It was quarter of ten on a sunny July morning, and I was in my old Volvo jetting over the Androscoggin for a quick trip to Rumford, headed for a stellar facebook marketplace find: a beautiful antique braided rug in mint condition for a hundred bucks. I’m tuned in to WCLZ, listening to obscure 90’s deep cuts, the sky is blue, and I’m in good spirits.
I notice a roadkill beaver on the side of Rte 2 as I ride along, and genuflect, feeling bad for the pancaked little fella. Nonetheless I reach my destination 10 minutes later, procure my rug, which is everything I am hoping for, and spin around to head home.
It’s 10:15 when I come upon the beaver again, now coming from the north, but this time there’s something else, too. Something giant, the size of a human body, lying about 20 feet in front of the beaver. Squinting as I get closer, I can make it out: it’s a young buck, small antlers in full felt, lying dead in the margin.
I hit the brakes and pull over. He was NOT there before, I certainly would have noticed him when I noticed the beaver! This must have just happened! Could the meat still be good? Poor guy! I get out of the air conditioned car into the muggy morning heat, and, self-conscious of looking weird to passers-by, quickly inspect the animal.
He’s a bit skun up on his face and torso, but otherwise seems generally intact.I look at his eyes, which are glossy and black, wide open. There are no flies. He’s warm and slightly floppy. To me this all corroborates a recent death, but I am still unsure and wish I knew a concrete list of signs to look for. Even if it is recent, will the meat be too bruised to bother with? Will this summer heat spoil the meat too quickly? I feel out of my league, and this certainly was not what I had planned for my day…
There is only one person to call. My friend Jenna Rozelle is what I would call a roadkill deer expert – as much as one can be for these kinds of things. Her professional background is in wild food foraging, but she also hunts, and has over the past few years gradually become a “go-to” person for her friends and others to call when they come upon roadkill deer. Probably mostly because she is so deeply committed to sustainable, wild eating that she doesn’t shy away from the less-than-merry task of eviscerating, skinning, and parting out a damaged deer. Where others see a bloody, smelly task to be avoided, Jenna sees the life of an animal who died in our human world, worthy of taking time for, worthy of eating, and also, one more chance to practice and improve her butchering skills.
She looks quickly at my emailed pictures, which she agrees look encouraging, gives me the concrete criteria I needed, and I decide it’s worth it. John is busy leading his crew on the Welcome Lodge roof, but temporarily abandons the job to come help me load the deer and get it back here. Jenna is a true blue friend and drops everything to come assist with the butchering. We spend the afternoon together, me with knife in hand, her by my side, guiding me through the process. I’ve only ever helped John field-dress his hunted deer a couple of times, and it’s been a while even for that, so I am deeply grateful for her slow, steady real-time guidance of the full affair, from the first sternum slice through fur, to the final quartering. Jenna’s grace with the dead beast is incredibly calming – when I don’t know where a backstrap ends or how to get under a shoulder blade, she quietly steps in, composedly massaging an area of muscle to find its natural ending, holding back interfering parts, suggesting cut points.
John drops in throughout the process to check on us amidst managing other work-day sanctuary demands. He helps us rig the gimbel, hauls off guts to dump up on Elwell, sharpens our knives, and, perhaps most importantly, brings a round of Jaegermeister in crystal jiggers to his bloody, sweaty, and somewhat heart-weighty girls as the job nears completion. We all 3 toast to the animal and toss back a swig of the sticky, warm, medicinal liqueur. Something about the sting of the cordial in the throat vaguely matches the sting of the task at hand, and somehow brings balance to the day in a welcome, albeit faintly indecorous, way.
Near the end of it all, there was the task of beheading the animal to get to the neck meat and the act of drawing the bone saw back and forth on the neck of a once-living being feels murderous and borderline depraved to me, and I mention it aloud.
“Yeah, cutting someone’s head off is definitely a thing,” Jenna replies matter-of-factly, but it makes me laugh out loud. She smiles back and continues, “If it ever starts to feel normal, that’s probably when you should worry.” I decide I’ll cradle his head when I’m close to getting through, so it doesn’t drop unceremoniously into the dirt and hair and blood below once cut free.
I think a lot about how I found him, in a shallow roadside ditch, alongside discarded, faded, partially crushed Bud Light cans and Gatorade bottles. Annoying byproducts of the things we really want: a cold sip of a refreshing beverage, or to reach our destination quickly and efficiently. This is not to suggest blame or negligence on the part of the driver of the vehicle whose bumper claimed the deer’s life, nor to imply that I am not a part of that system; it is simply to acknowledge, that our systems have consequences.
But today, this deer was not just an annoying byproduct. With the help of my friend, and the support of my partner, together we kept him as an animal, a creature of God and of the wild. Departed, yes, but important. Seen. Valued. And despite blood-stained jeans, and a work day completely re-directed, I think that’s a thing worth doing.
. 