My Mule Deer Memoir: Learning to Share Space ~ Part 2

The mule deer "reaction depends on familiarity; they may flee from strangers but become habituated and tolerant of regular, quiet human presence, especially if food is involved.”

Google AI Summary of Mule Deer Response to Humans

Retrieved 4-7-26

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Deer roaming freely among us in the wild—how could that be possible?

At nine years old, my understanding of “wild” was limited and distant, something hinted at by the faint scent of skunks drifting in from the hills east of our suburban home. Wild belonged elsewhere, far beyond sidewalks and streetlights. So when I first saw mule deer moving calmly among the small cluster of vacation cabins in Wawona, it felt like a quiet impossibility made real. They grazed, rested, and wandered without urgency, as if human presence were simply another feature of the landscape.

That first visit to Yosemite in 1967 reshaped my imagination. The deer did not match my expectations of wary, elusive creatures. Instead, they seemed composed and self-possessed, existing on their own terms. My family and I kept our distance then, sensing—perhaps instinctively—that we were the intruders. These animals had been living out their rhythms for generations. We were the temporary arrivals, watching from the margins.

But familiarity has a subtle way of shifting perspective.

Over repeated visits to Wawona, my fascination with wildlife deepened, but so did a quiet and gradual change in how I understood our place among it. What had begun as respectful observation began to blur into something more participatory, even presumptuous.

That shift began, innocently enough, with the Steller’s jays.

During that first year, we scattered sunflower seeds and bits of nuts along the porch railing. The jays responded immediately—bold, loud, and theatrical. They swooped and scolded, dive-bombing one another in a flurry of wings and noise, each determined to claim a share of the easy bounty. At first, they kept a cautious distance from us, their sharp eyes tracking every movement. But by week’s end, the boldest among them edged closer, eventually taking seeds directly from outstretched hands.

To a child, it felt like a triumph. We had crossed a boundary. We were no longer just observers—we were participants.

Looking back, I see how powerfully that experience shaped my thinking. The jays appeared to reward us for feeding them. We offered food; they offered proximity, spectacle, and a sense of connection. It felt reciprocal, even fair—a simple exchange in which both sides benefited. Without realizing it, we began to carry that logic forward.

By the second year, our comfort in Wawona had grown. We knew the paths, the rhythms of the day, the feel of the place. And the deer, too, seemed familiar—especially a small group that took to resting beneath a neighboring cabin’s deck during the heat of the afternoon.

Our presence did not send them fleeing. Even our noise—so ordinary to us, so out of place in that setting—failed to disturb them. We interpreted this not as tolerance, but as acceptance. It seemed, to us, that an unspoken agreement had been reached. We shared the same space. We belonged.

That interpretation, though comforting, was not entirely honest.

By the third year, we leaned fully into that illusion. My parents rented what we came to call the “deer cabin,” drawn by the promise of proximity. If closeness with the jays had yielded such memorable interactions, surely the same could be true with deer. It felt like a natural progression, even a kind of deepening relationship.

But in truth, something else was happening.

The deer returned, as they always had—not because of us, but because it was their home. Yet we began to behave as though their presence were, in some small way, a response to ours. My father set out pieces of bread at the base of the deck steps. At first, the deer hesitated. Then, gradually, they approached and fed.

To us, it confirmed everything we wanted to believe. We were helping. We were connecting. We were part of the scene.

And I followed that example. Whenever the urge struck to be closer—to bridge that last, invisible distance—I would carry a piece of bread in my hand and offer it, carefully, hopefully, as though extending an invitation.

For a long time, I did not question this behavior.

But the years have a way of teaching what enthusiasm alone cannot.

My fascination with deer never faded, but my understanding of them changed. I began to notice patterns that had nothing to do with us. Deer grazed as they moved, rarely lingering in one place for long. Their lives were defined by quiet efficiency—feeding, watching, adjusting, always aware. When I tried to follow them too eagerly, camera in hand, they withdrew. When I remained still, they resumed.

Gradually, I learned to adjust.

Early mornings and late evenings became my preferred times to observe them, when they were most active and least concerned with my presence. I came to recognize their favored grazing areas—open meadows, soft with grass, where they would emerge cautiously from the edges of the forest. I remember one such place, long before the Wawona Elementary School was built there, where dozens of deer gathered to feed in the pale light of morning. There, I learned to wait rather than pursue.

And in waiting, something shifted.

It became clear that the most meaningful encounters occurred when I removed myself from the equation as much as possible. The less I imposed, the more I witnessed. The deer did not need encouragement, or offerings, or interaction. They needed space—space to move, to feed, to remain what they were.

The realization was both simple and humbling: what I had once considered connection was, in many ways, intrusion.

Feeding them had not deepened the relationship; it had altered it. It placed them, however subtly, into a pattern that revolved around human presence. And while they adapted—as wild animals often do—that adaptation came at a cost I had not understood at the time.

In maturity, I came to see that sharing space does not mean inserting oneself into another creature’s life. It means allowing that life to unfold on its own terms.

Now, when I watch deer in Yosemite, I do so differently. I remain still. I keep my distance. I let them graze, lift their heads, and move on without interference. And in those moments—brief, unforced, and entirely theirs—I feel something far more meaningful than what I once mistook for connection.

Respect.

In learning to step back, I finally began to understand what it means to truly share space.