Autumn on Kodiak Island is a beautiful time of year, but I’ll be honest, it is not my favorite season.
Once the fuchsia petals have fallen from the fireweed, the leaves turn crimson, and the mountainsides are cloaked in a Christmas quilt of dark green and brilliant red. The cottonwood, alder, and birch leaves fade to yellow, and the abundant sedges along the shoreline gleam golden against the orange rock weed. High-bush cranberry leaves turn scarlet, and the fragrant scent of the sweet berries wafts on the breeze, mixed with the pungent odor of decaying salmon.
On a sunny day, autumn on Kodiak is breathtaking, especially if you view it while skimming the mountains in a plane. Unfortunately, there are not many sunny, calm days during a Kodiak autumn. Low-pressure systems pile one upon the next and roll across the Bering Sea and the Alaska Peninsula, slamming into Kodiak Island. One such storm in late August surprised us with 60 mph winds, and when the mooring for our 43-ft. cabin cruiser broke, we were forced to jump in our skiff and chase after and retrieve it in rough seas.
Our summer trips last into late September, because the bear viewing is very good then. Some years we are lucky, but other years, we are hit with gale-force winds and torrential rains. I enjoy guiding wildlife viewers and fishermen during our summer trips, but by the time the season ends, I usually am exhausted from battling the weather and dealing with boats on windy days. If September is bad, October is worse. October is one of the rainiest months on Kodiak Island, and between rain and wind, the leaves often fall before they have a chance to turn yellow, and soon, the mountainsides are brown, the ground slick with wet, rotting vegetation.
Bears are perhaps the best part about fall. As the temperature drops in late August, bears get serious about eating salmon. They concentrate on the many, small salmon streams around the island, and for a short period of time, they tolerate each other, as they work to build their fat layer to prepare for hibernation. It seems as if overnight, they lose their ratty, light-brown summer coats and their even, chestnut fur shines in the sunlight. We see cubs that were tiny and dependent on their mother only three months earlier, catching their first salmon at their mother’s prompting. Older cubs have improved their fishing techniques and have learned to assert themselves with other bears (with mom to back them up, of course).
Another autumn perk for me is watching the young birds learn to fly, especially in our stiff, fall winds. From baby eagles to sea gulls to terns, watching young birds learn to maneuver in the wind always makes me smile. Then there’s the young foxes who’ve left their dens and sit on the beach, curiously watching us as we pass in our boat. By September, they are nearly the same size as an adult, but their coats are shiny, even, and perfect, betraying their youth.
Kodiak Island is wild and untamed and is beautiful any time of the year, and I guess autumn isn’t that bad, if you can get past the weather.
The Munsey kids usually had domestic cats, but they also had many wild pets over the years. Today, Alaska Department of Fish and Game (ADF&G) laws prohibit feeding and taming wild animals, but in the 1960s and 1970s, ADF&G not only allowed people to rescue wild animals, but ADF&G employees, themselves, often rescued animals and brought many of these animals to the Munseys to care for, nurse back to health, and re-release into the wild.
A few of these animals were good pets, but most were not. Mike remembers a baby bald eagle, rescued after falling out of its nest, being a particularly bad pet. Whenever anyone left the house, the eagle would chase them, demanding food. According to family legend, young Bob wore a red coat that the eagle found particularly attractive, so whenever anyone wanted to leave the house, they’d coax Bob to put on his coat and run the opposite direction. The eagle would chase Bob, and the other family members could escape the house unmolested.
Baby seals abandoned by their mothers were cute but often did not survive, and it is likely there was something wrong with the babies to begin with, and that’s why their mothers abandoned them. A few of the seals did make it, though, and I’ve seen 8mm footage of Pat in the water in hip boots, coaxing a baby seal to swim. Pat remembers the mess the seals made when the kids would sneak them up to their rooms.
Two of the favorite pets were birds. Tom Emerson with Fish and Game gave the Munseys a one-legged magpie that he had taught to say, “Maggie,” her name. Herbie was a seagull chick the Munseys raised, and he became very attached to the children. One time, just as Herbie was learning to fly, the Munseys were returning home by boat. Herbie was so excited he took off and flew toward them, but he hadn’t quite perfected the art of landing, and he crashed into the water beside the skiff. The kids scooped him into the boat and dried his feathers.
Red foxes are easy to partially tame with food, and at times, the Munseys had as many as eight foxes in the yard at mealtime. A man in Kodiak gave Park six raccoons, and Park released them at the Amook Pass home. The raccoons would join the foxes for meals, and sometimes the raccoons and foxes would enter the house, where the Munseys’ Siamese cats curiously watched them. As hard as it is to believe, these wild and domestic animals peacefully co-existed as long as there was plenty of food.
The Munseys soon realized that releasing the raccoons had not been a good idea. The raccoons began to breed, and since they are not native to Kodiak Island, ADF&G biologists became alarmed that these invasive predators would climb trees and eat the eggs of endemic birds. ADF&G hired a young woman to stay with the Munseys and shoot every raccoon she saw. Unfortunately, the raccoons were most active at night, when it was too dark to hunt, and how could she shoot these animals the kids considered pets? Eventually, to the relief of wildlife biologists, the raccoons died off and did not become a threat to the resident birds. I should point out that tempting as it may be, biologists now feel it is a bad idea to feed wild animals. The animals need to learn how to procure their own food, and human intervention, no matter how well-meaning, interferes with their survival instincts.
Mike, Bob, and their fellow crewmen rescued the eagle pictured at the top of this post when Mike was a college student, and he and Bob spent their summers working as commercial gill-net fishermen at Greenbanks, a fish site near the mouth of Uyak Bay. They found the eagle floating in the water nearly dead and picked him up and took him to shore. They threw a tarp over him, and the next morning, he was sitting on the tarp. He was tired, weak and looked terrible, but he accepted food and slowly gained back his strength. He devoured the fish the guys tossed to him, but he would back away when they tried to approach too closely. Finally, after two weeks, he flew away without a backward glance. Mike took the photo at the top of this post the day before the eagle departed, and a few years later, the photo graced the cover of Alaska magazine.
It was a magical childhood to grow up in the middle of the Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge, surrounded by wild animals and even having a few of them for pets. I marvel that after all these years living in the wilderness, Mike still smiles when he sees a deer in the yard or a fox on the beach. He has never lost that childhood thrill of seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat.
I love watching our guests relax as they transition from their stress-filled lives into our peaceful, wild world. When they first step off the floatplane, they are often quiet and perhaps even a little wary. They’ve just flown forty-five minutes into the heart of the Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge, and there are no roads or stores here. There’s just a small lodge and a few boats.
We feed them lunch, Mike explains what they will be doing for the next few days, and we tell them to meet us at the dock in twenty minutes for their first-afternoon cruise on our 43-ft. boat. They laugh at the sea otters and harbor seals and snap photos of bald eagles and other wildlife, but most remain quiet, and separate groups keep to themselves.
On the first full day, we go either bear viewing or fishing, and by that evening, I begin to see the first signs of relaxation, as our guests step out of their lives for a few days and into a world that revolves around tides and wild animals. They ask us questions about the wildlife they’ve seen, tell us about their families, and describe other travel adventures they have had. They linger for a few minutes after dinner, discussing the day’s events with their fellow adventures.
By the fourth day, the mood on the boat is often raucous. These strangers, who on day one traded only polite comments, are now teasing each other and sharing photos and e-mail addresses. They sigh the last morning when they step off our boat for the final time. They complain that the week flew by too quickly and vow to return again soon.
We’ve had beautiful weather so far this summer, and we’ve enjoyed great whale watching. At times, we’ve been surrounded by fin whales, and one of the highlights of the summer was when a humpback breached several times right in front of us! Halibut fishing has been very good, and we’ve had some of the best salmon fishing we can remember. Pink salmon swarmed into Brown’s Lagoon in July, and we had non-stop action. Meanwhile, large schools of silver salmon filled the bay. The run was a month early, and it is likely that the early salmon were headed elsewhere and just stopped in Uyak Bay to feast on the large schools of herring and other small fish that have been so abundant this summer. The rich food base of krill and small schooling fish is also undoubtedly why we’ve had so many whales in the bay.
Due to our warm weather, we’ve had another bumper crop of berries this summer, and the bears are torn between catching salmon and feeding on berries. Bears are much more plentiful than they were the first half of last summer, but we are sometimes frustrated as we wait for them to lose interest in berries and concentrate on salmon. The rich and plentiful food source of berries and salmon the last few summers has provided great nutrition for the bears, and we’ve seen numerous groups of sows and cubs this summer.
On the home front, Mary Schwarzhans is again wowing our guests with her creative and delicious meals, and we are thrilled that Mary’s sister, Emma, is also working for us this summer. The two of them make our lives much easier and more pleasant, and our guests tell us that even if we didn’t have spectacular wildlife and fishing here, they would return to Munsey’s Bear Camp just for the food. I suspect that stepping out of their lives and truly relaxing for a few days might be another reason to return.
It has been estimated that marine mammal entanglement results in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of whales, dolphins, porpoises, and seals world-wide each year. Humpback whales, with their long pectoral fins, flexible tail flukes, and acrobatic behavior, are very susceptible to entanglement in fishing gear, crab pot lines, and marine debris. A scar-analysis study on humpback whales in northern Southeast Alaska indicated that nearly 78% of the whales in that population have scars, suggesting that they have recently been entangled in some sort of gear.
Entangled marine mammals may drown if they are not able to get to the surface to breathe, or even if they can get to the surface, they may starve if they can’t feed. Summers in Alaska are when baleen whales ingest enough zooplankton and small fish to sustain them for the rest of the year, so any lengthy period of time away from feeding can be critical. Whales may also suffer physical trauma, develop systemic infections from their wounds, or be hit by a vessel due to the whale’s lack of agility and inability to avoid it. Even if the whale manages to get free from the entangling nets or lines, there may be long-term impacts, such as a reduction in reproductive success.
A few summers ago, we were motoring back to our lodge after a day of bear viewing with a group of summer guests, when friends called on the VHF radio and told us they had spotted a humpback whale that had gotten a crab pot line, with the crab pot still attached, wrapped around its tail. They wanted to take a closer look at the whale, so Mike picked them up in the 19-ft. whaler that we were towing behind us, and I stayed aboard our 43-ft boat with our guests and worried about the dangers involved in approaching a 45-foot, 40-ton mammal. They didn’t want to get too close to the whale and stress him even further, but they wanted to see how badly he was entangled in the lines.
The National Marine Fisheries Services (NMFS) warns all well-meaning, untrained individuals to never approach or attempt to disentangle a large whale on their own, and in fact, it is illegal to attempt to disentangle a whale without the permission of the NMFS. NMFS is part of the National Atmospheric and Oceanic Administration (NOAA), and NOAA has a whale-disentanglement hotline (877-925-7773) that citizens can call to report entangled whales and initiate an “immediate” disentanglement response by trained rescuers. Rescuers throw grapples or use hooks on the ends of poles to attach to the entangling gear. They then attach large buoys, approach the whale to assess it and its entanglements, and use specially-designed knives on the ends of long poles to cut the whale free.
The idea of calling trained individuals to rescue this whale greatly appealed to me, and while it was a Friday evening, the hotline information stated it was a 24/7 hotline. I made the call on the satellite phone, but a recording informed me the office would be closed until Monday. Unfortunately for this humpback, he had become entangled after office hours.
We watched the whale fight its way to the surface to breathe, only to be pulled back under water by the heavy crab pot. After the whale became entangled, he apparently drug the gear into deeper water while he was trying to free himself. Now, the pot kept pulling him beneath the surface. His breathing was labored, and it sounded as if he was gasping for air. Mike and our friends slowly approached him, but the whale continued to thrash and move away from them. Finally, he moved quite a distance away, and they worried they were stressing him, so they left him alone.
We continued back to our lodge, and when we tied up to our mooring, we heard the distressed blow of the whale. He had followed us home, and the good news was that he was now in much shallower water, and the crab pot was resting on the ocean bottom and not continuously dragging him under water.
We watched the whale from a distance off and on all evening, and finally at 10:00 that night, Mike saw him raise his tail in the air several times before swimming away. Without the weight of the crab pot dragging him down, he was able to disentangle himself from the gear.
Humpback Breaching
I hoped that would be the only entangled whale I ever saw, but unfortunately, on July 29th, 2015, we encountered another humpback whale with a crab pot wrapped around its tail. Since it was a Wednesday, I had hope that the whale-disentanglement experts would come to its rescue. We placed the call, and they recorded our information: Latitude and longitude, species and type of entanglement, condition of the whale, and the speed and direction it was moving. We hoped they would be able to mobilize immediately, but we were informed they would not be able to come out until the following day. We were concerned the whale wouldn’t make it that long and hoped that his humpback, like the previous humpback, would drag the pot into shallow water and set himself free.
That evening when we returned home with our guests, the humpback had moved several miles and was now in front of our lodge. We were happy he had made it to shallower water, but when we examined him more closely, we saw that he had wrapped the line several additional times very tightly around his tail. We were dubious he could be disentangled at this point. Before long, he slowly headed back toward deep water, and we feared he wouldn’t last much longer.
The following day, there was no sign of the whale or the buoy attached to the crab pot line. We searched the bay but saw nothing, so we called the disentanglement experts, and they cancelled their rescue mission. We hoped the whale had somehow freed himself, but we feared that wasn’t likely.
I imagined this tale of the entangled tail would have a happy ending like my first tale, and it is possible the whale did free himself and swim away, but I doubt it. At first I was upset with the disentanglement crew. If they had arrived a day earlier, they probably could have freed him. I was upset with us, because we didn’t have the knowledge and skills to help the whale, even if it was legal, and I was irritated at the crab fisherman for having his gear in the way of a whale. The more I thought about it, though, I realized that’s just the way it is when you choose to live in the wilderness so far from town. The members of the disentanglement crew have lives and jobs and can’t just drop everything to fly across the island on a moment’s notice to help a whale. That’s an expensive, complex endeavor that takes some time and planning. Even if we did have the proper equipment, training, and permission, approaching a huge whale is a dangerous task and best orchestrated and performed by those who have had previous experience. Finally, all of us who live and work near the ocean on Kodiak at sometime drop crab pots or deploy fish nets. It was nobody’s fault that this young whale, perhaps out of curiosity or playfulness, decided to approach this crab pot line too closely. It was just bad luck.
Artic terns are our most punctual spring visitors. Their arrival at the rookery near my house occurs somewhere between May 11th and May 13th each year. They can’t afford to be casual, because they are on a tight schedule. These beautiful, little birds that are distant cousins of gulls have one of the longest migrations of any animal. How far they travel is still not certain, but they fly at least from Alaska to Antarctica and back in a year, a distance of 25,000 miles (40,234 km). Only the sooty shearwater has a migration as long, or perhaps even longer, than an arctic tern’s, since they travel between New Zealand and the North Pacific.
Another interesting fact about Arctic terns is that since they spend summers in Alaska during our long days and then fly to Antarctica for the summer there with the corresponding long days, this species spends more hours in daylight than any other animal.
Arctic terns are slim and graceful. They have the largest breeding range of any water bird in Alaska, nesting from Point Barrow in the north to the Southeastern Panhandle. An adult Arctic tern is gray to white in color. Its pointed beak and its legs are red, and it has a black patch over the head and forehead. It has webbed feet, long, gray wings, and a forked tail. Because of their long wings and forked tails, terns are very agile and can make sudden turns and even hover in place. They look much like swallows and are sometimes called “sea swallows.”
Soon after their arrival in Alaska in May, they choose mates and begin nesting. During mating, the male performs a “fish flight,” in which he carries a small fish in his bill and flies low over a female on the ground. If she notices him, she will join him in a high climb and flight. An Arctic tern’s nest is a simple, scraped, shallow depression in the ground with very little or no lining material. The female lays two eggs that are brown or green in color and are lightly speckled. Both parents incubate the eggs, which hatch in approximately 23 days. As soon as they hatch, the chicks quickly leave the exposed nest and hide in nearby vegetation. The parents bring the chicks small fish to eat for the next 25 days, until the chicks fledge.
Less than three months after their arrival, by about mid-August here, terns leave their breeding areas and start their southward migration. It is interesting to watch the interaction between adults and their chicks when the young terns are just learning to fly. Because their webbed feet are small, terns don’t swim well. They hover over water until they spot a small fish and then dive into the water to catch it, but they don’t sit on the water, so young terns must learn to land on solid surfaces, which is tricky. Once a young tern lands, sometimes it is hesitant to take off again, and the adults will dive-bomb it until they force it to leave its safe perch. This behavior may seem harsh to an observer, but the adults must prepare the young Arctic tern for a 12,000-mile flight in the very near future.
Puffins arrive in Uyak Bay in May, and it is a welcome sign of spring to sight the first one. These colorful, almost comical birds are members of the family alcidae, which includes guillemots, auks, auklets, murres, and murrelets. We have both horned and tufted puffins here. The two species sport different head gear, but the most obvious difference between them is that horned puffins have a white breast and a black back, while tufted puffins have a black breast and back. Both species have large, colorful bills. Horned puffins have a small, fleshy dark “horn” above each eye, while tufted puffins have tufts of long feathers on either side of the head. Both males and females have the same markings. One of the most interesting things about puffins is that they shed the outer layers of their bills in the late summer, and their plumage fades to a dusky gray. In late May, we see colorful parrot-like birds, but by early September, their somber plumage and plain bill make them appear to be a totally different species.
In this part of Alaska, puffins arrive at their breeding colonies in May. It is believed that breeding pairs mate for life or at least for a prolonged period of time. They strengthen their bonds during a courtship ceremony that take place in the water. The male lifts his bill straight up and opens and closes his mouth and jerks his head, while the female hunches over and pulls her head and neck close to her body. Next, the two birds face each other, waggle their heads and touch bills repeatedly while opening and closing their mouths.
Puffins prefer to nest underground. They have sharp claws on the toes of their feet, and they are able to scratch out a burrow three to four feet deep into a steep hillside. They use the same burrow every year, and they clean and may even lengthen the burrow each year. At rocky sites with very little or no soil, puffins nest on slopes or cliff faces. Females lay a single whitish-colored egg that is incubated for 42–47 days by both parents. The egg hatches in July, and the parents take turns feeding the chick for the next 45 days.
After the first five days, the chick can keep itself warm, allowing both parents to leave the nest to gather food. The adults catch small fish such as herring, capelin, and sand lance to feed themselves and their chick. They have a raspy tongue that holds each fish against a double row of backward-facing spines on the roof of the mouth, and they often carry as many as ten small fish at a time when they return to the nest. As soon as the chick fledges, the adults leave for the winter. They shed their beaks and head to the open ocean, where they spend the winter feeding. Young puffins will remain at sea until they are two years old, and then they return to the nesting colony for the summer. They are sexually mature at age three.
I can’t help but laugh when I watch a puffin fly, because with their chubby, round bodies, they are poorly built for flight, and they are actually much better at swimming than flying. When a puffin takes off to fly, it appears to run on the water, furiously flapping its wings until it gains a few feet of altitude. Then it flies for a short distance and splashes back into the water. Landing on a cliff is a tricky maneuver for a puffin, and crash landings are not uncommon.
Seeing a brightly-colored puffin in May is a sign to me that spring has arrived, and catching a glimpse of that same drab-colored bird in September is a reminder that winter is on its way.
Spring is an active time for Sitka black-tailed deer, red fox, and mountain goats on Kodiak, especially once the weather warms, the snow on the mountains begins to melt, and the vegetation starts to grow again. All three species give birth in the spring, and while we rarely see nannies with their kids, we will soon start seeing does and fawns, and in a couple of months we’ll see young fox kits as they begin to play outside their dens.
Sitka black-tailed deer bucks begin growing a new set of antlers in the spring, and I’ve seen several with little nubs beginning to grow. During the spring and summer, the antlers receive a rich supply of blood and are covered by a fine membrane called “velvet”. At this time, the antlers are very fragile and are vulnerable to cuts and bruises. By August, antler growth slows, and they begin to harden, and a few weeks later, antler growth stops, blood flow to the antlers ceases, and the velvet dries up and falls off.
Mating season on Kodiak for Sitka black-tailed deer occurs from mid-October to late November. The gestation period is six to seven months, so fawns are born from late May through June. Does begin breeding when they are two and continue to produce fawns until they are ten to twelve years old. Does between the ages of five and ten are in their prime and usually produce two fawns a year.
Newborn fawns weigh between 6.0 and 8.8 lbs. (2.7 to 4.0 kg), and for the first two weeks, a fawn produces no scent, allowing the doe to leave the fawn hidden and safe from predators, while she browses for food to rebuild her energy reserves after giving birth.
Red foxes breed in February and March on Kodiak. Right after mating, the female makes one or more dens, and the extra dens are used if the original is disturbed. The den is a hole in the ground that measures approximately 15 by 20 ft. (4.57m x6.1m) and may have several entrances. Inside the den, the female constructs a grass-lined nest where the babies are born. The litter is born after a gestation period of 51 to 54 days, and an average litter consists of four kits; although, litters as large as ten are not uncommon. Kits weigh 4 ounces (113 grams) at birth. They have fur but are blind, deaf, and toothless. A kit cannot regulate its body temperature when it is born, and the mother must remain with it all times for the first two to three weeks. During this time, the father or adult females bring food to the mother. If the mother dies before the kits are old enough to care for themselves, the father will take over as the primary provider. The kits’ eyes open eight to ten days after birth, and they leave the den for the first time about a month later. Kits begin hunting on their own when they are three months old.
Breeding season for mountain goats occurs between late October and early December on Kodiak. Mountain goats seem to avoid mating with relatives, and billies may travel long distances to find suitable mates. Males breed with several females, but nannies breed with only one male. Nannies do not give birth until they are at least four years old, and billies between the ages of five and ten do most of the breeding. Nannies give birth in late May after a gestation period of 180 days, and they normally have only one kid, but sometimes produce twins. Twinning is more common when goat populations spread into a new habitat with an abundant food supply, and as the goat population on Kodiak has increased and expanded its range, biologists have noticed more twinning than is normal. Nannies seek out an isolated area to give birth but then form nursery groups with other nannies and kids. The kid remains with its mother at least until the next breeding season and may stay with her for several years.
It is always a thrill to see the young of any species of wildlife. Babies are shy but curious as they learn about their surroundings, and often they are unaware of potential dangers. It is important to remember not to approach any wildlife, but especially mothers and their young, too closely. If the mother runs one way and the baby the other, they may never reunite, and the baby is not yet equipped with the knowledge and skills to survive on his own.
This week, I want to talk about krill. Kodiak Island is known for its big animals. We have the largest brown bear, the largest Sitka black-tailed deer, one of the largest red fox subspecies, the largest halibut, and the largest whales, just to name a few examples, but in this post, I’ll discuss some of the most diminutive but extremely important animal species in our marine environment. That’s right, I’m talking about those tiny little zooplankton in the ocean.
Okay, you are yawning, but please keep reading. Euphausiid species, more commonly known as krill, are the food for everything from adult herring and Pollock to marine birds to blue and fin whales, the largest animals on earth; and perhaps more importantly, they are on the menu for the juveniles of most species of fish in the ocean.
I guess if I really wanted to start at the base of the food chain, I’d write about phytoplankton, but to be honest, phytoplankton species, important as they are, even make me yawn. I find zooplankton, and especially krill, much more interesting, because I can see these organisms swimming in the water, and I sometimes see piles of their dead bodies when they wash up on the beach. Unfortunately, I have no photos to show you, and I’m not artistic enough to draw a sketch, but picture a very small shrimp. Unlike shrimp, though, the gills of krill are exposed and hang below the carapace, and the exoskeletons are translucent, allowing a view of the internal organs.
Krill reproduce and grow in response to blooms of phytoplankton and warming water temperatures. When phytoplankton bloom in the spring, producing a food supply, euphausiids populations swell in response, subsequently providing food for nearly everything else in the ocean environment. We see schools of herring consuming krill, and sea gulls and other marine birds frantically diving into the ocean to pluck out the small organisms. Since krill are heavier than water, they must continually swim to keep from sinking. They form dense swarms that may look like balls or extensive layers that may be several meters thick. Baleen whales focus on these swarms, often gulping several hundred kilograms of krill at a time.
I’m sure you get the idea that krill, as well as other zooplankton, are a vital food source, either directly or indirectly, for most animals in the marine environment. Here on Kodiak, I think of krill as a sign of spring, because when their populations swell, the ocean is suddenly alive with the activity of diving birds, huge schools of herring, and whales spouting. Euphausiids, though, are very sensitive to changing environmental conditions, and if their populations fail, the rest of the marine ecosystem could, and undoubtedly would, follow. Small and unexciting as they may be, we need to understand zooplankton population structures and their physical and chemical needs and monitor the health of these populations in our oceans.
Without phytoplankton and zooplankton, the oceans would just be water. Those tiny organisms don’t seem as boring anymore, do they?
Three orphaned cubs unexpectedly entered our lives two weeks ago. You may remember in my post on Kodiak bears emerging from their dens in the spring, I mentioned that sows with newborn cubs are the last to emerge, and often the sow will leave and return to the den many times before she introduces her babies to the world. Unfortunately, this behavior was fatal for one sow this spring.
Let me make it clear that bear hunting on Kodiak is very tightly regulated by a limited-permit system. It is illegal to shoot a sow with cubs, but when hunters saw this sow alone outside her den they shot her, perhaps never realizing she had cubs in the den. The incident is being investigated by the Alaska State Troopers, and I won’t speculate on what may or may not have happened. That part of the story is out of our hands.
Our guides already suspected this bear was a sow with young cubs in the den, and after she was shot, they kept a close eye on the den. A few days later, Tim, one of our guides, saw tiny, furry heads peering out of the den. My husband, Mike, called the Alaska Department of Fish and Game in Kodiak, and they gave us permission to rescue the cubs from the den. At that point, it had been five days since their mother died, and the biologists did not believe the cubs would survive.
Two of our guides climbed up to the den, caught the cubs, and carried them down the mountain in backpacks. They then transported the cubs back to our lodge for the night. The three brothers were dirty, terrified, and stressed, and they huddled under the bunk beds in our guides’ cabin. They drank some water, but I knew we were not getting enough nutrients into their little bodies. We later learned that the cubs each weighed about 12 pounds (5.5 kg), and they were dehydrated and malnourished.
The next morning, I stayed alone with the cubs, waiting nervously for Fish and Game to arrive to take them to Kodiak. I soon learned, though, that it was foggy in Kodiak, and all planes were grounded until the fog lifted. Every hour, I crept into the cabin and peered under the bed, making sure they were still moving and alert. They drank some water, but I finally decided that my attempts to feed them were causing them too much stress, and since the airplane ride undoubtedly would terrify them, I wanted them as calm as possible before they began the next leg of their ordeal.
At 3:00 in the afternoon, the floatplane touched down and glided to our dock. I raced to meet Fish and Game biologist Nate Svoboda and eagerly showed him where the bears were hiding. Nate was impressed the bears looked as good as they did, and he carefully placed them in a large kennel for the trip to Kodiak.
Once in Kodiak, the cubs spent the night at Fish and Game and then took another plane ride to Anchorage, where the vets at the Alaska Zoo are now caring for them. A video recently released by the zoo shows the three brothers playing and cuddling. They are now clean and fluffy and appear to be very healthy. After spending several months in Anchorage, the cubs will board yet another plane. Two will go to a zoo in Wisconsin, and the third to another zoo.
I experienced a roller coaster of emotions during this drama: Anger, depression, excitement, worry, and fear among others, but as I watched the video from the Alaska Zoo and saw three, healthy, playful cubs, I finally allowed myself to smile and breathe a sigh of relief. The three bears will never know a life in the Kodiak wilderness, but they are alive, and their jobs now are to teach others about Kodiak bears. Maybe someday I will be able to visit them at their new homes.
Experts will tell you that the mating season for Kodiak bears occurs from mid-May to mid-July, but we have seen bears mate in April; and in fact, this year my husband spotted a boar and sow together on April 24th, and my brother-in-law saw two bears mating on April 21st. The peak of the mating season occurs in June.
Brown bears are considered serially monogamous. A female may stay with a male for several days or weeks, mating many times, and once he leaves, she will be pursued by her next suitor. Over the course of the mating season, she will have several sexual partners. Sometimes a male chases away a sow’s present mate, and then she will mate with the newcomer, or the two bears may fight, and she will mate with the victor.
Often when a boar first approaches a sow, she appears to be frightened and runs from him. The boar may then methodically pursue the sow at a measured pace, following the scent of her trail. At times, a boar seems to use little “common sense” when following the trail of a sow. We watched one male slowly follow the female’s scent, but when she doubled back and passed within sight of the boar; instead of moving toward her, he continued to follow her scent, until he too doubled back on her trail.
Once the boar catches up with the sow, she may refuse to let him breed with her for several days. As foreplay, they sometimes rub, cuff, or even bite each other. The breeding process may last forty-five minutes or longer, with the male taking breaks and sometimes falling asleep during the process.
Ovulation in bears is not spontaneous as it is in humans but is induced by mechanical stimulation by the male. The boar has a penis bone, or baculum, that stimulates the female to ovulate. The stimulation must last for quite some time to induce ovulation, so the mating session must be fairly long to be successful. Each ovulation produces only one egg, so bear cubs are fraternal and not identical, and cubs from the same litter may have different fathers.
Another autumn perk for me is watching the young birds learn to fly, especially in our stiff, fall winds. From baby eagles to sea gulls to terns, watching young birds learn to maneuver in the wind always makes me smile. Then there’s the young foxes who’ve left their dens and sit on the beach, curiously watching us as we pass in our boat. By September, they are nearly the same size as an adult, but their coats are shiny, even, and perfect, betraying their youth.
