Some hikes start slow—mockingbirds posing politely, porcelain berries gleaming like candy, maybe a lighthouse winking in the distance. And then there are hikes where Mother Nature decides to toss the script straight into the recycling bin.
I was minding my own business at Sachuest Point when a doe stepped out of the brush and locked eyes with me. Odd. Normally, deer treat hikers like background noise—just another set of sneakers in the daily parade. But not this one. She froze, ears twitching, staring me down like she was about to deliver a TED Talk.
That’s when junior made his grand entrance. The fawn came blasting onto the path, legs windmilling, executing a full-speed “here I come, ready or not” sprint—straight at me.
Now, here’s the curse of the 800mm lens: fantastic if your subject is calmly chewing cud at a distance. Utter chaos if your subject is a caffeinated youngster with the turning radius of a pinball. Trying to keep that fawn in focus felt like attempting to lasso lightning.
Mom’s face? Pure shock. She hadn’t ordered this matinee either. And just when I thought the fawn would bowl me over, all four legs airborne like a cartoon jackrabbit, it pulled a 90-degree turn worthy of NASCAR and vanished into the pasture. Mom thundered after, brakes squealing.
They stopped just long enough for her to glare at her offspring—ears back, eyes narrowed—clearly saying, “What on earth were you thinking?”
And me? Just standing there with a camera, laughing, wondering if deer hold family meetings later to discuss these sorts of incidents.
Nature’s way of reminding photographers: you haven’t seen it all. Not even close.
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