I was absolutely determined not to photograph the two deer we encountered almost immediately upon arriving at Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge.
Determined.
Resolute.
A man of principle.
Let me explain.
White-tailed deer and I have a complicated relationship.
They eat everything I plant around my house.
Everything.
At this point, I consider the term deer-resistant plant to be one of nature’s greatest practical jokes.
Somewhere between jumbo shrimp and government efficiency.
Take rhubarb, for example.
One spring, I was wandering through the Rose Shack when I spotted the most magnificent rhubarb plant I’d ever seen.
Now, understand something.
I wasn’t really looking at the plant.
I was looking through the plant.
Beyond it.
Into the future.
Specifically, into a warm slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Because my favorite pie on Earth is strawberry-rhubarb pie.
And Trish makes a strawberry-rhubarb pie that should probably be regulated by the federal government.
I pointed at the plant.
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Fifty.
Dollars.
For a plant.
At that price, I expected it to come with a mortgage and voting rights.
Still, pie dreams cloud judgment.
I asked the important question.
“Will the deer eat it?”
The answer came confidently.
“No. The leaves are poisonous to deer. They won’t touch it.”
Well.
That’s all I needed to hear.
I proudly brought home my fifty-dollar future pie.
And I didn’t just plant it.
No, sir.
I created a five-star luxury resort for rhubarb.
I lined the hole with premium planting mix.
Cracked a fresh egg for nutrition.
Added fertilizer.
Watered it lovingly.
I may or may not have whispered words of encouragement.
This wasn’t gardening.
This was agricultural performance art.
As I stood admiring my work, I could already hear future conversations.
“This pie is wonderful, Trish.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, none of this would have been possible without my expert rhubarb cultivation techniques…”
The next morning—also known as The Day Everything Went Wrong—I sat down with my first cup of coffee and glanced toward my masterpiece.
I didn’t see it.
I blinked.
Looked again.
Nothing.
Now this wasn’t a tiny seedling.
This thing had leaves the size of satellite dishes.
It was visible from neighboring zip codes.
Yet somehow it had vanished.
I walked outside.
And there it was.
Sort of.
The deer had not only ignored the warning about poisonous leaves…
They had eaten the leaves.
The stems.
The dignity.
The hopes.
The dreams.
The entire plant had been reduced to what can only be described as rhubarb stubble.
Little green nubs sticking out of the dirt like a crime scene.
Apparently, the deer hadn’t received the memo.
Or perhaps they had and chose violence.
Either way, my pie had become a venison vegetable.
So yes.
I harbor a certain amount of resentment.
A little bitterness.
A touch of what I call animalosity.
(And yes, I invented that word. I stand by it.)
Which brings us back to Sachuest Point.
As Trish and I walked the trail, I casually pointed toward the meadow.
“Hey, look at the Y.”
From a distance, you could see the unmistakable silhouette.
Those giant radar-dish ears.
That graceful neck.
That elegant posture.
A white-tailed doe.
The very creature responsible for decades of horticultural heartbreak.
As we drew closer, things got worse.
The light was perfect.
The meadow grass glowed violet and green.
The background melted into creamy bokeh.
The doe stood there as if Nikon had hired her to sell cameras.
And suddenly all my righteous indignation began to crumble.
Because the truth is, deer are beautiful.
Infuriating.
Destructive.
Financially devastating to gardeners.
But beautiful.
She looked directly at me.
Calm.
Curious.
Completely unaware that one of her relatives still owed me fifty dollars.
So I did what photographers do.
I raised the camera.
Focused.
And captured the moment.
And I’m glad I did.
Because sometimes nature has an annoying way of reminding us that beauty and aggravation often arrive wearing the same coat.
Just ask anyone who’s ever owned a boat.
Or raised children.
Or planted rhubarb.
But for the record…
I am still holding a grudge.
Not a big one.
Just a fifty-dollar grudge with a pie attached to it.
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