It’s always exciting (and not in a good way) when a bear wakes up from anesthesia…and is not contained. Granted the drugs we use do not allow for spontaneous recovery, but when the person with the drugs is nowhere to be found or downright stupid, then we have a problem. Last week, a six hundred pound grizzly bear lifted his head and growled at the people working on him. Not to worry, he was groggy and we bumped him with more sedative. Everything was fine. But I was reminded of an incident that happened many years ago that didn’t go quite so smoothly.
My superiors—I use that term loosely—were transporting two grizzly cubs that weighed roughly one hundred pounds each to a local vet hospital. The cubs were fine, just getting a checkup. They were sedated in large dog crates in the back of a truck. I followed behind in my BRAND NEW Subaru Outback.
Let me be clear from the get go. I was new to this whole thing and therefore NOT in charge of drugging. Some dumbass guy, who will now be referred to as Dumbass, was.
When the first bear was done with her checkup, Dumbass, two other women and I wheeled her, on a gurney, to the parking lot where the dog crate awaited.
And then a strange thing happened…
The bear woke up.
The two women and I jumped on the bear and held her down, thinking Dumbass would bump her with some more drug. But nooooo, Dumbass panicked. He couldn’t get it together enough to find the drugs let alone administer them.
So what did we do?
That’s right, the three ladies shoved a very awake, very pissed off grizzly bear into a dog crate. But we couldn’t get the door shut…because the bear tore it off the crate. So we held the door over the opening, trying not to get bitten.
As if that weren’t enough, Dumbass couldn’t find the keys to the truck.
So what did we do?
You guessed it. We shoved an awake and barely contained grizzly bear into my BRAND NEW Subaru! The two women and Dumbass sat in the back, trying to keep the bear contained, while I raced through 25mph speed zones at 60mph to get to the holding facility. And what does Dumbass say?
“Slow down. You’re going to get pulled over.”
“Bring on the police,” I yelled and stepped on the gas. “They can help us unload this thing.”
Monday, December 26, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Here Kitty, Kitty...
Last week, I went into the field with Cougar Hunter and two other men—Rookie, who’s new to wildlife biology, and THE HOUNDSMAN, who is the greatest houndsman with the greatest hounds—to catch cougars. With no snow—and hence no snowshoes, no snowmobiles, and a snowball’s chance in hell of catching a cat—I thought for sure I wasn’t going to have a story to share.
But then Cougar Hunter spotted a cat track in the frost and THE HOUNDSMAN’s dogs were on the move. Their chances of finding the cat were slim. Tracking a cat with no snow on the ground is tough.
But these dogs proved tougher.
After a couple hours of searching, losing the trail and backtracking, they bayed their “We’ve treed a cougar” bay.
We raced toward the dogs, and when we got them in sight, we realized they had not treed a cougar. They’d cornered it in a culvert. Alas, a cougar in a culvert is not a good thing. So Cougar Hunter decided to chase her out and see if the dogs could tree her. But the cat didn’t run up a tree. It ran into another culvert.
So what did we do?
Duh, we peeked inside.
Okay, not too bright. Even less bright? To position the cat so Cougar Hunter could dart it, Rookie and I stood on one end of the culvert, hoping she’d back away from us toward Cougar Hunter and THE HOUNDSMAN who stood on the other side. Instead, she came at us. Rookie and I screamed like little girls and got out of the way fast.
“What are you doing?” yelled THE HOUNDSMAN.
“She came at us!” we yelled.
"Go back and make sure she doesn’t run out of the culvert!” ordered THE HOUNDSMAN.
Feeling sufficiently reprimanded for not being tough enough, I said, “Uh…okay.” Then Rookie and I tiptoed back to the opening and peeked inside, hoping we wouldn’t get our faces ripped off.
When we looked into the culvert, the cat turned around to face Cougar Hunter and THE HOUNDSMAN.
Then she charged them and…
…they screamed and got the hell out of her way.
But then Cougar Hunter spotted a cat track in the frost and THE HOUNDSMAN’s dogs were on the move. Their chances of finding the cat were slim. Tracking a cat with no snow on the ground is tough.
But these dogs proved tougher.
After a couple hours of searching, losing the trail and backtracking, they bayed their “We’ve treed a cougar” bay.
We raced toward the dogs, and when we got them in sight, we realized they had not treed a cougar. They’d cornered it in a culvert. Alas, a cougar in a culvert is not a good thing. So Cougar Hunter decided to chase her out and see if the dogs could tree her. But the cat didn’t run up a tree. It ran into another culvert.
So what did we do?
Duh, we peeked inside.
Okay, not too bright. Even less bright? To position the cat so Cougar Hunter could dart it, Rookie and I stood on one end of the culvert, hoping she’d back away from us toward Cougar Hunter and THE HOUNDSMAN who stood on the other side. Instead, she came at us. Rookie and I screamed like little girls and got out of the way fast.
“What are you doing?” yelled THE HOUNDSMAN.
“She came at us!” we yelled.
"Go back and make sure she doesn’t run out of the culvert!” ordered THE HOUNDSMAN.
Feeling sufficiently reprimanded for not being tough enough, I said, “Uh…okay.” Then Rookie and I tiptoed back to the opening and peeked inside, hoping we wouldn’t get our faces ripped off.
When we looked into the culvert, the cat turned around to face Cougar Hunter and THE HOUNDSMAN.
Then she charged them and…
…they screamed and got the hell out of her way.
Monday, December 12, 2011
I Hate Snowmobiles just as much as I Hate Snowshoes…
And when the snowmobile is government owned…You know I’m in trouble. Put that snowmobile in the back of a government truck… Well, shit, bad things happen.
Many years ago, I had spent a winter working in remote areas, accessible only by snowmobiles. Day in and day out, I would unload the government snowmobile from the back of the government truck, slog through the snow for hours upon hours and then load the snow machine back on the truck.
I had done this MANY TIMES.
Then one day, I wrecked two government vehicles in one shot.
I was loading the snowmobile onto the bed of the truck—as I had done many times before—but instead of the sled sliding into the bed, it rocketed up the ramp and launched over the bed and across the top of the cab—putting a nice dent in the cab. Then the snowmobile flipped over…with me still on it.
I don’t know how, but I landed on my feet. And with the sled crashing down on my back, I somehow managed to jump out of the way.
From that day on, I swore I would never drive a snowmobile again…
…so for the next two weeks, I will most likely be on a snowmobile or worse yet, hiking with snowshoes...chasing cougars with Cougar Hunter.
Stay tuned…bad things are sure to happen.
Many years ago, I had spent a winter working in remote areas, accessible only by snowmobiles. Day in and day out, I would unload the government snowmobile from the back of the government truck, slog through the snow for hours upon hours and then load the snow machine back on the truck.
I had done this MANY TIMES.
Then one day, I wrecked two government vehicles in one shot.
I was loading the snowmobile onto the bed of the truck—as I had done many times before—but instead of the sled sliding into the bed, it rocketed up the ramp and launched over the bed and across the top of the cab—putting a nice dent in the cab. Then the snowmobile flipped over…with me still on it.
I don’t know how, but I landed on my feet. And with the sled crashing down on my back, I somehow managed to jump out of the way.
From that day on, I swore I would never drive a snowmobile again…
…so for the next two weeks, I will most likely be on a snowmobile or worse yet, hiking with snowshoes...chasing cougars with Cougar Hunter.
Stay tuned…bad things are sure to happen.
Monday, December 5, 2011
A Week in the Life of Cougar Hunter.
I haven’t been in the field much this year, but thankfully, I have friends that are in the same business. And they too do stupid shit...and tell me about it.
Cougar Hunter spent the last few months as a desk jockey, then found himself in the field chasing bears. His week looked something like this:
Day 1: While following a signal for a radio-collared bear, he stabbed himself in the leg not once, not twice, but five times before he realized it was a needle in his pocket and not a thorny bush. Despite his ineptitude, he found the radio collar he was looking for. Unfortunately, it was no longer on a bear.
Day 2: He found another radio collar. This one was on a bear that was in a den! Too bad Cougar Hunter left his drugs and equipment in the truck. When he got back to the den, the bear was gone.
Day 3: Bear from day 2 outsmarted Cougar Hunter by crossing into private land. Land Cougar Hunter did not have permission to go onto, so Cougar Hunter followed a radio signal to another collar…that was no longer on a bear.
Day 4: Cougar Hunter was outsmarted, yet again, by the bear from day 2.
Day 4…a little later: Cougar Hunter went home to get ready to chase Cougars. Bears are way too smart for him;-)
Cougar Hunter spent the last few months as a desk jockey, then found himself in the field chasing bears. His week looked something like this:
Day 1: While following a signal for a radio-collared bear, he stabbed himself in the leg not once, not twice, but five times before he realized it was a needle in his pocket and not a thorny bush. Despite his ineptitude, he found the radio collar he was looking for. Unfortunately, it was no longer on a bear.
Day 2: He found another radio collar. This one was on a bear that was in a den! Too bad Cougar Hunter left his drugs and equipment in the truck. When he got back to the den, the bear was gone.
Day 3: Bear from day 2 outsmarted Cougar Hunter by crossing into private land. Land Cougar Hunter did not have permission to go onto, so Cougar Hunter followed a radio signal to another collar…that was no longer on a bear.
Day 4: Cougar Hunter was outsmarted, yet again, by the bear from day 2.
Day 4…a little later: Cougar Hunter went home to get ready to chase Cougars. Bears are way too smart for him;-)
Monday, November 28, 2011
Government Vehicles and I don’t get along…
Almost as much as me and snowshoes.
I have had a long string of “accidents” while driving government vehicles. My inability to drive a government vehicle without wrecking it began when I was fighting wildfires. On one particular dispatch, little did I know, the fire wasn’t going to be the dangerous part of the job, getting to the fire was.
I had been driving for eight hours—because I was young and stupid and didn’t know how to boss boys around yet—and not one of the five boys riding in my rig was awake, which pissed me off. My truck was the last in line of a four vehicle caravan. We were in the left lane, passing a car, when suddenly the car sped up, cut off the first vehicle in our caravan, then slammed on its brakes and cut across the median. By the time my foot hit the brake pedal, the front of my truck was eating the back of the van in front of me.
On the plus side?
Every dumb boy in my truck was wide awake...and I didn't have to drive anymore.
I have had a long string of “accidents” while driving government vehicles. My inability to drive a government vehicle without wrecking it began when I was fighting wildfires. On one particular dispatch, little did I know, the fire wasn’t going to be the dangerous part of the job, getting to the fire was.
I had been driving for eight hours—because I was young and stupid and didn’t know how to boss boys around yet—and not one of the five boys riding in my rig was awake, which pissed me off. My truck was the last in line of a four vehicle caravan. We were in the left lane, passing a car, when suddenly the car sped up, cut off the first vehicle in our caravan, then slammed on its brakes and cut across the median. By the time my foot hit the brake pedal, the front of my truck was eating the back of the van in front of me.
On the plus side?
Every dumb boy in my truck was wide awake...and I didn't have to drive anymore.
Monday, November 21, 2011
BIOLOGISTS WHO STUDY ANIMALS THAT CAN EAT THEM REALLY SHOULD BE SMARTER THAN THE AVERAGE BEAR.
But many times, we're not. We just get lucky.
A friend of mine recently told me a story about one of his less than stellar moments. In this story he was trying to collar a cougar, therefore I have dubbed him Cougar Hunter.
After Cougar Hunter had successfully treed (meaning hounds had chased the cougar until the cougar climbed a tree) the cougar and darted it, he proceeded to climb the tree so he could pull the soon to be sleeping cat to the ground. But the cat didn’t fall asleep. It climbed higher. And so did Cougar Hunter. Which made the cat climb higher yet. Before Cougar Hunter knew it, he and the cat were 75 feet up an 85-foot-high tree…swaying in the wind.
Not too bright.
To make matters worse, the cat never fell asleep and Cougar Hunter had to abort his mission. But he learned a valuable lesson: Before climbing a tree after an animal that can eat you, check the dart with binoculars to ensure the drug actually administered.
A friend of mine recently told me a story about one of his less than stellar moments. In this story he was trying to collar a cougar, therefore I have dubbed him Cougar Hunter.
After Cougar Hunter had successfully treed (meaning hounds had chased the cougar until the cougar climbed a tree) the cougar and darted it, he proceeded to climb the tree so he could pull the soon to be sleeping cat to the ground. But the cat didn’t fall asleep. It climbed higher. And so did Cougar Hunter. Which made the cat climb higher yet. Before Cougar Hunter knew it, he and the cat were 75 feet up an 85-foot-high tree…swaying in the wind.
Not too bright.
To make matters worse, the cat never fell asleep and Cougar Hunter had to abort his mission. But he learned a valuable lesson: Before climbing a tree after an animal that can eat you, check the dart with binoculars to ensure the drug actually administered.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Two Wildlife Biologists go Mountain Biking in the Woods and…
…prove they’re not so bright. And yes, one of those bikers/biologists was me.
A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine—who will from now on be referred to as Wordsmith—and I went mountain biking in the snow. About two miles into the ride, we heard a woodpecker and stopped to identify it. Our brilliant conversation went something like this.
“Do you see it?” asked Wordsmith.
“No. Do you?”
“It’s right there?” He pointed.
“Oh, yeah, I see it now.”
“What kind is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Oh wait, it’s a … uh…pela…pelaginous… Damn what are those things called?” said Wordsmith.
“Pelaginous?" I wrinkled my nose at him. "What the hell are you talking about?”
For those of you who don’t know, there is no such thing as a pelaginous bird, but there are pelagic birds. They’re sea birds. Any sea bird. Woodpeckers are not sea birds, therefore they are not pelagic or pelaginous.
“Do you mean a downy?” I asked, trying to get us back to woodpeckers? “Oh wait, I know what you mean. You’re thinking of a…uh…pileated!”
“Yes! It’s a pileated woodpecker.”
I snort with disgust at his stupidity. “That’s not a pileated. My parents have them in their backyard. Pileated woodpeckers are much bigger than that.”
The next morning, I looked up the stupid bird. Sure enough it was a pileated woodpecker. Even worse, Wordsmith had looked it up the night before and knew I was wrong. But he is much nicer than I am and didn’t feel the need to rub my nose in it. Instead, he let me live in my own little world—one in which I’m much smarter than I really am.
A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine—who will from now on be referred to as Wordsmith—and I went mountain biking in the snow. About two miles into the ride, we heard a woodpecker and stopped to identify it. Our brilliant conversation went something like this.
“Do you see it?” asked Wordsmith.
“No. Do you?”
“It’s right there?” He pointed.
“Oh, yeah, I see it now.”
“What kind is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Oh wait, it’s a … uh…pela…pelaginous… Damn what are those things called?” said Wordsmith.
“Pelaginous?" I wrinkled my nose at him. "What the hell are you talking about?”
For those of you who don’t know, there is no such thing as a pelaginous bird, but there are pelagic birds. They’re sea birds. Any sea bird. Woodpeckers are not sea birds, therefore they are not pelagic or pelaginous.
“Do you mean a downy?” I asked, trying to get us back to woodpeckers? “Oh wait, I know what you mean. You’re thinking of a…uh…pileated!”
“Yes! It’s a pileated woodpecker.”
I snort with disgust at his stupidity. “That’s not a pileated. My parents have them in their backyard. Pileated woodpeckers are much bigger than that.”
The next morning, I looked up the stupid bird. Sure enough it was a pileated woodpecker. Even worse, Wordsmith had looked it up the night before and knew I was wrong. But he is much nicer than I am and didn’t feel the need to rub my nose in it. Instead, he let me live in my own little world—one in which I’m much smarter than I really am.
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