Photo. by E. B. WebsterA Wild Cat
Photo. by E. B. Webster
A Wild Cat
Photo. by Frank H. RoseBear Feet. A bear footprint is humanlike
Photo. by Frank H. Rose
Bear Feet. A bear footprint is humanlike
Photo. by George F. DiehlA Black Bear
Photo. by George F. Diehl
A Black Bear
Photo. by E. R. WarrenAntelope
Photo. by E. R. Warren
Antelope
At one point they apparently defended themselves. Coyote tracks behind a log within ten feet of them, their own tracks showing an attitude of defense, and a wild leap and retreat of the coyote—this was the story in the snow.
The majority of my lively skunk experiences were the result of my trying to get more closely acquainted with him. On a number of occasions, however, I was an innocent bystander while some other person had the experience. Then through years of outdoor life I have known skunks to do numerous things of interest in which skunk character and not skunk scent was the centre of interest.
During a night of flooding rain a mother skunk and five tiny skunkies came into the kitchen of a family with whom I was temporarily staying. They probably had been drowned out. Mother skunk was killed and the little ones thrown out the window to die. But father skunk still lived. The next evening when I went in search of the young ones, as I stood looking about, father skunk walked into a bunch of grass and lifted a little skunk out. Taking mouth hold on the back of its neck he carried it a few feet, laid it down, and then picked up another little skunk with it. With the two youngsters hanging from this mouth hold he carried them off into the woods.
An entire family of skunks out on a frolic came unexpectedly upon me. They numbered eight. I was sitting on a log against a pine, and resolved not to move. In front of me the mother stepped upon a thorn, flinched, and lifted her foot to examine it. All gathered about her. As they moved this way and that, in the sunshine then in the shadows, their shiny black and clean white showed as though just scoured and polished. Surely they were freshly groomed for a party.
Without noticing me they began playing, jumping, and scuffling about. Then single file they pursued one another round a tree. In a mass they suddenly started to rush round the pine against which I sat. I saw them vanish behind the northwest quarter but when they swept round the southeast I was not there.
In Montana I was sitting on top of a low cliff looking down into a willow thicket below, when a deer shied from the willows and hurried on. Then a coyote came out mad and sneezing. A squirrel went down to investigate but quickly climbed a pine sputtering and threatening. The unusual ever lured me—appealed to my curiosity—and often this brought adventure plus information. So down into the willows I started. From the side of the cliff I reached an out-thrust limb of a pine, swung out, and letgo to drop just as the ascending air filled with skunk publicity.
It is sometimes difficult to predict correctly what a skunk will do next. At times my skunk neighbours by my cabin prowled forth at night and again it was in daytime. Generally they showed no concern with the movements of birds and animals unless one came close. On other days they would watch the moves of everything within eye range. Hurrying down a mountainside I one day struck a large skunk with my heavy shoe and knocked him senseless. I waited and watched him survive. Seeing me standing by him he rolled over and played possum.
The young skunks stay with the parents for about one year, I think. In the few instances where I had glimpses inside of winter hibernating dens, the entire family was hibernating together. Apparently the young winter with the parents the first year and scatter the following spring.
Gladly I headed for a prospector’s cabin in which I was to spend a few days and nights. I was scarcely seated by his fireplace when he went outside to “cut some meat” that hung at the rear of the cabin.
The first thing I knew a big skunk stood in the doorway. He looked my way, then startedmatter-of-fact for me. To heighten interest and to introduce suspense nothing equals the presence of a skunk.
With utmost effort I sat tight. It would have taken more effort to try to turn the skunk or to dodge him. But had I known his next move I would have moved first. He sprang into my lap.
It was too late to dodge so I sat still. He stood up and with paws against me began to look me over. I did not care to lift him off, and he did not “scat.” I stood up so he would slide off. With a forepaw in my vest pocket he hung on and I did not risk shaking too violently.
Finally, realizing that he must be a pet, I sat down and began to stroke him. He took this kindly and by the time the prospector returned I was at ease.
Not finding any fresh eggs in a hen’s nest, a young skunk started playing with a lone china egg. He was so interested that I came close without his noticing me. He rolled the egg over, pawed it about, tapped it with forepaws, and then smelled it. All the time he was comically serious in expression. Then he held the china egg in forepaws above his head; lay down on his back and played with it, using all four feet; rolled it across his stomach and finallystood up like a little bear and holding the egg against his stomach with forepaws looked it over with a puzzled expression.
The happy adventures of outdoor life never reduce the excess profits of life insurance companies. They lengthen life. Enjoying the sense of smell is one of the enjoyments of the open country; the spice of the pines and perfumes of wild flowers, the chemical pungency of rain, sun, and soil, the mellow aromas of autumn, and the irrepressible odour of the skunk.
The occupants of a city flat had complained for two days of the lack of heat. The janitor fired strong, but the protests continued. The hot air system did not work. The main must be blockaded, so the janitor thrust in the poker and stirred things up. There was a lively scratching inside. A skunk protested then came scrambling out. Instantly a skunk protest was registered in every room, and a protester against skunk air rushed forth from each room.
Indians say that skunk meat is a delicacy. The frequent attempts of lion and coyote to seize him suggest that he is a prize.
An old joke of the prairie is this skunk definition, “A pole cat is an animal not safe to kill with a pole.” But the Indians of the Northwestsay that a skunk may be so killed and that a sharp whack of a pole across his back paralyzes nerve action—result, no smell.
In a conversation with a Crow Indian he assured me of his ability to successfully kill a skunk with a pole, and also that he was planning to have a fresh one for dinner. I was to eat with him.
He procured a pole and invited me to go along. I told him of my plan to go down stream for the night. He would not hear of it. As I made ready to go his entire family, then a part of the tribe, came to protest as they were planning tomorrow to show me a bear den and a number of young beavers. There was no escape.
Skunk stew was served. I felt more solemn than I appeared, but not wanting to offend the tribe I tried a mouthful of skunk. But there are some things that cannot be done. I tried to swallow it but go down it simply would not. The Indians had been watching me and suddenly burst out in wild laughter and saved me.
I wonder if the clean white forked stripe in the jet black of the skunk’s back renders him visible in the night. Does this visibility prevent other animals from colliding with him, and thus prevent the consequences of such collision? The skunk prowls both day and night, and it may be that this distinct black and whitecoat is a protection—prevents his being mistaken for some other fellow.
A skunk is easily trapped. He is a dull-witted fellow, and has little strategy or suspicion. So well protected is he against attack, and so readily can he seize upon the food just secured by another, that rarely does he become excited or move quickly. He never seems to hurry or worry.
I do not believe that I ever missed an opportunity to see a skunk close up. Of course I never aimed to thrust myself upon them. But repeatedly I was surprised by them and it took days to get over it.
A brush pile was filled with skunks. When I leaped upon it they rushed forth on every side, stopped, and waited for me to go away. I was in a hurry, and as they refused to be driven farther off I made way for liberty.
Skunks are not bad people; they simply refuse to be kicked around or to have salt placed upon their plumy tails. Sooner or later every animal in a skunk’s territory turns his back on the skunk and refuses to have anything to do with him. But the skunk turns first.
The skunk to go into action reverses ends and puts up his tail. Every animal in the woods wonders as he meets a skunk; wonders, “What luck now?” Head he wins or tails the skunkwins. When a skunk goes into reverse—thus runs the world away.
The desert skunks that I saw were mighty hunters. Two were even willing to pose for a picture by their kills: one had a five-foot rattlesnake; the other a desert rat. There may be hydrophobia skunks, but I have not seen them nor their victims wasting their lives on the desert bare.
Skunk character and habits evidently changed as the skunk evolved his defensive odour to a state of effectiveness. He now is slow and dull witted. Formerly he probably was mentally alert and physically efficient. His relatives the mink, weasel, and otter are of extraordinary powers. While all these have an obnoxious odour, the mink especially, the skunk is the only one who has made it a far-reaching means of defense.
Skunks appear to be of Asiatic origin. They may have come into America across the Siberia-Alaska land bridge a million or so years ago. Fossil skunks ages old are found in fossil deposits in the Western states.
“Hurry,” called a trapper with whom I was camping, as he dashed up, seized his tent-fly, and disappeared behind a clump of trees. As it was a perfectly clear evening, this grabbing of a tent-fly and frantically rushing off suggested the possibility of his running amuck. But Inever ask questions too quickly, and this time there was no opportunity.
As I rounded the trees there before me were two fighting skunks being separated by the trapper. Both turned on him for separating them; but he was into the tent-fly and nearly out of range. Again they were at grips and were biting, clawing, and rolling about when the trapper rushed in, caught his shoe beneath them, and with a leg swing threw them hurtling through the air. They dropped splash into the brook. They separated and swam out to different sides of the brook.
The following day a skunk came out of the woods below camp and fed along the brook in the willows, then out across an opening. I watched him for an hour or longer.
At first I thought him a youngster and started to get close to him. But while still at safe range I looked at him through my field glasses and remained at a distance. Yet I am satisfied that he was a youngster, for he allowed a beetle to pinch his nose, ants were swarming all over him before he ceased digging in an ant hill, and a mouse he caught bit his foot.
He dug and ate beetles, ants, grubs from among the grass roots, found a stale mouse, claimed grubs from alongside a stump, and consumed a whole cluster of caterpillars. Then hestarted toddling across the open. Here he specialized on grasshoppers. Commonly he caught these with a forepaw. At other times with two forepaws or his teeth.
He did not appear to suspect any danger and did not pause to look around. No other skunks came near. He lumbered back toward the willows and here met the trapper. They stopped and stood facing each other at man’s length. The skunk expected him and everything met to retreat promptly or side step and appeared to be surprised that this was not done.
A minute’s waiting and the skunk walked by him at regular speed and never looked up.
I sawa forest fire sweeping down upon the Broken Tree Beaver colony, and I knew that the inhabitants could take refuge in their earthy, fire-proof houses in the water. Their five houses were scattered in the pond like little islands or ancient lake dwellings. A vigorous brook that came down from the snows on Mount Meeker flowed through the pond. Towering spruce trees encircled its shores.
The beavers survived the fiery ordeal, but their near-by and prospective winter food-supply was destroyed. This grove of aspen and every deciduous tree that might have furnished a bark food-supply was consumed or charred by the fire.
Instead of moving, the colony folks spent a number of days clearing the fire wreckage from their pond. With winter near and streams perilously low for travelling, it probably was unwise to go elsewhere and try to build a home and gather a harvest.
One night, early in October, the colonistsgnawed down a number of aspens that had escaped the fire. These were in a grove several hundred feet down stream from the pond. A few nights later they commenced to drag the felled aspens up stream into their pond. This was difficult work, for midway between the grove and the pond was a waterfall. The beaver had to drag each aspen out of the water and up a steep bank and make a portage around the falls.
The second night of this up-stream transportation a mountain lion had lain in wait by the falls. Tracks and marks on the muddy slope showed that he had made an unsuccessful leap for two beavers on the portage. The following morning an aspen of eighty pounds’ weight which two beavers had evidently been dragging was lying on the slope. The lion had not only missed, but on the muddy slope he slipped and received a ducking in the deep water-hole below.
Transportation up stream was stopped. The remainder of the felled aspens were piled into a near-by “safety pond.” A shallow stream which beavers use for a thoroughfare commonly has in it a safety pond which they maintain as a harbour, diving into it in case of attack. Usually winter food is stored within a few feet of the house, but in this case it was nearly six hundred feet away. In storing it in the safety pond, thebeavers probably were making the best of a bad situation.
Two days after the attack from the lion the beavers commenced cutting trees about fifty yards north of their pond. The beavers took pains to clear a trail or log road over which to drag their felled trees to the pond. Two fallen tree trunks were gnawed into sections, and one section of each rolled out of the way. A two-foot opening was cleared through a tongue of willows, and the cuttings dragged into the pond and placed on top of the food-pile.
One morning a number of abandoned cuttings along this cleared way told that the harvesters had been put to flight. No work was done during the three following nights. Tracks in the mud showed that a lion was prowling about.
Pioneer dangers and hardships are the lot of beaver colonists. The history of every old beaver house is full of stirring interest. The house and the dam must have constant care. Forest fires or other uncontrollable accidents may force the abandonment of the colony at a time when the conditions for travelling are deadly, or when travelling must be done across the country. A score may leave the old home, but only a few survive the journey to the new home site.
The Broken Tree colonists continued the harvest by cutting the scattered aspens along the stream above the pond. A few were cut a quarter of a mile up stream. Before these could be floated down into the pond it was necessary to break a jam of limbs and old trees that had collected against a boulder. The beaver gnawed a hole through the jam. One day a harvester who ventured far up a shallow brook was captured by a grizzly bear. During this unfortunate autumn it is probable that others were lost besides these mentioned. Harvest-getting ended by the pond and the stream freezing over. It is probable that the colonists had to live on short rations that winter.
One winter day a beaver came swimming down into the safety pond. I watched him through the ice. He dislodged a small piece of aspen from the pile in the bottom of the pond and with it went swimming up stream beneath the ice. At the bottom of the icy falls I found a number of aspen cuttings with the bark eaten off. While examining these, I discovered a hole or passageway at the bottom of the falls. This tunnel extended through the earth into the pond above. This underground portage route enabled the beavers to reach their supplies down stream.
The fire had killed a number of tall spruceson the edge of the pond, and their tall half-burned mats swayed threateningly in the wind. One night two of the dead spruces were hurled into the pond. The smaller one had fallen across a housetop, but the house was thick-walled and, being frozen, had sustained the shock which broke the spruce into sections. The other fallen tree fell so heavily upon two of the houses that they were crushed like shells. At least four beavers were killed and a number injured.
Spring came early, and the colonists were no doubt glad to welcome it. The pond, during May and June, was a beautiful place. Grass and wild flowers brightened the shore, and the tips of the spruces were thick with dainty bloom. Deer came up from the lowlands and wild sheep came down from the heights. The woods and willows were filled with happy mating birds. The ousel built and sang by the falls near which it had wintered. Wrens, saucy as ever, and quiet bluebirds and numbers of wise and watchful magpies were about. The Clarke crows maintained their noisy reputation, and the robins were robins still.
One May morning I concealed myself behind a log by the pond, within twenty feet of the largest beaver house. I hoped to see the young beavers. My crawling behind a log was toomuch for a robin, and she raised such an ado concerning a concealed monster that other birds came to join in the hubbub and to help drive me away. But I did not move, and after two or three minutes of riot the birds took themselves off to their respective nesting-sites.
Presently a brown nose appeared between the house and my hiding place. As a mother beaver climbed upon one of the spruce logs thrust out of the water, her reflection in the water mingled with spruces and the white clouds in the blue field above. She commenced to dress her fur—to make her toilet. After preliminary scratching and clawing with a hind foot, she rose and combed with foreclaws; a part of the time with both forepaws at once. Occasionally she scratched with the double nail on the second toe of the hind foot. It is only by persistent bathing, combing, and cleaning that beavers resist the numerous parasites which thick fur and stuffy, crowded houses encourage.
A few mornings later the baby beavers appeared. The mother attracted my attention with some make-believe repairs on the farther end of the dam, and the five youngsters emerged from the house through the water and squatted on the side of the house before I saw them. For a minute all sat motionless. By and by one climbed out on a projecting stick andtumbled into the water. The others showed no surprise at this accident.
The one in the water did not mind but swam outward where he was caught in the current that started to carry him over the dam. At this stage his mother appeared. She simply rose beneath him. He accepted the opportunity and squatted upon her back with that expressionless face which beavers carry most of the time. There are occasions, however, on which beavers show expression of fear, surprise, eagerness, and even intense pleasure. The youngster sat on his mother’s back as though asleep while she swam with him to the house. Here he climbed off in a matter-of-fact way, as though a ride on a ferry-boat was nothing new to him.
A few weeks later the mother robin who had become so wrought up over my hiding had times of dreadful excitement concerning the safety of her children. If anything out of the usual occurs, the robin insists that the worst possible is about to happen. This season the mother robin had nested upon the top of the beaver house. This was one of the safest of places, but so many things occurred to frighten her that it is a wonder she did not die of heart disease. The young robins were becoming restless at the time the young beavers were active. Every morning, when on the outside of thebeaver house each young beaver started in turn as though to climb to the top, poor Mother Robin became almost hysterical. At last, despite all her fears, her entire brood was brought safely off.
During the summer, a majority of the Broken Tree beavers abandoned the colony and moved to other scenes. A number built a half-mile down stream, while the others, with one exception, travelled to an abandoned beaver colony on the first stream to the north. Overland this place was only half a mile from the Broken Tree, but by water route, down stream to the forks then up the other stream to the colony, the distance was three miles. This was an excellent place to live, and with but little repair an old abandoned dam was made better than a new one. All summer a lone beaver of this colony rambled about. Once he returned to the Broken Tree colony. Finally, he cast his lot with the long-established colony several miles down stream.
Late this summer a huge landslide occurred on the stream above the Broken Tree pond. The slide material blocked the channel and formed a large, deep pond. From this dam of débris and the torn slope from which it slipped came such quantities of sediment that it appeared as though the pond might be filled.Every remaining colonist worked day and night to build a dam on the stream just above their pond. They worked like beavers. This new pond caught and stopped the sediment. It was apparently built for this purpose.
The colonists who remained repaired only two of the five houses, and between these they piled green aspen and willow for winter food. But before a tree was cut they built a dam to the north of their home. Water for this was obtained by a ditch or canal dug from the stream at a point above the sediment-catching pond. When the new pond was full, a low grassy ridge about twenty feet across separated it from the old one. A canal about three feet wide and from one to two feet deep was cut through the ridge, to connect the two ponds. The aspens harvested were taken from the slope of a moraine beyond the north shore of the new pond. The canal and the new pond greatly shortened the land distance over which the trees had to be dragged, and this made harvesting safer, speedier, and easier.
Occasionally the beavers did daytime work. While on the lookout one afternoon an old beaver waddled up the slope and stopped by a large standing aspen that had been left by the other workers. At the very bottom this tree was heavily swollen. The old beaver took abite of its bark and ate with an expressionless face. Evidently it was good, for after eating the old fellow scratched a large pile of trash against the base of the tree, and from this platform gnawed the tree off above the swollen base. While he was gnawing a splinter of wood wedged between his upper front teeth. This was picked out by catching it with the double nails of the second toe on the right hind foot. This aspen was ten inches in diameter at the point cut off. The diameter of trees cut is usually from three to six inches. The largest beaver cutting that I have measured was a cottonwood with a diameter of forty-two inches. On large, old trees the rough bark is not eaten, but from the average tree which is felled for food all of the bark and a small per cent of the wood is eaten. Rarely will a beaver cut dead wood, and only in emergencies will he cut a pine or a spruce. Apparently the pitch is distasteful to him.
One day another beaver cut a number of small aspens and dragged these, one or two at a time, to the pond. After a dozen or more were collected, all were pushed off into the water. Against this small raft the beaver placed his forepaws and swimming pushed it to the food-pile near the centre of the old pond.
At the close of harvest the beavers in BrokenTree colony pond covered their houses above waterline with mud, which they dredged from the pond around the foundations of their houses. Sometimes this mud was moved in their forepaws, sometimes by hooking the tail under and dragging it between their hind legs. Then they dug a channel in the bottom of the pond, which extended from the houses to the dam. Parallel with the dam they dug out another channel; the excavated material was placed on the top of the dam. They also made a shallow ditch in the bottom of the pond that extended from the house to the canal that united the two ponds.
The following summer was a rainy one, and the pond filled with sediment to the height of the dam. Most of this sediment came from the landslide débris or its sliding place. The old Broken Tree colony was abandoned.
Different from most animals, the beaver has a permanent home. The beaver has a strong attachment, or love, for his old home, and will go to endless work and repeatedly risk dangers to avoid moving away. He will dig canals, build dams, or even drag supplies long distances by land through difficult and dangerous places that he may live on in the old place. Here his ancestors may have been born and here he may spend his lifetime. In most cases, however, acolony is not continuously occupied this long. A flood, fire, or the complete exhaustion of food may compel him to move and seek a new home.
In abandoning the Broken Tree pond, one set of dwellers simply went up stream and took possession of the pond which the landslide had formed. Here they gathered supplies and dug a hole or den in the bank but they built no house. An underground tube or passageway connected this den with the bottom of the pond.
The remainder of the colonists started anew about three hundred feet to the north of the old pond. Here a dam about sixty feet long was built, mostly of mud and turf excavated from the area to be filled with water for their pond. They commenced their work by digging a trench and piling the material excavated on the lower side—the beginning of the dam. This ditch was then widened and deepened until the pond was completed. All excavated material was placed upon the dam.
Evidently the site for the house, as well as for the pond, was deliberately selected. The house was built in the pond alongside a spring which in part supplied the pond with water. The supply of winter food was stored in the deep hole from which the material for the house was excavated. The water from the spring checked freezing near the house and the food-pile,and prevented the ice from troubling the colonists. Beavers apparently comprehend the advantage of having a house close to a spring. This spring commonly is between the main house entrance and the winter food-pile.
Their pond did not fill with sediment. As the waters came entirely from springs they were almost free of sediment. After eighteen years of use there was but a thin covering of sediment on the bottom of the pond. Neither brook nor stream entered this pond. Was this pond constructed in this place for the purpose of avoiding sediment? As beavers occasionally and with much labour build in a place of this kind, when there are other and easier near-by places in which to build, it may be that this pond was placed here because it would escape sediment. This was the founding of the Spruce Tree colony. It is still inhabited.
A long-bodied, yellow-brown animal walked out of the woods and paused for a moment by the rapids of a mountain stream. Its body architecture was that of a dachshund, with the stout neck and small upraised head of a sea lion. Leaping into the rushing water it shot the rapids in a spectacular manner. At the bottom of the rapids it climbed out of the water on the bank opposite me and stopped to watch its mate. This one stood at the top of the rapids. It also leaped in and joyfully came down with the torn and speeding water. It joined the other on the bank.
Together they climbed to the top of the rapids. Again these daredevils gave a thrilling exhibition of running the rushing water. They were American otter, and this was a part of their fun and play. A single false move and the swift water would have hurled and broken them against projecting rocks. In the third run one clung to the top of a boulder that peeped above the mad, swirling water. The other shot overits back a moment later and endeavoured in passing to kick it off.
Though I had frequented the woods for years and had seen numerous otter slides, this was the beginning of my acquaintance with this audacious and capable animal whose play habit and individuality so enliven the wilderness.
Play probably is the distinguishing trait of this peculiar animal. He plays regularly—in pairs, in families, or with numbers who appear to meet for this special purpose. Evidently he plays when this is not connected with food getting or mating. He plays in Florida, in the Rocky Mountains, and in Alaska; in every month of the year; in the sunlight, the moonlight, or darkness. The slippery, ever freshly used appearance of bank slides indicates constant play.
The best otter play that I ever watched was staged one still winter night by a stream in the Medicine Bow Mountains. The snowy slide lay in the moonlight, with the shadow of a solitary fir tree across it. It extended about forty feet down a steep slope to the river. The slide had not been in use for two nights, but coasters began to appear about nine o’clock. A pair opened the coasting. They climbed up the slope together and came down singly. No others were as yet in sight. But in a fewminutes fourteen or more were in the play.
Most of the coasters emerged from an open place in the ice over the rapids, but others came down the river over the snow. As the otter population of this region was sparse the attendance probably included the otter representatives of an extensive area. Tracks in the snow showed that four—possibly a family—had come from another stream, travelling over a high intervening ridge four or five miles across. Many may have come twenty miles or farther.
The winter had been dry and cold. The few otters recently seen by daylight were hunting over the snow for grouse and rabbits, far from the stream. Otter food was scarce. Probably many, possibly all, of these merrymakers were hungry, but little would you have guessed it from their play.
It was a merry-go-round of coasters climbing up single file by the slide while coaster after coaster shot singly down. Each appeared to start with a head-foremost vault or dive and to dart downward over the slides with all legs flattened and pointing backward. Each coaster, as a rule, shot straight to the bottom, though a few times one went off at an angle and finished with a roll. A successful slide carried the coaster far out on the smooth ice and occasionally to the farther bank of the river.
After half an hour of coasting all collected at the top of the slide for wrestling contests. A number dodged about, touching, tagging, rearing to clinch and then to roll over. Several exhibitions were occurring at one time. A few times one chased another several yards from the crowd. Once a number stood up in pairs with forepaws on each other’s shoulders and appeared to be waltzing. Finally there was a free-for-all mix-up, a grand rush. One appeared to have an object, perhaps a cone, which all the others were after. Then, as if by common consent, all plunged down the slide together. At the bottom they rolled about for a few seconds in merry satisfaction, but only for a few seconds, for soon several climbed up again and came coasting down in pairs. Thus for an hour the play in the frosty moonlight went on, and without cry or uttered sound. They were coasting singly when I slipped away to my campfire.
The otter is one of the greatest of travellers. He swims the streams for miles or makes long journeys into the hills. On land he usually selects the smoothest, easiest way, but once I saw him descend a rocky precipice with speed and skill excelled only by the bighorn sheep. He has a permanent home range and generally this is large. From his den beneath the roots of a tree, near a stream bank or lake shore, he maygo twenty miles up or down stream; or he may traverse the woods to a far-off lake or cross the watershed to the next stream, miles away. He appears to emigrate sometimes—goes to live in other scenes.
These long journeys for food or adventure, sometimes covering weeks, must fill the otter’s life with colour and excitement. Swimming miles down a deep watercourse may require only an hour or two. But a journey up stream often to its very source, through cascades and scant water, would often force the travellers out of the channel and offer endless opportunities for slow progress and unexpected happenings. What an experience for the youngsters!
They may travel in pairs, in families or in numbers. The dangers are hardly to be considered. The grizzly bear could kill with a single bite or stroke of paw; but the agility of the otter would discourage such an attack. A pack of wolves, could they corner the caravan, would likely after severe loss feast on the travellers. The only successful attack that I know of was by a mountain lion on a single otter. Yet so efficient is this long-bodied, deep-biting fellow that I can imagine the mountain lion usually avoiding the otter’s trail.
The long land journeys from water to water appear to call for the greatest resourcefulnessand to offer all the events that lie in the realm of the unexplored. Between near-by streams and lakes there are regular and well-worn ways. By easy grades these follow mostly open ways across rough country. It is likely that even the long, seldom-used, and unmarked ways across miles of watersheds are otter trails that have been used for ages.
Fortunate folks, these otters, to have so much time, and such wild, romantic regions for travel and exploration! After each exciting time that I have watched them I have searched for hours and days trying to see another outfit of otter explorers. But only a few brief glimpses have I had of these wild, picturesque, adventurous bands.
In all kinds of places, in action for fun or food, frolic or fight, the otter ever gives a good account of himself. He appears to fear only man. Though he may be attacked by larger animals this matter is not heavily on his mind, for when he wants to travel he travels; and he does this, too, both in water and on land, and by either day or night. To a remarkable degree he can take care of himself. Though I have not seen him do so, I can readily believe the stories that accredit this twenty-pound weasel-like fellow with killing young bears and deer, and drowning wolves and dogs.
The otter is a fighter. One day I came upon records in the snow far from the water that showed he had walked into a wild-cat ambush. The extensively trampled snow told that the desperate contest had been a long one. The cat was left dead, and the otter had left two pressed and bloody spaces in the snow where he had stopped to dress his wounds on the way to the river. On another occasion the fierceness of the otter was attested to by two coyotes that nearly ran over me in their flight after an assault on the rear guard of a band of overland otter emigrants.
Probably the only animal that enters a beaver pond that gives the beaver any concern is the otter. One morning I had glimpses of a battle in a beaver pond between a large invading otter and numerous home-defense beavers. Most of the fighting was under water, but the pond was roiled and agitated over a long stretch, beginning where the attack commenced and extending to the incoming brook, where the badly wounded otter made his escape.
Both beaver and otter can remain under water for minutes, and during this time put forth their utmost and most effective efforts. Several times during this struggle the contestants came up where they could breathe. Twice when the otter appeared he was at it with one large beaver;another time he was surrounded by several, one or more of which had their teeth in him. When he broke away he was being vigorously mauled by a single beaver, which appeared content to let him go since the otter was bent on escape. It was an achievement for the otter to have held his own against such odds. The beaver is at home in the water, and, moreover, has terrible teeth and is a master in using them.
Though originally a land animal, the otter is now also master of the water. He has webbed feet and a long, sea lion-like neck, which give him the appearance of an animal especially fitted for water travel. He outswims fish and successfully fights the wolf and the beaver in the water. He still has, however, extraordinary ability on land, where he goes long journeys and defends himself against formidable enemies. There are straggling otters which invade the realm of the squirrel by climbing trees.
The otter is a mighty hunter and by stealth and strength kills animals larger than himself. He is also a most successful fisherman and is rated A1 in water. Here his keen eyes, his speed and quickness enable him to outswim and capture the lightning-like trout. Fish is his main article of diet, but this must be fresh—just caught; he is a fish hog. He also eats crawfish, eels, mice, rabbits, and birds. However, he isan epicure and wants only the choicer cuts. He never stores food or returns to finish a partly eaten kill. The more abundant the food supply the less of each catch or kill will he eat.
Food saving is not one of his habits, and conservation has never been one of his practices. Though he hunts and travels mostly at night and alone, he is variable in his habits.
Like all keen-witted animals the otter is ever curious concerning the new or the unusual. He has a good working combination of the cautious and the courageous. One day an otter in passing hurriedly rattled gravel against a discarded sardine can. He gave three or four frightened leaps, then turned to look back. He wondered what it was. With circling, cautious advances he slowly approached and touched the can. It was harmless—and useful. He cuffed it and chased it; he played with it as a kitten plays with a ball. Presently he was joined in the play by another. For several minutes they battered it about, fell upon it, raced for it, and strove to be the first to reach it.
The otter is distributed over North America, but only in Alaska and northern Canada does the population appear to have been crowded. In most areas it might be called sparse. In reduced numbers he still clings to his originalterritory. That he has extraordinary ability to take care of himself is shown in his avoiding extermination, though he wears a valuable coat of fur. In England he has survived and is still regularly hunted and trapped. Like the fox he is followed with horse and hounds.
Photo. by Enos A. MillsA Beaver House and Winter Food Supply
Photo. by Enos A. Mills
A Beaver House and Winter Food Supply
Photo. by Enos A. MillsA Beaver House in the First Snow
Photo. by Enos A. Mills
A Beaver House in the First Snow
Drawing by Will JamesCoyote—Clown of the Prairies
Drawing by Will James
Coyote—Clown of the Prairies
Relentless in chase for food and fierce in defense of self or young, yet he is affectionate at home and playful with his fellows. If an old one is trapped or shot the mate seeks the absent one, wandering and occasionally wailing for days. Perhaps they mate for life.
The young, one to four at a birth, are born about the first of May. They are blind for perhaps six weeks. They probably are weaned before they are four months old, but run with the parents for several months. Both parents carry food for the young and both appear devoted to them. As soon as they are allowed to romp or sleep in the sunshine they are under the ever-watchful eye of one of the parents. Woe to the accidental intruder who comes too close. A hawk or owl is warned off with far-reaching snarls and hisses. If high water, landslides, or the near presence of man threatens the youngsters they are carried one at a time to a far-off den.
The hide-and-seek play appears to be the favourite one of the cubs, kits, or pups, as theyare variously called. They may hide behind mother, behind a log, or beneath the water.
The otter has a powerful, crushing bite and jaws that hang on like a vise. A tug-of-war between two youngsters, each with teeth set in the opposite ends of a stick, probably is a good kind of preparation for the future. They may singly or sometimes two at a time ride on mother’s back as she swims about low in the water. When they are a little older mother slips from under them, much to their fright and excitement. She thus forces them to learn to swim. Though most habits are likely instinctive they are trained in swimming.
The otter’s two or two-and-a-half foot body is carried on four short legs which have webbed and clawed feet. One weighs from fifteen to twenty-five pounds. Clad in a coat of fur and a sheet of fat he enjoys the icy streams in winter. He also enjoys life in the summer. Though with habits of his own he has ways of the weasel and of the sea otter.
He sends forth a variety of sounds and calls. He whistles a signal or chirps with contentment; he hisses and he bristles up and snarls; he sniffs and gives forth growls of many kinds.
His active brain, eternal alertness, keen senses, and agile body gave him a rare equipment in the struggle for existence. He is inthis struggle commonly a conqueror. “Yes,” said a lazy but observing trapper one evening by my campfire, “the otter has more peculiarities than any other animal of the wilderness. Concealed under his one skin are three or four kinds of animals.” And this I found him. Doubtless there are many interesting unrecorded and unseen customs concerning this inscrutable and half-mysterious animal.
Possibly the otter heads the list in highly developed play habit. Sometimes numbers gather in advance to prepare a place on which to play. The otter slide rivals the beaver dam when wild folks’ ways are discussed. It is interesting that this capable animal with a wide range of efficient versatility should be the one that appears to give the most regular attention to play.
Onewinter morning an old mountain sheep came down from the heights, through the deep snow, and called at my cabin. We had already spent a few years trying to get acquainted. Most of these slow advances had been made by myself, but this morning he became a real neighbour, and when I opened the door the Master of the Crags appeared pleased to see me. Although many a shy, big fellow among the wild folks had accepted me as a friend, I had not even hoped to have a close enough meeting with a wild bighorn ram to make an introduction necessary for good form.
I stood for a moment just outside the cabin door. The situation was embarrassing for us both; our advances were confusing, but I finally brought about a meeting of actual contact with bighorn. With slowness of movement I advanced to greet him, talking to him all the while in low tones. Plainly his experiences assured him that I was not dangerous, yet at the sametime instinct was demanding that he retreat. For a time I held him through interest and curiosity, but presently he backed off a few steps. Again I slowly advanced and steadily assured him in the universal language—tone—that all was well. Though not alarmed, he moved off at right angles, apparently with the intention of walking around me. I advanced at an angle to intercept him. With this move on my part, he stopped to stare for a moment, then turned and started away.
I started after him at full speed. He, too, speeded, but with snowshoes I easily circled him. He quickly saw the folly of trying to outrun me; and if he did not accept the situation with satisfaction, as I think he did, he certainly took things philosophically. He climbed upon a snow-draped boulder and posed as proudly as a Greek god. Then he stared at me.
Presently he relaxed and showed a friendly interest. I then advanced and formally introduced myself, accompanying my movements with rapid comment and chatter. I asked him if he was glad to be alive, asked his opinion concerning the weather, the condition of his flock, and finally, told him that game preserves was one of my hobbies, and in such refuges I trusted he had a deep interest. All this, while within a few yards of him and in a mostfriendly tone; still he remained almost coldly curious.
At last I begged the rare privilege of taking his picture, and as he was not in a place for good picture-taking, I proceeded to drive him to a spot closer to my cabin. To my astonishment he was willingly driven! He went along as though he had often been driven and as though going to a place of which he was fond!
Among scattered pines and willows by my brook I circled him and took a number of photographs. At last I walked up to my bighorn friend, rubbed his back and felt his horns. He was not frightened but appeared to enjoy these attentions, and to seem proud of my association. But, my big speechless fellow, I had the most from your call!
Twice afterward, once in the winter and once mid-summer, he called and came up to me, and with dignified confidence licked salt from my hand.
In both the Sierras and the Rocky Mountains there are numerous flocks of bighorn or wild mountain sheep which have a resident stamping ground above the timberline, at an altitude of 12,000 feet. They appear not to migrate, although they go often into the lowlands; in spring for the earliest green stuff, in summer for salt or for a change, and during the winterwhen conditions commend or command such a move. With the coming of a storm or if there is an attack on them, they at once climb high among the crags, up close to where the eagles soar.
The heights thus is the home of wild sheep. The young are born in bare places among the crags and the snowfields. All stand the storms up close to the sky. They are warmly wrapped; their long, coarse outer coat of hair is almost waterproof and defies the cold.
One of my trips as Snow Observer carried me across the wild Continental Divide while the sky was clearing after a heavy snowfall. In climbing to the summit I passed close to three herds of deer that were stranded in deep snow. But the high wind had swept the treeless summit, and in places the snow had been deeply excavated. In other places it had been thrown into massive drifts. On the summit plateau at an altitude of 12,000 feet I rounded a crag and came close upon a flock of mountain sheep in the moorland from which the wind had swept most of the snow. The sheep were bunched, scattered, and a few were lying down. Here in the heights the sheep had already forgotten the storm, while the elk and the deer far down in the wooded slopes were deeply troubled by the snow. With this open place on the mountaintop, these hardy dwellers of the summit could long be indifferent to deep snow or to its deliberate melting.
They bunched in the farthest corner of their wind-cleared place and eyed me curiously while I went by. I back-tracked their wallowed trail to the nook in which they had endured the three-day storm. This place was nearly a mile distant, but over most of the way to the snowless pasture the sheep had travelled on the very edge of the plateau, from which wind and gravity had cleared most of the snow. They had stood through the storm bunched closely against a leeward plateau wall several yards below the summit. The snow had eddied down and buried them deeply. It had required a long and severe struggle to get out of this snow and back through it to the summit, as their footmarks and body impressions plainly showed.
This storm was a general one and deeply covered several states. It was followed by two weeks of cold. For several hundred miles along this and other ranges the deer and the elk had a starving time, while the numerous flocks of sheep on summits escaped serious affliction.
Evidently mountain sheep know their range and understand how to fight the game of self-preservation in the mountain snows. The fact that sheep spend their winters on the mountainsummits would indicate that they find a lower death rate and more comfort here than they could find in the lowlands.
The morning I started across Sawtooth Pass the snow was deep. A gray sky and a few lazily falling snowflakes indicated that it might be deepened. And soon the flakes were falling fast and the wind was howling. Only between gusts could I see. But on I went, for it was easier to advance than to retreat.
I passed over the summit only to find the wind roaring wildly on the other side. Abandoning the course of the snow-buried trail, I went with the wind, being extremely careful to keep myself under control lest the breezes boost me over an unexpected cliff. The temperature was a trifle below zero, and I watched nose, fingers, and cheeks to keep them from freezing.
Two violent gusts drove me to shelter beneath a shelving rock. After half a minute a long lull came and the air cleared of snow dust. There within thirty feet of me were a number of mountain sheep. Two were grazing in a space swept bare by the wind. Another was lying down, not in shelter, but out in an exposed place.
Then I caught sight of two lambs and I failed to see what the other sheep were doing. Those lambs! They were in a place where the windhit violently, as the bare space around them showed. They were pushing each other, butting their heads together, rearing up on their hind legs. As I watched them another gust came roaring forward; they stopped for a second and then rushed toward it. I caught my last glimpse just as it struck them and they both leaped high to meet it.
I was in the heights when a heavy snow came down and did not drift. It lay deeply over everything except pinnacles and sharp ridges. I made a number of snowshoe trips to see how sheep met this condition. During the storm one flock had stood beneath an overhanging cliff. When the snowfall ceased the sheep wallowed to the precipitous edge of the plateau and at the risk of slipping overboard had travelled along an inch or less wide footing for more than a mile. Where the summit descended by steep slope they ventured out. Steepness and snow weight before their arrival, perhaps with the assistance of their tramplings, had caused the snow at the top to slip. As the slide thus started tore to the bottom it scraped a wide swath free of snow. In this cleared strip the sheep were feeding contentedly.
Snowslides, large and small, often open emergency feeding spaces for sheep. Long snowshoe excursions on the Continental Dividehave often brought me into the presence of mountain sheep in the snow. They are brave, self-reliant, capable, and ever alert for every advantageous opportunity or opening.
One snowy time I searched the heights for hours without finding any sheep. But in descending I found a number upon a narrow sunny ledge that was free from snow; the trampling and the warmth of the sheep probably had helped clear this ledge. Here they could find scanty rations for a week or longer. I could not make out whether they had spent the storm time here or had come to it afterward.
In the heights are numerous ledges and knife-edge ridges on which but little snow can lodge. The cracks and niches of these hold withered grass, alpine plants, and moss, which afford an emergency food supply that often has saved snow-bound sheep.
Sheep are cool-headed fellows, as well befits those who are intimately associated with precipices. But one day, while slowly descending a steep slope, I unintentionally threw a flock into confusion. Bunched and interested, they watched me approach within sixty or seventy feet. I had been close to them before and this time while moving closer I tried to manipulate my camera. An awkward exhibition of a fall resulted. The sheep, lost in curiosity, fled withoutlooking where they leaped. The second bound landed them upon an icy pitch where everyone lost footing, fell, and slid several yards to the bottom of the slope. All regained their feet and in regular form ran off at high speed.
Accidents do befall them. Occasionally one tumbles to death or is crushed by falling stone. Sometimes the weaker ones are unable to get out of deep snow. On rare occasions a mountain lion comes upon them and slays one or several, while they are almost helpless from weakness or from crusted snow. A few times I have known of one or more to be carried down to death by a snowslide.
While the sheep do not have many neighbours, they do have sunny days. Often the heights, for long periods, are sunny and snowless. Sometimes a storm may rage for days down the slopes while the sheep, in or entirely above the upper surface of the storm cloud, do not receive any snow. Among their resident neighbours are the cony, the white weasel, and flocks of rosy finches and white ptarmigan. In these the sheep show no interest, but they keep on the watch for subtle foxes, bob-cats, and lions.
Snowfall, like rainfall, is unevenly distributed. At times a short distance below the snow-piled heights one or both slopes are snowless; atother times, the summits are bare while the lowlands are overburdened with snow. Sheep appear quickly to discover and promptly to use any advantage afforded by their range.
One snowy winter an almost famished flock of sheep started for the lowlands. Two thousand feet lower the earth in places lay brown and snowless in the sun. Whether this condition led the sheep downward, or whether the good condition of the lowland was unknown to them and they came in desperation, I know not. Already weak, they did not get down to timberline the first day. The night was spent against a cliff in deep snow. The following morning a dead one was left at the foot of the cliff and the others struggled on downward, bucking their way through the deep snow.
In snow the strongest one commonly leads. Sometimes sheep fight their way through snow deeper than their backs. The leading one rears on hind legs, extends front feet, leaps upward and forward, throwing himself with a lunge upon the snow. At an enormous cost of energy they slowly advance.
The flock that fought its way downward from the heights took advantage of outcropping rocks and, down in the woods, of logs which nearly lifted them above the snow. Six of the eleven who left the heights at last reached shallowsnow where in a forest glade they remained for nearly a month.
One winter five sheep were caught in the lowlands by a deep snow. They had started homeward with the coming of the storm but were fired on by hunters and driven back. Becoming snowbound they took refuge in a springy opening at the bottom of a forested slope. This open spot was not a stone’s throw across. It was overspread by outpouring spring water which dissolved most of the snow. Here the sheep remained for several weeks. This place not only afforded a moderate amount of food, but in it they had enough freedom of movement successfully to resist an attack of wolves. Apparently wolves do not attack sheep in their wintry heights. Deer and elk as well as sheep have often made a stand in a springy place of this kind.
Sheep under normal conditions are serene and often playful. There appears to be most play when the flock is united. Commonly they play by twos, and in this play butt, push, feint, jump, and spar lightly with horns, often rising to the vertical on hind legs. If a bout becomes particularly lively the others pause to look on. They give attention while something unusual is doing. One day I saw a flock deliberately cross a snowdrift when they could easily havegone around it. But the sheep were vigorous from good feed and a mild winter and this snowdrift was across the game trail on which they were slowly travelling.
No wild animal grass eater excels the bighorn sheep in climbing skill, alertness, endurance, and playfulness. They thrive on the winds and rations of the heights. Generally the sheep carry more fat when spring comes than the deer that winter down in the shelter of the woods or in the lowlands. Any healthy animal, human or wild, who understands the woodcraft of winter lives happily when drifts the snow.
Ninehealthy coyote puppies were playing in the sunshine with all their might. After days of searching I had at last discovered their den. The puppies had not noticed me and I enjoyed watching their training for the game of life. They wrestled, played at fighting, rolled over and over, bit at one another’s feet and tails, and occasionally all mixed in one merry heap.
Their mother came along the hillside above the den. She walked back and forth on the skyline where I could not miss seeing her. Then she came nearer and passed within thirty or forty feet of me. I kept my eyes upon the puppies and pretended not to see their mother. She turned and passed still closer to me. This time she was limping badly on one forefoot and holding up one hind foot. She was making every effort to have me follow her—to lure me away from her home and her puppies.
A moving object down the slope caught the attention of the puppies. As soon as they madeout what this was they scampered racing away. Going only a short distance, they sat down, as though at a dead line. Evidently there is a small zone of safety surrounding the den beyond which the puppies are not allowed to go. At this moment Mr. Coyote appeared, from down the slope, with a jack rabbit in his jaws. He was coming quickly along and had not suspected my presence. How eagerly the puppies watched him! As he came up they commenced snapping and tearing at the rabbit he carried. Mrs. Coyote hastily joined them, and all scurried into the den. The following morning the den was deserted. It is common for coyotes to move their puppies promptly to another den when they think they are discovered.