The two deer, a doe and a yearling, showed up late, about 6:50 p.m. By then the evening was well dark, snow was falling, and amid the clamor of cars and trucks rumbling on a nearby highway, the animals seemed to move silently, like ghosts.
About 200 yards away -- sharing the same park with the deer -- cross-country skiers glided atop fresh snow, unaware of the animals and unaware as well that high in a tree 20 yards from the deer, I peered through a rifle scope whose day-glow cross hairs followed every movement the animals made.
In my hands wasn't a rifle, however, but a specially modified and nearly silent shotgun with a 7-foot-long barrel.
The 12-gauge was loaded with a 2-ounce slug, heavy enough to tear a hole in the deer as large as a man's fist.
Dennis Anderson practices his aim.Jerry HoltStar TribuneEye to the scope, finger on the trigger, I waited for one of the deer to present itself in a very specific way before I touched off a round.
The rules of engagement on this night -- as they are every night throughout the Twin Cities for deer-control crews -- were straightforward:
Shoot to kill instantly.
Fold the animal where it stands.
And above all, shoot safely.
After all, within shouting distance, people were home cooking dinner, and cars were carrying kids to scout meetings and hockey games.
To gain a clearer perspective about the jobs that sharpshooters perform each night in many Twin Cities communities, I received permission in recent weeks to join a small crew of them.
As part of the deal, I agreed not to identify the governmental body (city, county or park district) conducting the shoots. I also agreed not to identify the sharpshooters I worked with.
The reason: Deer control is an emotional subject for many people, and the fear was that the sharpshooters, their families and/or employers might be harassed if their involvement became widely known.
That said, on any given winter's night throughout the seven-county metro area, men are killing deer, not because they like it, and not because they equate it with hunting.
But because it's their job.
In some instances, the shooters are police officers. In other cases they are professional marksmen from as far away as the East Coast. In still other situations, park employees do the shooting.
But no matter who pulls the trigger, a day in the life of a sharpshooter often goes something like this:
A sharpshooter works, oftentimes, with fairly detailed knowledge about a specific area, and knowing, too, how many deer have to be culled to reduce the herd to a manageable size. He works alone or with partners, making sure in advance that corn is spread strategically to attract his targets.
Always (at least with the crew I worked with), the corn is dropped in a relatively low-lying area, with a hill rising to one side. That way you can shoot toward the hill, using it, in effect, as a backstop. Also, in most cases, the shooter is in a tree, so he fires downward, with the hill in the background.
Corn is also placed away from places people frequent, or at least in places unseen by passersby.
One night last week, for instance, a hiker was within 50 or 60 yards of my tree stand. He had no idea deer were being targeted so near to him.
Which is how Wendell Diller thinks it should be.
Wendell is the very inventive fellow I have written about who has experimented with shotguns and shotgun loads with the intent of making their discharge nearly silent.
Initially, Wendell wanted only to be able to hunt crows in some of his favorite haunts, places that over time have given way to home building and other development.
"With a gun that is very quiet, you can still hunt those areas without offending people," Wendell said.
Shotguns with super-long barrels especially fascinate Wendell. His work with them, and their evolutionary development in his hands, has placed him on the cutting edge of these novel weapons.
In recent years, as Wendell has become more familiar with the long guns, and more familiar, too, with deer-control problems plaguing metropolitan areas nationwide, he has experimented with loads that can take big game.
Such was the type of gun I held in my hands the other night, watching the doe and yearling feed.
Visibility through the scope was good, despite the falling snow, as I waited for a broadside shot.
Ideally, I wanted to shoot the animal in the neck, about 5 inches from its base, directly in the vertebrae. A heart-lung shot would be OK, too. But there were no guarantees an animal dispatched that way would not run, perhaps as many as 100 yards.
Finally, the yearling turned, I aligned the scope's cross hairs and touched one off.
The deer dropped like a rock.
In the 1980s, when Department of Natural Resources conservation officers still included picking up deer carcasses from highways among their duties, records show that most car-deer collisions occurred near Twin Cities parks.
Conservation officers no longer scour highways for road kill, so records today detailing where deer-vehicle accidents occur aren't as readily available. But experts believe such accidents -- perhaps as many as 3,000 a year in the metro area -- are much more widespread.
The reason: Throughout the 1990s, deer have infiltrated virtually all Twin Cities communities. And while some animals still concentrate in parks, others are content to live in small wood lots, even subdivisions.
When deer in particular areas reach a certain density, vehicles, in fact, become their primary killers. Which is one reason so many communities -- from Edina to Burnsville to Maple Grove -- have developed programs to cull deer.
But deer represent more than a threat to highway safety. Increasingly, they devastate young trees and other vegetation.
The concern is that too many deer eating too many trees and plants will contribute to a sort of Frankensteinish evolution of a park or other natural area -- where, over time, the only things growing will be what deer won't eat.
What to do?
The simple answer is: kill deer.
But nothing involving culling deer for population control is easy. Citizens pound on tables at city council meetings when the subject is discussed. Communities struggle to find money to perform aerial population surveys. And sometimes protesters show up when the shooting begins, bringing TV crews with them.
The killing itself can be challenging.
Corn must be placed in a spot that is not only safe for shooting, but inviting for deer.
Guns must be sighted-in, warm clothes must be pulled on, and sometimes -- as was the case one night -- the deer don't show up.
Other times, they come but don't present good shots. Or shots are taken but miss.
That happened in one suburb last winter, and an errant shotgun slug ricocheted through a living-room window.
That's not likely to occur with Wendell's custom-made slugs, which consist not of single projectiles but of 2 ounces of No. 7 1/2 lead shot encased in a plastic jacket.
Said one sharpshooter last week as we split up, our work done for the night:
"Some people who know what I do think I have the greatest job in the world. I tell them they should walk in my shoes a few nights.
"It's cold. Sometimes deer don't show up. And when they do, you're just shooting. It's not hunting.
"The good thing when it works is that deer numbers are reduced. And the meat is processed for veterans homes and other charities."
