Jackie Wells-Fauth
We bagged a pheasant this week. And about a month ago, we tagged a deer as well. Now I know perfectly well that it’s not hunting season. Unless, that is, the wildlife is hunting us. Because our method for taking out wildlife is to use our vehicles for the kill; and if we have to sacrifice the motor vehicle, well, that’s just the chance we take.
There is no one out there right now who can honestly say they have never done this, or at best, they have narrowly missed the event. If you have driven a vehicle, you have inevitably played chicken with a deer, a coyote, a pheasant, etc. And while these encounters generally end with a deceased animal, it’s an expensive truth that the vehicle doesn’t escape unscathed either.
It doesn’t pay to take it less than seriously, either. Once, in southern Colorado, we were greeted with a flashing sign which warned: Beware of migrating animals.
I laughed and said, “What are they migrating for? And why do we need to beware of…” I got no further, as a deer leapt from the mountainous forest above us on the driver’s side of the car, slammed into our vehicle, sprinted over the top and without even stopping to apologize, galloped and tumbled down the other side, where there was a very steep slope. We didn’t even have time to ask if she was one of the migrating animals—or if she had insurance.
We spent the next half day of our vacation trying to report our encounter with Bambi’s mother, (the migrating deer) and we became acquainted with the cheerful local mechanic of the area who bent the driver’s door out enough so we could open and shut it and artistically duct taped our fender together. So much for the natural course of nature!
Sometimes, I will see a deer standing on the side of the road as I approach and I know it’s thinking, “Let’s see now, just how close can she get before I dash out and challenge her right to the road. If I can make her slam on the brakes without getting myself killed in the process, all my buddies watching from the ditch will think I’m the baddest deer on the prairie.”
Our latest encounter with the baddest deer on the prairie resulted in the loss of a side-view mirror on our car and a loss of some hide from the deer as he made contact and then fled the scene. Whether he checked into the nearest hospital or just needed a few Bandaids and some aspirin will forever be a mystery.
And as for the pheasant, well that was sadly a fatality. The unlucky bird lost his game of chicken (pardon the expression) and we lost the windshield in our pickup. That was one pressed pheasant on the glass as we were treated to a shower of tiny, glittering glass fragments and cracks in every direction. The pheasant who made this undoubtedly memorable impression could not be found, but we were picking tiny shards of glass out of our hair, clothing, seat covers and even our mouths.
So, no wild game feed from either of our latest hunting trophies, but a lot of repair bills to get our four-wheeled hunting weapons back into shape for the next round of “who’s the roughest and toughest one on the highway?”
Drive with care folks—the next shattered windshield could be your own!
dropsinthewell 