What a deer should know!
Deep in the forests of Big Creek Park, where the tall pines whisper with the wind and the soft earth once held the quiet steps of our kind, there now lie these concrete paths. These paths did not exist before, in those days when we roamed free.
For generations, our herds have wandered these woods. The forest floor used to be soft and forgiving, layered with fallen leaves and pine needles that muffled our steps. Trails wound gently through the trees, shaped by hooves, paws, and time itself. These trails were part of the land—living paths that shifted with the seasons and allowed the forest to breathe. Allowed us to breathe.
The humans have begun laying long, hard ribbons of stone across the forest floor. They call them “bike trails”, but they are unlike the trails we once knew. These concrete paths stretch farther every year, cutting through the woods where soil and roots once danced together in peace. Where the ground once drank the rain, the water now runs quickly across the hard surface, rushing away before the earth can take its share. The only water now is a mog and muddy.
To many of the younger deer, these paths may seem harmless. They are smooth and easy to cross, and sometimes they even warm nicely in the sunlight. But beneath that quiet surface lies a problem for deer-kind.
First, these concrete trails bring more humans deeper into the forest than ever before. Bicycles flash past like metal deer that never tire. The sound of screeching tires or the smell of smoking rubber should be your sign to run. Groups of walkers and runners move quickly and often. Thud! Thud! Thud! Their presence spreads far beyond the old trailheads, reaching places where our fawns once slept safely in tall grass.
For a deer, quiet places are not a luxury—they are survival. Our ears listen constantly for danger, and when the woods fill with wheels, voices, and barking dogs, it becomes harder to hear the warning sounds that keep us alive. Mothers with fawns must move more often to avoid the noise, and frequent movement means greater risk.
‘Ye, old two-toed beast’ – the younglings may call me, the younglings may call me, but nights became our only ally now, disprove me.
Younger deer may not remember how many small streams once ran through this park. In springtime, they trickled gently through the woods, providing cool drinking water and soft muddy banks where plants grew thick and green. These creeks were lifelines for our herds. Even during dry seasons, we could usually find water somewhere among the winding forest paths.
When creeks fade, we must travel farther to drink. Longer journeys mean more danger. Each missing creek slowly pushes us away from the places our ancestors called home.
Our hooves were shaped by the forest floor—by earth, leaves, and moss. Crossing hard surfaces too often could mean broken bones, however strong ours maybe. Think of a frightened deer fleeing from a sudden noise on these concrete trails.
Our forest was never meant to be paved.
I do not say these things to spread fear among our herd, but to share awareness. We deer have survived many winters and many changes in these woods. The forest is resilient, and so are we. Yet we must pay attention to the shifting rhythms of the land.
If the creeks grow fewer and the paths grow wider, our ways of living must adapt. We may need to seek deeper parts of the forest, move more carefully, and protect the places that buzz only with insects, not with two-legs.
When things begin to change, we must listen. For the future of deer-kind may depend on it.
