by Bob Johnson
When we are privileged to live amidst wildlife, as so many of us are here in the Inland Northwest, we have a responsibility to disturb their habitat as little as possible. Natives are taught from childhood and newcomers are expected to learn that we should observe animals from a distance, never follow or approach them, never feed them, and control any pets we may have.
When we first arrived in northern Idaho in the summer of 2024, we arranged a short-term rental in a cottage in Garwood. There was a stony trail leading to the back of the property, framed by trees that seemed to glow when the sun caught them at just the right angle. A blue sky dappled with puffy clouds provided the backdrop – until sunset, when the blue morphed into shades of red and orange before fading to black.
And I do mean black. Living in cities, as we always had, it never got truly dark. Some sort of light, whether a streetlight or a neighbor’s porch light or a passing car’s headlights, was always peeking through our drapes. But in this Garwood cottage, our bedroom was pitch-black at night. We had to invest in a night light for the bathroom so those of us who no longer sleep straight through (okay, that would be me) could make the stroll to the commode without stubbing a toe or tripping.
On the first morning of our second week in the cottage, the lovely Michelle and I brewed a couple cups of coffee and took our seats at the kitchen table, turning them so they faced the picture window.
“Look!” Michelle exclaimed after a few minutes had passed. “A mama deer and her two babies!”
“Where?”
“Way down the path. See them?”
Ah, there they were. A proud, statuesque doe with two bespeckled fawns standing nearby. The small white spots on their light brown skin served their intended purpose of keeping the fawns well camouflaged in the forest setting. Until this moment, we’d heard animals in what we ungenerously called “the backyard” but had seen only the occasional squirrel, chipmunk, and brightly hued bird.
The doe led the fawns slowly across the trail, and then they all vanished into the brush as quickly as they’d appeared. We sipped our coffee, hoping to get another glimpse, but before long it was time for me to get to work and for Michelle to resume her job hunt. We would not see the deer for the rest of the day.
When we went to bed that night, we set our alarm so we’d be out in the kitchen, coffee brewed and chairs occupied, at precisely the same time the next morning. It proved to be a wise plan, as mere moments after we sat down, the deer appeared – this time much closer to the cottage.
We two city folk watched in wonderment as the doe nursed the fawns. One fawn was a bit more aggressive than the other, but mama made sure both received ample nourishment before the family meandered into the woods again.
“Nothing like this back home,” Michelle said, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup.
“This is home now,” I gently corrected her. (Aside to husbands: All corrections of wives should be handled gently and with extreme caution, and only after weighing all the possible consequences.)
We quickly became completely immersed in the forest-cottage lifestyle. The sunrises. The sunsets. The animal life. We even began to feel a modicum of guilt. Were we encroaching on their natural habitat? Were we making it more difficult for them to forage? We certainly had become emotionally invested with the deer family. Each day, the doe and her fawns inched closer to the cottage. Were they beginning to trust us?
We got the answer to that question on the fourth morning of the third week when we took our seats a few minutes early, hoping to see not only the deer but perhaps other animals as well. About 20 minutes later, the doe strolled around the cottage from our bedroom side and stopped just feet away from the picture window. She did not look at Michelle. She stood still and stared directly into my eyes.
When I began to stand up, she lowered her head and raised her right front hoof about three inches above the ground, as if she were summoning her inner bull. I slowly sat back down, and she lowered her hoof, raised her head, and resumed the stare-down.
“She doesn’t like you,” Michelle said.
“What did I do?” I asked.
“She’s just protecting her fawns and thinks you’re a threat,” Michelle explained.
We didn’t see the deer family again until the day we were packing our cars to vacate the cottage. The fawns appeared first in the front yard, walking more confidently. Their white spots had faded noticeably. Their mother followed, keeping an eye on her offspring without hovering.
Until she saw me. Then the stare-down began anew. But before she could raise a hoof, we got in our cars and bade farewell to the Garwood cottage in the woods, the perfect introduction to our new lives as small-town Idahoans.
What followed, however, was more than a year of sheer torture in an apartment with a loud party animal upstairs and a clueless property manager as we weaved through a maze of bank loan applications, manufactured home paperwork, and, most painfully of all, county documents (Huckleberry Press, January 2026).
Finally, just before Christmas last year, we were able to move into our new home which, like the Garwood cottage, has a big “backyard” that acts like a magnet for wildlife. We’ve been told by neighbors that over the years there have been many sightings of the Inland Northwest’s iconic animals: black bears, bald eagles, elk, gray wolves, and moose.
Thus far, we have seen eagles and heard elk, but I have no expectations of seeing moose (Huckleberry Press, February 2026). We’ve been on our property only 10 months, so we’re giving the bears and wolves time to find us.
Meanwhile, there’s no shortage of wildlife for us to enjoy – from a distance, of course.
Wild turkeys (Meleagris gallopavo) are ubiquitous in our neighborhood, and a group makes its way along our tree line every day. A neighbor told us a group of turkeys is called a “rafter.” Even though I always thought of that as the only place I could afford to sit at a sporting event or, alternately, one who rafts, rafter apparently is the word used to describe a group of turkeys that includes both males and females.
Groups of male turkeys have multiple descriptive names specific to them, including gang, posse, and bachelor flock. I wonder whether Gloria Steinem, the feminist leader who passed away on Sept. 2, was aware of this special treatment for male turkeys.
We also have a Nuttall cottontail (Sylvilagus nuttallii) who has established our yard as one of its bolt areas. We’re not sure whether the rabbit is male or female; nonetheless, we have named it Robert because the Johnson surname in our family tree will die out once my brother and I are gone, as he never had children and I had girls. Thus, we are counting on Robert Johnson Jr. to carry on the Johnson name, and given rabbits’ proclivity for reproduction, feel confident that he or she is up to the task.
Robert Jr. loves nothing more than sitting near the tree line, perfectly still and staring into our kitchen, probably hoping that a stray piece of lettuce will somehow find its way outside. There isn’t a kindergarten teacher alive who hasn’t dreamt of having a whole class of little Roberts who could sit perfectly still for prolonged periods of time.
We also have a small herd (or bevy, parcel, or mob, if you prefer) of white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) that comes through every day. One likes to stare at me but has yet to lift a hoof, perhaps because she has no young to protect.
Anytime a turkey, a deer, or Robert Jr. stops by, we stop what we’re doing to quietly move to a window where we can watch them go about their foraging or wax museum routine. Humans (Humanous stupidous) sometimes can be annoying, but our animal friends never fail to delight.
National award-winning writer Bob Johnson and his national award-winning photographer-wife, Michelle, do their best to respect the Inland Northwest’s animals and the land they call home. Reach Johnson at [email protected].
