We've seen animals in the last few days. Buffalo, caribou, moose. Brown bear. This afternoon, goats. Then later, we saw a deer. Dead by the road. It brought me back to a conversation we'd had earlier on this trip. We saw another deer lying sweet in death. A baby. And I told Andre what I'd often thought: how everytime I see a fawn—victim of the highway—I say to myself, Bambi. I say it in a sorrowful way, loving Bambi. I tried to explain that seeing a dead fawn by the road must call up that name in untold numbers of people all over the world. And what power the man who created him wielded over our hearts. He agreed.

I thought of Disney's familiar Bambi, and beyond that to the original Bambi, by Felix Salter. The one I found somewhere and read to Jay. The dark blue cover was missing its spine; I patched it with a brown satin ribbon. Though I have discarded many books in my life, I hold on to this one. Partly because of the story, and because of how much I loved reading it with Jay. We entered its aura and left enlarged, though saddened. I was glad to have discovered this Bambi who existed long before the Disney studios dreamed of the children who would love him, and the fortune they would make.

Then Andre said that his father was Felix Salter's literary agent, responsible for getting Bambi published in this country. That he was the agent who helped Salter sell the rights to Disney.

So, today, we stopped for caribou. Horses unfenced grazed near the road. Andre photographed the adorable goats. And briefly in passing, I murmured Bambi again.