The Longest Night

Sunday, December 23, 2007

(Despite appearances to the contrary, this is not the Dead Deer Journal, but, as they say, stuff happens.)

Imagine the terror. Alone in the long dark night – the longest night of the year – the young whitetail was pursued relentlessly by a pack of strong, vicious, hungry beasts. She tried to run, but her sharp hooves kept breaking through the crust on the deep snow, slowing her down and causing her to stumble. The coyotes, seemingly floating over the smooth surface on their wide paws, came on, closing the gap. Finally, when she could flee no more, they were upon her, tearing at her flesh, scattering her hair. It was over quickly, but how could such a thing ever end soon enough?

I can only imagine what the attack was like, but the tracks, blood and remains in the snow told the tale. We went skiing on Moose Hill Farm on Sunday morning, the first day of winter. We had just started and were only a few minutes from the parking lot when, in the distance, I saw a dark form in the snow in the middle of a large hay field. I had heard that there was a significant population of coyotes in the area and I knew there were many whitetail deer, so even at a distance I had a feeling I knew what I was seeing. As we approached, I could clearly see the looping path where the predators drew the first blood, then tore into the coat scattering the hair, and finally, where they began to feed. A few organs had been pulled away and left in the snow. The head and legs were intact, but the carcass was stripped to the vertebrae.

Shooting is illegal in our town. Hunting of any kind is very unusual. Constant development pushes the deer into ever-smaller natural areas and their population density soars. Over-browsing, disease and car-kills are inevitable. It’s only natural that – given just enough room – predators will move in.

This is the way it should be; the way it has always been. So much of the beautiful life around us is sustained by killing. To a caterpillar, even the most colorful and delicate warbler is a heartless predator. But, the death of a deer, with its brown hair and red blood, its big black eyes and white backbone stripped of flesh, is death on a scale that people really notice.

To me, the amazing thing is that it happens here. Moose Hill is less than 20 miles from Boston. The towers of downtown can be seen from a high point in this same field. Within a mile or two in every direction are fancy suburban homes with backyards where pets and children play.

It crossed my mind that this death should be kept a secret. Roaming packs of large meat-eating predators may be more than we suburbanites can tolerate. I see an earnest TV news reporter interviewing a soccer mom and a NASCAR dad on their manicured lawn next to the minivan. They are calling for action to protect their children and cockapoo. If we would just put some townhouses and a lifestyle mall up there, we wouldn’t have to worry about these things.

My reaction to this deer kill is a little different. Knowing that there are large carnivores at the top of the Moose Hill food chain authenticates the wildness of the place. There is enough contiguous wild space to sustain a complete ecosystem with checks and balances. All around, we may be screwing things up by fragmenting the landscape, but on Moose Hill life is returning to a more natural state.

I look forward to the day when I am sitting in the woods, quiet and alone. I hear a sound behind me and I turn to see large yellow eyes staring into my wide blue ones. After a moment of indecision, the big coyote lopes away. Excitement mingles with fear in a way that must be primordial. I never look at these woods in the same way again.