The whitetail deer has a well deserved reputation as a cautious creature, and I was duly impressed with that fact for many years. When I began hunting them years ago, they held a place of almost supernatural regard in my mind. That's what I was taught by my deer-hunting friends, and most of them still believe that. I've even had a fellow tell me deer can read your mind, sense what you are thinking, so that he never looks directly at a deer, never thinks aggressive thoughts when one is nearby. ESP of the first order. Nonsense, obviously, but typical of the thinking of many deer hunters, apparently. Of course, as I learned to know them better, I found that they are nothing of the kind, just highly capable animals extremely well adapted to stay alive. I studied them hard, became an accomplished deer hunter, and developed a kind of feeling for what I could and could not do when deer were near. Even I was surprised at what could be done with deer right in my lap. On a mountain in Nevada I spent forty-five minutes with buck fifty feet from me, while I sat essentially in the open, just leaning against a tree. I took pictures, changed position, opened and closed my backpack and moved a fair amount, all by being aware of what the deer was doing, where it was looking at the moment. Similar things have occurred many times.

When I took up turkey hunting a few years ago, I heard the same thing about them. The saying was, "A deer sees a hunter, thinks he is a stump, keeps coming. A turkey sees a stump, thinks it is a hunter and runs away". More hyperbole? Yes, but not to such a great extent as with the deer. Turkeys really are one of the most cautious creatures I've ever been around. They are a very strange combination of stupidity and "intelligence", and you can never be certain which will be operating with any given bird. How smart can a bird be which will mount a foam decoy and try to breed with it? Or that will return to the gun an hour after having been shot at and missed in the same place? It's the hormones, of course, and as with other creatures, they can be overpowering during the breeding season.

It's fascinating to watch all this in action with the two animals. Sitting in the edge of a hay field calling turkeys one spring, with two decoys twenty yards in front of me, I had two does walk straight across the field and approach me within ten yards. They stopped and began feeding right in the edge of the brush, and I watched them for several minutes. I had the wind, but I was smoking, and couldn't believe they didn't see or smell me. On a whim, I began making a series of loud yelps with my turkey call, just to experiment a little. They ignored me completely.

On another morning, I had a similar experience, but more so, which seems to illustrate the difference between the two animals. Sitting ten feet back from the edge of a field in some undergrowth of the woods, decoys close in front, I had three does walk steadily two hundred yards across the field, their attention obviously caught by the decoys. They walked straight to them and stayed there for fifteen minutes, feeding, watching, and investigating the decoys. A couple of the deer actually touched the decoys with their noses, and I am still puzzled as to why my scent on the decoys didn't alarm them. It was quite an impressive scene, a layer of mist blanketing the field, the bright, bright sun directly ahead and just above the trees, the tall, wet grass glistening like a million diamonds in the strong early morning light, the deer calmly doing their thing so close at hand. I was struck by the beauty of the tableau, but, after all, I was turkey hunting, so I went back to calling. In a few minutes a turkey walked right into the middle of the bunch, feeding in the grass. I was set up so that I couldn't cover the bird without slightly shifting my position, so I simply watched it, hoping it would move into my field of fire. With the strong, bright, flaring light behind it, and with all those sparkling diamonds, I couldn't positively identify the bird as a tom. Attempting to figure that out, I turned my head very slightly to the left, much, much less than I had been doing with only the deer there. Much less, but far too much. The bird gave two quick, loud alarm putts and exited stage left, running.

Both the turkey and the deer are remarkable for their defensive abilities, and it takes considerable experience to handle either in a close-in situation, but I'll have to give the turkey the nod when it comes to caution. They can't read your mind, but they had better not see you move it even a little.

It must have been about the middle of March when I saw the Cooper's hawk inspecting the old stick nest in a tree not far back of the house. The nest is near where a pair of red-shouldered hawks raised a brood a couple of years ago, so I paid atention, hoping I was seeing the beginning of another nesting attempt. I was.

The single bird soon began working on the old nest, bringing new sticks and rearranging things. I saw it... I presume the female because of the size... repeatedly searching out sticks near the house, walking around on the ground like a chicken, gathering even some impressively large ones, then flying up to the nest. Her activities were plain for all to see, since this was long before the trees leafed out. Within about ten days a second, smaller, hawk, presumeably the male, showed up and apparently began to help. This went on for a couple of weeks, then ceased, and I only saw them frequently catching or eating birds in the area. They selected a "butcher block" on a large horizontal limb of a walnut tree in the southeast corner of the yard, and I occasionally saw them eating birds there, usually robins or doves.

Eventually, by mid-April, the foliage became too thick for good observation, and I only saw them infrequently, flying toward and away from the nest. No way to tell if their efforts were successful until about mid-June, when three adult size juveniles showed up, all in the large ash tree five yards from the house. They were already flying well, stayed together mostly, and had the unkempt, soft look of typical young raptors. The adults are an impressive bird, beautiful breast with horizontal rust-red bars, slate-blue back and cap of the head, with that aggressive look of the accipiters because of the intent red eye. The young are not so striking, having vertical brown bars on the breast and top of the head, and not so aggressive a look.

By late June they were much in evidence, and nearly every day they were seen about their business of learning to be birds of prey. Having been born right by the house, they were in no way shy. One day I spotted one sitting on the top rail of the deck on the house, four feet from the kitchen window and right under the bird feeder, staring straight down at a squirrel on the deck three feet below. It was obviously interested in eating the squirrel, but seemed to know that wouldn't be easy. The squirrel jumped up onto the middle rail and the hawk flew to the deck itself, right outside the door, sat there for 10 minutes looking around and at the squirrel, then joined its siblings, which were sitting next to each other low in the ash.

Another day I saw one of them in a walnut not twenty yards from the deck, standing on another flat, horizontal limb and eating a bird. It ate actively for 5 minutes, then dropped the largest piece. After staring down at it for a while, it leaned forward, rubbed its beak rapidly back and forth on the branch to clean it, then walked five feet along the branch, into a clump of leaves, and lay down on its belly. It obviously went to sleep, and it stayed there, essentially unmoving, for almost 4 hours.

About July 1, all three were seen down in the creek, wading, splashing and wetting themselves. They then flew into nearby trees and spent some time grooming. Nothing was seen of them until July 6, when a single bird was spotted near the bridge in early afternoon, then all three doing a very fast tail chase in and out of the trees... learning life skills. No parent was ever seen with the young birds from the very first time I saw them.

On July 7 one of the young ones was sitting low in a tree near the bridge, staring intently at the ground and it made what looked like a stoop into the low brush just over the fence. Over the next fifteen minutes I saw the other young ones down on the ground in a small clearing immediately by, repeatedly jumping into the air with their wings raised... attacking? playing? They were joined by the first, and there was a lot of jumping going on. I may have seen the parent there on the ground with them, but couldn't be sure. Eventually one jumped up to the fence, then returned to the ground, then all three young hopped on the fence, all lined up, sat there for ten minutes, then flew off east up the creek.

The next day I spotted one young one in the big walnut on to the east, and I heard it make several high-pitched calls, sounding plaintive. It then launched and glided down to the creek, was joined in flight by a second, and they went east up the creek. Later that afternoon I saw two young ones hot on the tail of a squirrel, flying as fast as possible two feet above the ground and four feet behind the squirrel, which was really moving. The squirrel reached shelter, and they both landed low in the brush. A few minutes later in the evening all three were spotted down at the creek, all aparently hunting, sitting on the brush pile, striking at something on the ground. Next day, a young one brought something, apparently a mouse or shrew, to the walnut above the bridge and ate it, then cleaned his beak. At the same time another launched an attack on a small bird from the wildflower garden, chased it closely west along the creek, but apparently missed it, then landed low in the brush. It then immediately stooped at something on the ground, apparently caught it, and flew further west to feed.

With each passing day they become more adept, more agile and quick, more aggressive. Whereas at first they looked clumsy on landing and taking off, they are now quite capable, and their feathers are more compact, more streamlined. The first few weeks of a young raptors life are the most critical, because if they don't learn to fend for themselves quickly, learn to hunt successfully, they simply don't survive. It's a pleasure to see these three doing so well. The time for them to search out their own territory can't be far away, and I am not looking forward to that. They have put on a great show, I've learned a lot by watching them grow up, and it will be dull around here without them. If I'm lucky, the parents will return for a repeat performance next spring. I'll be looking for them, this time.

When I was a lad of fourteen, I became fascinated with the idea of fly fishing. I was already a confirmed hunting addict, so I was in the habit of reading the outdoor magazines of the day, Outdoor Life, Sports Afield, Field and Stream and such. They frequently featured articles about catching the wily trout on a tiny, delicate, hand-tied bit of feather and fur in imitation of the natural food of the trout. I couldn't resist, so I spent a couple of years teaching myself to be a fly fisherman, with fair success.

Of course, these stories were never about fishing in my area, since we had no trout. Rather, they were set in New England or in the west, usually, occasionally Alaska or South America. For some unremembered reason, fishing in the west caught my attention, especially fishing in Colorado. Kid-like, I decided that would be my goal, to fish the rushing mountain streams of that beautiful state. A whole life full of stuff interfered with my accomplishing that aim, almost 55 years of it. I have fished in several states, my home state of Kentucky most of all, but also Florida, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin and even Alaska. Most of my fishing was for the warm-water species, bluegills and largemouth bass predominating, but I also did a fair bit of cold stream fishing for trout and salmon. It was all fun, of course, no matter what the fish or the location.

During all that time the idea of fishing Colorado streams smoldered in the back of my mind, but it just never seemed to be on the agenda. Then, about four years ago, my youngest son went to teach anthropology at University of Colorado, Denver, and the smoldering heated up a bit. My son would be very glad to have me come out there and fish, but there was a problem... he didn't fish. Not with a fly rod, not with anything. I set out to seduce him to the game, for his own good, naturally. It took me a couple of years to get him hooked, but he eventually got the bug. I helped him get outfitted, taught him the basics of casting when he came home for Christmas, gave him a fly tying outfit and some supplies for his birthday. Slowly but surely, my goal came a little closer.

This October, it all came together. My wife and I drove out to spend a few days with my son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren, and he and I set a day aside to do some fishing. He bent a few ears, asked a lot of questions and got a little advice from the locals, and so on a beautiful fall morning, temperature 54F, sky clear, wind light, we set out.

Our location was surprisingly close to Denver, right at the foot of the front range of mountains, as I understand it, and the drive to our chosen area was breathtaking to this old flat-lander. We arrived without difficulty, suited up and rigged our rods, tied on a fly and hit the stream. It wasn't a big stream, but it wasn't tiny, either. There was enough water that it would knock you down, easily, if you didn't keep your wits about you. It was a noisy, rushing and very rock stream, cold and clear, and I reveled in the opportunity to fish in such a grand spot.

I was blessed in triple fashion that day. First, I had accomplished my goal and was fishing the mountain streams of Colorado just as I had decided to do more than fifty years ago. Patience is a virtue, as they say. Second, I was experienced enough that I could do a fair job of fishing this unknown stream, could make an intelligent guess as to what fly would work, and actually caught a few small brown trout during the day. Thirdly, and most importantly, I got to fish the place with my son, and that made it very special, indeed. At the age of fourteen, I hadn't included that, the best part, in my long range plans. Mother Nature knew, though, and seeing my son match me fish for fish during the day, watching him put his new skills to work and figure out how to get it done was a pleasure much more enjoyable than realizing my long held dream. Chances are not great that I'll ever be able to repeat the experience, but when it's that good, it's not necessary. That is the true definition of 'quality time' spent with your kid.

Copyright © B. E. Spencer 2001-2003 All rights reserved.