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Black Footed Ferret Survey
August 2007
Shirley Basin , WY
posted by Becky Zook
Sometimes a bright future can be found even in absolute darkness.
Story and photos by Shauna Stephenson
sstephenson@wyomingnews.com
MEDICINE BOW - The red taillights of the forest green F-250 disappear over the blackened horizon, and everything is silent.
Martin Grenier, non-game mammal biologist for Wyoming Game and Fish, has gone to check the trailer, set up to process incoming black-footed ferrets.
It's all part of the four-week survey conducted north of Medicine Bow to get a better grasp on the ferret population in the area.
Driving away, he sweeps the land with a spotlight mounted on the hood of the cab. The light passes over the now dusty landscape like the evil eye of Sauron from "The Lord of the Rings."
Behind him he leaves the darkness.
And me.
It's the time of night when the warm winds of Shirley Basin change - a change that is, perhaps, lost on many.
As the moon slips behind the mountains - before the sky transitions from deep blue to black, before the memory of the golden strands of sunset that warmed your cheeks is erased from your mind - the wind turns cool, and you know you have settled into the bellows of night.
The creatures of the basin - antelope, coyotes, badgers, rabbits, horned larks, swift fox - are silent for a time as if reveling in the universe that now appears above them in the stars.
It is a time to feel small and insignificant, to ponder extinction, discovery and recovery of an entire species, much of which happened right here.
But take only a moment. There is work to be done.
"Click-click" and the hand-held spotlight shines, panning left-to-right, right-to-left, searching for the emerald-green eye shine of the black-footed ferret.
My feet shuffle, kicking up dirt that drifts into my eyes, nose and mouth, leaving a gritty, almost salty taste. The smell of the land out here is different, though it's hard to say how.
Spotlighting is like trying to look at a panoramic landscape through a tiny pinhole poked in a note card. It easily disorients a sleep-deprived person.
An hour goes by, maybe two - and nothing stirs.
The little buggers have to be out here somewhere.
Earlier that day a heavy wind gusts through the small town of Medicine Bow.
It pounds the walls of the Trampas Lodge, named for the famed character of Owen Wister's Wild West novel, "The Virginian." It beats on the small windows and causes the water in the toilet bowls to sway.
It's the kind of place one might give a second thought to before staying the night, but with beds and warm showers, it fit the bill.
Gathered with volunteers in his small room, Grenier goes through a quick orientation.
They range in age and experience. Some have come to learn more about wildlife biology. Others, mainly seasonal Game and Fish employees, are taking a break from other projects.
Grenier goes through a list of critters and how to identify them in the dark with only a spotlight and a pair of binoculars.
First there will be badgers. They, like ferrets, also have green eye shine. Look closely for a distinct space in between the eyes.
Next are long-tailed weasels, most easily confused with black-footed ferrets due to similar size and shape. Grenier recommends watching their behavior. Weasels run from hole to hole; ferrets stay put.
"Long-tailed weasels are like ferrets on meth. They're, like, on crack," he tells the group.
Also present are things like coyotes, red fox and swift fox, all of which have a characteristic yellow eye shine.
If you're really good you can "squeak-in" the swift fox, luring it close with mouse-like sounds. Apparently they are not shining examples of intelligence.
Then there are things such as: rabbits, red eye shine; bobcats, yellow eye shine; and antelope, blink a lot.
Finally, Grenier moves on to the black-footed ferrets, noted for their characteristic black mask, black legs, black-tipped tail and unmistakable voice.
"You guys seen 'Caddyshack'?" asked Lee Lofgren, a trophy game biologist with Game and Fish. "'Cause that's the sound."
Adds Grenier, "It will scare the crap out of you the first time you hear it because it's very loud."
The sun is beginning to set as the volunteers pile into their convoy of trucks and drive north.
Once there, they will walk and drive a piece of land until it is so burned into their memories that they can tell you every hill, trench and burrow, navigate it in sheer darkness and come to know each of its nocturnal inhabitants.
At minimum, they will do this from dusk until dawn for three nights. Some will continue for four weeks.
This is the first time this area will be surveyed, and the question remains how well the population fared. Black-footed ferrets are highly susceptible to outbreaks of plague. One outbreak can wipe out an entire population.
I ask Grenier what the consequence of extinction is. What would happen if there were no more black-footed ferrets? Would we see the same type of impacts that we saw for, say, wolves in Yellowstone?
He says he doesn't know. There hasn't much research on them. There never really have been enough of them to study.
At one point, the black-footed ferret was thought to be extinct.
The first records of the mammal come from John James Audubon in 1851. More than 25 years elapsed before anyone reported another sighting of the elusive animal.
Despite the ferrets' relative anonymity among explorers and mountain men, Native Americans have co-existed with them for thousands of years, using them for medicinal purposes, ceremonies and furs.
Some tribes, like the Crow, considered them to have magical powers. The Hualapai even considered the creature, like many others that are active at night, as sacred beings.
In 1967, the black-footed ferret was put on the Endangered Species List, and 12 years later it was declared extinct.
Two years passed before John and Lucille Hogg's ranch dog came bearing a dead black-footed ferret in its mouth, giving hope to researchers.
One month later, a live ferret was spotted near Meeteetse. Researchers determined a population of 129 black-footed ferrets lived in the area, but those were later lost to outbreaks of sylvatic plague and canine distemper.
Since then, the recovery process has been turbulent, characterized by large gains and losses.
In 1991, the Shirley Basin became the first site to re-introduce the black-footed ferret, resulting in the birth of the first two wild-born litters since Meeteetse. Between 1991 and 1994, a total of 228 ferrets were released there.
Plague would come quickly. In 1997, only five ferrets were located. There was talk of abandoning the area and starting over somewhere else.
But time and space have a way of healing things. In 2006, almost 200 ferrets were located in the same area. This year will determine how far they have spread.
Grenier turns left at a small gate near Wyoming Highway 77, and vehicles file onto the small two-track dirt road.
The trailer is opened and volunteers begin to unload equipment: reflectors, headlamps, binoculars, plastic tubs, burlap-wrapped traps, GPS units, steel-framed backpacks, pet carriers.
Laurie VanFleet, non-game biologist for Game and Fish, checks each person out, assigning vehicles. The sun begins to sink, turning the cotton ball clouds from fiery orange to purple to grey.
Grenier drives out to the main road, shuttling the other vehicles to their locations. He then returns to set up the processing trailer and spots VanFleet returning.
"You saw an animal?" he asks.
She smiles. She had spotted a ferret on Grenier's survey area just up the road as she was driving through.
"But it's mine, baby, if I catch it," she says.
He gives her a high five and heckles her a bit, accusing her of poaching his ferrets. It's a small victory to find a ferret on someone else's survey area.
Grenier begins to set it up. He disinfects the counter, pulls out a thermometer, syringe boxes, gloves, masks, vaccinations, a scale, clipboards and a small home-made gas chamber. He will use that to put the ferrets under while he takes measurements, microchips, vaccinates and picks the ticks off the animals.
Just after 11 p.m., there is a knock at the door of the trailer. It's Justin Clapp, trophy game biologist for Game and Fish.
He has found the first ferret.
"Fantastic, you're a pro," Grenier says.
Things quickly turn into a routine: hunt, sleep, eat.
The second night doesn't net much. I set out on foot with the handheld spotlight. We have spotted one ferret in our area. Nothing else.
Boredom sets in around midnight. Grenier says he saw one on the ridge near the south end of the territory. I walk around the stands of sagebrush, willing it to pop its little head out.
Horned larks wait until the last possible moment to move and scare the bejesus out of me as they fly up in my face. I cuss them each time, telling them they are stupid birds, among other things.
The hard part about walking lonely circles in the dark is occupying your mind. I'm ready to sit down in the dirt and wait. There are no stinkin' ferrets out here.
I take one more pass with my light when it catches something brilliant and emerald green.
"Gotcha!" I say.
The traps clink a bit as I hurdle through the sagebrush. The great thing about ferrets is they aren't timid. Something charging through the dark like a freight train doesn't bother them. They know they have the upper hand.
I reach the burrow, and the ferret disappears. Pulling off the pack, I grab a trap and set it.
The ferret, curious now, pops back out of the hole, watching as I place reflectors by the burrow. He chatters a bit, as if to say, "So you're the dumb-squat who's been wandering around in the dark cussing at the birds."
Just before I place the trap, he disappears down the hole.
The traps are designed to mimic an extension of the burrow, catching the ferrets as they make their way toward the light at the top. Some ferrets fall for it. Others dig around or use another escape. Once placed in the ground, they look a little like square missile launchers.
I make my way back toward the trailer, fully awake now, and hitch a ride as Grenier makes his rounds in the truck.
I have hope that we will catch this little chatterbox, but for tonight that hope is futile. As the sun rises, we discover we have been outsmarted.
Day three: I jump ship and go to visit another survey area.
Clapp has been patrolling a swath of land closest to last year's study area. The section seems to contain the highest density of litters, making things a little more exciting.
He points out the boundaries as he walks into the darkness. So far he has brought in at least three ferrets, although at this point I'm starting to lose count.
A couple of hours go by. He wanders from burrow to burrow, looking for loose dirt, scratch marks, any sign of movement. He has set a couple of traps with no luck yet.
In the wee hours of the morning, a wet fog begins to roll in, making the spotlight all but useless. It blankets the surrounding ridges, shrouding them in white.
Walking the side of a hill, Clapp suddenly disappears. There is a clatter of traps as he takes an undignified nose dive into a small trench about six inches deep.
"Watch out for the trench," I say.
He doesn't find that helpful.
He radios over to Lee Knox, who has spent most of the night chasing a one-eyed ferret. Being outsmarted by a one-eyed ferret can be slightly demoralizing, and Knox sounds less than thrilled.
We sit and wait for the fog to pass, watching the groggy lights of other surveyors skim over faraway hills. From this vantage, the basin looks alive with activity.
Time is starting to run out. The sun should be up in an hour, and Clapp now faces the possibility of being skunked.
The fog clears, and he shines the spotlight on a facing hill, picking up two pairs of green eyes.
On his feet, he races across the basin, trying to determine which burrow they are holed up in, muttering under his breath.
The ferrets scatter and we set two more traps. No sooner than the second trap hits the ground then we net a ferret in the first, a cranky little juvenile male that chatters and bites the trap door.
The ferret is transferred into a carrying tube to be processed. As Clapp slides the door shut, there is a familiar "click" of the adjacent trap. It's another ferret.
Shining the light, we find a female that was caught the first night, known by the black dot on her neck. Clapp sets her free, and we take the unmarked ferret to be processed.
At the trailer, Grenier has been backed up all night trying to process the incoming animals. The relative silence of the past two nights has been answered with a deluge of sightings.
The numbers, he says with a smile, have exceeded even his highest expectations.
After a full work-up, we return the juvenile to his burrow. The sun is starting to rise. Unseen coyotes sing as though welcoming the creature back. Clapp answers them, howling at the sky.
We walk back to the truck, and I am reminded of a passage in Richard Louv's book, "Last Child in the Woods:"
"Nature - the sublime, the harsh, and the beautiful - offers something that the street or gated community or computer game cannot. Nature presents the young with something so much greater than they are; it offers an environment where they can easily contemplate infinity and eternity ...
"Immersion in the natural environment cuts to the chase, exposes the young directly and immediately to the very elements from which humans evolved: earth, water, air and other living kin, large and small. Without that experience as Chawla says, "we forget our place; we forget that larger fabric on which our lives depend."
It has been a long road for the black-footed ferret, a road that is, no doubt, unfinished.
It's hard to know what the consequence of extinction might be, but it's probably safe to say it would be one more gash in the armor of wildness we all used to possess, another link lost from the chain.
But sometimes extinction isn't infinite or eternal, and sometimes, if you're very lucky, you get a second chance to understand that larger fabric.
Timeline
1851: First black-footed ferret reported by John James Audubon. No one will report seeing another for 26 years.
1964: A female ferret and kits are found in western South Dakota. They are considered perhaps the last black-footed ferrets in the world.
1967: The black-footed ferret is put on the Endangered Species List.
1972: A drowned ferret is discovered in a watering tank in Wyoming. No others are found. Nine from South Dakota are captured and taken to Patuxent Wildlife Research Center.
1973: Endangered Species Act passes.
1979: The last Patuxent ferret dies; the black-footed ferret is declared extinct.
1981: A Wyoming ranch dogs kills a black-footed ferret on Sept. 25. One month later, a live ferret is spotted near Meeteetse.
1984: The Meeteetse population is 129.
1985: Sylvatic plague and canine distemper nearly wipe out the Meeteetse population.
1987: The last known ferret is captured in Meeteetse in February. Captive breeding programs are ongoing.
1991: Shirley Basin is the first reintroduction site for the black-footed ferret with a release of 49 juveniles.
1992: Two litters of wild-born kits are reported in the Shirley Basin.
1994: An outbreak of plague spreads through the Shirley Basin, wiping out part of the 228 ferrets that had been released there. Further reintroductions are postponed.
1997: Officials stop counting ferrets in the basin after finding only five.
2006: 193 ferrets are recorded in the Shirley Basin.
Source: www.blackfootedferret.org
Ferret facts
Black-Footed Ferret, Mustela nigripes
Head and body: 15-18 inches
Tail: 5-6 inches
Appearance: Yellowish-brown to buff body, black forehead, black-tipped tail and black feet.
Habitat: Prairies
Lifespan: About three years in the wild
Other information: Usually found in prairie dog towns. Feed on prairie dogs but will eat other animals. Diminished numbers are due to loss in habitat, among other things. Kits are born in June and reach adult stage by August.
Source: The Peterson Field Guide Series
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