Redux: Fear the Deer: A Comprehensive Ranking of Cinematic Roadkill

By the time you finish reading this paragraph, somewhere in America, someone — a long-haul trucker cruising a lonely highway in Iowa, a soccer dad piloting his Subaru through the Virginia suburbs, a lawyer commuting to her office in Atlanta or Bismarck or Madison — will have hit a white-tailed deer. Since the mid-20th century, a period of exponential growth for both Odocoileus virginianus and Homo automobilis, the Deer-Vehicle Collision has been a staple of modernity. Drivers hit more than a million white-tails every year, accidents that cost the public billions in hospital bills and vehicle repairs. In the wolfless East, cars are practically the only predators deer have.

No wonder, then, that the deerkill has become an enduring pop-cultural trope, as ubiquitous onscreen as in real life. Ryan Reynolds kills a white-tail in gratuitous fashion in The Voices; Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain do the deed in A Most Violent Year. Deer crashes have been played for horror, as in The Ring 2, and for comedy, as on The Simpsons. Some representations defy the laws of physics; some are pointlessly cruel; some feature Tom Green. Nearly all involve the weaponization of a buck’s antlers, even though hunting pressure tends to skew sex ratios toward does. Cars and animals fly into the air as easily as kite surfers. 

Despite the many duds, the annals of entertainment history contain the occasional roadkill masterpiece. In recognition of these gems, I’ve developed a precise, novel, and extremely science-based cinematic DVC ranking system. After some intensive YouTube perusal, I scored DVC scenes from film and television in four categories, each of which was worth ten points, for a total of forty possible points. Why forty? Why not? 

The categories are as follows:

  1. Verisimilitude: Is your scene a plausible collision, or did some prop lackey blatantly stick a bad taxidermy job in the road?
  2. Road ecology insight: Deer-vehicle Collisions aren’t random — they’re the predictable product of road type, topography, ecology, temporality, and so forth. Two-lane highways are more susceptible than eight-laners; dusk is riskier than high noon. The best roadkill cinema instructs as well as engages.
  3. Plot relevance: If your movie is going to brutally end the life of an elegant sylvan creature, it better do so for a damn good reason.
  4. Compassion: Let’s not forget that every deer-related crash involves two parties, and that the armorless ungulate almost invariably fares worse than the primate encased in the two-ton steel wrecking ball. Is your movie treating its non-human characters with the respect they deserve?

Without further ado, the five best DVCs ever put to film (it’s a low bar):

5. Gilmore Girls

Synopsis: Rory is sitting at a stop sign when a deer bumps the side of her Jeep.

Verisimilitude: The notion of a deer plowing into a vehicle in broad daylight seems implausible, to say the least. Maybe this buck had been chowing down on fermented apples, a la the drunken moose of Sweden, or maybe he had Chronic Wasting Disease. That must be it. 2/10

Road ecology insight: Don’t park in a migration corridor. 1/10

Plot relevance: This is the only snippet of Gilmore Girls I’ve ever watched (I admit to being charmed by the banter), so I’m cribbing from fan pages here, but apparently Rory was on her way to take a big Shakespeare test in a high school English class when the deer struck her, causing her to miss the exam and get sent to the headmaster’s office. Drama! 5/10

Compassion: Rory seems genuinely concerned for the deer’s well-being, despite the fact that, again, her car was not moving at all, and the deer appears totally fine. Good for you, Rory, whoever you are. 8/10

Total: 16/40

4. The Long Kiss Goodnight

Synopsis: Geena Davis hits a deer, sustains a concussion, and, because brain damage is known to improve long-term memory, suddenly recalls her past as an ex-CIA assassin. 

Verisimilitude: After crashing through the windshield, the hokey animatronic deer slashes insanely at Geena and her companion with his hooves for what feels like five minutes. No thanks. 3/10

Road ecology insight: This DVC occurs at night, on a low-volume two-lane road in a densely wooded rural area. What’s more, the driver is being actively distracted by her boorish male passenger at the moment of the incident. Many authentic risk factors at play. 8/10

Plot relevance: The fact that a deer collision is the catalyst for Geena recollecting her past is a bit random — like, she could’ve just skidded on black ice or been t-boned by a drunk driver to achieve the same effect — but I guess it sets the entirety of this ludicrous movie in motion. 4/10  

Compassion: This poor deer gets put through the wringer, but Geena — aka Samantha Caine, aka Charlene Elizabeth “Charly” Baltimore — does use her CIA skills to grab the buck by the rack and put him out of his misery by snapping his neck. Dock another point for realism, add one for semi-humane euthanasia. 6/10

Total: 21/40

3. Tommy Boy

Synopsis: David Spade and Chris Farley hit a buck, stash him in their backseat, and then watch in horror when the deer revives and trashes their controvertible. 

Verisimilitude: This is less preposterous than you might imagine. In 2016, a Wisconsin driver stuck a seemingly dead deer in his trunk for later eating. Reported the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel: “(T)he man gingerly opened his trunk. The deer moved and the motorist pulled it out of the trunk. A few seconds later the deer bounded into the woods on shaky legs… Adams County Sheriff’s Department posted the incident the next morning on its Facebook page with a photo of actors Chris Farley and David Spade.” 5/10

Road ecology insight: LOL. 1/10

Plot relevance: The car’s deterioration throughout the movie is a pretty good running joke, so props to the deer for kicking that off. 6/10

Compassion: It’s satisfying to watch a deer-vehicle incident in which the car is totaled and the wildlife bounds away unharmed. The glorious climactic shot (see the top of this post), in which the 10-point buck stands victorious athwart his vanquished gasoline-powered tormentor, took a month to nail, and belongs in a museum. 11/10

Total: 23/40

2. Get Out

Synopsis: Allison Williams and Daniel Kaluuya hit a deer on their way to Williams’s parents’ house, where Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener plan to enslave Kaluuya, steal his brain, and transplant it into a rich old white guy. Yikes.

Verisimilitude: Easily the most realistic DVC in cinematic history: It’s abrupt, jarring, and occurs (rightly) with the deer moving at a perpendicular angle to the vehicle, rather than standing stock-still in the middle of the road. (Alas, no complete version of this scene seems to exist on YouTube.)  10/10

Road ecology insight: Another rural, lightly trafficked two-lane highway. Deduct a point for taking place in broad daylight, a much less common collision time than the crepuscular “deer o’clock.”  7/10 

Plot relevance: Jordan Peele’s intellectual creativity cannot be fathomed by us mere mortals, but I think the deer is a horrifyingly apt metaphor for the way these wealthy white suburbanites simultaneously revile and commodify the Other. Although Whitford’s character rants about how deer have overrun the neighborhood — “one down, a few hundred thousand to go” — he also has a buck mounted on the wall of his den. Like the black men that Whitford and Keener kidnap, deer are simultaneously perceived as undesirable community members and coveted trophies. Jordan, if you’re reading this, debunk me in the comments. 9/10

Compassion: Kaluuya eventually impales Whitford with the antlers of the aforementioned mount, so Peele does let an ungulate play a role in the protagonist’s righteous triumph. If you’re complaining that this is a spoiler, I counter that you should have seen this movie twice in theaters. 7/10

Total: 33/40

1. The Straight Story

Synopsis: Our down-on-his-luck hero Alvin Straight is driving across the Midwest on his John Deere (heh) when he encounters the Deer Lady, a distraught woman who’s just hit her thirteenth white-tail in the past seven weeks.

Verisimilitude: Although the crash itself isn’t depicted — Straight arrives in its immediate aftermath — the ambient circumstances are certainly conducive to roadkill. First, the collision occurs in Iowa, the state with the country’s fifth-highest DVC rate (West Virginia holds the dubious crown). Second, judging from the senescent state of the background vegetation, the movie appears to take place in fall, when deer enter the rut, or breeding season. Addled by the pursuit of mates, deer in fall seem to cross roads more frequently and, perhaps, less cautiously. 8/10

Road ecology insight: Credit to the Deer Lady, the only driver on this list who actually takes steps to prevent collisions. “I’ve tried driving with my lights on, I’ve tried sounding my horn, I scream out the window, I roll the window down and bang on the door and play Public Enemy real loud!” she wails. The fact that none of these countermeasures work is also, in its way, insightful: Research suggests that interventions aimed at modifying driver behavior, such as speed limit reductions, don’t actually affect collision rates. Better to put our faith in infrastructural solutions like wildlife crossings and fencing. (Granted, scientists have never rigorously tested the efficacy of blasting Public Enemy.) 10/10

Plot relevance: Alvin, who’s begun to run out of food, eats the venison, which sustains him on his journey. Don’t waste good meat! 8/10

Compassion: This is what makes this brief scene so wonderful. For the first minute of the Deer Lady’s rant, the viewer assumes she’s dismayed by the damage to her car. At around the 1:15 mark, though, she crouches over the buck and briefly lays her palms on his neck and flank, a gesture of heartbreaking tenderness. “He’s dead,” she cries. “And I love deer!” Her grief isn’t for her damaged car, but for the stricken animal. (Note that she refers to the buck as the personal he rather than the dehumanizing it.) She knows who the real victim is. 10/10

Total: 36/40

What a year for David Lynch — first that Oscar, and now this extraordinary honor!

Did I miss an important DVC? Let me know in the comments. And thanks very much to everyone who commented on this Twitter thread. You sure know your deer. 

Winter Stupid

The forecast for Friday above five thousand feet called for more than a foot of snow, high winds, and temperatures well below freezing. So dire were the models that the National Weather Service had issued a Winter Storm Warning for much of the southern Cascades in Washington, and around Mount Hood in Oregon.

“Why exactly are you going tomorrow?” a colleague had asked. The weekends either side of this one had had or promised sun and crystalline skies. I shrugged. This was the weekend that my friend Carson and I had determined months ago fit with our schedules as working parents, so this was the weekend we got.

We were off on an annual trip I have come privately to think of as Winter Stupid. The inaugural Winter Stupid was several years ago, when we skied a few miles into the Mount Hood National Forest to camp for a couple of nights, except on the first night someone who shall remain nameless spilled white gas in the tent. After a few hours of lightheaded sleep, we headed home the next morning.

Our plan this year was to go back to Hood, snowshoeing out of Bennett Pass and camping at a spot with a grand vista. I had been looking forward to the trip for weeks. Of course I always look forward to Winter Stupids in the way one looks forward to gratuitous recreational hardship, but this time my need had a different tenor. I have of late been feeling a certain tenuousness—for those who share my politics, I don’t think I’m alone in this—and I hoped the backcountry would bring back some of the stillness I missed so much, at least for a while. It was, I knew, a lot to ask from one night in a winter storm, so I tried to temper my expectations. Really, all I wanted was to see the mountain once, and I would be happy.

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Deer Cheyenne Mountain

I write to tell you that I am always surrounded by animals. The woods are thick enough with pine and oak trees that I can barely see my neighbors’ houses, so sometimes I like to imagine that I have no human neighbors, and the only creatures sharing the woods with my family are nonhuman. The animals do outnumber us, by a lot. But somehow I can’t divorce humanity from my imagination, or my kids’. This is why we have started naming the deer.

We often anthropomorphize the bears, bobcats, and mountain lions that frequent my yard on a mountain slope, but the turkeys and the deer are too numerous to name. But this season there seems to be more deer than usual, and more repeat visitors than usual. They are getting to know us, I think, so we are getting to know them a little better too.

It has been a colder winter than most, according to climatological records, which may or may not exist by the time you are reading this, and may not ever be kept again in this land; who knows. It was still 2.4 degrees warmer than average, but the winter of 2024-25 has been very cold. I wonder if this is why the mule deer have stuck around more than usual. My yard faces south-southwest, so it is always in the sun, and the snow on my slope melts faster.

My yard is also the only one that is not fenced, so they feel welcome here. They sleep among the trees on my property even though my dog’s scent is everywhere. Their fur blends in with the boulders and fallen leaves in the woods behind my house, so occasionally I don’t notice them until one of them sees me and stirs. They hurt the trees with their antlers and constant browsing, and they leave their scat piles everywhere, and destroy anything that remotely looks like a flower. I find this super annoying. But I will miss them when they go uphill for the summer.

For now, we recognize them as they pass through on their daily constitutionals.

The cutest baby animal

Stronghorn is the largest buck, with a yellow game tag on each ear, a huge rack of antlers, and much more heft than any other buck on this mountain. I can’t be sure, but I think he is the buck that got his antlers wrapped in someone’s hammock last fall, and carried them around for three months looking like a moldy Christmas decoration. I think that explains the ear tags. Stronghorn captains a large herd, and he is afraid of nothing and no one. He and I have had a standoff before, me trying to drive uphill to my house, him standing in the road in my way, staring me down and refusing to move. Another time, I threw a pine cone at him to get him away from a young aspen, and I am pretty sure he laughed in my face. It was hard to tell, because I was 20 feet away, but I am pretty confident I’m right.

huge buck in a road
He is laughing, isn’t he?

Stronghorn is the leader, but three or four other bucks are usually seen hanging around him. This time of year, they sit together near a clump of boulders while the does and yearlings browse my woods.* Scar is mid-sized and lost an eye, probably in a fight with another buck, probably with Stronghorn himself. He and Stronghorn are always near each other.

Bucky is a ridiculous young buck, all legs, skinny, and a little bit too aggressive with short, very sharp antlers. Chill out, bro, I say to him. He is clearly young. He has a lot to learn. He follows Stronghorn closely.

Scar, left, and Bucky

Youngblood is another literal strapping young buck. But he seems less charismatic than Bucky. He is just sort of there. He is the emoji with a “line mouth,” in the words of my kids. He is a meh deer. I suspect he might be a future Scar.

Then there are the does. Mostly, they are anonymous, because they look so similar to each other that we have a hard time telling them apart. But a couple does have enough distinguishing characteristics to earn names. Antidote is usually seen with at least three or four adolescents, which are maybe her own offspring and maybe their cousins; it’s not clear at this point in the season. Or she could just be a teacher type. She seems kind, I think? This is why she is named Antidote. She is not disdainful like Stronghorn.

Crestfallen is a doe whose history we don’t know, but she is often seen browsing alone, and usually straggles behind the rest of the herd when they are on the move. She seems healthy overall, just slower. I will see Stronghorn, Bucky, Scar, Youngblood, and about 15 does and yearlings cross my yard, and then the game camera shuts off. Then three full minutes later, Crestfallen ambles behind.

The young ones we don’t name. But we talk about them all the time, and we worry about their safety. My older daughter quietly talks about the one that was killed by a car going too fast at twilight last summer. We all talk about the one that leapt past the car as we brought my younger daughter home from the hospital for the first time, like a woodland welcoming committee.

The mule deer of Cheyenne Mountain are ever-present and insatiable and probably full of ticks, and they scrape their antlers on my small trees and they eat my rose bushes, and they look like furry boulders when it snows, and they stare at my house like watchfully beneficent mountain spirits, and their presence in my yard is more predictable than the weather. They drive me nuts, and after five years as their neighbor, I don’t know how I would live without them.

*I know they are not my woods, but I feel protective of them all the same.

Science Poem: Volvox Minuet

Macro photograph of a round parent colony of Volvox algae full of luminscent, spherical yellow-green daughter cells

“The spherical alga Volvox swims by means of flagella on thousands of surface somatic cells. This geometry and its large size make it a model organism for studying the fluid dynamics of multicellularity.

Remarkably, when two nearby Volvox colonies swim close to a solid surface, they attract one another and can form stable bound states in which they ‘waltz’ or ‘minuet’ around each other.”

Drescher et al., Physical Review Letters, 2009.

Note: This poem has accompanying audio; to listen along, click here.

Volvox Minuet

In one old studio my round instructor
is warming up her knees. Always the knees,
she said. You don't know what you've got
til it's gone. And then the music:
plaintive songs from long-
forgotten instruments.
My hair has slipped
from its braid. My teacher
counts, a hypnotist's trope,
and I am five hundred years ago.
The braid there has slipped too,
but there someone has bent
to mend it.

There is a pond on the way home,
a rich green plate of globular forms.
And in there the algae awaken.
A shy current pushes their arms
to preparation. The music begins.

Like new stars we all have been,
so blind to the cosmos and any orbit
but our own.

*

Poem by me; audio and music by Squid Pro Crow (that’s me and Grant Balfour); Volvox photo by Massimo Brizzi, CC by 4.0.

Where the Streets Have Two Names

I wrote this post in 2018, and I’m happy to still be leaving on the same . . . road?

*

Let’s call the thoroughfare I live on Lemon Grove. There are two signs for it, one at each end of our block. Until very recently, one of the signs read, “Lemon Grove Avenue”. The other said, “Lemon Grove Street”.

When someone asks for my address, I usually don’t say either. I just say I live on Lemon Grove. Often, the person will say, “Is there another part of that? Is it a street or a drive or something?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You can pick if you want.”

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Experiencing Joy While the World Burns

Hello friends, how are you holding up? Can I give you a hug?

The world is burning, literally, and figuratively, but we can’t give in to despair. The shock and awe strategy we’ve been living through this last month is disorienting, infuriating and disheartening, but that’s the point. The people leading this assault on science and democracy want us to feel overwhelmed. They want us to give up. Let’s not.

There are a lot of things you can do. Call your representatives in Congress. Here’s how. It really can make a difference. Gather with your community and look at ways to support one another.

There are a lot of things we can do to make our voices heard, but at this moment it’s crucially important that we keep going and do not let the darkness overtake us. It’s ok, in fact, perhaps more essential than ever, to seek and experience joy.  

I recently came upon a wonderful articulation of this idea from Ed Abbey, via the imitable Maria Popova. 

It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here.

So… ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space.

Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.

Yes, let’s outlive the bastards, shall we? And while it’s true that “The moral arc of the universe isn’t going to bend itself,” let’s take a moment to relish the things worth saving while we’re doing the work to help right that fabled arc.

History is Long and Things Change

a wooden church with an onion dome

I’m not actually much of a doomscroller, but my default choice when I want a moment of distraction is to hop over to Facebook, Instagram, or the Washington Post. And, lately, hopping over to Facebook, Instagram, or the Washington Post brings not fun distraction or even interesting diversion. Instead, it does nothing but give me new things to worry about. I have worries on so many fronts that they’re already quite hard to deal with.

So here’s what I’m trying to replace those with: Wikipedia rabbit holes.

I started the other day when I was feeling – oh, who even knows. Feeling something. And I thought, let’s try Wikipedia. It has things I can read, none of which will be formatted as a meme designed to cause me outrage, and they will likely not fill me with immediate current-events-based angst.

Not to say that a wander through Wikipedia is necessarily fun.

One day last week I started with the featured article on Wikipedia’s English homepage, which was about a mass methanol poisoning event in 2016 in the Russian city of Irkutsk. More than 70 people died. They thought they were buying a safe, cheap alternative to vodka, which had gotten prohibitively expensive. I learned about Russia’s alcohol policy in the mid-2010s. Russians drink a lot of alcohol, and it needs to be both safe and cheap.

Irkutsk, I learned, is in Siberia, not far from Mongolia, and from Lake Baikal. And, I realized, it’s the hometown of a Russian Orthodox missionary priest who is now known as Innocent of Alaska. He arrived with his family in Unalaska, in the Aleutian Islands, in 1924. He built a Russian orthodox church there, the second on that site. It has been replaced various times in the 200 years since; I saw the current one (built late in the 19th century) in 2009.

So what did this cruise through Wikipedia do? It showed me the importance of a government that functions well and regulates the things that you ingest. It reminded me that this world is full of cities – big cities! with hundreds of thousands of people! – that I can’t place on a map. It reminded me of a once-in-a-lifetime trip. And it reminded me that histories are long and things change.

Photo: Helen Fields, obviously

Guest Post: Why Ice Speaks Slowly

The first time I landed on the Siple Coast of West Antarctica, I immediately felt disoriented. The landscape was a monotonous flat white, with wind-scoured snow and ice extending to identical horizons in every direction. In this isolated spot 380 miles from the South Pole, the only point of reference was the pile of bags and crates that would become a camp for three researchers plus myself, a journalist.

Over the next three weeks, the sun traveled circles in the sky. Day and night blended into a uniform snow-reflected glare. Smells disappeared, except for the fuel that we pumped into our snowmobiles.  Every direction seemed the same.

Some parts of my mind gradually attuned to this unfamiliar environment, while others—strangely—did not.

During an hours-long snowmobile ride, the horizon that we’d been staring at suddenly opened up, and I realized that we had crested a barely perceptible hill. We zoomed down and down the far side—but after an hour of coasting downhill, I glanced at my GPS and realized that we had only descended 15 feet.

Since that first trip, I have made five more visits to Antarctica, each one lifechanging in its own way. On one occasion, I watched as researchers melted a narrow wormhole through the half a mile of ice beneath our boots, and then lowered a camera—allowing us to peer into a subglacial lake that no human had ever seen before.

But to this day, my first visit to the Siple Coast and the disorientation that I felt still sticks with me: a reminder that some things are too large for humans to see and comprehend.

When I look at a Landsat image captured from space, I can see the Siple Coast in a very different way.

Six massive glaciers, each 20 to 30 miles across, ooze off the coastline and merge into slab of ice the size of France that floats on the distant, unseen ocean. The individual glaciers are marked by lazily curving, riverine flow-lines that extend 150 miles along their paths. These rivers of viscous white molasses are separated by domes and ridges of ice that sit between them.

I once camped on one of those high places, called Siple Dome, and there at ground level I struggled to recognize it as a pinnacle. But when seen by a satellite camera from a low angle, these domes and ridges are large enough to cast shadows.

In the 1970s, scientists landed at dozens of locations on these glaciers and pounded metal poles into the snow. They lingered for 24 hours at each position, getting satellite fixes on each pole’s exact location with an early predecessor of GPS. They returned a year or two later to each site, found the same poles — now several feet shorter, due to the accumulation of snow — and re-measured their positions. In this way, they calculated how far each pole had moved, and in which direction, to generate a rough sketch of how these glaciers flowed.

This monumental feat of grunt-work immediately revealed a major surprise. Five of these glaciers were moving 1,000 to 2,000 feet per year, a speed that is common in large Antarctic glaciers. But one of them, Ice Stream C, was flowing at only about one-fiftieth that speed, 20 to 40 feet per year.

The surfaces of the other glaciers were scattered here and there with crevasses — the cracks that form as a glacier slides, bends, and stretches over the uneven bed beneath it.

But Kamb had almost no crevasses — because it was barely moving.

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