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Photos by David Campiche
Author David Campiche is frequently visited by a five-
point buck he has named ‘Santana.’
Backyard visits
from ‘Santana,’ the
five-point buck
BY DAVID CAMPICHE
The big buck slithered into the yard, resplendent in
its natural forest gown. Its antlers were magnificent,
a five-point buck with two new nubs covered in vel-
vet. His oversized eyes shone with curiosity and lus-
ter. Dusk was upon us.
After three nights, I was able to feed it an apple,
the fruit cut into quarters. My hand steady, I fed it
bites, this historically, one of the most cautious of
wild critters.
Me, sitting on the second step of our weathered
cedar porch. He, denying his spry animal instincts and
trusting this homo sapien. And then the magnificent
animal was gone.
Winter came on, dark as the belly of a coffee pot.
I didn’t see my new friend until early that next
August. He had grown into the largest buck that I had
ever seen. I called him Santana. He had survived the
hunting season and was back with six points if you
count the two velvety nubs, popping from his strong
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forehead like new garden potatoes.
I made a clicking sound: Tchik, tchik, tchik, and
whistled softly some classical prelude I couldn’t begin
to name. I swear, he remembered me.
His head twitched and Santana took two tentative
steps on delicate horn-black hooves, each looking as
if they had been recently shined and buffed for a high
school dance.
I turned and cautiously moved into the house
and picked from a pottery bowl, four red apples. He
waited.
“Hey boy, hey.” I cut a quarter slowly, cautiously,
hoping not to spook him. He was resisting his deepest
instinct, the desire to turn and flee.
“Hey, boy. You remember me, don’t you?”
I threw a few quarters of the red delicious apple a
yard or two in front of his hooves. Santana stepped
forward, lowering his head. I threw another, closer
this time. The buck now stood just a few feet from
me, close enough to hear my breathing. I reached out
my hand. “Here boy. Take the apple.”
Santana extended his thick neck. His nose
was soft and black. He opened his mouth and
bared his teeth, ever so gently, took another slice
of apple. And then another until the apples were
gone. Then he meandered away. He was back the
next night.
I fought the tug to chase him away, to render
Santana safe from the hunters. Was he aware of
those dangers that awaited him, not just during the
hunting season but from poachers, from humans
seeking the big prize: a stuffed head to hang on the
wall of their study. Six points.
Will Santana come back? Come back tomorrow
for the mature fruit? Come back this month or the
next? Come back next year? Will he survive the
wiles of the wild?
Santana the buck is back in the woods, bedding
down. Dreaming of the rut. Summer will pass into
fall. The apples are decaying. But something else
is clicking in my mind, superstitious and haunting:
“Tchik, tchik, tchik.”