JOHN PEPIN

“Sixteen miles to seven lakes way up among the pines, in some hidden valley where the twirlin’ river twines,” – Gordon Lightfoot

On another winter morning, overcast with skies the color of dirty mop water, the sunshine is on vacation somewhere down south.

The maples, birches and their allies, frozen and flocked with a loose flouring of fresh snow, create a Grisaille panorama that stretches wide.

Through the snow piled waist high, the first among them comes, dropping its head and then lifting it again while it saunters forward.

It’s a doe. She looks tired and sad.

The sound of each hoof she pushes into the snow is soft and deflating, like a sigh.

Behind her doddle three younger deer evidenced by their relative exuberance, wild curiosity and smaller size.

A four of them are headed out — spaced almost evenly about 30 feet apart – from the safety and comfort of a stand of cedars, down along a single-file path through the snow toward the river.

They may have spent the night in the cedar stand but now they are out on this mid-morning jaunt looking for connection, sustenance and a little exercise — like many of us creatures of the Earth.

While I might wave to one of my neighbors on a walk down to the mailbox and back or engage in a brief tet-a-tet, these deer might stop and sniff, blink or stomp a front leg at a couple others they encounter headed in the opposite direction on the narrow path.

Down along the base of the rocky bluff, too steep to climb straight up, the foursome stops to paw at the ground, looking for acorns or other tasty treasures buried beneath the snow.

Two of the young deer chase each other around, rather than do much, if any, digging. The third just stands there looking around up at the trees.

An old antler from seasons gone by sticks out of the snow at the base of one of the oaks.

Deer likely have been living in these woods for untold decades, maybe even longer. The knowledge of how and where to find these winter acorns is now probably engrained and innate – second nature.

Coming up from the south now, like a Civil War detachment, comes a larger group of deer walking along a separate path. Their grand entry wouldn’t have been more obvious had they had a bugling elk among them.

They somehow seem older and wiser, stronger, bigger and tougher than the doe and her followers. The quartet springs up straight, eyes focused, still chewing slowly. No inattentive blinking now.

Yet, the deer go back to their digging as the contingent walks past, continuing north. This larger group of deer heads down through a tight growth of trees before parading across an open field to the edge of a black-topped road.

Here, they stop. After they sniff and listen for a few seconds, they move as a group out onto the road. With no approaching vehicles, they linger before dropping down over the far side of the road.

The topography drops off quickly. Once the deer amble down the steep embankment, they stop again. This time along the frozen shoreline of an inland lake.

Beyond them is a wide expanse of ice and snow and the confines of a small island covered with trees. The deer are clearly eyeing the opportunity to move out to that small oasis, likely to access the prospect of low-hanging cedar branches to chomp.

There is already a deer trail across the ice, one that has been braved by these animals and others in previous days.

I often wonder how the deer decide to first test the ice each winter. How do they know it’s safe to cross? Do they proceed on blind faith?

My guess is that after one deer makes the journey successfully, the “word” gets out.

Each winter, it’s not uncommon to hear of at least a couple incidents of deer or moose falling through the ice of inland lakes.

I’ve seen large groups of at least a couple dozen deer walking across lakes in a single line — almost nose to tail — to cross expansive floes of ice. The distance from the shore to the island at this crossing place is roughly about 300 to 400 yards.

The general moves the contingent out and across the open space, but he’s not the first to go.

The deer walk casually, seemingly unaware or unconcerned about the potential danger of breaking through the ice into the cold, deep water below. Falling into the water is easy, trying to get back out can be an exhaustive and life-ending struggle.

After the last white flag waves in the distance, the deer disappear into the trees along the rim of the island.

Meanwhile, the quartet has made its way farther east. They have passed through an open area and have met up with a dirt road that intersects with the blacktopped road.

Here, the deer avail themselves of a bridge that makes their navigating and crossing a deep gorge and the open water of the river far easier and less dangerous.

When the deer approach the bridge, a half dozen more come trotting down the dirt road from the south to join the crossing.

As the group walks toward the bridge, they are confined to the road by bridge rails and guard rails meant to protect motorists and pedestrians from falling into the chasm.

A man in a truck approaching the bridge rounds a corner. He slows his vehicle down when he sees the deer. The deer bunch up and freeze their advance midway across the bridge. The man inches his vehicle slowly forward.

The man glides down his window as he moves face-to-face past the deer. They look as though they are going to duck and dash across the bridge, but at the last second, the whole group turns and retreats across the bridge and down the dirt road.

After the truck continues out of sight, the deer regroup and move across the span to another intersection. At this one, they follow another well-worn path up a gradual hill to a bluff that overlooks the frozen lake on one side, the blacktopped road on the other.

On the hillside, the small group of deer finds others who have stopped here to bed down in the deep snow, perhaps overnight. Later in the day, with the sun setting, this will become a place where many deer congregate.

While the quartet sits along a ridgeline — like regal and noble members of an aristocracy perched above the fray — they can see the contingent headed their way from their island crossing spot up the road.

More deer approach from the opposite side of the bluff, perhaps from yards or driveways where they had found backyard bird feeders filled with sunflower seeds or other foods provided by humans.

The number of deer gathering along the hillside now totals probably close to 80 or 100. With at least 150 inches of snow so far this winter, the season must already seem long and hard for the deer.

This south-facing bluff is often a late-winter gathering spot where the deer can typically find bare ground and warm rocks to rest on. It’s a place to hang on while the animals wait for spring to arrive.

The fact that the deer are already bunching up here at this point may be a harbinger of how tough the winter will ultimately be on the herd.

Early the following morning, the quartet makes its way back to the west, across the bridge just upstream from where the river dumps into the lake. They continue past an old house left vacant over the wintertime months.

They move slowly, but determined over the trail they now know well, back through the opening in the woods, along the base of the bluff, past the oaks and marks of deer digging in the snow, into the hardwood stand to the place where they duck under some low branches, reaching the cedar grove.

Every day the snow falls, it gets deeper, providing the deer with greater reach into higher portions of the cedars for green branches to nibble.

I enjoy watching the silent passing back and forth of the deer throughout the winter. If I call out a greeting to them, they stop to look my way. If I turn away even slightly, they begin to walk again.

They must be used to me by now. They don’t ever appear frightened, despite all my inherent human qualities. This seems odd to me.

Clearly, they must be entirely unaware of the packaged venison we have in our freezer. Either that or maybe they don’t care, as long as it’s not them that’s in the packages.

I continue watching until the last deer in the group of four rambles up and over that little knoll with the low branches, disappearing into the cedars.

Maybe the sun will reappear today.

I breathe in some of the chilly air and let it out slowly.

It’s another winter morning, overcast with skies the color of dirty mop water.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.