Maybe that deer I wrote about last week — relying on eyewitness Tom Ricardi’s report of watching it run for its life from a large bobcat toward the South River just upstream from Conway’s Burkeville Covered Bridge – didn’t escape after all.

Ricardi opined that had he not pulled his vehicle over to observe the chase, the bobcat would have eventually overtaken and killed the exhausted deer, tongue hanging from its mouth. Instead, the cat, unnerved by Ricardi, sat down for a moment, turned around and ran back into the pine grove from which it had come.

Nonetheless, that deer may not have been long for this world, according to neighbor Ed Mann. While out on his evening walk last week with yellow Lab, Boomer, Mann discovered a deer carcass along the river bank just upstream from the covered bridge. He speculated it may have been the same deer, given the location and timing, but wasn’t sure what had delivered the fatal blow. A deep coating of fresh snow had covered the tracks of the culprit(s).

“That cat could have prevailed at the end of the day,” he wrote. “Or, of course, it could have been taken down by coyotes, which have been passing up and down the river this past winter.”

Years ago, domestic dogs would have been the primary suspects, but that has changed dramatically with the enactment and enforcement of leash laws. So, yes, it was probably either opportunistic coyotes preying on a weakened deer they came across quite by chance, or that wily bobcat doubled back to finish the job.

Deer are often taken by predators on ice, where their hooves leave them helplessly splayed for the kill. It doesn’t happen by accident. Coyotes and wolves work in unison to force deer toward ice, where they know they have an advantage. Bobcats? Well, that I cannot say. But, when you think of it, why not? Before Ricardi’s tale, I didn’t know a bobcat would chase down a deer, only that they would occasionally ambush from above and pounce down upon an unsuspecting young whitetail or take fawns from their birthing nests.

This is the time of year when deer are at their weakest and thus most vulnerable to predators, which are tuned into their struggles. In the end, it all comes down to opportunism and that basic law of nature we all know well: That is, the strong survive and the weak perish.

*****
Another Conway resident, Gail Connelly, chimed in to report an indelible sighting. She thought maybe someone else has seen the animal she saw “several years ago at the end of March on Hoosac Road.”

Ms. Connelly has lived in Conway for 32 years, during which she has often walked her golden retriever “on logging trails and in fields — running into deer, fawns, raccoons, porcupines, moose, bobcats and numerous black bear.”

Her most memorable wildlife sighting was that of a wildcat she believes, judging from its profile, was a Canada lynx.

“I had my Golden retriever in the car when a huge animal ran in front of me,” she wrote. “I slammed on the brakes, and when I got out of the car, the cat had jumped a small ravine and was running across a field. When it got to the edge of the woods it stopped, turned around to look at me, then slowly walked into the woods. My golden is over 90 pounds. This cat was taller than him, long furry legs, his paws were thick with fur, very padded. I’d be curious to know if anyone else has seen one in our area.”

The problem with such sightings and comparisons to dogs is that looks can be deceiving, especially from afar. I once had a similar deer-stand sighting of a “bobcat” walking gracefully along a stonewall some 50 yards away and was convinced it was too tall for a bobcat, judging it taller than my male springer spaniel at that time, Ringo. Now, that cat may or may not have been taller than Ringo, who stood about 19 inches at the shoulder, but it sure did appear taller from where I sat.

When I studied the Canada lynx photo I ran with this column last week, taken by Jim Shortell in Alaska, it occurred to me that the animal appeared taller and leggier than my current male springer, Chubby, who’s taller than Ringo was. Then it dawned on me that, because of the lynx’s leaner torso it may not, in fact, have been taller, just appeared so. It’s difficult to make such a call from a distance.

Which is not to say that Ms. Connelly did not see a Canada lynx that day. She may well have, and people in these parts may see more lynx in the future. It seems that a southern expansion of this northern species is underway.

Who’s to say that this animal wasn’t here when William Pynchon first stepped foot on this valley and is now on the comeback trail, similar to moose and … dare I say, cougars?

*****
One final touch of sage hilltown wisdom on the bobcat/Canada Lynx discussion, this one arriving out of the blue at the 11th hour of 4:24 p.m. Wednesday from old friend Roger “Heze” Ward. It may answer the question we ended the previous segment (above) with.

“Growing up in the hills of Buckland, a couple things come to mind about the presence of bobcat and lynx,” he wrote. “The lynx was the bigger of the of the two, sometimes hitting the scales at better the 60 pounds, whereas bobcats were generally in the 30-pound class. One difference that never failed in the ability to tell the two apart was the size of the feet. Lynx feet were huge compared to the bobcat. Your picture in last week’s paper proves that out.”

He then offered this enticing little tidbit that’s well worth sharing:

“I don’t know if you ever head the story about this ungodly noise we would hear at night. The old timers it said was a bobcat and said it sounded like a baby crying. I heard it many times and never could figure out what it sounded like. I always wondered if was some kind of mating ritual. I don’t remember anyone ever saying they saw the bobcats first hand making this noise. It always seemed to be deep in the woods, and really didn’t sound like domestic cats.”

Hmmmmm?

So there. Maybe lynx are not a new phenomenon to Franklin County.

It’s noontime Tuesday, gray and wet, home snow-removal chores in the rearview, televised Patriots parade underway in Boston.

I’m walking the dogs in steady rain that’s softening the shallow coating of fresh, white, sticky snow. The precipitation had changed from snow to sleet to rain as I whisked clean the snow-blower blades and carriage after yard cleanup.

I’m watching Lily and Chubby romp through the Christmas trees on a floodplain meadow, rain audibly dripping from naked hardwoods, the dogs’ joie de vivre palpable as my mind drifts off as it usually does while walking. I’m thinking back to something I heard Bill Belichick say from ESPN’s on-field, postgame broadcast podium after his Pats’ dramatic, 34-28 overtime win over the Falcons in Super Bowl LI. Talking about his team’s record comeback from a 25-point  deficit, he told retiring sportscaster Chris “Boomer” Berman that Bill Parcells — a former coach under whom he worked and from whom he’d learned much about winning — was fond of usung a boxing metaphor when describing what it takes to be a great champion. He believed that the mark of a true champion is the ability to get up off the canvas and win.

“I think we did that tonight,” beamed Belichick. And who could argue?

Mulling that Belichick quote as I walked the southern perimeter of my daily ramble, dogs chasing scent in and out of the wooded wetland border, my thoughts brought me to Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxing champion of my lifetime. I was trying to compare the Pats’ remarkable Super Bowl rally to one of Ali’s epic wins, and for some reason started with the “Thrilla in Manila” against Joe Frazier. But, no, thinking it over, I knew that fight for the ages hadn’t mirrored what occurred Sunday night at NFG Stadium in Houston. The reason was that at the start of that memorable 1975 fight, it appeared that Ali would make quick work of Smokin’ Joe, peppering his face like he was working an Everlast speed bag in the gym. But a determined Frazier somehow absorbed the punishment and responded by bearing in on Ali and hurting him on the inside until, after Round 11 of a scheduled 15, it looked like Frazier may just beat “The Greatest.”

Not so fast. In Round 12, Ali dug deep, found his second wind and started battering Frazier. By Round 14, Smokin’ Joe could no longer see through badly swollen eyes. Concerned trainer Eddie Futch threw in the towel. Proud, fierce Joe Frazier could not answer the Round 15 bell. Ali had won by TKO. Afterwards, Frazier said, “Lordy, Lordy,” he had hit Ali with shots that could have shaken  the walls of a city yet could not beat him.

The Pats’ historic Super Bowl victory Sunday night really didn’t have that ebb and flow, those changes of momentum. Down 21-3 at the half due to two costly turnovers, New England was getting dominated by Atlanta on the scoreboard. Then, after the Falcons tacked on another score to make it 28-3 with 8:31 remaining in the third quarter, die-hard Pats fans knew a comeback was unlikely indeed, even for an all-time-great QB/coach tandem like Tom Brady and  Belichick.

Which brought me to another Ali fight occurring a year before the “Thrilla.” We’re talking about 1974’s “Rumble in the Jungle” versus a seemingly unbeatable and heavily favored heavyweight champion named George Foreman, a younger, stronger man who packed a mighty wallop. So, what was Ali’s strategy in this fight that few thought he could win, and many feared could end his career, if not his life? He came out by decisively winning the first round with dazzling combinations to Foreman’s face, then shocked the world by leaning back against the ropes, protecting his chin and allowing the powerful champion to whale away at his midsection in a ring tactic dubbed “rope-a-dope,” designed to “punch out” the opponent. Trainer Angelo Dundee pleaded with Ali to get off the ropes while loyal fans wondered what was wrong with “The Greatest.” Was he losing his freakin’ mind? He was going to get killed laying on the ropes in front of such a powerful brute.

After six rounds of his best impression of a heavy bag, Ali sprang off the ropes in the eighth round and dropped Foreman to the canvas with a well-placed combination of punches to the face. Foreman went down, could not get to his feet before the count of 10 and Ali, hands raised above his head,  had a stunning knockout to regain the world heavyweight crown.

That Ali fight was the one that most resembled Sunday’s stunning Patriots comeback in Houston. No, the Falcons did not come into the contest as prohibitive favorites, and they were not recognized as the big bully on the block, either. But with a 25-point lead and 20 minutes remaining, the underdog  sure had taken on a superior demeanor.

Then, like Ali in Zaire, the Pats came off the ropes to score the final 31 points and win their fifth Super Bowl of the Brady-Belichick era. Some called it a miracle. Others blamed it on Falcons coaching ineptitude.

Longtime WFAN-New York, AM-660 sports-talk host Joe Benigno had it right Monday morning when he proclaimed that only one team could have pulled off that historic comeback, then labeled Super Bowl LI as the win that will forever define these New England Patriots’ greatness. Though not a popular view on that station or in that city, where callers and hosts alike prefer to insult the Patriots as cheaters, suffering Jets-fan Benigno had taken a fair view, giving justifiable credit and admiration where due.

It takes a man to tell it like it is in that hostile Big Apple market, and, on the other hand, an arrogant loudmouth like Mike Francesa to claim that the Falcons coaching staff handed the win to the Pats on a silver platter.

It’ll be interesting to see what Francesa’s excuse is next year.
******

The preliminary all-season 2016 deer harvest released last week by MassWildlife is 12,233. This includes record archery (4,661) and primitive-firearm (2,484) harvests and an average shotgun harvest of 4,907, including 58 kills during the special, controlled, four-day Blue Hills Reservation hunt. An additional 53 deer were taken by special permit during the annual Quabbin hunt, and 128 additional deer were taken during the annual pre-archery youth hunt.

Backboned by the archery and blackpowder records, the total harvest was in near-record territory, following a sub-par 2015 harvest. Last year’s low harvest was likely due to unseasonably warm weather, lack of snow and an abundance of wild food, which meant that deer could be virtually anywhere and did not have to move much when hunters were in the woods. The increased 2016 harvest was likely related to the previous year’s low harvest and low winter mortality, plus this year’s excellent hunting conditions.

The all-season preliminary totals in Zones 10 (2,313), 11 (2,715) and 9 (1,115) comprised a bit more than half the statewide harvest. Meanwhile, local Zones 4 North (531), 4 South (299), 2 (479), 5 (542) and 6 (126) combined produced a mere 16 percent of the statewide harvest. My, how times have changed since I was a kid.

The final harvest figures and analysis will be released in May or June.

Whenever I write about local wildcats, it seems that the feedback locomotive gets rolling full-steam ahead. So it was no surprise that last week’s column drew a spike in reader email.

Oh my! Can you imagine what’ll happen when I finally jump into that Petersham mountain-lion-attacks-horse tale, which I was aware of months before it hit the news on the day after Thanksgiving, went viral for a couple of days and vanished into thin air with  the surface scratched  ever so lightly. Of course, it’s always difficult for reporters to really delve into a totally unfamiliar subject about which little is known, especially when state wildlife officials paid to answer their questions go into their best damage-control shutdown mode, buttressed by their Office of Executive Affairs gatekeepers. I’ll let the issue sit for a little while longer. Confirmation that the DNA samples gathered on the scene by the landowner were indeed left by a mountain lion, as  determined by a reputable University of Florida lab, is due soon from another respected Arizona lab.

Not that anyone doubts the accuracy of the Florida lab’s determination that the blood and hair specimens were left by a cougar. But why not wait a little longer for confirmation from Arizona cougar expert Melanie Culver? This is the same woman who used archaeological evidence from deep-history Native American sites to prove that North American cougars (Puma concolor) from all points of the compass were one animal, not different species, thus debunking the eastern-cougar-extinction distraction propagated by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service mere weeks before a 140-pound male disperser from South Dakota’s Black Hills showed up dead on a Connecticut highway in June 2011.

Stay tuned. We’ll let that spicy little Quabbin Country  story simmer in the Southwestern sun  a little longer. Back to feedback from week’s piece about local bobcats and the Canada lynx possibility.

The first response to show up in my inbox came from Fred Bourassa, a Shelburne Falls native who now calls Greenfield home. “I remember back in the late ’50’s/early ’60’s that there was a man named Ted Cromack, who lived on Rt.2 in Shelburne across from Call’s Corner Antiques,” he wrote. “Seemed like every week he would have a bobcat hanging from his front porch. I’m not sure whether he had dogs or not, but he certainly was an avid cat hunter. I’m sure a lot of old-timers from Shelburne will remember him.”

Well, although I’m not sure my hunting buddy, a Buckland native I call “Killer,” admits to being an old-timer, he is, at 72, no youngster. Did he remember Ted Cromack? Oh yeah, remembered him well. And, yes indeed, he did own a pack of hounds. The Killer also confirmed that he often passed the same roadside display Bourassa described at Cromack’s Mohawk Trail homestead. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “He was quite the boy, a well-known cat hunter. My uncle Roland (Cusson) and his buddies used to hunt with him back in the day.”

Those were the only hunting-related bobcat comments to come my way, although this week Greenfield accountant, Marine Vietnam vet and former trapping defender/activist Donald E. Graves of Buckland forwarded a copy of a letter he sent to President-Elect Donald J. Trump requesting that, because sportsmen and gun owners played such an important role in electing him, he should repeal ASAP the Massachusetts law enacted by 1996 referendum forbidding hounding of bears and bobcats as well as leghold traps.

The remainder of the comments came from nature lovers and wildlife observers who’ve had the pleasure of watching beautiful bobcats, and even possibly Canada lynx, around their rural Franklin County homes. These folks sounded much like my neighbor, Anne Echeverria, whose backyard sighting down the road from my home spurred last week’s column. Among the respondents were two women, Betty Schneider of East Colrain and Marti Auriemma, town of residence unknown.

We’ll begin with Schneider, a neighbor of sorts who sent a photo (below) taken last fell by husband Bill on his way to Greenfield. “There are many bobcats in my neighborhood,” she wrote. “My sister-in-law had four in her yard at the same time. How rare is that? She has photos of them. Beautiful animals! I guess the living conditions/food sources are great in East Colrain.”

Not a bobcat expert by any stretch of the imagination, I can’t speak to the rarity of seeing four bobcats in a group but did myself once see three walking cautiously through the woods from my deer stand. I would surmise that such groups are typically family units of mother and kittens. Once the young approach a year old, they’re big and it’s difficult to visually differentiate between adult and juvenile.

Because Ms. Auriemma didn’t pinpoint where she lives, we’ll just call it Recorder country and leave it at that. She and her husband had an interesting backyard sighting a couple of weeks ago that piqued their curiosities enough to push them onto an intensive Internet search for a positive identification. Their conclusion? Canada lynx, which isn’t impossible, given that there have in the past six months been confirmed southern Vermont sightings around the Deerfield River headwaters. What is there to stop such a cat from following the riverside corridors downstream?

“I’ve searched all over online and the animal we saw most resembles the lynx,” Auriemma wrote. “It was silvery gray, with no spots and a tail that was barely there. It was coming out of the woods on its way somewhere with a dead squirrel in its mouth. For several weeks before this sighting, I heard what sounded somewhat like a cat calling most nights (it was not a coyote, which we often hear). I had no idea what it was, but when this animal appeared that morning, I figured it must have been what I was hearing. We’ve seen a lynx in Colorado and are certain that is what we saw there, as there were signs posted warning not to shoot them. The animal in our backyard resembled this lynx, especially in coloration. Interesting?!”

Yes. Interesting indeed. I love it when readers share their observations, though lynx color can vary and thus may not be a reliable identifying characteristic.

Local observers interested in establishing at least a strong suspicion that what they’ve seen is a Canada lynx and not a bobcat should try to shoot a photo in these days of cell-phone cameras. A backyard photo led to the Londonderry, Vt., cat’s identification as a lynx. That photo is easy to find online. The distinguishing visual characteristics of lynx compared to bobcats are their shorter, blacker tails, larger feet, longer ear tufts, and especially hips that are elevated higher than the shoulder in a broadside profile.

A noontime phone call from a neighbor, a brief conversation, a spin around the Internet and — Bingo! — another column in the making.

It all unfolded quite by chance on Tuesday, after finishing a couple of morning tasks: first, a trip to Agway to buy dog and cat food and cedar shavings on senior-discount day, then taking the dogs for their eagerly anticipated morning romp atop hard, crusty snow that they literally fly on. Funny. Not a fresh deer track anywhere during the two-day deep freeze. Then, walking through small puddles and soft, sticky snow on Wednesday morning, still no fresh sign anywhere. I guess they ventured off to a nearby feed yard dominated by browse. They never go far. Tend to stay in the neighborhood, so to speak.

But let us not digress. Back to noontime Tuesday. …

The kitchen phone rings. I’m in the adjacent woodshed gathering armfuls of dry, seasoned hardwood to refill the iron cradle beside the wood stove. My arms full, I cannot answer the call but will see who called once finished with my daily duty, the final chore  always sweeping the hearth area clean of wood debris with a broom and handled dustpan. That done, I check the phone. It was neighbor Anne Echeverria from a hop, skip and a jump down the road. I hit the call-back button.

“Hi neighbor,” I respond to her hello. “So, what’dya see in your backyard?”
“Two bobcats,” she reported. “They were walking through the woods out back. I saw them through my kitchen window. I wouldn’t say either of them was large. One was bigger than the other. I watched them through binoculars. What beautiful, graceful animals.”

Although it may come as a surprise to some, Bobcats are not a rare sight around my Greenfield home. My wife was quite pleased to once catch a beauty passing right through our yard in broad daylight along the barn. The  highest-profile incident occurred more than a decade ago when, around lunchtime, a rabid bobcat went on a much-ballyhooed rampage through the Upper Meadows, attacking a neighbor in his western Meadow Lane backyard garden four doors down. Minutes earlier across Colrain Road, the cat had  threatened to attack a man and his young child near a backyard swing set.

Talk about a beautiful day in the neighborhood. The cops were quickly on the scene that day, instructing folks by loudspeaker to stay inside until the threat passed. It didn’t take long before the rabid animal was trapped under a rubbish barrel and shot less than a mile east of my home, at Martin Farm on Plain Road.

It was exciting summer drama, attracting Springfield TV news crews and quickly finding its way to the Boston news stations. My kids were living with us at the time and seemed to be enjoying the commotion. Not only that, but they were amused by my response. What’s that? Well, I went to my gun safe, spun the dial, pulled out my holstered .38 caliber snub-nose revolver, loaded it with five hollow-points and strapped it inconspicuously to my hip … just in case.

By then, I had grown accustomed to seeing bobcats in my travels in and around the Meadows. I’ve seen them deer hunting and  driving home from work late at night during the winter, when I have many times caught one or a pair thereof hunting the winter cornfield puddles for overnight waterfowl settled on the Colrain Road-Plain Road crotch a mile south of my home. I had only two “neighborhood” deer-hunting sightings: one a large, leggy cat a quarter mile across the road, south and west of my home, that I still believe could have been a Canada lynx because of its long legs; the other an adult female and two small kittens passing my late-afternoon, ridge-top, Smead Hill stand a mile behind my home. I got a good look at one of those kittens just before dark. Defying some type of silent warning signals from its mother, the alert little animal came to within 10 yards of me as I sat invisible against a large, twin red pine, face covered by a woodland-camo mask. Suddenly, the pretty little creature froze, lit up with caution brought by a sixth sense that detected something wasn’t quite right, and slowly turned and walked away. I was surprised to encounter such small kittens in December, but was later told by a state wildlife biologist that it must have been, for one reason or another, an unusually late litter.

Prior to moving from South Deerfield to Greenfield in the spring of 1997, and having spent a lot of time in the woods of Deerfield, Whately, Hatfield, Conway, Ashfield and Williamsburg — not to mention my days in the woods near and far as a land surveyor — I had seen just one bobcat in 40-some years. That sighting occurred while sitting still and quiet during deer season with my back up against the western face of the highest ridge off Henhawk Trail, an old Indian Trail and discontinued road through the Conway State Forest, connecting Williamsburg to Conway. I felt privileged to see such an animal furtively making its way through wet terrain just south of Sikes Hill, west of Cricket Hill and northwest of High Ridge. Where better to see one? Back then, in the 1980s, the state had conducted a trap-and-collar bobcat study right there in that general area, live-trapping and collaring just shy of 20 bobcats for the study. The one that crossed my path wore no collar. But, yes, Bobcats have coexisted with us in these parts for many years, despite the fact that most people will never see one.

Not 50 years ago, bobcat hunting with packs of trained, baying hounds was a popular cold-weather activity in our Hampshire and Franklin hills. I remember the late Bill Gaffigan of Buckland speaking fondly of participating in the annual activity with his Buckland/Shelburne/Ashfield pals. And don’t forget that before leghold traps were outlawed in 1996, local trappers sold many a bobcat pelt at auction. In fact, I ran into just such a man who supplemented his income trapping, outspoken Ed Rose — who some may have known from his Holly Barn restaurant in Conway. Yes, I will never forget that cold November day at the Burgy outflow of Henhawk Trail, where I caught Rose exiting the southern woods carrying a large, 38-pound cat he was quite proud of. He should have been proud. It was a massive bobcat, the largest he had ever trapped, he said.

Online information confirms Rose’s assessment. Male bobcats ranges in height from 17 to 23 inches at the shoulder, weighing between 16 and 28 pounds. Canada lynxes appear to the eye to be bigger because they have longer legs. But the fact is that both are classified as medium-sized wildcats and are about the same height and weight. Bobcats and lynx both have tufted ears, Lynx’s a bit longer. Another distinguishing feature is the tail. The lynx’s bobbed tail is shorter and blacker than a bobcat’s. Also, unlike bobcats, lynx stand slightly taller at the hips than the shoulder.

It isn’t impossible that Canada lynx have already or soon will pass through Franklin County. One was photographed in the southern Vermont town of Londonderry in June. Since then, sightings have been reported in Searsburg, Vt., located downstream from the Deerfield River headwaters at Somerset Reservoir. Canada lynx are classified as an endangered species, which, until very recently, had not been seen anywhere south of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.

So, there you have it: a quick discussion of bobcats and lynx, all started by a random, friendly neighborhood phone call reporting a kitchen-window sighting.

You gotta love it.

There’s a little something for everyone — be they waterfowlers, anglers, paddlers, collectors, historians, anthropologists, designers, you name it — in the University of Minnesota Press’ recently published “Canoes: A Natural History in North America,” by Mark Neuzil and retired UMass/Amherst journalism professor Norman Sims, a familiar local whitewater enthusiast.

This nice, sturdy, cloth hardcover — printed on thick, durable glossy pages — is a good coffee-table book that can either be read from beginning to end or by cherry-picking through chapters  of personal interest. “Canoes” hit the market in November and can be purchased ($39.95) online directly from the publisher or  from several other retailers, and at bookstores.

Just short of 400 pages, the book is liberally illustrated with beautiful historic artwork and photography in vivid color. The cover (below) displays Homer Winslow’s 1897  “Canoe in Rapids,” by permission from Harvard University Museums.

The forward is the work of none other than Pulitzer Prize-winning author John McPhee. A Deerfield Academy alum, longtime Princeton University professor, author of more than 30 books, and longtime staff writer for “The New Yorker,” McPhee is a top-shelf non-fiction writer probably best known locally for his 1966 biography “The Headmaster: Frank L. Boyden, of Deerfield.” Either that or perhaps his more recent “The Founding Fish (2002),” a book about American shad that partially focuses on the  Connecticut River. In that book, McPhee  relies heavily on expert input from Dr. Boyd Kynard, known locally as a   conservationist committed to saving the endangered shortnose sturgeon.

Why McPhee for the forward? Well, because he’s  a lifetime canoeist who’s often written about the activity in many settings over the past 50 years. His book most associated with North America’s indigenous watercraft is “The Survival of the Bark Canoe (1975),” followed by “Encounters on the Archdruid (1971).” In “The Founding Fish,” he canoes the Connecticut with Kynard acting as scientific guide and teacher.

The canoe is generally thought of as a North American invention  used by our indigenous tribes from coast to coast in the deepest historical record. Similar styles are found  in the Caribbean, South and Central America, the Hawaiian Islands and the Arctic, not to mention Asia and Africa. The best-known North American canoes were made of tree bark, especially white birch and elm supported by ribbed wooden frames, attached by spruce roots and waterproofed along the seams by applying spruce gum or other sticky pine pitches combined with binders such as animal fat. Accompanying birch- and elm-bark canoes in North America’s deep history were larger, sturdier dugout canoes made of straight hardwood tree trunks hollowed out by fire, hot coals and labor-intensive scraping chores employing stone and even ancient Lake Superior copper adzes.

The heavier, studier, larger and more durable dugouts lasted longer and were probably preferred on the ocean and  large lakes, such as Champlain or the Great Lakes. But the bark vessels were lighter for cross-country portages and more versatile, though more easily damaged in whitewater. When punctured, birch- and elm-bark canoes were not difficult to repair for quick recovery.

“Canoes” chronicles the versatile North American watercraft’s evolution from prehistoric to modern times, describing not only the people and tribes who built, used and maintained them, but the many different vernacular styles still in use, including Northeastern models associated with indigenous tribes and contemporary makers in Maine and the Great Lakes Region. Historic canoeists readers will recognize begin with Canadian fur trader Alexander Mackenzie, who crossed the northern continent in the late 18th century, a decade before Lewis and Clark’s explorative journey to the West Coast. Also featured are such canoeists as Henry David Thoreau, Eric Sevareid, Edwin Tappin Adney and many more.

Sims, a retired UMass honors professor in literary journalism who was enticed to the Journalism Department by founder Howard Ziff, now lives in southern New Hampshire after several years of Greenfield residence. A devoted whitewater enthusiast and active member of the Appalachian Mountain Club and the Wooden Canoe Heritage Association, Sims chose his new digs because it included a barn in which to store his small collection of Morris wood-and-canvas canoes featured in the book, his sixth.

Nuezil is professor of communications and journalism at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minn. As the author, coauthor or editor of seven books, he is a frequent writer/lecturer on environmental themes. He is also a past board member of the Society of Environmental Journalists and Friends of the Mississippi River.
************

On my daily walks with the dogs through secluded riverside habitat in the fertile Greenfield Meadows, I was been able to monitor the daily travels of three does and a young buck through much of the shotgun and blackpowder deer-hunting seasons, especially with snow on the ground. I grew quite familiar with the tracks of those four deer and often crossed them meandering in, out and through a floodplain Christmas-tree farm that provides hayfield grasses with berries and acorns along the edges. Once deep snow falls, the deer seek out wild rhubarb that they otherwise seem to ignore.

Early last week, a new hoof print made its appearance, that of a familiar fifth deer, this one a buck with a distinctive splayed track I have grown to recognize over the past five or six years. Honestly, I thought that deer was dead but, no sir, he appears to be alive and well … and plenty elusive. He was down where I walk for two days (post deer season) and has since vanished. He’ll be back.

This week, out of nowhere and quite by surprise, the totally unfamiliar track of a monster buck showed up. Inspecting the perfect fresh tracks in wet snow Wednesday morning, I for a moment considered that I may be looking at hoof prints of an immature moose. Yes, they were that large. But upon closer inspection, I knew that a big buck had left them. Although I didn’t have a ruler, I would estimate that the length from hoof to heel measured six inches, with prominent double heel prints on every impression. The hooves at their widest point had to be nearly four inches across.

I have in my neighborhood seen a young 4- or 5-pointer and a nice trophy racker sporting 8 to 10 points this year, but have an idea that this large track was left by a new buck, a corker. When the shooting started, this dominant animal must have laid low in the bottomlands, maybe on posted land, then come out to play once the gunfire died. Not surprising. Old bucks survive by wisdom … and good fortune.