A Fragmented Landscape

As I scramble down the hill behind Tomsich Hall, one hand leaning against the building to keep from slipping and the other holding tight to my field notebook, I scan the woods below for white-tailed deer. I’m looking for one deer in particular, a doe often accompanied by two younger deer. If I see her, I’ll turn around and try again tomorrow. The coast is clear this time, so I begin my journey into an oft-forgotten pocket of forest that houses the Sunset Trail. I walk down the earthen ramp, presumably carved to allow vehicles to pass through, and then carefully descend down leaf-covered stone steps which are almost always impossible to find. Unlike most other spots on campus, this place is incredibly still.

There are some changes, though. Each week I would notice different nuts and leaves that had fallen from the trees. First green hickory nuts and acorns, then fresh leaves still attached to their branches after a storm, then browning ones as we settled into autumn. As Ohio’s deciduous forests tend to do, it changed from a lush green to bright orange and yellow and finally to a bottom-heavy, unabiding gray-brown. The falling leaves exposed the road, making clear just how limited the space was. The sound of cars rushing past, always present, became even more noticeable once the seasons changed. These changes made me aware of the precarity that animal residents of this space had already sensed and attempted to warn me of.

It’s most distinguishing feature was the large green marking on its back that looked like a blanket draped over it with a hole cut out in the middle. It had two large, spiny projections on its head and bright yellow markings that looked like eyes which seemed to stare at us. This caterpillar, which we later identified as a saddleback caterpillar, was responsible for the increasingly painful sting I had received. Although they’re not deadly, their stings can be extremely uncomfortable and cause temporary illness. Thankfully we treated the sting quickly and I didn’t suffer any side effects, but the experience did make me more cautious as I moved through the space.

That sense of caution was reinforced by an encounter I had with a group of deer a couple of weeks later. I had spotted the trio before during my observations. We would watch each other from afar but generally we all steered clear of each other. This time was different. I was sketching a large tree on the southern corner of my field site and when I turned around I saw the doe staring at me intently from about 50 feet away. As I watched her she began to snort and stomp her front hoof into the ground. This is typical behavior from a deer that has identified a potential threat, in this case represented by me. To try to reassure her I backed up and went back to sketching, but as I retreated she began to approach, continuing to snort and stomp at the ground. This development made me uneasy and my frantic Google searches on deer behavior yielded no useful results. By this point the two younger deer, potentially her children, had run further back into the woods and were watching our interaction carefully. I understood why she might be scared, but her approach seemed to me like a potential sign of aggression. I waved my arms and yelled a few times to try to scare her off, but she continued to step towards me. At this point, the sun was beginning to set anyway so I slowly retreated up the hill, again pushed out of the space by an unfriendly inhabitant.

When I had a similar experience with the same group of deer two weeks later I was offended. I had been minding my own business, sketching quietly. I was never there for more than half an hour and I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, so why would she behave so oddly towards me? She wasn’t in any danger. I wasn’t some hunter, I had no weapons, I wasn’t making any noise. I was just trying to connect with nature and I was being punished!

As I indignantly recounted this story to my friends, I realized that I was being self-centered, as humans tend to be. I assumed that my presence in this space would be welcome, a positive thing for all involved. I had never stopped to think about how my being there might be disruptive or contribute to the fragmentation of a landscape. The legacy of settler-colonialism has made it easy to take for granted our right to exist in all spaces. The narrative is that nature is inanimate, it has no wants or needs. It exists for our benefit. Animals may have needs, but certainly not wants. So we don’t feel the need to try to understand the impact of our presence. This entitlement is what drove my anger at the doe and her family.

My other neighbors at this site are diverse and reflect the ecological pressures of the space. One of these is Japanese barberry, a prolific invasive species that has spread to woodlands all over North America. Its bright red berries look tempting, but are toxic to deer and humans and its branches offer safe harbor to Lyme disease-ridden deer ticks. We’ve met before. It's a common resident of front yards as an ornamental, and I spent countless hours removing it from a forest close to home this summer. This, too, contributes to loss of habitat for deer. The shrub grows quickly and has no natural predators in the Americas, allowing it to outcompete other plants that deer depend on for food.

There is also more obvious evidence of human intrusion. The most glaring example was a huge, dry stream likely used for drainage that ripped through the area and flowed downhill. In some places the stream was at least 8 feet across and 6 feet deep (measured by having my very tall friend stand in the deepest section). At the mouth of this stream is a large, unnaturally green plastic pipe. Other non-living residents of the space included beer cans, soda bottles, cinderblocks.

When I selected this site for my observation I didn’t realize that I had stumbled upon an area that was under negotiation by its various inhabitants. Though the actual presence of the forest does not seem to be under threat, it is under some pressure from invasive species and the development of land elsewhere that reduces the amount of land available to large animals like deer. Unlike other forested areas in the counter, this one is unlikely to be developed because it serves as a visual and sonic buffer that creates the illusion of a campus surrounded by wilderness. The harsh slope of the land also likely makes it inconvenient for development. This all works in the favor of the wildlife that takes refuge there. Surely, this patch of woods is one place where they can take respite from the forces that encroach upon their communities.

What I realized over time is that I was one of those encroaching forces, and that maybe I always am when I go into a natural area. I would like to think that I can seamlessly immerse myself in the landscape, but the reality is that I, as a human being, represent something much larger than myself. This doesn't mean that I should stay out of the woods, but it does mean that I should lend some serious thought to how to be respectful of natural spaces and those that reside in them. We all should. Nature is a gift, but we must be gracious receivers.