On my walk yesterday morning, I encountered the deer that gave Deer Isle its name in the town cemetery. Perhaps a half dozen deer were there, grazing among the headstones and picking at some of the planted flowers and shrubs. The deer herd seems to have kept largely to the wooded area behind the cemetery this summer, much to the relief of gardeners and flower lovers across the island.
The deer noticed me before I noticed them, and all but one promptly headed, with leaps and bounds, back into the trees, disappearing with a final flash of their white tails. This deer, however, stood its ground and stared me down as I took its picture. Because I didn’t want to recreate scenes from When Animals Attack I promptly took my leave. As I walked down the road, the deer kept pace with me for a bit, as if to show that he wasn’t afraid, and then finally turned and headed into the forest.
It’s nice to know that there’s a tough guy keeping an eye on the town cemetery.
Beneath my veneer of civilized rationality, deep down in the ancient, primordial part of my consciousness, I admit that I am a believer in curses and jinxes. Being a Cleveland sports fan, how could it be otherwise?
So, I really hesitate to say this for fear that the fickle Gardening Gods will lash out and punish me for my heresy, but . . . the marigold approach to the deer problem seems to be working. Following up on local knowledge tips from local gardeners, I planted dozens of marigolds at strategic locations in the side yard and the down yard. They’ve all come in well and are pleasantly fragrant–which is supposed to be what keeps the sensitive deer, which purportedly don’t like the smell of marigolds, away from flower, plants, and shrubs. And, so far at least, the deer have avoided our yard.
The area in the crack between the two gigantic boulders in the down yard is a good example. It’s the spot that is farthest away from our house and close to a small creek, so it’s prime deer territory. Last year the deer repeatedly ravaged the plants in the crack and chewed the daisy in the foreground, just behind the marigolds, down to the ground. The other plants in the crack experienced similar depredations. But this year, the deer have stayed away, and the plants are looking much better.
Of course, it’s always difficult to determine cause and effect. Is it that old marigold magic, or is it the fact that the deer have found some other food source, or the fact that we’ve got a dog living in the house now, or the fact that the deer herd has migrated to a different part of the island, or something else? I don’t know for sure, obviously, but based on our experience this year marigolds are going to be a perennial (pun intended) part of the planting mix going forward. And they look nice, too.
In our little neighborhood on the Greenhead peninsula, talk of the marauding deer population dominates the conversation. Everyone is trying to come up with ways to protect their flower and vegetable gardens from the pesky, voracious herd of Bambis that is roaming the local woods and yards, eating everything in its path.
This weekend we opened up our front in the Stonington Deer Wars by going to Mainescapes, a great garden store in Blue Hill, to get multiple flats of marigolds, which the locals believe are among the most effective non-spray, non-fence deer repellants. Then, on Saturday and Sunday I planted all of the marigolds at strategic locations in the side yard (above) and the down yard (below), hoping to create smell barriers that cause the odor-sensitive deer to steer clear of our yards and go out to eat somewhere else.
Whether any of this will work is anybody’s guess. But at least we’ll have a riotous collection of yellow and orange marigolds to add some color to the yards–if the deer don’t eat them first, that is.
We’re getting close to the spring planting season in Stonington, and I’m working on a strategy to try to deal with the marauding deer population that decimated the flowers in the lower, unfenced part of our yard last year.
On a walk over the weekend, I ran into a fellow gardener who was out working in her yard and asked if she had any recommendations for non-chemical, non-fenced—yet effective—ways of keeping deer away from those tasty flowers. She recommended garlic, and lots of it. She said you crush the cloves to increase the smell and place them around the perimeter of the area you want to protect. The deer apparently hate the odor and supposedly avoid the garlic aroma area.
Garlic: it’s not just for vampires any more!
I don’t want to use any kind of chemical spray, which will just wash down into the harbor, and I don’t want to put up any wires or fencing, which would ruin the rustic look of the down yard. I’m therefore going to try the garlic approach this year, and combine it with another tip I got from a gardening neighbor. He said that when he planted marigolds last year he was surprised to see that the deer not only didn’t eat the marigold flowers, they avoided the marigold area of his garden entirely because they find that smell unpleasant, too. Some other locals also endorse the marigold approach.
So, this year I’ll be crushing and placing garlic cloves around the down yard, and planting marigolds as a kind of protective barrier for other flowers. If garlic and marigolds work alone, imagine their impact in combination! And I hope this technique works, because this morning I saw a huge herd of deer at the end of our road—and they looked hungry.
Thursday night the Montauk daisy buds were out in force and on the cusp of blooming —finally!—and the only question in my mind was whether we would see the plant in its full-flowered glory before we returned to Columbus.
But when I awoke on Friday morning I found that the marauding band of deer had paid us an overnight visit, come right up to the stairs, and chewed off dozens of the buds, leaving only one or two sad and shaken reminders of what the daisy could have been. And so two of the principal gardening storylines of the summer — the Great Deer Battle of 2020 and the Waiting for Godot-like delay in the blooming of the Montauk daisy — have coalesced, weeks of anticipation have been dashed, and the thuggish deer herd of the Greenhead peninsula has had the last laugh. May those white tailed reprobates be consigned to some flowerless hell!
But one battle does not determine a war, and the deer’s triumph in 2020 just means I will have to redouble my deer resistance efforts in 2021. I guess you should plan on that when you decide to try gardening in a place called Deer Isle. In the meantime, I’ll be rooting for the hunters of Deer Isle to shoot straight and true when deer season rolls around in a few weeks. In this clash, I could use some allies.
The other day we were talking to one of the locals. Russell mentioned that on his recent hikes he’s seen more deer activity, and has had to be careful driving in the wooded areas of Deer Isle to avoid collisions with deer charging out of the underbrush. The local nodded sagely and said, simply: “rutting season.”
(Whenever somebody says anything involving a “season,” my mind automatically cycles to a classic Looney Tunes where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are ripping hunting posters off a telephone poll, arguing “Rabbit Season!” and “Duck Season!” with increasing vehemence, only to finally expose an “Elmer Season” poster. But, I digress.)
In this part of Maine, “rutting season” is serious business, and as much a time of year as winter, spring, or summer. It’s the period where hormones are surging in the whitetail deer population and the cervidae are feeling the overpowering urge to mate. During the height of “the rut,” Mainers will see antlered male deer “sparring” in fields and clearing, fighting for the right to court a choice female deer. And when the rutting season arrives in full force, you’ve really got to watch it in the woods or on the roads, to keep an eye out for crazed, wild-eyed deer crashing out of the trees, in the grip of raw biological forces that are totally beyond their control. Licensed hunters–especially bow hunters, apparently–think rutting season is the best season of the year.
It’s been blistering hot up here. Of course, “hot” is a relative term. “Hot,” by Stonington standards, means any temperatures above 70 degrees, and “blistering” means the thermometer touches 80. (Given their sensitivity to heat, I don’t know what the good people of Stonington would do if confronted by a true Midwestern or southern summer, where temperatures in the 90s and above are commonplace. Probably, they would be grateful they live up here, nod and say ayuh, and then stolidly retreat to these rockbound shores.)
But I digress. On the days that promise to be hot and dry, I try to give our plants a good watering. Because of the configuration of our yard and flower beds, that means using different watering devices and following a circuit.
I begin with the beds by our front door, where I can use a hose. We don’t have a spray nozzle, so I use the thumb-over-the-water-flow method to achieve a sprinkle, and give the beds a good dousing. They are on the western side of the house and won’t get sun for a while, so the water will get a chance to really sink in and do some good before the day heats up. The hose water gets very cold against my thumb and helps me to wake up, and I do the watering while I’m making coffee so I can get a hot cup of joe when the watering is done and the hose is rolled up.
The next stop on the watering circuit comes later, after I’ve taken a walk and given the ever-hungry neighborhood deer a reasonable opportunity to eat more of the down yard flowers. Because the down yard is in deep shadow in the morning, it can wait. There’s no hose, so I need to use a watering can that I fill to the brim in our basement sink. I carry the can down the steps and hillside and water three areas: next to the outside stairs, where I’ve tried to transplant a lupine and set up a little flower bed, the flowers I planted in the crack between our two big rocks and next to the creek, and finally the vegetables we got from Russell. It usually takes three trips and helps me to get my daily stair climbing in. I also inevitably fill my daily quotient of obscenities when I survey the damage the deer have done to the flowers in the crack between the rocks, where we’ll probably never get the black-eyed susan blossoms — they always get neatly clipped off by deer teeth just as they are ready to bloom. As I trudge back up the hill, cursing inwardly and trying to figure out some new, actually effective way to discourage the rapacious deer, I’ve become mentally ready to face the work day.
The last step in the watering circuit comes in the early evening, where I use a different hose to water the beds in the side yard and a little tree that has always struggled. The side yard is starting to get shade by then, and the hose water feels cool and crisp after a hot day. Watering, with its mindless back and forth motions to try to fully cover the relevant territory, is a good way to wind down after work and let the brain wander a bit. The side yard beds also are a bit more uplifting to water, because the yard is fenced and deer don’t bother it, so the flowers are actually blooming rather than being consumed. At the end of the day, it’s nice to see some fruits from your labors.
That’s my hot day watering circuit. The deer appreciate my efforts, I’m sure.
During our unseasonably cool Fourth of July weekend, I noticed that many of our flowers were just getting ready to bloom. Having planted a number of them and watered all of them, I was eager to see the splash of colorful blossoms and how the flowers looked in our setting.
Unfortunately, it was not to be. When I left yesterday morning to take my walk, I saw a flash of a white tail in the distance and a deer bounding away through the underbrush. And then when I checked on our flowers, I was disappointed to discover that something had neatly clipped off, and presumably happily consumed, the flower buds that were just ready to burst, leaving only the bristling stalks behind.
I’m guessing that the deer is the culprit. And when I checked on other flowers we’ve planted, I saw that some had also been trimmed of their tender and delectable buds — although some had been left alone. Apparently, the deer of Stonington have discriminating tastes. Only the flowers that are in the fenced-in part of the yard, and the thorny wild roses that grow from the rocks next to the house, were totally safe from the scourge of deer teeth.
The last option is to go for “deer-resistant plants.” But the BHG website page on “deer-resistant plants of the northeast” cautions: “There aren’t really any plants you can truly say are deer proof. And the animals are smart and unpredictable — so the deer in your yard may love a particular plant, but avoid it in a garden down the block.” And it seems like planting presumably deer-resistant plants that hungry deer might decide to eat anyway isn’t going to keep them from devouring the other tasty perennials that I’ve already planted.
So it looks like we’re stuck. I guess I’m just going to have to start appreciating the rare beauty of denuded flowerstalks.
When Kish and I walked to Franklinton on Sunday, we crossed the Scioto River on the Town Street bridge. Just after the midpoint of the bridge we found this life-sized metal sculpture of a fully antlered buck standing upright at the railing of the bridge, facing north.
It’s a fine rendition of a deer. But the sculpture raises so many questions that it’s almost a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes. Why is there a sculpture of a deer standing on its hind legs on a downtown bridge in Columbus, Ohio?
Is the deer just enjoying a nice view of the Columbus skyline and the Scioto River in its new channel? Or is the trophy buck using the vantage point of the bridge to scan for hunters or predators? On the darker side, could the deer be depressed and preparing to jump? Is there some deep significance to the fact that the deer is facing north, or that it is a stag rather than a doe? For that matter, why a deer at all? I can’t think of any special connection between Ohio’s capital city and deer. If a wolverine were preparing to hurl itself into oblivion at the sight of Columbus, in contrast, it would be understandable.
Experts will tell you that a good test of public art is whether it provokes thought and discussion. By that standard, the curious case of the deer on the bridge is a great success. And for that same reason, I’m not going to even try to scan the internet for an explanation. I’m just going to leave it a mystery.
On the home stretch of this morning’s walk, as I moved along a section of Route 62 where there are woods on both sides of the road, two deer stood on the pavement while a car approached. Fortunately, they crossed over without incident, and the car slid by.
Normally the deer would promptly vanish into the trees. This time, though, the female stood, framed in the glow of a street light, and stared at me, her primal black eyes glittering in the lamplight. It was unnerving — and suddenly I felt all of my senses on high alert, providing the kind of acute awareness of my surroundings not felt since I was in a movie theater with a high school date, conscious of every movement she made and trying to figure out whether they meant that she was receptive to holding hands.
The deer wasn’t watching to admire my walking form. The only logical conclusion was a fawn was still on my side of the road, and the mother deer was waiting and watching to make sure they were reunited. If so, that meant I needed to get out of the area without confronting Bambi, or the two deer might come down on me in an unpleasant New Albany version of When Animals Attack. So I listened carefully, sniffed the air and smelled the lingering musky odor of the two deer that had passed, kept one eye out for the mother and the other for the child, and kept moving ahead at a steady pace. The mother watched me the whole way.
My primitive senses aren’t very sharp, because I never saw the fawn, but after I passed I turned back to see what was happening. Sure enough, the mother crossed the road again, and a small deer emerged from hiding right where I had passed. The mother sensed my presence and turned and stared at me again with those intense, wild eyes. I decided it was wise to move along.
New Albany is one of those suburbs that sprang up quickly in the 1990s, taking the area from rural to developed in a few short years. The town planners left many wooded areas that separate the various developments and give the area a semi-rural feel that ties in well with New Albany’s signature white fences. One price of the semi-wooded nature of the area, however, is lots of road kill. Animals cross the roads to get from wooded area to wooded area, and sometimes some of them don’t make it.
Last weekend on our morning walk Penny and I were saddened to find two carcasses along Route 62 that were the result of car-deer accidents. They were close together and probably were members of the same deer herd. For all I know, they may have been plowed down by the same driver. Route 62 is especially fertile ground for road kill; it is a winding road with a 45 mph speed limit where cars can round a bend and come upon deer unexpectedly.
Car-deer accidents are common in rural and semi-rural Ohio. Car insurance claim statistics indicate that Ohio ranks in the top five of all states in the number of reported car-deer accidents. Such accidents are costly on many levels. Deer are not insubstantial creatures, and hitting one can cause significant damage to the car and, in some instances, can precipitate even more serious accidents with other cars on the highway. If the deer rolls up the hood and through the windshield, the driver and passengers can be seriously injured or killed. Towns need to pay someone to remove the road kill. (In New Albany, that unhappy chore is the job of the Public Service Department.) And any car-deer accident leaves the driver shaken and upset. No drivers want to strike and kill innocent animals who are simply crossing the road in search of food or other members of their herd.