Chance Encounter with a Herd of Wild Red Deer

It is said that Tibetans can dance as soon as they could can walk and sing as soon as they can talk. Actually， other creatures living in Tibet are no exception. The mountains， forests， rivers， and wilderness are alive with song all the time. Listen carefully， the songs of nature can be grand at some times and subtle at other times.

When we worked and lived in the almost isolated village of Nyinpa in Pashod County’s Lingka Township within Chamdo City， every day we were surrounded by songs of nature coming from the depths of the mountains.

Nyinpa is a village so tiny that it is not marked on a general map. It is hidden deep in the mountains. If we were to walk from the small river valley （altitude 2，900 meters） in the village up along the shady slope to the last house there， we would cover less than fi ve kilometers. The highest point of the village is 3，500 meters above sea level （excluding the higher virgin forest area）. It spans a bit more than 1，000 meters at its widest. Statistics show that there are 164 people in 23 households residing in the village. Now， there are only 14 households that actually remain here； the other nine have relocated to the town of Pema， the seat of Pashod county. Nyinpa Village was always supremely peaceful. The only sounds come from the buzzing bees and singing birds. At night， sounds made by all kinds of beetles and beasts are like a grand symphony. Under the clear and bright moonlight， I held my breath and listened to the songs of nature， intoxicated with excitement.

When the harvest season came， the songs became more varied during the day. In the field， the farmers sang while gathering highland barley. Monkeys， weasels， foxes， and marmots came down the mountains to get their share， each with their distinct voices as if to celebrate the harvest with the farmers.

Once， we were drawn by the chorus of humans and animals and went to the field to harvest highland barley. The bees were hovering over the flowers and singing. The hopping frogs and locusts provided the underlying rhythm and pulse. The ants did not make a sound， but they served as “backup dancers” for the whole act. It was almost four in the afternoon， and the sun was still fierce. All of a sudden， a small “chorus” of monkey calls came down from the mountains in the east. Kasong Tsomo， a village girl drenched in sweat who was busy harvesting the barley heard the sound. She raised her head to look into the distance and broke into a dance like an overjoyed kid. We looked in the direction she was pointing and hastily brought out our cameras to photograph the monkeys.

There was a colony of stump-tailed macaque monkeys. Every year when the highland barley ripens， they would descend from the forest on the mountain and take their share of the harvest. They came in groups swaggering through the fi elds and bouncing about swiftly， picked up ears of barley from the ground， rubbed them in their hands until the awns were all cleared， and feverishly devoured them. During the day， they watched from afar on the mountains and did not come down until the villagers left at dusk. In fact， no one from the village minded their little visits at all. The sound of the monkeys jumping and chattering on the mountains always put a smile on their faces. They would even call out to the monkeys telling them not to be afraid and come down to enjoy themselves. It was a pity the creatures could not understand them.

Sometimes， I think it was perhaps because the village was too remote and isolated that the arrival of the monkeys could liven the village up and make these people living in the depth of mountains feel less lonely. During that time of the year， when villagers of Nyinpa were working in the fi elds， they would stop and look up from time to time wishing to see the monkeys. Nyinpa Village was located in a mountainous area. The per capita reclaimed barley fi eld was less than 333.3 square meters and even that was thin， rocky soil on narrow terraced fields. The yearly harvest of a family provides just enough food for them for a year. Even so， none of the villagers took it out on the monkeys. They would rather ration themselves than see the monkeys starved. They wished to co-exist in harmony with all beings and share living space and food with them.

This largeness of mind the Nyinpa villagers had left an indelible impression on me. On our first day in Nyinpa Village， we went up to the forest to the east of the village and found that it was a good place to raise Tibetan chickens. This would be a good project for the villagers to add to their income and improve their living standards. However， we failed to sell them on the idea after several attempts. As soon as they heard the words “raising chicken”， their eyes widened， and they shook their heads in disbelief. “It will be freerange farming. We won’t kill them. We’ll just collect the eggs，” we hastened to explain. “Chickens will eat bugs， moths， locusts.... We would be responsible for that. We won’t be a part of this vicious food chain！” The villagers spoke their minds and firmly stood their ground despite the fact they had very little meat or vegetables in their diet. They did not slaughter their animals. The yaks， mules， and horses they kept were for milking， churning butter， and farm work. Since humans and animals still lived under the same roof here， the villagers’ homes were often swarmed by flies. Still， they refused to use pesticides. As a result， in Nyinpa， we lived every day among humans， insects， birds， and animals， listening to the choruses of all the lives.

Perhaps it was because of such folk customs and respect for life that when we drove on the rolling hills and mountains of eastern Tibet， we were able to see all kinds of life forms and encounter a herd of beautiful wild red deer.

That was May of 2015， when the mountains of eastern Tibet were tinged with a copper red color. We came to Riwoche County， which was known as“the little Switzerland” of Chamdo， to visit the Chamoling red deer national nature reserve.

The Chamoling red deer nature reserve in Riwoche was established in 1990 and was awarded national status in 2005. The total area of the nature reserve is 120，614.6 hectares. In early summer in the reserve， on the endless alpine meadows， the Boshula and Taniantaweng mountain chains of the Nyanchen Tanggula Mountains tenderly stretched their arms to the horizon. About 1，000 red deer roamed the meadow full of blossoming Gesang fl owers. The Kyichu， Tsachu and Gechu rivers， three tributaries of Lancangjiang River， were like white Khadas flowing from the northwest to the southeast.

Through the telescope， I saw a group of little red deer fawns bathing and drinking in the rivers with their parents. The sun was glorious then. Whenever the deer shook their beautiful antlers， we heard the water dropping on the ground. Sunshine reflected on the drops like scenes in a fairy tale. Lying on our stomachs on the ground， we watched from afar and were so filled with wonderment we could hardly believe our eyes.

“You can walk among them and take pictures，” a woman in her 50s said as she walked over to us. She put down a sack from her shoulders， poured dried radish out， and spread it into a semicircle in which we found ourselves right in the middle. In a blink of an eye， a bunch of red deer rushed up. When they were busy chewing on the purple dried radish， we could fi nally watch them up close.

The red deer is the second largest species in the deer family， only next to the moose. It is not unlike a small horse. The female is a bit smaller than its male counterparts. On the sides of its long head， there is a pair of big tender eyes with long eyelashes and a pair of cute cone-shaped ears. Its nose is always moist， and so are its brown lips. Its forehead and top of the head are dark brown， while its cheeks have a lighter brown tone. The neck and four limbs are lean and graceful， the hooves strong， and the tail short. The male red deer has large antlers like those of the sika deer. When they run， their antlers are like colorful coral in the sea or spring fl owers in full bloom.

I picked up a piece of dried radish， and walked slowly to a hind （a red deer doe）. She raised her head and looked timidly at me with her clear eyes. Every step I took forward， she backed up gracefully.

“They fear strangers. They won’t eat that，” the lady who just fed the red deer smiled and said. “Step back a bit； watch me.” She whistled several times to the herd of red deer. Three deer immediately ran up， one a hind， the other two harts with large antlers. They ate out of her hand while she touched their heads and whispered to them. We were deeply touched by these tender exchanges.

“The two harts are the children of this hind，” the lady said， who later sat down on the grass. Looking at the herd of red deer， she started to share with us her story with them.

One day， over 40 years ago when Changchub Lhamo was just sixteen or seventeen years old， a storm struck when she was herding sheep on the Riwoche grassland. She drove the herd to a place enclosed by mountains. There she saw two new-born red deer fawns trembling beside their dead mother. Changchub Lhamo brought the two fawns back home， where she fed them porridge and milk mouth to mouth. At night， she slept with them in the same bed holding them in her arms. The fawns survived and grew up. They ran to Changchub Lhamo like little kids as soon as they heard her voice.

Later， Changchub Lhamo would take them with her when herding sheep. She noticed that they particularly liked to go into the bushes. She also saw many red deer looking at them in silence from a distance. Finally， one day， the two fawns ran away to join the flock on the mountains. Staring at their backs tearfully， Changchub Lhamo thought that she would never see them again， but on a snowy winter day， one of the two red deer， now anhind， came back pregnant. This filled Changchub Lhamo with joy， and the whole village saw it as a good omen. Under the good care of Changchub Lhamo， the red deer mother gave birth to three little fawns. When spring came， the four of them reluctantly went back into the wilderness. Afterwards， every winter when the first snow fell， herds of red deer would come down the mountain， and Changchub Lhamo and the benevolent villagers would feed them tsampa， dried radish and hay. Finally， in 1990， a protection area for wild red deer was established by the state.

Changchub Lhamo later became the very first staff member of the reserve. When hungry red deer descended the mountains timidly in twos and threes in snowy days to forage around the village， Changchub Lhamo would guide them into the fenced protected area of the reserve. For the whole winter， the local farmers and herdsmen donated their own stored fodder so that Changchub Lhamo and her colleagues would have enough to feed the red deer to get them through the winter. The next winter， those red deer who had been to the reserve came back again with more hinds and fawns. The number kept growing year by year. Today， the fenced area is not big enough.

“The winter is over now； they’re about to return to the mountains. If you had come two weeks later， you would not have seen so many red deer，” Changchub Lhamo told us. The beautiful young girl of 40 years ago had turned into a kindly “red deer mama”. Then， two men walked up with sacks of dried radish on their shoulders. The elder one was Drakar， Changchub Lhamo’s husband. The other was Wangchen Dorje. They both worked for the red deer nature reserve. Changchub Lhamo and Drakar met here on the reserve， where they had been working for more than twenty years， during which time the number of wild red deer in Riwoche had surpassed 1，000. It has become the largest protection area for wild red deer in the world.

When we were about to say goodbye to the beautiful red deer and the kindly“red deer mama”， another piece of good news arrived： major discoveries were made with Chamdo City’s second wildlife survey in which new species such as snow leopards， ospreys， long-legged buzzards， merlins， larks and Himalayan gorals were found. According to Zhu Xuelin， director of the Forestry Survey Planning Institute of Tibet Autonomous Region， the snow leopard they found was then lurking in the azalea shrubs on the mountain ascent 4，600 meters above sea level. After image analysis， the survey team staff learned that this snow leopard had a body 80-100 cm long with a tail 70-80 cm long and weighing between 40 and 60 kilograms. It was anleopard aged three to fi ve years. Snow leopards are known to be agile， fast， extremely secretive， and well camoufl aged. To gather more information about them in Chamdo， the survey team had carefully chosen the control sites and set up multiple state-of-the-art automatic infrared digital cameras hoping to capture more of the activities of these animals.

On our way out of the Riwoche red deer nature reserve， birds， blue sheep， musk deer， and monkeys often jumped out of the bushes on both sides of the highway and looked at the passing cars curiously， and then they disappeared in a flash in the mountains. In the darkness of the night， we heard wolves howling， owls hooting， and nightingales singing. No wonder this magnificent land is called “the kingdom of pheasants” by zoologists. Here， humans， birds， insects， and beasts exist together in peace and harmony. There is no “higher” or“lower” forms of life here. It was such philosophies maintaining all beings as equal that sustained and empowered people here， so all beings here could roam freely in the arms of nature.

It was raining outside. The red deer would have been sound asleep， while more beings in their various forms would be waking up in the patter of rain， starting to sing their own songs of life.