Sorry to be posting late – Doug and I were on a delightful road trip across upstate New York. We’ve often driven this route going east to visit family, but never had time to stop at any of the intriguing places along the way. This time we planned on it, and so last week made our way to  Lockport, on the Erie Canal near Buffalo.

At Lockport the canal meets the edge of the Niagara Escarpment at a place where the westbound canal has to rise 50 feet to meet Lake Erie. It does this with two locks in a row – called a “flight,” as in stairs – each lifting a boat 25 feet, or lowering it the same if eastbound. We boarded our canal boat and soon were sailing (well, motoring) into Lock 34. The concrete walls loomed over us as the gate closed behind us, and water flowed into the lock, bubbling up under us exuberantly.

I stood in the bow – behind that curved railing in the photo – to take pictures as the boat rose, the concrete wall appearing to get shorter and shorter as we bobbed like a bath toy, and the lower, dark section of the gate disappeared under a foamy froth. Then the gates ahead opened, we motored into Lock 35, and the process repeated.

And then we were out into the canal. Even though we were motoring it was very peaceful, calm, and quiet-seeming. Our captain narrated the history of the place, and played a song he said we would all know. We did: “Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal.” How did we all know this song? We were a mostly older crowd, at mid-week after Labor Day – do people still know this song? Fifteen miles was the distance a mule could pull a canal boat along the towpath before needing to rest. Never thought about that before when I sang it. The boats, said our captain, carried another mule for swapping out. Mules traveled at the stern for esthetic reasons.

We didn’t know all the verses of the song – I didn’t even know it had all those verses – but we all knew the first verse, and we all knew the chorus. Low bridge, everybody down… It wasn’t necessary to duck for this particular bridge, but you sort of felt it was.

We came back through the locks again, then continued on down the canal, passing ducks, geese, bits of the towpath, and canoes and kayaks. The canal, said the captain, is free to pleasure boats, and kayaks and canoes can travel through the locks, no need to portage around them. “From Albany to Buffalo,” as the song says.

Actually, he’s probably a buck. A stag, I find out, is older and grander than an eight-point buck, which is what I’m talking about here. But “Mystery Buck” sounds like a tv game show, so I’m sticking with my title. This time of year the deer stop traveling in twos and threes and start bunching up into herds for the winter. I was watching several does and fawns in the back yard when I spotted the buck, moving among the trees. He had a lovely set of antlers, so I reached for my camera, meaning my phone, which, rare for me, was in my pocket. Most everyone else smiled for the camera, but the buck kept his head in the canopy. Bet he was training that little guy beside him.

I went back inside, and a little later here they all came, munching their way through the huge crop of fallen crabapples on my front lawn. The buck, in the manner of bucks, was standing a little way behind them – anything that wanted to chase the herd would have to deal with him first – so I went to get my camera, meaning my phone, no longer in my pocket. By the time I had it in hand the buck had once again positioned himself in full view except for his antlers. This went on for some time – I moved, he moved, and always the leaves came between us.

So what was going on? Was this really random motion, or did this guy have some reason why he didn’t want me to see his rack? Did he have an exclusive deal with Shutterstock? An instinct to avoid trophy hunters? Had he heard that cameras “shoot”? I began to see how easy it was to fall prey to conspiracy theories: surely the buck had no interest in whether I got a great photo or not, but after several thwarted efforts it began to feel deliberate on his part.

I kept taking pictures anyway hoping he’d miscalculate, and backed away to try for a better angle around the foliage. This was the best I managed: out of the trees, just barely; further away so having to be cropped to within an inch of its life, sacrificing resolution; and only a profile, not a full head-on shot. You’ll have to take my word that in addition to the four antler points you can see, there are four more on the other side. And yes, they are sort of fuzzy right now – still covered with “velvet” until he destroys some of my saplings, using them to scrape it off. Seems like the least he could do is drop those antlers in my yard come antler-dropping season. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll keep you posted.