Attack by Doe

by John L. Peyton 

Roe and I unloaded on the moss-covered dock of a deserted logging camp. He started up the trail with the canoe. I poked some loose items into a pack, swung it to my back, and set a smaller pack above it. That made a good load.

I had followed the old tote road for about half a mile when I heard a snort ahead. A whitetail doe was standing in the trail, stiff-legged and alert.

I stopped, wished for Roe and his camera, then plodded on, expecting her to fade into the brush.

Instead she came toward me.

I had been told that a doe could split a wolf’s skull if she could catch him with her hooves. I had never heard of one attacking a man. That seemed to be her idea now. Her ears were laid back, her eyes were rolling wildly, and the hair on the back of her neck was standing up like a broom. She zoomed up on hind legs, growing suddenly big.

I jerked my head back. The tump strap slipped off backwards and the packs thudded to the ground. I jumped aside. Her front hooves struck down on a pack. One leg caught for a moment in the strap.

The second growth aspens along the trail were too thin and whippy to be climbed. A dead spruce lay beside me. I grabbed it up, swinging its top to meet her next attack, the butt still on the ground. She was on her hind feet again, but the bristling branches of the tree kept her from getting at me with her front hooves.

She bounded off on all fours, then came back from one side, weaving in like a boxer. I swung the spruce to meet her. She moved back, unwilling to plunge against the stiff curve of the branches.

She shifted, seeming to look for an opening. While she hesitated, a little spotted fawn ran out to her. She looked down at it, up at me, then led it off into the woods.

I stepped cautiously out into the trail. In a flash she was back. I jumped beneath my tree for another pas de deux. She disappeared again as Roe came around a bend in the trail. We picked up the packs and went on.

From time to time I looked back. Then there she was again. Just following now, though, not closing in. She stayed with us until we paddled away from the portage.

Before we left it, Roe took a photo of her. That, of course, is just a picture of a deer, not a proof of my strange story. Not to anybody else.

Attack by Doe

by John L. Peyton 

Roe and I unloaded on the moss-covered dock of a deserted logging camp. He started up the trail with the canoe. I poked some loose items into a pack, swung it to my back, and set a smaller pack above it. That made a good load.

I had followed the old tote road for about half a mile when I heard a snort ahead. A whitetail doe was standing in the trail, stiff-legged and alert.

I stopped, wished for Roe and his camera, then plodded on, expecting her to fade into the brush.

Instead she came toward me.

I had been told that a doe could split a wolf’s skull if she could catch him with her hooves. I had never heard of one attacking a man. That seemed to be her idea now. Her ears were laid back, her eyes were rolling wildly, and the hair on the back of her neck was standing up like a broom. She zoomed up on hind legs, growing suddenly big.

I jerked my head back. The tump strap slipped off backwards and the packs thudded to the ground. I jumped aside. Her front hooves struck down on a pack. One leg caught for a moment in the strap.

The second growth aspens along the trail were too thin and whippy to be climbed. A dead spruce lay beside me. I grabbed it up, swinging its top to meet her next attack, the butt still on the ground. She was on her hind feet again, but the bristling branches of the tree kept her from getting at me with her front hooves.

She bounded off on all fours, then came back from one side, weaving in like a boxer. I swung the spruce to meet her. She moved back, unwilling to plunge against the stiff curve of the branches.

She shifted, seeming to look for an opening. While she hesitated, a little spotted fawn ran out to her. She looked down at it, up at me, then led it off into the woods.

I stepped cautiously out into the trail. In a flash she was back. I jumped beneath my tree for another pas de deux. She disappeared again as Roe came around a bend in the trail. We picked up the packs and went on.

From time to time I looked back. Then there she was again. Just following now, though, not closing in. She stayed with us until we paddled away from the portage.

Before we left it, Roe took a photo of her. That, of course, is just a picture of a deer, not a proof of my strange story. Not to anybody else.