time.  I do not flinch from this symbolic duty, and I endeavor to kill swiftly. And kneeling over the animal whose life I took and whose flesh will provide nourishment for my wife and child, my friends, and myself in the coming year, I pause to wordlessly express my compounded gratitude and apology.

The hunt is a seasonal ritual, conducted in my family’s woods and in my favorite season.  I enter the woods with my code of ethics firmly in place:  I will only harvest a fully mature deer, and only if a clean, swift kill is certain.  I let many deer walk away – for these reasons, or because the spirit moves me to let them be.  I silentMOULTRIE DIGITAL GAME CAMERAly watch and learn as they interact with each other and the world around them.  I also see other hunters at work – a bobcat bringing down a rabbit, or a hawk stooping on a careless squirrel.  This day, I am like them, bound to the prey.  Lost in the hunters meditation – senses alert to  a leaf crunching,  the breeze shifting, the flicker of gray against the brown-shaded landscape – I touch both the woodland predators and my own ancestors stretching back to the dawn of our kind.  The hunting spirit in the breast of our ancient kin is surely what led them to call forth to hunter gods, to revere great hunters in  myth and legend.

Hunting is not for everyone.  Comparatively few have the opportunity, and fewer have the inclination.  Yet that spirit of the hunter is still a part of us – if often slumbering  or sublimated.  That spirit should be, if not acted on, at least acknowledged; as beings of both instinct and intellect, some part of us needs the hunting aspect to keep us closer to our true, natural selves.  My  father once said: “The prey must have the predator, just as the predator needs the prey.  One without the other eventually becomes something less.  The wolf becomes a dog.  The deer becomes a cow.  And what does Man become?”

The arts of Herne deserve respect within the Pagan community, from hunters and non-hunters alike.  For some people, hunting can provide a unique insight and a spiritual link to our ancestors and to the spirit of the Wild Hunt.  Further, it can bring a greater awareness of our place in the environment, of the cycles of nature and the delicate balance between life and death.  It can help us better understand our own natures.  On a broader scale, hunting can be a greater good, helping protect and restore wildlife habitat.  Hunting will always be controversial, but perhaps the arguments on either side of the issue aren’t as simplistic as they are made out to be.