The Frightened Deer

It was one of those gray, boring days, a day between a holiday and a weekend packed full of plans with friends and family and hopefully more friends. Stir crazy after 48 hours in his house, he set out on a journey with his camera and tripod to an unknown destination.

At times, the clouds teased him with a bright hint of parting, only to grow denser. As the pavement disappeared beneath his wheels, he knew he’d have to choose a location soon, and at an intersection made his decision. He broke left, navigating a long narrow road, crossing water, and ending up at a state park he’d visited several times in the past. Surely with some snow on the ground, he might find variations on old sights if not new ones entirely.

The guard at the booth waved him through; there’s no admission fee in the Winter. Finding a parking spot, he loaded his batteries, slung his tripod over his shoulder, and set about walking off two days of eating and not moving. He found patches of ice, shattered old greenhouses, and various tracks in the snow. Venturing in to sections of the park he’d never visited before, he encountered some new structures and some strange rope arrangements between several trees.

At the base of a hill, he had two options. He could double back on a known trail, on venture further on what might have been a dried river bed, possibly not even part of the same property. Reminding himself that adventure awaits when he did the opposite of his instinct to stay within familiar territory, he pushed onward. What were those yelps and howls in the distance? Coyotes? Dogs? Demon hounds? The sound was surely traveling a great distance through the bare trees and snow, and he would not give in to irrational fear.

He found an open field, and tracks from horseback riders. He made his way across the clearing, where the top half of a jogger had floated by over some shrubs. Surely there was a trail beyond. A hawk or a falcon screeched overhead, vanishing into the treetops before he could get a good shot. The howling was louder, and he was heading toward it, but he had no choice if he was going to reach the path he’d seen the jogger on.

The “path” turned out to be nothing more than more snow and grass surrounding an empty horse enclosure. Signs warned him that the fence was electrified. To his right were some buildings, from which that howling was loudest. He made his way to the left, which was the general direction of the parking lot, however many miles away that might now be. He reached one corner of the enclosure, and was about to turn and walk toward what looked like a road at the opposite corner, when the barking in the distance became more frantic. He imagined hunting dogs set loose to rip a trespasser to shreds. He saw more deer tracks in the snow, leading into a thicket. The shortest distance between two points remained a straight line, and he didn’t want to wait for the hounds to cover the distance between them. Like a frightened deer, he ducked and dove into the thorns.

Halfway up the hill, his hat was torn from his head. He turned to grab it, wrapping himself in spiky vines. Catching his breath, he realized two things: nothing was chasing him, and there was no clear path in any direction. The sun was setting, and this fool was completely and utterly surrounded by a thicket. Freeing his hat, he knew he had to continue up the hill. He looked for places where the vines had the least coverage, crouching and pushing through with his tripod. Occasionally he’d get cut through his jeans, or entangled, but eventually he saw a clearing at the top of the hill. He emerged through the last, most stubborn vines with the sharpest thorns, to freedom. He staggered across the field to his car and drove home to wash his clothes and treat his cuts.

Folks, there’s no situation, real or imaginary, in which panic won’t make things much, much worse.