At the juncture with the Red Beds Trail, I decide to follow the longer circuit of the Tower. The higher, shorter Tower Trail, which bracelets the rock-strewn base, can be picked up at the Visitor Center, where this trail ends. Folding the map, I hear the climbers approach.
“Good morning.”
The girl’s smile does not soften the concentrated expression all climbers wear before ascent.
“Which way are you going?” I ask, trying to conceal my lack of knowledge about any of the routes and knowing full well I would never venture what they are about to do.
“Left arm of the south face this time,” says the man. He obviously does not desire the delay of conversation but does volunteer that he had made several climbs the summer he worked here.
I hold them with another question: is there anything interesting on top?
“Terrific view. Grass on the summit; lots of chipmunks; once a rattlesnake was sighted. Well, we better get moving.”
“Good luck,” I call after them. The expression seems a lame wish for rock climbers. Soon they are brightly clad specks weaving through the trees. Looking up at the summit that towers above them, I wonder how a chipmunk or snake could have possibly gotten there—perhaps only by escaping the talons of an eagle or hawk. But could that happen?
More than 1,000 ascents of Devils Tower are now made each year. The almost casual manner in which experienced climbers regard the structure—often scaling it to keep in shape for “difficult” climbs—would have astounded early explorers, who regarded it as unscalable.
Shrill, rapid cries of a prairie falcon echo from the Tower wall. Although hidden from my view by the pines, its circling flight is revealed by its bursts of screams. It scolds the climbers who are now pressing upward and perhaps invading the security of its nest site. But the commotion soon dies away, indicating that the sharp-eyed falcon is more annoyed than threatened. Should the climbers inadvertently come close to the nest, however, the protective bird would repeatedly dive at the intruders in an attempt to drive them away, a distraction I would not relish.
I continue down the trail, which gradually drops toward the river. The pines yield to communities of deciduous vegetation interspersed with grassy meadows. A whitetail deer stands at the far edge of the narrow meadow the trail is about to enter. Not yet aware of my presence, it continues to browse the succulent new growth of a chokecherry.
Were it not for the meadows and wooded ravines that surround the higher reaches of the pine forest, the Monument could not support as many deer as it does. Deer like a mix of woodland and meadow. The dense cover of shrub thickets, canopied by closely spaced elm, chokecherry, hawthorn, and other trees, offers sanctuary and browse. The nearby meadows provide essential diet supplements of grasses and herbs.
As I move on, the deer dashes away. A cottontail bounds across the trail and overhead, on a long, twisted branch of a burr oak, a fox squirrel scurries upward to safety. A brown thrasher scolds momentarily but soon resumes its complex song. Its music is as various in shading and structure as the many leaf shapes that can be discovered in its habitat.
Before abruptly reversing itself, the trail makes a long swing northward. Leaving the pines, it crosses the maroon sediments that give the Red Beds Trail its name. The exposed formation has been cut into steep cliffs by the river. Deposited some 180 million years ago during the Jurassic Period, when the land surface was low and adjacent to a sea, this mixture of siltstone and sandstone is poorly cemented together. As a result, it weathers easily, forming a striking, ravine-cut outcrop wherever the stratum is exposed. Few plants colonize this handsome formation, making it stand out against the dull, igneous-gray Tower and its dark wreath of ponderosa.
As the sun approaches zenith, I am nearing the end of the trail circuit. Coming back closer to the Tower, the trail re-enters the pine forest. I welcome the perceptibly cooler air and dimmer surroundings beneath these big, yellow-barked trees. Here, where lichen and moss cap boulders and fallen logs, is a good spot for lunch. I sit with my back to the trunk of an ancient, fallen giant whose length has collapsed and defines the contours of the ground. Its exposed, rotten heartwood nourishes miniature fungi-gardens.
Compared to the sharp shadows and glare of themeadows and thickets I have left behind, the evenly shaded pine forest seems serene. Except for a diminutive red-breasted nuthatch that patrols up and down a nearby tree trunk, gleaning grubs and other insects as it goes, there is no perceptible motion. Even the few shafts of sunlight that touch the forest floor here seem, like me, to be intruders. Sound itself seems unwelcome. No birds sing or squabble or dart their colors to catch the eye. If anything walks or hops about, no leaves rustle to reveal its presence. Years of needle-cast shroud the uneven ground, giving the dissimilar shapes of rock and downed trees a sameness of color and texture.
Comparatively few life-forms inhabit the pine forest. Fewer kinds of plants grow beneath the pines than grow in the deciduous woodland. And fewer plant types mean a more limited diet for herbivores such as insects, mice, cottontails, and deer. The scarcity of insects also reduces the number of bird species that will find the habitat attractive.
The relative absence of life on the forest floor begins in the soil. Pines create acid soil conditions which do not promote bacterial growth. Decay, therefore, carried on primarily by fungi, takes place very slowly. The result is the thick accumulation of discarded needles and branches, the resinous, sweet-smelling “duff.”
Not far upslope from the trail a porcupine scuttles toward a stand of young pines. It moves slowly and silently, its quills making it look prehistoric. Again I am struck by the apparent changelessness of the pine forest.
But looking around, I find everywhere signs that indicate change and struggle. At the bases of the giant pines—some of which may be more than 200 years old—are fire scars. Most of the mature trees survived the frequent fires that once raced through here. Their bark was thick and fire-resistant, and they had few lower branches to pass the flames up into the vulnerable upper branches. But that was before the white man interrupted the long reign of wildfire. Ironically, fire had actually helped to maintain the health of the forest. Grass fires, sweeping into the pines, burned off the accumulations of litter and killed many of the crowded younger trees. Tinder was thus removed before it could build to dangerous levels.
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Some animals indigenous to the Great Plains find a protected home in Devils Tower National Monument. Gone from this area are the bison that once roamed the prairie grasslands in great numbers, and the fastest plains animal, the pronghorn antelope, is rare. The most noticeable mammals here are the whitetail deer and the prairie dog (See pages48-65 for pictures and text about the prairie dog and its predators), but with careful observation you can spot some of the smaller animals that inhabit the grasslands, woodlands, and rocky areas around the Tower.The raccoon, primarily a nocturnal creature, prefers woody or swampy areas and often dens in hollow trees.The porcupine, which has up to 30,000 quills, dwells in the forest and often is seen in the tops of trees.The longtail weasel usually lives in deserted burrows and preys on small mammals, some birds, and other animals.The rare swift fox sometimes enlarges and inhabits an old prairie dog burrow. The red fox is more common here.The pocket gopher is a remarkable burrower, creating up to 150 meters (500 feet) of tunnels close to the surface.The thirteen-lined ground squirrel lives in a burrow in open areas, feeding mostly on seeds.Whitetail deer mostly inhabit wooded areas in the park, though you may see them in clearings. Often they wander into the campground near the Belle Fourche River at dawn and dusk, providing an added treat to those who spend a night or two in the park. Deer usually do not go beyond an area of 4 square kilometers (1.5 square miles) even when their food sources are limited. They are browsers, eating all foliage they can reach standing on their hind legs. So, you may notice most foliage denuded to a 1-meter (3-foot) level, especially where their populations are high.Whitetail deer can run 56 kilometers (35 miles) per hour, jump 2.7 meters (8.5 feet) high, and leap about 9 meters (30 feet), all quite gracefully.
Some animals indigenous to the Great Plains find a protected home in Devils Tower National Monument. Gone from this area are the bison that once roamed the prairie grasslands in great numbers, and the fastest plains animal, the pronghorn antelope, is rare. The most noticeable mammals here are the whitetail deer and the prairie dog (See pages48-65 for pictures and text about the prairie dog and its predators), but with careful observation you can spot some of the smaller animals that inhabit the grasslands, woodlands, and rocky areas around the Tower.
The raccoon, primarily a nocturnal creature, prefers woody or swampy areas and often dens in hollow trees.
The raccoon, primarily a nocturnal creature, prefers woody or swampy areas and often dens in hollow trees.
The porcupine, which has up to 30,000 quills, dwells in the forest and often is seen in the tops of trees.
The porcupine, which has up to 30,000 quills, dwells in the forest and often is seen in the tops of trees.
The longtail weasel usually lives in deserted burrows and preys on small mammals, some birds, and other animals.
The longtail weasel usually lives in deserted burrows and preys on small mammals, some birds, and other animals.
The rare swift fox sometimes enlarges and inhabits an old prairie dog burrow. The red fox is more common here.
The rare swift fox sometimes enlarges and inhabits an old prairie dog burrow. The red fox is more common here.
The pocket gopher is a remarkable burrower, creating up to 150 meters (500 feet) of tunnels close to the surface.
The pocket gopher is a remarkable burrower, creating up to 150 meters (500 feet) of tunnels close to the surface.
The thirteen-lined ground squirrel lives in a burrow in open areas, feeding mostly on seeds.
The thirteen-lined ground squirrel lives in a burrow in open areas, feeding mostly on seeds.
Whitetail deer mostly inhabit wooded areas in the park, though you may see them in clearings. Often they wander into the campground near the Belle Fourche River at dawn and dusk, providing an added treat to those who spend a night or two in the park. Deer usually do not go beyond an area of 4 square kilometers (1.5 square miles) even when their food sources are limited. They are browsers, eating all foliage they can reach standing on their hind legs. So, you may notice most foliage denuded to a 1-meter (3-foot) level, especially where their populations are high.Whitetail deer can run 56 kilometers (35 miles) per hour, jump 2.7 meters (8.5 feet) high, and leap about 9 meters (30 feet), all quite gracefully.
Whitetail deer mostly inhabit wooded areas in the park, though you may see them in clearings. Often they wander into the campground near the Belle Fourche River at dawn and dusk, providing an added treat to those who spend a night or two in the park. Deer usually do not go beyond an area of 4 square kilometers (1.5 square miles) even when their food sources are limited. They are browsers, eating all foliage they can reach standing on their hind legs. So, you may notice most foliage denuded to a 1-meter (3-foot) level, especially where their populations are high.
Whitetail deer can run 56 kilometers (35 miles) per hour, jump 2.7 meters (8.5 feet) high, and leap about 9 meters (30 feet), all quite gracefully.
Now, after 80 years of fire-prevention management, the forest is ripe for fire. Should it come now, however, the effects might be devastating. Fed by an abundance of ground fuel, a cool-burning, fast-moving grass fire could quickly become “hot.” Lifted up into the upper branches of the old pines via the closely spaced younger trees, the ground fire would quickly develop into a crown fire. Few, if any, trees would survive such a conflagration.
The role of natural fire has only recently been appreciated. However, in the small area of Devils Tower, where the scenic qualities of the pine forest are paramount to visitor enjoyment of the Monument, fire cannot be permitted without virtual destruction of the surrounding forest. Thus, for esthetic reasons, fire is regarded as unacceptable here.
After lunch I walk on beneath the trees. The openness of the mature pine forest soon gives way to dense groves of younger ponderosa. Deprived of the separation they require to develop naturally, these “doghair” stands strain upward together their trunks toothpick thin—to reach the light. Many exhibit long, yellow wounds, from which sap bleeds. This is the work of porcupines. Gnawing through the thin bark of young trees with sharp, chisel-shaped teeth, they strip away the tender, living tissue of the tree. Most wounds are not severe, but should the trunk be girdled, the moisture and nutrient transport system of the tree will be severed and the pine will die. Thus, even though fire no longer occurs here regularly, other agents of control, such as porcupine damage and insect infestation, continue to work.
The trail emerges from the deep north-slope forest, runs parallel to the visitor center access road for a short distance, and ends at the parking lot. The glare of afternoon light and shimmering heat waves is a sharp contrast to the cool, dim surroundings of the deeper forest.
Before continuing on around the circuit of Tower Trail, I stop at the visitor center for water. Beside the fountain sits an old man, leaning his chin and hands on a cane and staring upward at the broad west face of the Tower. An immense mushroom of a towering cumulus cloud billows up behind it.
“Quite a sight,” I say.
He seems to deliberate, then finally answers: “I can remember seeing a picture of this in my schoolbook. I never thought I would live to see it. Never thought I would ever sit here like this and see it genuine.”
I don’t know what to say. One does not make idle conversation with a man who has made a pilgrimage. We watch a pair of rock doves, outlined against the white brilliance of the boiling cloud, ride an updraft near the summit. Wings set and almost touching, they dip and recover, their resonant calls clear despite the distance. Nothing more to be said, I set out toward the trail. Not once did the man take his eyes off the Tower.
With the first dull report of thunder, I hear the chiding call of the falcon again. Its sharp voice momentarily silences the mellow cooings of rock doves that filter down from the high crannies and ledges.
The trail steeply ascends a slope of broken, fallen columns, weaving among the immense rock slabs like a mouse-run in a boulder field. I am surprised to see a grove of aspens. Their crooked trunks bend in the freshening wind, their leaves dancing and blinking on and off the dusty silver of their undersides. What a contrast to the rigid stature of the surrounding pines that barely acknowledge the approaching storm.
The presence of aspen probably means that a fire once swept across this dry western shoulder. Quick to invade new territory after a fire, aspens play an important role as a pioneer species of the western and northern American coniferous forests. Like the ponderosa, they can grow on dry, rocky sites. Since they often reproduce vegetatively—a grove of aspens is often produced by sprouting from the roots of a single tree—aspens are well suited to unstable or fire-swept sites. Although readily consumed by fire, aspen groves regenerate quickly from their undamaged root systems. Without periodic fire, in fact, aspens are eventually excluded from the forest composition, shaded out by the taller growing conifers.
The growing turbulence spurs me onward. Hugging the steep upper slopes of the Tower’s circular base, the trail allows a speedy orbit. The falcon continues to scream. Now along the southeastern face, I can hear the climbers shout to one another. The belly of the cloud is overhead and angry-black. Lightning flashes are now immediately followed by loud reports, sharp as splitting wood. I should turn backand drop to the nearby trail that returns to the campground, but the swell of wind in the pines and the occasional crash of falling snags is invigorating. A sudden invasion of cold air means the rain will come heavy and soon. I wonder if the climbers are as unprepared for this as I am.
In a rock crevice where the trail passes along a cliff face, an untidy ring of trash reveals the nest site of a wood rat. Called “pack rats” because of their habit of carrying off unguarded items, these big rodents adorn their nest entrances with anything from bottle caps to sunglasses. This one has amassed a fine collection of discarded gum and candy wrappers. As the first large raindrops thud down into the trail’s soft earth, I envy the animal’s protective retreat.
In ten minutes I am back at the spur that leads to the Visitor Center. If the old man is still there, perhaps I will wait out the storm with him beneath the porch roof. But I cannot see him, so I continue on to the campground. I am already soaked through anyway, so the lashing rain is no longer a threat. I retrace the section of trail I had walked an hour before. Ten minutes more and I leave the pines and enter the deserted, puddled prairie dog town.
Nearing the road, I see a car approaching slowly. As it passes I notice the old man. Leaning forward, he cranes his neck to catch a last glimpse of the Tower he had waited so long to see.
By late afternoon the storm has passed, and with the return of sunlight a rainbow arches the Belle Fourche. Taking advantage of the softened earth, the prairie dogs busily reshape their mounds, scratching dirt loose, bulldozing it up the slopes of entrance mounds, and tamping it. All but the young wear black noses. At the return of the climbers the town suspends its work, rises to alert, and chirps warning.
A meadowlark sings from a fence post near the river. Against the purple southern sky, its black and yellow vestments seem unnaturally bright, and its call in the rain-cleared air seems sharply amplified. It glides into the glistening grass. Soon the female, wearing a duller version of its mate’s tuxedo, flies up and disappears across the narrow river. When she returns, her bill is crammed with insects for her demandingyoung in their grass-lined ground nest.
A red-headed woodpecker, which has been shuttling between a certain cottonwood and other trees, also reveals its nest site. High up in the tree it has excavated a perfectly round hole. Leaning back on stiff tail feathers, it jerkily climbs up and around the trunk, pauses at the hole, then leans in to deliver the white grub to its squealing young.
So insatiable are nestling birds, their demands exert a significant control on insect populations. A pair of adult house wrens may log more than 1,100 daily trips to feed their young.
That so many varieties of birds can co-exist in the same area is possible because different species generally do not compete with one another for the same food source. Each gleans its food in a slightly different manner and locale. Each species vigorously defends its territory from others of its kind but will tolerate neighbors that occupy a different niche in the community. A single plum thicket may contain the nests of a pair of catbirds, mourning doves, robins, and vireos. Because each bird hunts its food in a slightly different manner and place, they do not directly compete.
The cliff-nesting swifts and swallows have reappeared above the river, a twittering confusion of swirling, darting shapes that manage to survive by capturing insects on the wing. Higher up, the booming of nighthawks announces that insects are active in the upper air also.
After supper I walk along the river. Now that shadows fill the river bed, there might be an opportunity to see a beaver working or a mink hunting along the shore. Passing close to where the meadowlarks have their nest, I cause a panic of concern. Both birds, invisible a second ago, lift off the ground, scolding and threatening, to distract my attention from the location of the nest. The outcry brings a killdeer up from the shore of the river. Uttering its plaintive, reedy cry, it circles about, lands, runs rapidly along the bank, then crouches down to display a “broken” wing. It is joined by a mate and both birds take up the act, leading me away from their own eggs or helpless young hiding motionless on the ground. So adept are the killdeer at this diversion, it seems incredible that instinct and not intelligence is responsible for their highly specialized behavior.
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Among those birds living in the forest at the base of the Tower is the white-breasted nuthatch, which commonly makes its fur- and bark-lined nest in the cavity of a tree. Many a woodland hiker has paused for several minutes to watch this inquisitive, sparrow-sized bird creep head first down the trunk of a tree, stopping now and then to look out at a 90 degree angle. The red-breasted nuthatch also inhabits the park.The intense sky-blue of the male mountain bluebird catches the eye of the most casual of birdwatchers. Its blue breast distinguishes it from the western bluebird. Like the white-breasted nuthatch, this bird nests in a tree cavity, usually a deserted woodpecker hole. It often hovers low over the ground, then darts down to catch insects.Though small in area, Devils Tower National Monument provides a sanctuary for an extensive variety of birds. Because the mountains and the plains converge here, species common to both can be found. More than 90 species have been counted.Several large birds may be seen flying around or near the Tower itself, occasionally swooping down to prey upon life in the open grasslands. These include Cooper’s and red-tailed hawks; American kestrel; golden and bald eagles; prairie falcon, and turkey vulture. Only the prairie falcon and the rock dove, or pigeon, live on the Tower. (See pages60-61 for photographs of the golden eagle, prairie falcon, and burrowing owl.)Standing still or in flight, the black-billed magpie is distinguished by its white shoulders and belly, by white patches under its wings, and by its long tail.The nighthawk nests in the open grasslands here. This robin-sized bird was mistaken for a hawk by the pioneers because of its long wings and swift flight.The red-headed woodpecker spends most of its time in the open deciduous woods. Its entirely red head and a large white patch on its wings distinguish it from other species.
Among those birds living in the forest at the base of the Tower is the white-breasted nuthatch, which commonly makes its fur- and bark-lined nest in the cavity of a tree. Many a woodland hiker has paused for several minutes to watch this inquisitive, sparrow-sized bird creep head first down the trunk of a tree, stopping now and then to look out at a 90 degree angle. The red-breasted nuthatch also inhabits the park.
Among those birds living in the forest at the base of the Tower is the white-breasted nuthatch, which commonly makes its fur- and bark-lined nest in the cavity of a tree. Many a woodland hiker has paused for several minutes to watch this inquisitive, sparrow-sized bird creep head first down the trunk of a tree, stopping now and then to look out at a 90 degree angle. The red-breasted nuthatch also inhabits the park.
The intense sky-blue of the male mountain bluebird catches the eye of the most casual of birdwatchers. Its blue breast distinguishes it from the western bluebird. Like the white-breasted nuthatch, this bird nests in a tree cavity, usually a deserted woodpecker hole. It often hovers low over the ground, then darts down to catch insects.
The intense sky-blue of the male mountain bluebird catches the eye of the most casual of birdwatchers. Its blue breast distinguishes it from the western bluebird. Like the white-breasted nuthatch, this bird nests in a tree cavity, usually a deserted woodpecker hole. It often hovers low over the ground, then darts down to catch insects.
Though small in area, Devils Tower National Monument provides a sanctuary for an extensive variety of birds. Because the mountains and the plains converge here, species common to both can be found. More than 90 species have been counted.
Several large birds may be seen flying around or near the Tower itself, occasionally swooping down to prey upon life in the open grasslands. These include Cooper’s and red-tailed hawks; American kestrel; golden and bald eagles; prairie falcon, and turkey vulture. Only the prairie falcon and the rock dove, or pigeon, live on the Tower. (See pages60-61 for photographs of the golden eagle, prairie falcon, and burrowing owl.)
Standing still or in flight, the black-billed magpie is distinguished by its white shoulders and belly, by white patches under its wings, and by its long tail.
Standing still or in flight, the black-billed magpie is distinguished by its white shoulders and belly, by white patches under its wings, and by its long tail.
The nighthawk nests in the open grasslands here. This robin-sized bird was mistaken for a hawk by the pioneers because of its long wings and swift flight.
The nighthawk nests in the open grasslands here. This robin-sized bird was mistaken for a hawk by the pioneers because of its long wings and swift flight.
The red-headed woodpecker spends most of its time in the open deciduous woods. Its entirely red head and a large white patch on its wings distinguish it from other species.
The red-headed woodpecker spends most of its time in the open deciduous woods. Its entirely red head and a large white patch on its wings distinguish it from other species.
The meadow across the river is a solid yellow of blooming spurge. In contrast, the ground on the Monument side of the river presents only a few isolated plants, and they are limp and pale from the effects of herbicide. Because spurge is an exotic plant that invades grasslands and displaces native flora, it is exterminated, through selective application of herbicide, within the Monument boundaries.
The rattle of a kingfisher precedes its sudden appearance around the sharp bend in the river. Skimming low across the water, the blue and white bird darts upward to perch on a cottonwood snag that overhangs the river. Its large crest and straight bill make the kingfisher look more caricature than real. Intently studying the river below, it need not wait long before plummeting from its observation post straight into the water. Reappearing a second later, it quickly regains its perch, the silver glint of a small fish caught in the parted scissors of its black bill. After swallowing the fish with a toss of its head, it shakes the water from its feathers and resumes its patient inspection.
Like a giant, soundless mosquito, a cranefly rises upward from the river bank. Another hovers low across the surface of the water, frequently dipping its abdomen below the surface to deposit its eggs. The first quickly disappears with the banking flight of a nighthawk; the second with the darting intercept of a dragonfly. Like countless other species of insects that divide their lives between the water and land, the craneflies are a living link in the food chain that helps bind the aquatic and terrestrial life communities together.
The many thousands of insect species requiring an underwater environment for their larval stage help sustain many species of terrestrial predators when the insects emerge from the water as adults. The kingfisher that nests here and the occasional great blue heron that stops during migration also enjoy the fruits of the water community, taking fish and frogs. But the process is not a one-way street. Nutrients leached from the land help fertilize the aquatic food chain. And the grasshopper that inadvertently hops into the river, only to disappear quickly into the gullet of a fish, represents another of the ongoing exchanges between land and water.
As I round the sharp bend that sends the riverflowing north again, a muskrat hurries into the water and submerges. On the steep bank high above the river, I wait until it surfaces in midstream. It floats lazily for a while, its long, naked tail straight with the slow current. Then it heads back toward shore. Across the river, the floodplain cottonwoods bear the scars of beaver teeth. Some are girdled and dead. Others are in full leaf despite deep but incomplete incisions.
Growing dusk fills the river valley. In the failing sunlight vanquished to a thin, vertical display on the Tower face, it is almost possible to imagine what this splendid landscape must have been like as wilderness. Bison, not cattle, would have grazed nearby. Instead of the howling dog that has escaped the campground and races into the prairie dog town, a wolf might be pressing home its attack on an injured pronghorn. Grizzlies and cougars knew this valley, and the river was tamed not by a nearby reservoir but by a latticework of beaver dams.
There are no prairie dogs left above ground now to challenge my trespass as I head back toward the welcome firelights of the campground. The deer have left their daybeds to graze in the open, and the great horned owl again asserts its dominance in the river timber. With a long rattle, briefly echoed from a cliff, the kingfisher quits the day.
Beneath the expanding population of stars, I return to the comfort of hot coffee and the confines of my own world. For now, I am content with the memory of eagle and falcon. In my mind they will continue to soar, inspecting the splendid terrain my memory today acquired.
A prairie dog family gathers at the entrance to their burrow, watching the activity in the town and keeping an eye out for intruders.
A prairie dog family gathers at the entrance to their burrow, watching the activity in the town and keeping an eye out for intruders.
When the long grip of winter’s crusted snow relaxes, pasqueflowers burst forth in ravines, unplowed pastures, and abandoned cemeteries. Their delicate silvery purple contrasts with the bleak stubble of last year’s ruined grasses. Before plows ever broke the grassland sod, pasqueflowers were so profuse the distant ground seemed veiled in haze. The pioneers called it “prairie smoke.”
With the appearance of the pasqueflowers, spring begins to renew the sun-warmed ground. Gone are the long days of waiting. Perhaps, the few prairie-dog sentinels that had stood motionless in the March wind wished that the spring would come. The sharp wind divides the dense fur of their winter coats while they survey the snow-skiffed ground of their silent town. They almost appear to regard the sun wistfully, wishing it strong, the snow gone, and the grass resurgent once again. But at last the meadowlarks lose their winter-long quiet, and the horned larks now lift up with extravagance, unhuddling from their long ordeal. Below ground, in the deep, secure warmth of their nursery chambers, a new generation of prairie dogs is developing, part of the ancient ritual of replenishment that spring brings to the Great Plains.
The breeding season of the prairie dog is determined by geographic location and weather conditions. On the southern plains of Texas it may be as early as January; on the Canadian plains as late as March. For four or five weeks there is much kissing, grooming, and investigation. Males become aggressive and squabble over territory. Besides the older females, perhaps half of the yearling females will mate.
After a month’s gestation, the litters are born. In the dark quiet of specially prepared nesting chambers, the babies appear, hairless, sightless, uncoordinated, weighing but 14 grams (0.5 ounce). They live in grass-lined nests for seven or eight weeks, attended almost constantly by the females as they develop. Growth is rapid. At 28 days they are crawling, and by 32 days the finely furred pups can walk and bark. Soon their eyes open and they fully resemble the adults. Until now the pups have known only darkness, blind passageways, and a single adult. One day soon they will be led upward.
That first moment above ground marks for them another birth. Now their senses experience a suddenflood of light and sound, coolness, wind, a world of shape, motion, and perspective, whose staggering brightness extends forever beyond their own rim of familiar scent. Huddled together and shivering in the wind, they are at first loath to accept this world of sight and sun, so different from the soundless wrappings of dark, warm soil. But soon, as with all young animals, curiosity leads them to investigation and then to boldness.
The range of the prairie dog extends from Canada to Mexico and at its widest point from eastern Kansas to western Utah, with the blacktail’s range a bit more extensive than that of the whitetail. The range of the rare black-footed ferret, a predator, is nearly identical. The prairie dogs protected at Devils Tower are blacktails.
The range of the prairie dog extends from Canada to Mexico and at its widest point from eastern Kansas to western Utah, with the blacktail’s range a bit more extensive than that of the whitetail. The range of the rare black-footed ferret, a predator, is nearly identical. The prairie dogs protected at Devils Tower are blacktails.
Each day the young spend more time above ground. Nearby, the mother remains alert for danger and solicitous, accepting the maulings of her playful and increasingly independent pups. Although ranging farther and farther afield, they remain obedient to their mother, and scamper back to their burrow when commanded. The first few weeks above ground is a time of weaning, learning, and conditioning.
During their first few days in society, pups have the run of the town. Boundaries that adults respect do not exist for them, as they wander about, inspecting every feature of their new world. The young have an insatiable need for body contact and much time is spent at play, and in grooming and kissing, activities that seem to reinforce the social nature of the prairie dogs. Adult males tolerate the young for a time during this period of general acquaintance. At first the pups attempt to nurse from any adult they encounter, and these misguided attempts are not rebuked, even by the males; they are turned into grooming sessions.
Life on this greening land seems too good to be true. Entertainment is everywhere. Grasshopper nymphs, which the adult prairie dogs occasionally capture and consume unceremoniously, provide them with hours of chase and stalk. Food is everywhere and easy to obtain. Imitating their elders, the pups sample the wide array of grasses and forbs surrounding every burrow.
Like the young of all the other animals they see, the pups have no way of realizing that their debut coincides with the season most favorable to their survival. So they scamper about in witless abandon, uncautious and innocent, ignorant as yet of the harsher outlines of their world. For a time, their place in the community is as idyllic as the soft-winded afternoons of spring. But on the Great Plains, spring is at best an uncertain season, its lifespan oftenbreathtakingly short. As the days pass, the dominant males that patrol their territories rapidly lose patience with neighboring pups. Those that stray outside the invisible boundaries of their clan’s living-space are now met with annoyance. Soon the displeasure turns to snarls and bites. More and more, their own mothers refuse them milk. Nipples bleeding from the constant pesterings of their young, the mothers finally move out altogether, to establish new burrows of their own.
To survive predatory perils, the new generation of prairie dogs, like countless previous ones, must master a two-pronged defense system evolved over millions of years. First, the pups must learn to engineer a burrow system with alternate escape routes. Second, they must learn to live in a highly organized social order, heeding its signals and respecting its boundaries.
Prairie dogs are divided into two general classes, the blacktailed and the whitetailed. Blacktails inhabit the semi-arid regions of the Great Plains; whitetails live in the higher elevations of mountain parks and foothills. But it’s difficult to generalize, for Devils Tower and Wind Cave National Park, in South Dakota, are in the Black Hills and the prairie dogs at both are blacktails. The dog town at Devils Tower occupies a level grassland bench between the Tower’s base and the nearby meandering Belle Fourche River. Blacktails are protected in their more typical arid topography at two other National Park System areas: Badlands National Park in South Dakota and Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota.
Generally, as a result of dissimilar habitats, the two species exhibit slightly different patterns of behavior. Unlike the blacktails, which emerge to forage on sunny winter days, whitetails are confined to their burrows by deep mountain snows. Those at high elevations must hibernate to survive the long winter.
The whitetail community is a much less highly developed social structure than the blacktail community. The animals are unable to enjoy the luxury of long summers. In the short season they must spend a great amount of time feeding to store up body fat for winter. They have little time for social rituals—grooming, greeting, or play. Time does not allow them to establish and maintain territories.
The burrow is to the prairie dog what speed andendurance is to the pronghorn: its chief means of protection. Yet it is more than just a hole in the ground, a temporary refuge from the threat of danger. More than half of a prairie dog’s life is spent below ground, so the burrow must accommodate a wide range of needs (See pages56-57.).
Often old burrow systems are abandoned and new tunnels excavated. The debris from the new tunnel system is dumped into the old burrows. These plugged burrows, called cores, may, in time, be more extensive than active tunnels in a long-occupied town. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, the prairie dog, by plugging unused passages, is practicing sound engineering; if all excavated material were brought to the surface, the weakened sub-surface, riddled with tunnels, would begin to settle and the burrows would eventually collapse.
As with the beaver—the only North American mammal whose engineering feats surpass the prairie dog’s—it is often difficult to distinguish instinctive behavior from actual problem solving. Burrow systems vary from individual to individual and with local topography. However, as early attempts to “drown out” prairie dogs soon proved, the overall design of their burrow networks minimizes the dangers of flooding. While the lower angle of the tunnel may fill with water, the portion of the burrow that culminates in the sealed escape hole serves as an air bell, preventing a further rise of water and protecting the animal from being flooded out of its sanctuary during periods of heavy rain. Not realizing that prairie dogs can live without water—as can many other plains mammals that manufacture metabolic water from foods they eat—instigators of attempts to drown out the animals concluded that the animals dug down to ground water. The myth of the “town well” persisted until well diggers discovered that the water table in most townsites was hundreds of meters down.
More than once their burrows have saved them from talon and teeth, and they take care to maintain the mounds surrounding the entrances to their tunnels. These structures serve not only as watch-towers, but also as dikes against downpours that may temporarily turn a town into a lake.
But even instinctive digging habits and well engineered burrows, by themselves, would not have permitted prairie dogs to achieve their once staggering population levels—estimated to have been about 25billionindividuals. Only through the additional benefits of some form of social organization and an effective means of communication could such success have been attained.
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Prairie dogs.A prairie dog sounds the alarm, alerting the whole town about an impending danger, such as a coyote, a ferret, or a person. The rest take up the call, and as the danger approaches each burrow the inhabitants duck underground. The others continue to stand erect and sound the warning. By listening carefully, those underground can track the location of the enemy. When two high-pitched notes are sounded, all rush for cover, for that means a hawk is overhead or nearby and there’s no time to wait and repeat the signal. After the danger has disappeared, a dog sounds a melodic whistle, and a few others repeat the all-clear before the usual activities of grooming, breeding, eating, and burrow building are resumed. Blacktails make at least seven other calls, but they mostly concern matters of interest to the coterie, or family, instead of to the whole town.After spending a little more than a month below ground, newborn pups warily venture into the daylight, closely watched by their mother. They soon lose their timidness, venturing farther and farther from the burrow but remaining obedient to mother’s commands. Most of the first few weeks on the surface are spent mauling, kissing, or grooming each other and their parents. As the weeks go by, the adults tolerate less play and the pups learn more and more day-to-day survival responsibilities.A prairie dog eats a blade of grass sitting on its haunches. After falling over a few times, pups soon learn this dining posture. The dogs eat various grasses and forbs, though for different periods they tend to ignore some plants in favor of others. However, they usually clip off all vegetation around their burrows even if they don’t eat it. This habitual grass-cutting apparently is defensive, for predators can conceal themselves better in tall grasses. That is why you don’t see prairie dogs in lush grasslands where there is a bountiful rainfall. They satisfy most of their needs for water with the juices of green plants and grass roots.Prairie dogs also eat insects that inhabit their towns and sometimes prey upon the eggs or young of animals, such as the burrowing owl, that dwell in homes deserted by prairie dogs.
Prairie dogs.
A prairie dog sounds the alarm, alerting the whole town about an impending danger, such as a coyote, a ferret, or a person. The rest take up the call, and as the danger approaches each burrow the inhabitants duck underground. The others continue to stand erect and sound the warning. By listening carefully, those underground can track the location of the enemy. When two high-pitched notes are sounded, all rush for cover, for that means a hawk is overhead or nearby and there’s no time to wait and repeat the signal. After the danger has disappeared, a dog sounds a melodic whistle, and a few others repeat the all-clear before the usual activities of grooming, breeding, eating, and burrow building are resumed. Blacktails make at least seven other calls, but they mostly concern matters of interest to the coterie, or family, instead of to the whole town.
A prairie dog sounds the alarm, alerting the whole town about an impending danger, such as a coyote, a ferret, or a person. The rest take up the call, and as the danger approaches each burrow the inhabitants duck underground. The others continue to stand erect and sound the warning. By listening carefully, those underground can track the location of the enemy. When two high-pitched notes are sounded, all rush for cover, for that means a hawk is overhead or nearby and there’s no time to wait and repeat the signal. After the danger has disappeared, a dog sounds a melodic whistle, and a few others repeat the all-clear before the usual activities of grooming, breeding, eating, and burrow building are resumed. Blacktails make at least seven other calls, but they mostly concern matters of interest to the coterie, or family, instead of to the whole town.
After spending a little more than a month below ground, newborn pups warily venture into the daylight, closely watched by their mother. They soon lose their timidness, venturing farther and farther from the burrow but remaining obedient to mother’s commands. Most of the first few weeks on the surface are spent mauling, kissing, or grooming each other and their parents. As the weeks go by, the adults tolerate less play and the pups learn more and more day-to-day survival responsibilities.
After spending a little more than a month below ground, newborn pups warily venture into the daylight, closely watched by their mother. They soon lose their timidness, venturing farther and farther from the burrow but remaining obedient to mother’s commands. Most of the first few weeks on the surface are spent mauling, kissing, or grooming each other and their parents. As the weeks go by, the adults tolerate less play and the pups learn more and more day-to-day survival responsibilities.
A prairie dog eats a blade of grass sitting on its haunches. After falling over a few times, pups soon learn this dining posture. The dogs eat various grasses and forbs, though for different periods they tend to ignore some plants in favor of others. However, they usually clip off all vegetation around their burrows even if they don’t eat it. This habitual grass-cutting apparently is defensive, for predators can conceal themselves better in tall grasses. That is why you don’t see prairie dogs in lush grasslands where there is a bountiful rainfall. They satisfy most of their needs for water with the juices of green plants and grass roots.Prairie dogs also eat insects that inhabit their towns and sometimes prey upon the eggs or young of animals, such as the burrowing owl, that dwell in homes deserted by prairie dogs.
A prairie dog eats a blade of grass sitting on its haunches. After falling over a few times, pups soon learn this dining posture. The dogs eat various grasses and forbs, though for different periods they tend to ignore some plants in favor of others. However, they usually clip off all vegetation around their burrows even if they don’t eat it. This habitual grass-cutting apparently is defensive, for predators can conceal themselves better in tall grasses. That is why you don’t see prairie dogs in lush grasslands where there is a bountiful rainfall. They satisfy most of their needs for water with the juices of green plants and grass roots.
Prairie dogs also eat insects that inhabit their towns and sometimes prey upon the eggs or young of animals, such as the burrowing owl, that dwell in homes deserted by prairie dogs.
Prairie dogViewed in a cross-section, a typical prairie dog burrow system reveals a network of tunnels and compartments. The slightly oval entrance, 10 to 15 centimeters (4 to 6 inches) in diameter, leads the prairie dog rapidly downward. This plunge hole soon tapers off into a more gentle slope that may descend another 4.5 meters (15 feet). The burrow then turns upward and approaches the surface about 9 meters (30 feet) from the entrance hole. In an emergency this safety hatch can be quickly opened and the prairie dog can escape entrapment. Every burrow contains several rooms to accommodate various needs. The first room the prairie dog encounters as it travels down the plunge hole is known as the antechamber. which is large enough for two animals. It functions as a turn-around, permitting entering and exiting animals to pass one another. But primarily it is used as a listening post. Before venturing out in the morning, a prairie dog pauses here, on the alert for possible danger. From this room it can monitor the situation by listening to alarm calls of neighbors still above ground. The nesting chamber may be found most anywhere in the burrow, but usually it is associated with the main passageway above the lowest point, to protect it from flooding. Lined with grasses and other soft plant fibers, the nest affords a degree of comfort and insulation against cold and dampness. Perhaps because of accumulating litter or parasites, such as lice and fleas, the location of the nest chamber is often changed.Safety hatchPlunge holeListening post and turning bayNesting chamberBlacktail prairie dogs build hard-packed ridges around their burrow openings as watchtowers and as dikes against downpours. A prairie dog uses various skills in this work, including, above, scraping dirt with its powerful hind legs.Mound-building also calls for bulldozing earth with the prairie dog’s hard, blunt nose. Both excavated subsoil and topsoil are pushed around to build up the mound. Whitetails tend to merely leave an unworked pile of subsoil around the entrance.After tamping the freshly loosened earth with its nose, above, and at other times in the whole process, the prairie dog takes a break and cleans its long claws,page 56, and its nose.
Prairie dog
Viewed in a cross-section, a typical prairie dog burrow system reveals a network of tunnels and compartments. The slightly oval entrance, 10 to 15 centimeters (4 to 6 inches) in diameter, leads the prairie dog rapidly downward. This plunge hole soon tapers off into a more gentle slope that may descend another 4.5 meters (15 feet). The burrow then turns upward and approaches the surface about 9 meters (30 feet) from the entrance hole. In an emergency this safety hatch can be quickly opened and the prairie dog can escape entrapment. Every burrow contains several rooms to accommodate various needs. The first room the prairie dog encounters as it travels down the plunge hole is known as the antechamber. which is large enough for two animals. It functions as a turn-around, permitting entering and exiting animals to pass one another. But primarily it is used as a listening post. Before venturing out in the morning, a prairie dog pauses here, on the alert for possible danger. From this room it can monitor the situation by listening to alarm calls of neighbors still above ground. The nesting chamber may be found most anywhere in the burrow, but usually it is associated with the main passageway above the lowest point, to protect it from flooding. Lined with grasses and other soft plant fibers, the nest affords a degree of comfort and insulation against cold and dampness. Perhaps because of accumulating litter or parasites, such as lice and fleas, the location of the nest chamber is often changed.
Viewed in a cross-section, a typical prairie dog burrow system reveals a network of tunnels and compartments. The slightly oval entrance, 10 to 15 centimeters (4 to 6 inches) in diameter, leads the prairie dog rapidly downward. This plunge hole soon tapers off into a more gentle slope that may descend another 4.5 meters (15 feet). The burrow then turns upward and approaches the surface about 9 meters (30 feet) from the entrance hole. In an emergency this safety hatch can be quickly opened and the prairie dog can escape entrapment. Every burrow contains several rooms to accommodate various needs. The first room the prairie dog encounters as it travels down the plunge hole is known as the antechamber. which is large enough for two animals. It functions as a turn-around, permitting entering and exiting animals to pass one another. But primarily it is used as a listening post. Before venturing out in the morning, a prairie dog pauses here, on the alert for possible danger. From this room it can monitor the situation by listening to alarm calls of neighbors still above ground. The nesting chamber may be found most anywhere in the burrow, but usually it is associated with the main passageway above the lowest point, to protect it from flooding. Lined with grasses and other soft plant fibers, the nest affords a degree of comfort and insulation against cold and dampness. Perhaps because of accumulating litter or parasites, such as lice and fleas, the location of the nest chamber is often changed.
Blacktail prairie dogs build hard-packed ridges around their burrow openings as watchtowers and as dikes against downpours. A prairie dog uses various skills in this work, including, above, scraping dirt with its powerful hind legs.
Blacktail prairie dogs build hard-packed ridges around their burrow openings as watchtowers and as dikes against downpours. A prairie dog uses various skills in this work, including, above, scraping dirt with its powerful hind legs.
Mound-building also calls for bulldozing earth with the prairie dog’s hard, blunt nose. Both excavated subsoil and topsoil are pushed around to build up the mound. Whitetails tend to merely leave an unworked pile of subsoil around the entrance.
Mound-building also calls for bulldozing earth with the prairie dog’s hard, blunt nose. Both excavated subsoil and topsoil are pushed around to build up the mound. Whitetails tend to merely leave an unworked pile of subsoil around the entrance.
After tamping the freshly loosened earth with its nose, above, and at other times in the whole process, the prairie dog takes a break and cleans its long claws,page 56, and its nose.
After tamping the freshly loosened earth with its nose, above, and at other times in the whole process, the prairie dog takes a break and cleans its long claws,page 56, and its nose.
Gregariousness is a common trait of many plains animals. In a land where movement is necessary and concealment difficult to achieve, it provides a definite survival advantage. Bison calves find protection in the herd, where their defense is the concern of all adults. Pronghorns take turns as sentries, allowing the other members of the group to rest and feed. Coyotes are more effective when hunting in pairs. The success of the wolf in bringing down large prey and even evicting grizzlies from their kills was largely due to their family group or pack organization. But lacking physical adaptations for speed and mobility, prairie dogs are forced to rely on their burrows for refuge. The need to remain close to their burrows imposes on the animals a serious problem: how to maintain an adequate food supply?
Although a dog town might appear to be one big collection of affectionate family members, all coming and going at will, the impression is false. Instead, each town is divided up into small groups of related animals. These family groups, called coteries, are the basic social unit, much as human families are in our own society. As the prairie dog pups soon learn, each coterie defends its own territory from intrusion by others, thus preserving for itself necessary living space and an adequate food supply close to the safety of its own burrows. Only in times of dire emergency, when the scramble to safety supersedes all territorial claims, will prairie dogs allow other coterie members the use of their burrows. So strong is an offending animal’s sense of trespass, it will often brave the hazard of dashing back to its own burrow rather than staying long in a neighbor’s territory.
The typical coterie consists of about seven to eight animals, arranged in a hierarchical order. Each usually has a dominant male that protects the coterie’s territory from invasion by other males and oversees the activities of the females and young. If the coterie is a large one, more than one individual may enjoy dominant status and share the duties of leadership. In some cases, females may be dominant in rank;the role generally falls to the males, however, possibly because of their slightly larger size or because they have more time to observe and patrol, not being tied to the demands of the young.
Not only their social organization, but also their social behavior makes prairie dogs unique among rodents. The function of coterie hierarchy is cooperative, rather than oppressive, resulting in a remarkable absence of conflict and social stress. Aggressiveness is generally limited to inter-coterie contacts along the invisible boundaries. In an established town, infractions are usually accidental and seldom precipitate lasting disputes. The end result of intra-coterie cooperation and inter-coterie respect is a stable and harmonious town. Energies and attention that would otherwise be squandered in conflict can thus be focused on mutual defense.
For brief periods during spring and fall, the strict laws of territoriality are relaxed. In spring, the period coincides with the appearance of pups. Not only does this prevent undue strife in the community over the wanderings of the socially ignorant pups; it also allows those females seeking new territories to cross established ones. In the fall, the period is also necessary, accommodating the dispersal of overcrowded family groups. During autumn, the urge to emigrate is strong, and many animals move out into the “suburbs” of the town. Thus the town maintains a degree of flexibility and avoids permanent pockets of overpopulation.
Coterie members maintain mutual recognition through an often-repeated ritual involving mouth contact. Prairie dogs that appear to be “kissing” or “talking” are simply establishing identities. Generally the most dominant member will initiate mouth contact, approaching the second animal with head tilted back and presenting its open mouth, to which the other responds in like manner. Often the recognition ceremony is accompanied by tail wagging and frequently leads to another form of social reinforcement, the process of grooming. Generally, the prairie dog that initiates the mouth contact does the grooming, nibbling, and combing the fur in an effort to dislodge dirt and parasites. The act is more significant for its symbolic value, however, for the animal of lower rank will often completely roll over on its back during the process; by exposing its vulnerable undersides, it is submitting, canine fashion, to the dominance of its fellow. Pups that annoy adult males with their attentions are often rather roughly groomed. No doubt the procedure communicates authority as well as affection.
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