Two species of puffins live in Alaskan waters. The horned puffin (Fratercula corniculata) and the tufted puffin (Fratercula cirrhata) belong to the family Alcidae, which also includes guillemots, murres, murrelets, auklets, and auks.
There is no sexual dimorphism between male and female puffins; both sexes are the same color and size. They have stout bodies, short wings, and orange, webbed feet which are located far back on their bodies. From a distance in the spring and summer, the most obvious difference between the two species is that horned puffins have white breasts, while tufted puffins have black breasts and bodies. A horned puffin has a black back and neck and is white on the sides of the head and the breast. Its bright-yellow, oversized beak has a red tip. Its common name is derived from the small, fleshy, dark horn above each eye that is present in the spring and summer. Horned puffins resemble Atlantic (or common) puffins, to which they are closely related, but horned puffins are larger than Atlantic puffins, have slightly different-colored beaks, and have horns, which are lacking in Atlantic puffins. In addition to its black body, a tufted puffin has a white face and a red and yellow bill. Its common name is derived from the long tufts of yellow feathers that curl back from behind the eye on each side of the head. Both adult horned and tufted puffins are about 14 inches (36 cm) long, but tufted puffins are heavier, weighing 1.7 lbs. (771 g), while horned puffins weigh approximately 1.4 lbs. (635 g).
Horned Puffin
At the end of the summer, after adults leave their nests, their plumage fades. The white face patches become smoky-brown in front and silver-gray in back, and the body of the horned puffin fades to blackish-gray above and brownish-gray below, while the body of the tufted puffin fades to a dusky gray. The bills of both species fade and the outer plate sheds, leaving them with a much smaller, duller bill. Their feet fade to a fleshy color, and horned puffins shed their horns, while tufted puffins shed their tufts. In the winter, when puffins are on their wintering grounds offshore in the North Pacific, they undergo a complete molt and are flightless for a period.
Puffins are well-suited to life in the ocean. Their feathers are waterproof, and their short, stiff wings are built more for swimming than for flying. They have strong bones to help them withstand the increased pressure of underwater dives; they can store oxygen in their body tissues, and they use anaerobic respiration to allow them to make long dives.
Tufted puffins nest on the coast and offshore islands from lower California to Alaska and from Japan to the shores of northeastern Asia. In Alaska, tufted puffins nest from Southeast Alaska to the Chukchi Sea coast. Horned puffins range from British Columbia to Alaska and southwest to the Sea of Okhotsk and the Kuril Islands. Their range in Alaska is similar to that of tufted puffins, but horned puffins are more abundant than tufted puffins in the northern part of their ranges.
Puffins are not easy to count because they nest in rock crevices or burrows where they can’t be seen. Also, a few puffin pairs often nest on rookeries dominated by other species, so an observer would have to watch each bird rookery for a long time to know if there were any puffins on the rookery. Population statistics are rough estimates and should not be considered exact counts. The world estimate for horned puffins is 1,088,500 individuals with greater than 85% nesting in North America. It is estimated that there are 608 breeding colonies in Alaska with a population of 921,000 individuals. The world population estimate for tufted puffins is 2,970,000 individuals with greater than 80% nesting in North America. It is estimated that there are 693 breeding colonies for tufted puffins in Alaska with a population of 2,280,000 individuals.
In next week’s post, I will describe puffin mating and nesting behaviors as well as detail more about their biology. As our days here on Kodiak steadily shorten, and we brace for what seems like one winter storm after the next, I enjoy writing about and looking at photos of puffins because they, more than any other bird, make me think of warm summer days.
I hope you are staying warm out there. If you want something to read, sign up for my Free Mystery Newsletter and read about true crime in Alaska. This month I am profiling another serial killer who recently roamed the streets of Anchorage.
The bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) is only found in North America. Its range stretches from northern Mexico to Canada and Alaska and covers all the continental United States. Due to a variety of factors, including the use of the pesticide DDT, bald eagles nearly became extinct in the contiguous United States by the 1950s. The 1940 Bald Eagle Protection Act prohibited commercial trapping and killing of bald and golden eagles, and more significantly, DDT was banned in 1972 when it was proven the pesticide interfered with the eagle’s calcium metabolism, causing either sterility or unhealthy eggs with brittle shells. In 1973, Congress passed the Endangered Species Act, and the bald eagle was listed as an endangered species. In 1995, when eagle populations in the continental U.S. began to rebound, the bald eagle was removed from the endangered species list and transferred to the threatened species list. On June 28, 2007, bald eagles were removed from the List of Endangered and Threatened Wildlife.
While Alaska’s eagles were never threatened by the use of DDT, Alaska has its own nefarious history with bald eagles. In 1917, commercial salmon fishermen convinced the Alaska Territorial Legislature that eagles killed large numbers of salmon and were competing with the fishermen’s livelihoods. This claim was later shown to be false, but the legislature enacted a bounty system on eagles that paid two dollars to anyone who turned in a pair of eagle legs. This bounty system lasted for thirty-six years and led to the killing of a confirmed 120,195 eagles, plus countless others that were never turned in for a bounty. The bounty system ended in 1953, and when Alaska became a state in 1959, its bald eagles were officially protected under the Federal Bald Eagle Protection Act of 1940. Alaska’s eagle population is now considered healthy, and one-half of the world’s 70,000 bald eagles live in Alaska. Twenty-five-hundred bald eagles reside on the Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge.
The genus Haliaeetus, the sea eagles (in Latin, hali means salt and aeetus means eagle), includes eight of the sixty species of eagles. The sea eagles live along sea coasts, lakes, and river shores. The species Haliaeetus leucocephalus (leuco means white and cephalus means head) consists of two subspecies. The southern bald eagle, Haliaeetus leucocephalusleucocephalus, is found from Baja California and Texas to South Carolina and Florida, south of 40 degrees north latitude. The northern bald eagle, Haliaeetus leucocephalusalascanus occurs north of 40 degrees north latitude. Northern bald eagles are larger than their southern cousins
Eagles are well-insulated by their feathers and are good at regulating their body temperature. Unlike many birds, they do not need to migrate to warmer areas each winter, but in many parts of the country they do migrate, sometimes long distances, in response to varying food supplies. Due to its abundant year-round food supply, Kodiak has a non-migratory eagle population. Furthermore, hundreds of eagles from the Alaskan mainland migrate to Kodiak for the winter months. Effluent from canneries and fish processing plants in the town of Kodiak provides a consistent source of food for these birds in the winter months, and hundreds of eagles can be seen in town perched in trees, on cannery rooftops, on the edges of dumpsters, and even on pickup trucks. In Uyak Bay and other remote bays on Kodiak, eagles stay near their nests all winter, feeding on fish and winter-killed deer among other things.
Since the ban on DDT and related pesticides in 1972, bald eagle populations around the country have rebounded to some degree. The bald eagle population in Alaska is healthy and stable and has never been listed as endangered or threatened by the Federal Government. Eagles in Alaska never suffered the scourge of DDT poisoning, and even now in most areas, they live in a relatively contaminant-free environment.
The Bald Eagle Protection Act imposes a fine of $10,000 and two years imprisonment for anyone who harms a bald or golden eagle. It is illegal to even have an eagle feather in your possession without a proper permit. Nevertheless, humans are still responsible for many bald eagle deaths. On Kodiak, Refuge biologists have recovered eagles that have starved to death, been killed by airplanes and cars, caught in traps, and oiled by fish slime or fossil fuels. The Exxon Valdez oil spill killed hundreds of eagles in Alaska. In January 2008, fifty eagles swooped down on a dump truck filled with fish guts outside a Kodiak seafood processing plant. Twenty of the eagles were drowned or crushed, and the rest were so slimed they had to be cleaned. Bait left unattended on a fishing boat can cause a frenzy when eagles land and start fighting over their find. If their feathers become oiled by fish slime, they become less-waterproof, and then if the eagle falls into the water, it is more susceptible to hypothermia.
In 2009, the Kodiak Electric Association (KEA) erected three wind turbines on Pillar Mountain near the town of Kodiak and added an additional three turbines in 2012. Many people worried the turbines would be a danger to eagles since turbines elsewhere in the U.S. kill an estimated 573,000 birds a year. KEA funded a study to address the concerns, and researchers determined that eagles went out of their way to avoid crossing the ridge among the turbines. No eagles were killed during the study, and according to avian biologist, Robin Corcoran, she has never received a report of a dead eagle near the turbines.
Eagles do die from electrocution on Kodiak. Many of the power poles near town are fitted with devices designed to protect eagles, but in January 2011, an eagle was electrocuted when she landed on the lowest of three cross bars on a power pole. That particular crossbar did not have a protective device because utility authorities believed there was not enough room for an eagle to land on it. The dead eagle had been banded years earlier by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, so biologists knew she was 25 years old, the second-oldest bald eagle documented in Alaska, and one of the oldest-documented eagles in the country.
While these manmade disasters are tragic, they are uncommon and do not appear to be a threat to Alaska’s bald eagle population. A greater and less-obvious threat is the destruction of eagle-nesting habitat by logging and commercial and residential development. Eagles tend to nest in large, old trees that are not easily or quickly replaced once they are removed.
Once an eagle attains its adult plumage, it is impossible to determine its age unless it has been leg-banded by biologists. For this reason, we have limited data on the life span of bald eagles. Biologists believe 50-70% of all juvenile bald eagles die in their first year, and as many as 90% die before they are fully mature. Eagles in captivity may live 40 to 50 years. The oldest documented eagle resided in Stephentown, New York and lived to be 48-years old. On average, eagles live 15 to 20 years in the wild, and the oldest documented wild eagle was a 32-year-old bird from Maine. Alaska’s oldest eagle was a 28-year-old from the Chilkat Valley.
Eagles are fascinating birds and have been studied a great deal. Later this winter, I will dedicate more posts to eagle biology. Please leave a comment if you have a question or anything you would like to share about eagles.
Don’t forget to sign up for my free, monthly newsletter if you would like to read about true crime in Alaska.
The Kodiak river otter (Lontra canadensis kodiacensis) is a sub species of the North American river otter and is found only on the Kodiak Archipelago. North American river otters range throughout much of Canada and the United States.
River otters are stocky, with short legs, webbed hind feet, a thick neck, a flattened head, small ears, and a muscular body. A strong tail that is more than one-third as long as the head and body helps propel them through the water when they swim. Adult river otters weigh 15 to 35 lbs. (6.8-15kg) and are 40 to 60 inches (102-152 cm) long. Females are usually about 25% smaller than males. An otter’s fur is black-brown in color on the legs and back fading to a slightly lighter shade on the belly. The chin and throat are gray. The fur consists of a dense undercoat and longer guard hairs. Several sets of strong whiskers sprout from beneath the nose.
A river otter is well adapted for living both on land and in the water. Its thick fur helps keep it warm when swimming in cold water, and its webbed hind feet, narrow body, and flattened head allow for streamlined movement through the water. An otter swims by paddling or vertically flexing its hindquarters and strong tail. It can swim 6 mph (9.7 km/hr) and even faster over short distances by “porpoising.” An otter can dive at least as deep as 60 ft. (18 m) and stay underwater for as long as eight minutes. On land, an otter can run up to 15 mph (24 km/hr).
River otters have well-developed senses of smell and hearing. Their vision on land is not good, but they may see better under water. An otter uses its whiskers to detect prey in murky or dark water, aid in navigation, and to avoid obstructions.
River otters can live in any water habitat, including ponds, marshes, lakes, rivers, estuaries and coastal areas. They can tolerate both cold and warm environments and can live at any elevation as long as the habitat provides an adequate food source. On Kodiak, river otters live in timbered habitat next to the coast. They often travel long distances overland between bodies of water and use the same trails year after year. While more common at sea level, river otters on Kodiak are sometimes found high in the mountains.
River otters reach sexual maturity at age two, and females produce one litter per year. In Alaska, otters breed in the spring, and breeding can take place in or out of the water. A female may give birth to as many as six pups, but two or three are more common. Due to delayed implantation of the fertilized egg in the uterine wall, pups may be born from late January to June after a gestation of nine to thirteen months.
Pups are born in a den, and at birth, they are toothless and blind. They open their eyes when they are seven weeks old, and at two months of age, they begin to leave the den and start to swim and eat solid food. Pups do not innately know how to swim but must be taught by their mother who sometimes has to force and even drag them into the water. Pups are weaned when they are five months old, but they stay with their mother until just before her next litter is born.
River otters are usually found in groups. Often these groups are related individuals, such as a mother and her pups, with or without an adult male. The female is normally the dominate member of such a group and will drive other animals away from the area around her den. Other groups may consist of siblings who have left their mother, a male and female otter, or a group of bachelor males. While otters live together in social units, they do not hunt together or share their catch with other members of their group. River otters may live for more than twenty years, but a lifespan of eight to nine years is more common.
In Alaska, river otters hunt on land and in fresh and salt water. They are opportunistic feeders and eat mussels, clams, sea urchins, snails, crabs, shrimp, octopi, fish, insects, birds, small mammals, and even plants. Otters normally eat their aquatic organisms on shore, and it is not unusual for us to find the remains of a river otter’s breakfast on our dock. If an otter catches a fish or other organism that is too big to eat in one meal, it eats what it can and abandons the rest of the food. River otters have a high metabolism and must eat often.
River otters spend half of their time sleeping. Both adults and pups are playful and like to slide on snow and mud. They wrestle, chase their tails, dunk each other in the water, and play with rocks and sticks. This playful behavior strengthens social bonds and aids pups in learning how to hunt.
River otters communicate with each other in a variety of ways. They use several vocalizations, including whistles, yelps, growls, and screams. When they are alarmed or upset, they emit a loud “hah” sound, and when two or more otters are together, they may mumble to each other as if in conversation. They chirp like a bird to express anxiety, and this sound is often heard when members of a group become separated from each other.[3] Otters also communicate by body posturing and by touch. They use the scent produced by the glands at the base of their tail to mark their territories or to create scent trails to communicate where they have been.
This week I’m hopping across the country to post about a rescued black bear cub in Pennsylvania. One of the many perks of owning a lodge is that I have the opportunity to meet interesting people from around the world, and many of our guests become our friends. A few years ago, Tony and Karin Ross from Pennsylvania joined us for a summer trip, and they have returned to our lodge every year since then. We’ve gotten to know the Rosses well, and we stay in touch throughout the year. Both Tony and Karin work with animals, and Tony is the Northcentral Regional Wildlife Management Supervisor with the Pennsylvania Game Commission. Luckily for all of us, one of Tony’s hobbies is wildlife photography, and as you can see from the photos in this post, he is very good at it.
This spring, Karin e-mailed and said, “Nothing beats your husband bringing home a bear ub!” She went on to tell me that the Pennsylvania Regional Game Commission office received a phone call from a man who said a small cub was sitting at the bottom of a steep rock outcrop next to a stream near his cabin. The cub appeared to be alone, either separated or abandoned by his mother, and the little guy was crying. Tony and his crew drove out to the area where the man had seen the cub, and the man told them that the cub recently had crossed the fast-flowing creek and ran into the forest. A few moments later, one of Tony’s associates noticed something moving in the woods, and when Tony walked into the forest, the cub ran towards him. The cub stopped six-feet from Tony, sat on a log, and looked up at him. Tony tried to kneel down beside the cub to catch it, but the cub warily moved under some bushes.
Since Tony had three people with him, they slowly circled the cub and caught him with a net. They then took the cub back to their office, dried him off, and put him in a pet carrier with a warm blanket. That night, Tony took the 7-lb. cub home, and he and Karin fed him with a syringe filled with sweetened condensed milk mixed with water. The cub consumed four 12-cc syringes over the next 12 hours.
After catching the cub, Tony and his crew set a trap to try to catch the cub’s mother, but they were unsuccessful, so Tony did the next best thing. He released the cub to a black bear sow who had three cubs of her own. I was fascinated that a black bear sow with three cubs would adopt another cub, and how did the biologists introduce the cub to its new family? I’m used to brown bears, and a brown bear mother with three cubs has her paws full. That’s a large family for a brown bear, and it is unlikely she would willingly feed a fourth cub that wasn’t her own. Tony told me that it is fairly common for a black bear mother to have four cubs; some black bear sows have six cubs. He said they have a list of potential foster mothers for these types of situations. The foster mothers are radio-collared females that already have cubs of their own. When biologists need to place a cub, they locate one of their radio-collared sows, and if they feel she can handle another cub, they follow her until she trees her cubs. They then run to the tree, roll the foster cub in the dirt, and send it up the same tree where its foster siblings are. All the while they are doing this, they have to keep track of the mother to make sure she keeps her distance. Once the foster cub is up the tree, the biologists quickly leave the area and hope for the best.
Before a foster cub is released, he is ear tagged, and you can see the ear tag on the foster cub in the photo. Tony said the release of this cub went according to plan, and he said he and his colleagues were happy to see the foster cub climb on and over his new siblings, picking up their odor and making it more likely his new mother would accept him.
Tony told me that each year the Pennsylvania Game Commission places orphaned cubs with foster moms. Sometimes a cub’s mother is hit and killed by a vehicle, and sometimes, cubs are just abandoned by their mothers for some reason. Worst of all, people occasionally take cute little cubs from the field and try to keep them, but when they become a handful (and that doesn’t take long), people contact the game commission for help. Tony and his colleagues do their best to place each orphaned cub with a foster mother, and while they don’t have the resources to follow each cub, they know that many of these tagged cubs have grown into adults, so the placements were obviously successful.
I was fascinated by Tony and Karin’s encounter with the black bear cub, and I was reminded how much black bears differ from brown bears. Tony and his fellow biologists with the Pennsylvania Game Commission work hard to ensure every orphaned cub is placed with a new mother and has a chance to survive until adulthood. Brown bear sows sometimes adopt cubs, but I believe it is a rare occurrence.
I find it interesting that any wild animal would adopt a baby that isn’t its own. Please leave a comment if you have information or stories about wild animals adopting “foster children.” Also, don’t hesitate to ask Tony a question; I’ll be sure he gets it.
For more information on the Pennsylvania Game Commission, their biologists, and their research projects, go to www.pgc.pa.gov. I checked out this website, and it is full of information. Spend some time reading about the ongoing research projects of the game commission; I found it extremely interesting.
Mike and I spent the last month traveling and hiking in New Zealand, and it was quite an adventure. New Zealand is a gorgeous, vibrant country where even the land seems to be alive. With the Pacific tectonic plate colliding with the Australian plate, earthquakes are common in many areas of the country. We felt two good jolts while we were staying in Christchurch on the South Island. Five years ago, Christchurch suffered extensive damage from a 6.3 earthquake, and residents are still struggling to rebuild their downtown area.
Geyser
In addition to earthquakes, New Zealand has active volcanoes, geysers, and hot springs. On the South Island, we saw glaciers and vivid blue and green glacial lakes with colors so pure; it was difficult to believe they were natural. We crossed many rivers in our travels, stared straight up at towering cliffs, and in some places, we were surrounded by waterfalls too numerous to count. In pouring rain, our bus pulled into a small area that was circled by steep mountains, and as water rushed down the cliffs and swirled around us, our guide told us that this area was called “the toilet bowl,” an accurate description, at least during a rain squall. Not all the terrain in New Zealand is dramatic. Much of both islands consists of beautiful, rolling hills and pastures full of sheep, cattle, and even deer, which are farmed for their meat.
Two weeks of our trip was a hiking tour with Active Adventures New Zealand, with the emphasis on “active!” Our first big hike began by climbing 1800 large steps carved into the side of a mountain. By the time I got down, my legs were shaking, and I began to wonder if I’d make it through the next two weeks.
Our guides on the trip were Gary and Holly. Since guiding is also my job, I am always intrigued to watch other guides at work, and I was very impressed with Gary and Holly. Not only did they guide us on our many, long hikes, but they cooked most of our meals, and Gary drove our small bus with a trailer in tow over narrow, winding roads and one-way bridges. Sometimes, when it was raining, the windows became so fogged that I don’t know how he could see where he was going. While Gary drove, both he and Holly regaled us with Maori legends about how various lakes, rivers, and glaciers were formed. Most of these tales involved, at least, one or two beautiful princesses. We learned such things as how the Fox Glacier was formed, why there are sand flies in Milford Sound, how the kiwi birds lost their wings, how Maui slowed the sun, and much, much more (click on any of the above to learn the details of each legend). On top of all of this, Gary and Holly went out of their way to make sure each of their 14 charges had everything he or she needed or wanted.
We traveled with 12 other adventurers on our trip. Phil and Sue were from Canada, and the rest of us were from the U.S. One thing we soon learned about our guide, Gary, was that he is a master of the Kiwi understatement, and it didn’t take us long to translate his words:
A wee hike meant, at least, 4 to 6 hours.
A wee bit of climbing meant, at least, a 45⁰ angle
A wee bit of undulating terrain meant a steep climb followed by a steep descent followed by another steep climb and another steep descent and on and on.
A wee bit technical – Uh oh, that meant serious rock climbing would be involved.
A wee hill meant a snow-capped mountain.
Our two-week adventure culminated in a three-day option of either a multi-day hiking trip, kayaking for three days, or biking for three days. Six of us chose the hike while the rest of the group opted to go kayaking. Of the six hikers, Debbie chose to do one day of hiking, while the rest of us (obviously not the brightest of the bunch) went hiking for the full three days on the Angelus Circuit. Since we could not stop to resupply, we had to carry everything we needed for three days on our backs in large packs, including our personal gear, a sleeping bag, hiking poles, water, a bowl, cup, spoon, and a portion of the food.
Debbie, Mike me, Tara, Mike and, Denny.
The first day we hiked 3 ½ hours along beautiful Lake Rotoiti. We stayed at Lakehead Hut that night. The huts are interesting places with bunks for 28 people, and they are available to anyone who makes a reservation. You share kitchen facilities with the other campers, and yes, you sleep next to strangers. The outhouses at Lakehead Hut were a bit dicey since they were full of with sand flies and bees. This on top of the issues that normally accompany outhouses made a trip to the bathroom a bit stressful and to be avoided if at all possible. The hike to Lakehead Hut was fairly easy, but we knew the following day would be anything but easy, and I was simply hoping I could make it up the mountain! For our dinner the first night, Holly made us a wonderful pasta and vegetable meal, accompanied by wine that our fellow hiker, Mike Hofmann thoughtfully packed with him. After dinner, we enjoyed a Tim Tam Slam, an interactive dessert demonstrated by Holly. It involved sucking hot cocoa through a Tim Tam (a chocolate-frosted, chocolate cookie) and then sucking the cookie into your mouth before it disintegrated. The process left us all sticky and giggling while the other hikers in the hut watched us warily.
Tara, Mike, Mike, Denny, Gary and Holly
The weather was perfect on day two, but the hike was a brutal ascent to 4800 ft. We began the day by hiking across two “wee” rivers up a steep “wee” bit of elevated path through the trees, and then we knew we were really in trouble when Gary told us, “I won’t lie to you. The rest of the trek is steep and difficult.” There was no “wee” in his description, and I half expected him to pull climbing ropes and pitons from his pack. It was a tough climb. I think I stopped at every single trail marker and sucked in air. As I craned my neck back and looked upward there, seemed no end to the trail, and the few times I thought I could see the last marker; the trail turned, and the markers continued upward. Gary told us it would take 8 to 9 hours to get to the top, and I was proud that I made it up there in just over 7 hours. Mike and Denny, two of the guys in our group, made it in 6 hours. We all agreed that the hike had been tough, but the view from the top was worth our effort. As we crested over the top near Angelus Hut, we were treated to the breathtaking (what little breath I had left) view of sapphire-blue Lake Angelus, its windswept waves sparkling in the sun. That is a sight I will remember for the rest of my life!
Angelus Hut next to the lake was also a treat. It was very clean with large picture windows looking out on the lake. Its volunteer caretaker, Mary, saw to it that the windows were spotless so that the hikers could enjoy the view. The outhouses were also spotless and mostly bug-free. The only downside to Angelus Hut was that hikers appeared from every direction, and the hut was full – all 28 beds. The hut was noisy most of the night with doors banging and people shuffling in and out. That evening for dinner, Holly and Gary served chicken curry with a dessert of deconstructed cheesecake. It was delicious, and the mood was light. After all, Mike, Denny, Tara, Mike and I had completed the toughest day of the hike – at least, we thought it was the toughest day.
After a fitful night’s sleep, we awoke at 6:00, ready to tackle the last section of our hike. This morning we would hike another 45 minutes up and along the ridgeline for 4 hours before dropping down below the tree line for the final hour of hiking down to the car park. Gary did mention something about large rocks and small loose rocks, but I admit I wasn’t listening very closely. I just wanted to get back to our bus, and I thought it sounded like an easy day once we got to the ridgeline. I couldn’t have been more wrong! The hike to the ridgeline was no problem, but once we got up there, we were buffeted by winds that were gusting to 50 mph. The ridge was fairly narrow, and we had big packs on our back. When the wind gusted, I staggered, hunkering down to hold my position. I admit I was terrified I would be blown off the mountain, and those large rocks Gary had briefly mentioned turned out to be more of a problem than I had anticipated. We had to hop from one to the next in the driving wind. Thankfully, Gary stayed with me all the way, because it was not easy. He was also there to help me through the “loose rock” section, and then when a huge gust knocked me over and nearly sent me tumbling down the mountain, Mike held my hand for the rest of the hike along the ridge. Not only was it windy, but clouds were settling on the mountain, and was starting to rain. As our visibility decreased and the wind increased, I could sense the strain in Gary’s demeanor. He told us to keep moving as fast as we could, and Mike said, “You want us off this ridgeline, and I couldn’t agree more.”
Tara and I needed no encouragement. We wanted off the mountain worse than anyone. Finally, we began to descend, and the minute we dropped below the tree line, the world changed. We were out of the clouds, the rain stopped, the wind calmed, and below us, we could see Lake Rotoiti, gleaming like a jewel. The lake was home that day to speed boat races, and we could hear the roaring engines from high on the mountain. As the participants and spectators enjoyed a beautiful, Saturday afternoon in the sun, we marveled that they had no idea what the weather conditions were like on the mountain that towered above them. We stepped out of a world filled with wind, rain, fog, and peril and into a beautiful weekend afternoon at the beach.
Once we reached the carpark, Holly greeted each of us with a beer, and I told her I loved her. Then, we were off to meet the rest of our group for a wine tasting at a nearby winery, and this action perfectly captured the essence of our tour. We had three days of rugged hiking and staying in bare-bones huts, followed by a civilized wine tasting. I did, note, though, that we hikers looked a bit less civilized at the winery than did our fellow kayakers.
That night at our farewell dinner, Denny, one of my fellow travelers, made an eloquent toast to our guides. He said, “We will soon fade from your memories, but you will never fade from ours.” So true!
If New Zealand isn’t on your travel wish-list, it should be. It is a clean, beautiful country with some of the friendliest people I’ve ever encountered. I can’t say enough good things about it!
We are now on our way back to Alaska, and I can’t wait to get home. If you haven’t already done so, sign up for my Mystery Newsletter. Due to my vacation, there will be no March Newsletter, but I am already working on my April Newsletter.
If any of my fellow hikers is reading this, thanks again for being a part of my very memorable New Zealand adventure!
A sea otter has a loose pouch of skin under each foreleg where it can store food as it’s collected. When the otter returns to the surface, it can rest on its back and leisurely retrieve one piece of food after another from its pouch. In addition to food, the sea otter also stores a rock in one of its pouches. The otter may use the rock under water to pry loose mussels or other attached bivalves or to dislodge sea urchins wedged in crevices. When floating on the surface, the otter places the rock on its chest and pounds crabs, snails, clams, and other prey against the rock to break through the tough shells. Sea otters are one of the few animals other than humans known to use tools.
Mating can occur at any time of the year for sea otters, and while the young may be born in any season, most pups in Alaska are born in the spring. As with bears, when a sea otter becomes pregnant, the implantation and development of the embryo often stops, and the embryo may not implant for several months. Scientists believe the purpose of delayed implantation in sea otters is to allow for the birth of pups when environmental conditions and food supplies are most favorable. Sea otters are pregnant for four months, but because the length of the delayed implantation varies so greatly, the gestation period may last from four to twelve months.
Sea otter mothers are normally very attentive, affectionate, and protective of their pups. A pup spends most of its time riding on its mother’s belly, and even pups six-months of age or older and nearly as large as their mother will climb on her stomach as she appears to struggle to keep her head above water.
In addition to cradling her pup on her chest to keep him warm, a mother meticulously grooms her pup’s fur until the pup is three to four months old and able to groom himself. At this age, the pup is also able to swim on his back and dive with ease. The mother teaches the pup how to catch and eat prey, and by the time the pup is six months old, he can capture and break open his own prey. Sea otter pups remain with their mothers anywhere from three to twelve months.
Sea otters often float together in large groups called rafts. Except for territorial males who rest with female groups, most rafts are comprised of individuals of the same sex, and mothers with pups often rest together in nursery groups. Rafts usually consist of between ten and more than one-hundred otters, but in Alaska, rafts with 2000 individuals have been reported.
Sea otters are considered a “Keystone” species, meaning that they effect the ecosystem to a much greater degree than their numbers would suggest. Sea otters protect kelp forests by eating herbivores such as sea urchins that graze on the kelp. In turn, the kelp forests provide food and cover for many other species of animals, and kelp forests play an important role in capturing carbon and reducing atmospheric carbon dioxide levels.
Killer whales (or orcas) are not really whales but are the largest members of the dolphin family, Delphinidae. With their brilliant black and white markings, they are easy to identify and distinguish from other whales. Killer whales exhibit sexual dimorphism, meaning males and females look very different from each other. Adult males in the North Pacific may grow to a length of 27 ft. (8.2 m) and weigh as much as 13,300 lbs. (6,000 kg), while females grow to an average length of 23 ft. (7 m) and weigh about half as much as a large male. Also, a male’s dorsal fin may reach 6 ft. (2 m) in height, while a female’s rarely exceeds 3 ft (1 m).
Photo by Bob Munsey
Killer whales are mostly black on their dorsal surface and white on their ventral surface. They have an elliptical white patch on the lateral side of each eye and large white patches that extend from the ventral surface onto the flanks. There is a usually a gray or white saddle area behind the dorsal fin, and this marking varies from one individual to the next, making it useful for identification.
Killer whales are second only to humans as the most widely-distributed species of mammal. They can be found in all oceans and most seas, but they are most common in coastal, temperate waters. They are apex predators and prey on a variety of vertebrates and invertebrates. They are known to prey upon over 140 species, and they are the only cetaceans that routinely prey upon marine mammals, with documented attacks on 50 different species.
In the northeastern Pacific, three distinct ecotypes of killer whales have been identified. Resident killer whales mainly eat fish, while transients concentrate on marine mammals. The third type known as offshores have not been well studied, but it is thought they primarily feed on fish, including sharks. All three types are genetically distinct, suggesting there is little or no breeding between the types, and it is possible they should be considered separate subspecies. There are differences in size, coloration and physical appearance between the three types, as well as differences in hunting strategies. Transients forage in smaller groups than residents, and transients travel silently when hunting, while residents produce a variety of clicks, whistles, and pulsed calls for echolocation. Killer whale populations in other regions of the world may also specialize in their feeding habits, but more research is needed to be certain. Killer whales often work together to catch fish or marine mammals, and when preying on large animals such as whales, they may attack as a pack, tearing apart the whale from several angles.
Killer whales are very social and usually travel in groups or pods of up to 20 individuals, and members of a pod are linked to each other by maternal descent. Females become sexually mature at 15 years of age on average, and they may give birth at intervals of three to eight years. Killer whales can breed all year, and the gestation period averages 17 months. Whales in a pod often work together to care for the young, and young females will help mothers care for their babies. It has been estimated that males live at least 50 years on average, while females may live 80 years.
Killer whales are highly vocal and use sound for socialization as well as for echolocation.Scientists have learned that call repertoires of resident pods have features that are distinct to that pod, forming group-specific dialects. A second pod may share some of the call repertoire of the first pod, but other sections will be distinct to the second pod. The amount of similarity of call repertoires between pods reflects the degree of
Photo by Bob Munsey
relatedness between the pods. Killer whales socialize in a number of other ways too, including acrobatic aerial behaviors, such as breaches, spy hops, flipper slaps, tail lobs,and head stands. I’ll discuss more about these various behaviors next week.
Killer whales are always a treat to watch. We only see them a few times a year deep inside Uyak Bay, and it is always exciting. I’ve seen a large group of killer whales herding fish, a small pod trying to catch harbor seals hauled out on an island, and one killer whale with a large octopus in its mouth. Sometimes they want nothing to do with us, and other times, they swim alongside our boat leaping out of the water and diving beneath us. This summer we saw a large bull swimming by himself in water so shallow he couldn’t submerge his tall dorsal fin. He was in an area near a salmon stream, and we assumed he was feeding on salmon.
Have you had any experiences with killer whales? If so, please leave a comment to tell us about it. Also, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask, and for anyone who is a lover of true crime stories, please visit my home page and sign up for my monthly Mystery Newsletter!
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.
Munsey Family is greeted by the Governor of New Hampshire
Park Munsey became a pilot in the late fifties, and in the 1960s, he started Amook Airways, a small air-charter business. His wife, Pat, was his dispatcher, and their home in Amook Pass was their base of operations. Park not only flew his hunting clients, but he also flew for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game and delivered mail and supplies around the island. Over the years, he owned an Aeronca Champ, a Tri-Pacer, a Cessna 180, a Cessna 185, a Twin Seabee, and a Grumman Widgeon.
Park bought the Tri-Pacer in 1961, and that winter, he, Pat, and the children flew in it from Kodiak to New Hampshire to visit relatives. In preparation for the long flight, Pat got her pilot’s license, so she could help with the flying. When the Munseys reached New Hampshire, they presented the governor of that state with a gift from Bill Egan, the governor of Alaska.
Pat remembers one harrowing day when the crankshaft broke on Park’s Cessna 185, and he was forced to land on Olga Bay in heavy seas. The hard impact of the landing caused the floats to rupture, and as the floats filled with water, the plane flipped upside down, and Park climbed onto the floats. When he didn’t return home and didn’t call on the radio, Pat contacted the Coast Guard, reported him overdue, and braced herself for the worst. As the waves lapped over the pontoons, the floats slowly filled with water, and by the time the Coast Guard arrived, they found Park straddling the sinking floats, writing a last letter to his wife and children.
Park sold his last plane, the Grumman Widgeon, in the mid 1970s, and he and Pat began spending winters in Hawaii. Mike purchased Munsey’s Bear Camp from his parents in 1980, but Park continued to guide bear hunters during the spring and fall hunts.
Never content to sit idle, Park bought a boat in Hawaii and started a SCUBA diving business. He taught SCUBA classes, and he and his boat could be
chartered for diving trips. In 1982, Park competed in the famous Iron Man Triathlon in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii and finished eighth in his age bracket. The following spring, at the age of 54, he collapsed while guiding a bear hunter out of an interior-lake camp near Spiridon Bay. He died a few days later from a cerebral hemorrhage.
Pat remarried in 1984, and she and her husband, Wally, still live in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii, where Pat works in real estate. This summer (2015), Pat, Wally, Toni, Patti, Jeri, Bob, Peggy, spouses and several grandkids all visited our Amook Pass home, where we celebrated Pat’s 85th birthday.
Pioneers aren’t easy to find anymore, and I sometimes think that the pioneer-spirit has been lost, but this story is about two pioneers I admire. As I mentioned last week, I am doing a series of stories for the Kodiak Baranov Museum’s “West Side Stories” project. The purpose of this project is to chronicle the history of the people on the west side of Kodiak Island. This tale is about my husband’s parents, Park and Pat Munsey. Park died in 1983, but Pat is still alive and well, and I love to listen to her stories about her early days in Uyak Bay at the home where I now live.
Pat Atkins came to Anchorage from her native West Virginia after she graduated from nursing school. She intended to return home after a short visit with her sister and brother in-law, but she fell in love with Alaska and took a job at the Palmer hospital. Moving to Alaska had been Park’s dream since he was a young boy, and he began his journey north the day he graduated from high school in Laconia, New Hampshire in 1948. After a stint in the army, Park took a job on the Eklutna Lake hydropower project. He was injured during a cave-in while digging a tunnel and was transported to the Palmer hospital, where Pat was his nurse.
The Munseys were married in 1953 and moved to Kodiak, where Pat found employment as a nurse, and Park took a variety of jobs, including working as a packer and guide for Hal Waugh, the first master guide in the state of Alaska. Park and Pat established Munsey’s Bear Camp in 1956, and in 1958, they bought Bill Poland’s hunting camp in Amook Pass in Uyak Bay.
Pat Munsey with Toni
By 1958, the Munseys had four children. Toni was four; Patti, three; Mike, one; and Jeri was only a few months old. Pat had never seen the Amook Pass camp, but she climbed into an airplane with her husband and four children and their most important possessions. Forty minutes later, when the plane touched down on Uyak Bay, the tide was too high to pull up to the beach nearest the camp, so the pilot unloaded the gear and his passengers on the other side of a rocky bluff in a small cove. Daylight began to fade as Pat and Park held Toni’s and Patti’s hands and carried the two smaller children up a steep hill. It was nearly dusk when Pat caught a glimpse of her new home from the top of the hill. She says her first thought was, “What have I done?” In true pioneer fashion, though, she shook off her doubts and worked alongside Park to turn the three-room cabin with no insulation, no electricity, and no running water, into a comfortable home.
Patti, Mike, Bob, Jeri, and Toni, 1962
I realize every day how lucky I am to call this beautiful bay my home, and I often think about my in-laws’ first trek over that hill. I thank Park for following his dreams to Amook Pass, but more importantly, I thank Pat that as she stood on that hilltop 57 years ago and looked down at the shack that was to be her new home, she didn’t turn and run, but instead, she stayed to work with her husband to carve out a living and raise their family in the wilderness.
