I do a lot of driving. On a weekly basis, I cruise through heavily wooded areas and farm country where deer hang out, in an area of the country where the whitetail is king. Considering this, and factoring in the overall amount of driving I've done since January 1989, when I got my driver's license (on my first try, thank you very much...), it's actually pretty amazing that the above scenario - caught by the dash cam of a sheriff's squad car in Kenton County, Kentucky in November - hasn't happened more. But for all the highways and byways conquered in my many years of driving, all the impromptu road trips, family vacations and restless late night cruising, I've hit just one deer in my life.
I was eighteen, and driving down a heavily wooded street that was just close enough to the edge of town to qualify as a road, one evening in November. I was jamming to my tunes, cup of coffee in hand, fresh pack of cigs, and feeling pretty wonderful behind the wheel of my 1977 Chrysler Newport, that burgundy boat with the rusted wheel wells and rear bumper practically scraping along the ground. The animal came from the darkness on the left, lunging into the cone created by my headlights in an ill-considered (certainly ill-timed) attempt to cross the road.
I braked and swerved (gasped a little too, I must confess) but I could not avoid a collision. The animal's appearance was too sudden, its determination to follow through unwavering. I clipped its rear flank. It spun around and came to a grinding halt on the opposite side.
I was eighteen, and driving down a heavily wooded street that was just close enough to the edge of town to qualify as a road, one evening in November. I was jamming to my tunes, cup of coffee in hand, fresh pack of cigs, and feeling pretty wonderful behind the wheel of my 1977 Chrysler Newport, that burgundy boat with the rusted wheel wells and rear bumper practically scraping along the ground. The animal came from the darkness on the left, lunging into the cone created by my headlights in an ill-considered (certainly ill-timed) attempt to cross the road.
I braked and swerved (gasped a little too, I must confess) but I could not avoid a collision. The animal's appearance was too sudden, its determination to follow through unwavering. I clipped its rear flank. It spun around and came to a grinding halt on the opposite side.
I hadn't been going all that fast, only about 30 or 35, but I'll never forget the dynamic motion with which the animal's body was sent sailing away from the front of my still-moving car, coming to rest in a shower of snow and dirt. I was young, a relatively new driver, and behind the wheel of my first car to boot. And while that last fact surely worked to my advantage (if it had been my dad's '88 Dodge Omni I'd been driving, with its pinched front end and plastic bumper, the outcome may have been quite different), it still felt like a deep, heavy tragedy. One that I was responsible for.
I pulled over, got out, discovered a broken headlight on my vehicle and the deer lying twisted in the ditch. It was making a noise, which did not help to make the situation any less unnerving (until then, I had no idea deer vocalized), and trying to get up, dragging itself by it's front legs while attempting to right its rear end. It was a buck, with two small antlers.
"Don't get too close," a voice came from the darkness, "he'll kick the shit out of you."
It easily could have been the voice in my mind saying this as I inched toward the beast flailing in the snow, but it was actually a local resident, a middle aged man who'd heard the collision from his house and walked down his driveway to investigate.
"What do I do?"
"Nothing," he replied. "He'll probably get up on his own. Or maybe not. You just don't want to get too close." He took a careful step toward the animal. "Looks like you smoked yourself a little spike."
It didn't seem possible that this deer would ever walk again. It seemed pretty well "smoked" - its hindquarters twisted, hind legs turned sideways. But then, almost as if a certain gesticulation caused its hips to snap back into place, it was on its feet. A second later, it had disappeared into the woods, the rustle and crack of branches as it made its escape the only sign of its presence.
Rarely in my life have I been gripped by so strong an emotion as when that deer climbed to its feet and took off.
"Damn, will you look at that," the man muttered.
"That's awesome," I said.
"Yeah it is," he replied. "Well, you'll want to wait around here a second, I called the police."
Rarely in my life have I been gripped by so strong an emotion as when that deer climbed to its feet and took off.
"Damn, will you look at that," the man muttered.
"That's awesome," I said.
"Yeah it is," he replied. "Well, you'll want to wait around here a second, I called the police."
That annoyed me at the time, and it still does, thinking back. I was not impaired in any way, not carrying anything incriminating, had no reason not to want the cops involved, but I didn't appreciate his vigilante response, his immediate move to take charge of a situation he really had no involvement with. But I was still a kid, accustomed to listening to adults, and pretty sure he was the father of someone I went to school with, which meant news of this incident, and any related defiance on my part, was probably going to get back to my parents eventually.
I sat on the front of my car and waited. The cops came, took a statement, asked if I had been drinking, asked the man what he'd seen, said good day, and left. For reasons that to this day I can't easily explain, I drove away feeling a little bit more like an adult.
That was 1991. Since then, deer have only become more numerous on roadways where I live. I've had numerous close calls, but have always managed to veer left, or right, slam on the brakes just in time, and avoid a second collision.
The latest near-miss happened not three weeks ago, driving home for Thanksgiving. A nice looking buck sprinted right in front of me, didn't even seem aware that he was mere seconds from death. I wasn't going 35 this time, more like 75, on a state highway, and we missed each other by inches. Deer are stupid creatures when it comes to automobiles, and November is the rut. With bucks half-mad from lust roaming the woods, it's the most dangerous time to tempt fate on roadways. But collisions can happen any time of the year, and I hate the thought of it happening on 1/48/50. I can think of no more offensive and jarring interruption to nebulous living than having to a) call the police, b) file an insurance claim, c) repair whatever damage is done.
Driving 14,000 miles will really be tempting fate.
Of course, on my 2011 road trip out west - 5,000 miles there and back - I strangely don't remember ever seeing a single animal of any size or kind. And surely on 1/48/50, I don't want that to be the case.
The latest near-miss happened not three weeks ago, driving home for Thanksgiving. A nice looking buck sprinted right in front of me, didn't even seem aware that he was mere seconds from death. I wasn't going 35 this time, more like 75, on a state highway, and we missed each other by inches. Deer are stupid creatures when it comes to automobiles, and November is the rut. With bucks half-mad from lust roaming the woods, it's the most dangerous time to tempt fate on roadways. But collisions can happen any time of the year, and I hate the thought of it happening on 1/48/50. I can think of no more offensive and jarring interruption to nebulous living than having to a) call the police, b) file an insurance claim, c) repair whatever damage is done.
Driving 14,000 miles will really be tempting fate.
Of course, on my 2011 road trip out west - 5,000 miles there and back - I strangely don't remember ever seeing a single animal of any size or kind. And surely on 1/48/50, I don't want that to be the case.
