Hope for Animals and Their World Read online

  “Best prairie dog is a dead one,” he said—but he reached out and touched my arm, as though he knew what I meant, and told me he’d watched my shows and thought I did a great job. It is so important to talk with people and listen to their point of view, to try to find solutions that will work for everyone. For this conflict between people and wildlife gets ever more intense as our human populations multiply and more and more wild land is taken over for development.

  Perhaps, in the end, tourism will save the great American prairies, along with all the fascinating life-forms that make up the ecosystem. And the last of the old-time ranchers can offer visitors a taste of the old days, staying in an old-style homestead on land where, once again, bison roam. And where the Central Plains Indians (such as the Lakota and the Sioux), so much a part of the great prairies, and who are even now helping with restoration projects, will have a major role to play.

  A Very Special Ferret

  On the last morning of my visit to Wall, South Dakota, we gathered for breakfast, not wanting to part. How much I had learned, how complex the issues were, and how many challenges lay ahead. Before we said our good-byes, Travis told me about one of the individuals who had made a major contribution to the program. She was known, simply, as No. 9750 (the 97 indicates the year she was born). In 1996, Travis had released thirty-six captive-born ferrets into the wild, and No. 9750’s mother had been one of the only four to survive. No. 9750 was born the following year in the first cohort of wild-born black-footed ferrets in the Conata Basin. “Their future was uncertain,” Travis told me. “But No. 9750 survived and prospered and became a founder of the black-footed ferret population that now numbers approximately three hundred adults and kits annually in Conata Basin.” No. 9750 lived for four years, which is quite old for a wild black-footed ferret. She had produced four litters and raised a total of ten to twelve youngsters.

  In October 2001, Travis came upon No. 9750. She looked exhausted after raising her last litter, emaciated and with thinning hair and deep-sunken eyes. Kneeling to look down at her in the burrow, he knew she would not see another spring. Listening to Travis, I was miles away from the breakfast table, with its empty plates and cups. I was out on the prairie, bleak with approaching winter, with this tough dedicated man who was talking softly, saying good-bye to a very small, very tired black-footed ferret. “I want to say thank you, honey. I know we’ll not see each other again.” I could tell, by his voice, that he was all choked up, but I could not see for the tears in my eyes.

  Everything You Wanted to Know About Ferret Breeding but Were Afraid to Ask

  In April 2007, I squeezed a morning out of my tour schedule to visit the captive breeding program at the US Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) National Black-Footed Ferret Conservation Center in Wellington, Colorado, home to about 60 percent (roughly 160 individuals) of the captive population. (The rest are scattered in various zoos.) There I had a wonderful reunion with Travis, Brent, and Mike, who are all working there, and met for the first time Dean Biggins and Paul Marinari, both of whom I had heard so much about.

  It is important, Paul explained, to determine exactly when the male and female are ready for breeding, whether the male’s sperm count is healthy, whether a female has been successfully inseminated, and so on. One three-year-old female was having a small amount of saline solution squirted into her vagina. Not far away, Paul encouraged a male to leave the lower portion of his housing and climb up a piece of black tubing into a small wire cage. Once the ferret was there, Paul demonstrated how to gently squeeze the scrotum, which needed to be firm. If it was, he would be anesthetized and subjected to electro-ejaculation.

  Next, we looked through the microscope at the fixed sample from another male and saw the little sperm there. He was ready, anyway! The results of all these necessary but undignified procedures were displayed on charts pinned up on the walls—showing which female had bred with which male, which couples were really incompatible, how many offspring had survived, and which, from the genetic point of view, could be allowed to breed. Clearly, the program has been successful—since it was initiated in 1987, it has resulted in the birth of more than six thousand black-footed ferret kits.

  There was one great moment when Paul opened the upper cage of a female who had given birth two days before and I got to peep in—one of the first people to see the five tiny kits pink, naked, and blind, curled up there. Paul told me he never tired of watching them change “from a pile of squirmy little worm-like beings to chattering kits at sixty days of age.” Some of them would be selected as reintroduction candidates. “Then,” he said, “they undergo the most dramatic events for any captive animal: release into a preconditioning pen and, hopefully, reintroduction to the wild.”

  Ferret School

  Travis was the one who first told me about the “ferret school” that starts when a captive ferret mother and her kits are placed in a large outdoor area where prairie dog burrows are occupied by prairie dogs. It will be the home and hunting ground of the kits for the next several months before they are sent for release into the wild, usually with their mother. This experience—living in a prairie dog burrow and hunting prairie dogs as prey—is a critical phase in preparing them for life on the prairies.

  “It’s where the kits get to experience wind, rain, dirt, and all the outdoor sounds of the North American prairie—and ultimately live prairie dogs,” said Paul. “When the kits are placed into these pens, I often wonder what they must be thinking. They often stand in wonderment at such a large enclosure (compared with their indoor cage setting). Then they immediately play follow-the-leader as they almost stumble over their dam, who leads them around the pen, going in and out of each prairie dog burrow opening. Eventually, they settle down, becoming more and more secretive until the day arrives when it’s time to free them from their captive setting for life in the wild.”

  The Future of the Black-Footed Ferret

  The goal of the Black-Footed Ferret Recovery Plan is to reintroduce the ferrets into all eleven states where they once lived. Since the start of the program in 1991, Dean told me, more than three thousand ferrets have been released at reintroduction sites in eight of those states (Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and Kansas, and also into northern Mexico). Several of the sites, including the one I visited in Conata Basin, have successfully established wild black-footed ferret populations. Releases have occurred on federal, state, tribal, and private lands, and the black-footed ferret recovery program now encompasses many partner agencies, organizations, tribes, zoos, and universities. Wyoming Game & Fish, despite some of its past shortcomings, has been an integral and important part of the ferret program, overseeing a large population of ferrets in the state.

  Dean, as mentioned earlier, was part of the team that captured the last wild ferrets in existence during 1986–1987 in Meeteetse. One of these was a female they named Mom. Before they captured her, she left a little paw print in the soil outside her burrow, and Dean had made a cast of it. As I was getting up to go, Dean gave me a replica of that cast. I looked down at the tiny print and thought of that bitter time when the dedicated team, to try to save a species, took the last wild individuals into captivity, and I was moved almost to tears. On the back Dean had written:

  “Mom” August 30, 1986

  Meeteetse, WY.

  One of the last 18 black-footed ferrets.

  To Jane from Dean Biggins, Travis Livieri, Brent Houston, Paul Marinari, Mike Lockhart 4.25.07.

  It is one of my most prized possessions and travels with me around the world.

  When I visited Australia in October 2008, I had the honor of releasing this mala into her natural habitat of Alice Springs Desert Park. This canvas bag served as a “pouch” for the mala when she was being transported. (Peter Nunn)

  Mala or Rufous Hare-Wallaby

  (Lagorchestes hirsutus)

  I met my first mala in October 2008, and had the joy of releasing the captive-bred animal into a large fenced enclo
sure where she could get used to living in the bush. It was Polly Cevallos, CEO of the Jane Goodall Institute (JGI)–Australia, who first told me the heartwarming story of the rufous hare-wallaby, usually known by its Aboriginal name, the mala. She put me in touch with Gary Fry, director of the Desert Park in Alice Springs, where the mala are being restored. Two years after a first phone call, I arrived in the place I had wanted to visit ever since reading Nevil Shute’s A Town Like Alice, in the heart of the Australian continent.

  It had been a scorching-hot day, but it was cooling off by the time we reached Gary’s house. I was traveling with Polly and the director of JGI’s Roots & Shoots program in Australia, Annette Debenham. We dumped our bags, said a quick hello to Gary’s wife and son, and met Dr. Kenneth Johnson, who had set up the mala captive breeding program in the 1980s. Then we all set off for the enclosure. Two of the Desert Park staff were already there with the mala, invisible in a cloth “pouch.” I sat on the dry grass, and the mala was gently placed on my knee.

  Presently a small face peered out. Very slowly she emerged, hopped out of the bag onto the ground, and stopped right there, a couple of feet away from me, looking around. She was beautiful, a small, delicate kangaroo, with shaggy soft grayish brown fur tinged with red. Eventually, investigating her surroundings, she moved slowly away, though she did not go far. I noticed how her tail, hairless like that of a rat, trailed the ground behind her (Ken told me later that this is how the Aboriginals identify mala tracks in the bush). Soon we left her to settle into her new temporary home. Like many other Australian mammals, malas are nocturnal: She would be able to explore during the night and feel comfortable sleeping the next day. And indeed, we got the report next morning: She had eaten the food left out and was sleeping in the shelter set up for her.

  That evening, during a wonderful dinner cooked by Gary’s wife, Libby, Ken and Gary told me the story of the mala. At one time, there may have been as many as ten million of these little animals across the arid and semi-arid landscape of Australia, but their populations, like those of so many other small endemic species, were devastated by the introduction of domestic cats and foxes—indeed, during the 1950s it was thought that the mala was extinct. But in 1964, a small colony was found 450 miles northwest of Alice Springs in the Tanami Desert. And twelve years later, a second small colony was found nearby. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, these two populations were studied and monitored by scientists from the Parks and Wildlife Commission of the Northern Territory. Very extensive surveys were made throughout historical mala range—but no other traces were found.

  Ken told me something of the heartache of the team working with the mala during those years. At first it seemed that the little animals were holding their own. But then in late 1987, the first disaster struck: Every one of the individuals of the second and smaller of the wild colonies was killed. From examination of the tracks in the sand, it seemed that just one single fox had been responsible. And then, in October 1991, a wildfire destroyed the entire area occupied by the remaining colony, and all the mala died. Thus the mala really did become extinct in the wild.

  How fortunate that, ten years before, Ken and his team had captured seven individuals that had become the founders of a captive breeding program at the Arid Zone Research Institute in Alice Springs. And that group had thrived. Part of this success is due to the fact that the female can breed when she is just five months old and can produce up to three young a year. Like other kangaroo species, the mother carries her young—known as a joey—in her pouch for about fifteen weeks, and she can have more than one youngster at the same time.

  Working with the Yapa People

  In the early 1980s, there were enough mala in the captive population to make it feasible to start a reintroduction program. But first it was necessary to discuss this with the leaders of the Yapa people (yapa is their name for “Aboriginal”). Traditionally the mala had been an important totemic animal in their culture, with strong medicinal powers for old people. It had also been an important food source, and there were concerns that any mala returned to the wild would be killed for the pot.

  And so, in 1980, a group of key Yapa men was invited to visit the proposed reintroduction area. Many of them, including the principal owner of the “Mala dreaming,” took some persuasion to make the 120-mile trip to the site, since he believed mala to be “all finished up.” But he did come in the end, this knowledgeable old man, and shared his vast understanding of the species with the group. It turned out that they were all as concerned for the future of the mala as Ken and his team, and the possibility of a food hunt was not even mentioned. The skills and knowledge of the Aboriginals would play a significant and enduring role in the project.

  Ken and his team went ahead and built a fifty-by-fifty-yard enclosure out in the desert, and twelve mala from the successful breeding program were moved there, given some time to get acclimatized, and then set free. One year later some were still alive, and thirteen more were released. Unfortunately, through a combination of drought and predation by feral cats, all of them were killed or disappeared.

  After this, with the help of the local Yapa Aboriginals, an electric fence was erected around 250 acres of suitable habitat about three hundred miles northwest of Alice Springs so that the mala could adapt while protected from predators. By 1992, there were about 150 mala in what became known as the Mala Paddock and another 50 in the Alice Springs colony.

  However, all attempts to reintroduce mala from the paddock into the unfenced wild were unsuccessful. Over a two-year period, a total of seventy-nine were released; all disappeared or were killed (the evidence pointed overwhelmingly to cats and some foxes as the culprits). And so the reintroduction program was abandoned: The Tanami Desert was simply not safe for mala.

  Ken and his team now faced a situation where mala could be bred, but not released. In 1993, a Mala Recovery Team was established to set new goals for the program. First, the team concentrated on finding suitable predator-free or predator-controlled sites within the mala’s known range. The first place selected was a new endangered species enclosure at Dryandra Woodland in Western Australia—an area where, before it had been converted into the “wheat belt,” mala had been common. Initially, captive-bred animals would live in a large enclosure; as their population increased, selected individuals would be radio-collared and released into suitable conservation reserves or national parks in the area.

  Finally all arrangements had been completed, and in March 1999 twelve adult females, eight adult males, and eight small joeys were sent off from the Mala Paddock on a very long journey. Early in the morning, they were loaded into a station wagon for a bumpy three-hour ride along bush tracks to the nearest airstrip. Here a delegation of Aboriginals had gathered to see them off, a mark of their intense interest in the mala program. From there the precious cargo traveled on a chartered plane to Alice Springs, on a regular commercial flight to Perth, and finally by truck to their final destination. They arrived about four in the afternoon, and were released into their new home at seven o’clock. I can just imagine how anxiously the bags were opened—how would the little animals have survived that tough day? But all was well. The mala at once started feeding on fresh alfalfa, then hopped off to explore their new home.

  The second translocation of mala from the Tanami Desert, a few months later, was to Trimouille, an island off the coast of Western Australia. First it had been necessary to rid the island of rats and cats—a task that had taken two years of hard work. Finally the island was ready to receive the mala, and the Aboriginal traditional owners had given their blessing to the project even though it involved sending some of their totemic animals far away from their “dreaming home.” Twenty females and ten males were selected for the long journey. Once again, all arrived safely.

  Six weeks after their release, a team returned to the island to find out how things were going. Each of the malas had been fitted with a radio collar that transmits for about fourteen months, after which it falls off.
The team was able to locate twenty-nine out of the thirty transmitters—only one came from the collar of a mala that had died of unknown causes. So far the reintroduction had gone even better than expected. Today there are many signs suggesting that the mala population on the island is continuing to do well.

  Reintroduction to the Sacred Lands

  During my visit to Alice Springs, Gary told me that his part in the story started with the plan to reintroduce a number of locally extinct species into the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. The 1,142-foot-high Uluru-Ayers Rock is the most sacred place for the Aboriginals. With Polly and Annette, I had flown over the area, and been amazed by the sheer size of this huge outcrop of red rock surrounded, for miles in every direction, by the flat expanse of the Simpson Desert.

  In 1999, parks staff and other biologists met with key members of the local Anangu people to discuss which species should be reintroduced into the Uluru area. As with the Yapa aboriginals, the mala had played an important role in Anangu culture, and there was a real wish that it be brought back.

  “This little wallaby,” Gary told me, “was the most preferred of all species for Anangu women and second most preferred for senior Anangu men.” Gary also learned that even after the mala had disappeared from Uluru, the Anangu had kept their memory alive and strong, for the mala are an important part of the creation stories. Indeed, Gary told me that the loss of the little wallabies from Uluru had been of great significance for senior and powerful Anangu people, and brought them deep sadness.

  Jim Clayton, an inspired park ranger based in the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, worked with the Anangu to map out where the enclosure would be, encouraging them to help in the building and maintenance of the all-important fences that would protect the mala from introduced predators. And Gary tried to persuade the Anangu to set aside a large area of their tribal land. In a big-enough enclosure, he felt, the mala would be able to get on with it, needing little assistance from humans apart from maintenance of the fence.