Killer Koalas

Okay, so they’re not that bad. Actually, they’re quite cute, but sometimes, the males can be real assholes. I was working at a zoo and feeding one such male. As I was feeding him, he climbed out of his tree and came after me. I looked at him and thought, “Are you kidding me? I’ve worked with grizzlies and porcupines and killer caribou! You don’t scare me!” But as he kept waddling after me (koalas are not fast), I wondered what I would do if it decided to climb up my leg and take a bite out of my thigh.

My first instinct was to kick the little sucker. But I quickly realized, I’d get myself in trouble. I imagined the koala flying through the air like a football and smacking against the wall. Then I envisioned myself trying to explain to the koala keepers why one of their beloved koalas was lying broken on the floor. Not wanting to deal with the wrath of the keepers, I changed my tactic.

I ran.

Out of the Frying Pan? I don’t Think so.

One day, years ago, I had to enter a several acre pen to water four caribou—three males and one female. Though the males were quite affectionate, the female had put two adult men in the hospital…and she was not fond of me.

Awesome.

When I got to the pen, the caribou were nowhere in sight. My plan was to slip in, walk down the fence line to fill the water then walk back and slip out. Everything went according to plan. That is, until I got about twenty feet from the gate on my way back from watering. The female had spotted me and she was pissed. She charged me, pinning me against the chain link fence with her antlers. With little else to do, I grabbed them and tried to push her head to the side.

Not too bright.

She reared up and struck out at me with her hooves, missing, but scaring the bejeezus out of me. Thinking I could climb the fence to escape, I looked behind me only to realize I’d climb out of the caribou pen and into a pen with a bull moose. He was standing directly behind me, wondering what all the fuss was about. He definitely would’ve put me in the hospital, if not the morgue.

Just as I thought I was toast, the three male caribou came to my rescue. Two of them chased the female away, while one escorted me safely to the gate.

Think you could do better than me? Then ask yourself this: What would you do if a cute and cuddly Koala chased you down? Or better yet, how would you handle being surrounded by a herd of wild, salt-starved bighorn sheep?

Another Chase Story.

I used to have a captive colony of porcupines. One day we brought in a new guy. His name was Arty and he was scared. Every day for two weeks, I’d try to coax him out of his little hut with an apple or carrot, but he wouldn’t budge. One day, I walked through his enclosure toward another porcupine’s habitat, apples and carrots in hand. As I walked down the hill, I heard a quick thump-thump-thump-thump behind me.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

The noise got louder and faster, and my brain slowly processed what was happening. I turned around to be sure. Just as I thought, Arty, the timid little porcupine, was chasing me down.

What did I do?

I ran. Apples and carrots in hand, I ran down the hill, chancing a quick glance over my shoulder. Arty was gaining ground. I dodged left and ran back up the hill, hurdling a log blocking the path. Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I stopped. I had no idea why this porcupine was chasing me or what he thought he’d do, but I felt silly running from him. I turned in time to see him run up the log and launch himself off the end. I jumped back from the shock of seeing a porcupine soaring through air toward my head, an apple falling from my grasp. When Arty landed at my feet, he crawled after the apple, picked it up and started eating.

From that day on, Arty has been a friendly porcupine.

And I have felt like a complete idiot for running from him.

My Second Wolf

I saw my second wolf a couple weeks after I saw my first. It was seven in the morning and I was banding songbirds. I was standing at the back of the work truck with a bird in each hand, when my tech glanced behind us.

“Holy crap, look at that,” he whispered.

A gorgeous wolf, the kind you see in photos, stood not more than twenty feet away, watching us. Who knows how long it had been there, but when we spotted him, he stayed for a couple seconds then meandered to the stream.

What did we do?

Duh. We ran after it. My tech with his camera. Me with a songbird in each hand.

Idiot.

My, What Big Teeth You Have.

I saw my first wild wolf three years ago. One of my techs and I were driving down a meandering mountain highway with virtually no shoulder. We came around a corner and a mangy gray thing jumped in front of our truck then disappeared over the side of the road. It took me a second to process what I’d seen. The animal was so skinny and scraggly. I didn’t believe it was a wolf until my tech said, “Was that a wolf? It had on a radio collar.”

“I think it was,” I said, still uncertain.

So what did we do?

We parked the truck in the middle of the highway, got out and ran after it. We spotted it down the hill, moving slowly, stopping to look back at us every so often.

It was definitely a wolf and it was so COOL!

Now, most people probably think it’s stupid or even dangerous to run after a wolf, but wolves are NOT what the media makes them out to be. It’s WAY more stupid and dangerous to park a truck around a blind corner in the middle of a highway.

Sometimes I make stupid decisions. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I have no idea.

Wildlife biologists do a lot of stupid shit in the name of conservation. I had the opportunity to go into a bear den this week, but declined for many reasons. You tell me. Did I make the right decision?

Had I gone, this is what my weekend would’ve looked like:

Day 1: Ten-hour drive by myself to the field site. Meet up with the crew.

Day 2: One-hour drive. One-hour snowmobile ride (I hate snowmobiles as much as I hate snowshoes). Three-hour snowshoe. Roughly two hours of (really freak'n cool) work. Three-hour snowshoe. One-hour snowmobile ride. One-hour drive.

Day 3: Ten-hour drive home…

And one GIANT carbon footprint for the so-called wildlife/conservation biologist.

Training Days: I Hate Snowshoes

The first time I wore snowshoes, I was working at night, in the dark, with “Not So Much.” We hiked up a snowy mountain road, Not So Much a good nine to ten minutes ahead of me. I chased after him for hours, occasionally catching him, but only because he’d stopped to hoot for owls.

When we finally got to the top of our route, Not So Much said, “It’s all downhill from here.”

"So soon?" I huffed and puffed, too tired to take another step, but knew I had to somehow make it back to the truck.

“Let’s take a shortcut." He cracked a knowing smile.

Little did I know, taking a shortcut meant hiking straight down the mountainside, through brush and trees. Usually, not so bad. But when your feet are three times wider and longer than normal, you tend to get them caught up on a lot of stuff. And then you tend to face plant. In the snow. A lot.

After tangling myself in a bush for what felt like the thousandth time, I screamed, “I hate snowshoes!”

I can’t say it was the first time I’d seen Not So Much laugh--after all, it was dark and he was far ahead of me--but it was the first time I’d heard him.