October 28, 2001

Wildlife documentaries are rife with stunning examples of animal behavior. I've done a bit of hiking in my day, and recently did a few days of wildlife research, which is a tiny sample of a pursuit that can fill a lifetime. I’ve come to realize that any genuine wildlife encounters are rare and special. Here are some snippets of my interactions with critters, genuine and otherwise.

Raccoon Wrasslin'

As a prep to the camping in Sierra de la Ventana, I did some car camping in Big Basin. It's a big and old state park, just over the hill, known for virgin Coastal Redwoods forest.

As in most state parks, Big Basin places an emphasis on car camping. You can park your car, and walk 20 yards to a campsite in the middle of a grove of stately redwood giants, along a babbling creek. The campsite comes equipped with a bevy of raccoons, who also favor the babbling creek. While the other seven in our party were content to observe the raccoons, Ryan decided it would be a fine idea to feed one.

First, this sets off Yeager and Skye, two young and excitable Weimaraners. While Andy snored loudly, the dogs ran around his sleeping body, using the walls of his tent like a pair of stunt motorcyclists in a ball of death.

They barely made a noise, other than the rumble of their heavy feet around the tent and some plaintive whimpers to be turned loose on the raccoons. It was all fun and games until Skye stuck her nose through the tent's screen window. Dawn gets all stern, "You are so busted!" Andy never woke up throughout the whole ordeal.

Meanwhile, the commotion attracted other raccoons, who started surveying the campsite for food possibilities. We half-heartedly chased them back, but they just scampered a few yards into the underbrush, and turned to look at us.

They're nocturnal. They've got nothin' but time on their hands. Hell, the raccoons had tactics. They used waves of attacks, tag team fashion. “Yo dude, your go, I need a breather.”

After everyone retired, the chorus of raccoon sounds continued -- scratching, digging, and general scampering were in the game plan. They were even cussing and fighting amongst themselves. They couldn't get into any of the dozen or so food containers, but were content to keep trying all night.

I decided to drag my sorry ass out of bed and try one more time, but my efforts were met with the raccoon’s usual parry -- run to cover, turn and wait. “Tough break dude. You can’t get me while I mock you in this shrubbery five feet away from you.”

Finally I used the "I'm crazier than you think" defense, and ran wildly after them in the dark, through the underbrush, and down into the gulch carved by the creek. We slept in peace for the rest of that night and the next. They must have spread the news to the other furry ones throughout the camp. “Sure, there’s a lot of food, but one of ‘em is fuckin’ psycho."

Sierra de la Ventana

The rain prevented completion of the main goal, catching a fox or cat for installation of a radio collar. I did one session of radio tracking for foxes in the rain. We were able to determine which shelter “the Count” was chillin’ in during the soggy weather.

I saw perhaps the same fox the next day, or rather he saw me. I looked down the hill I was hiking and saw a bushy tail, 30 yards from me, sprinting away at a pretty high clip. Despite having developed a bit of dexterity with the binoculars, I was fumbling them, so never got a great look. Give me a year or two, I could have a good 15 minute highlight film.

We saw more types of birds than I could count, smelled and collected a “sample” where one of the cats had a spectacular mountainside shelter. And I saw the biggest herd of horses I’ve ever seen.

The feral horses of Sierra de la Ventana are a major attraction to Argentine’s in the area. This herd of 800 magnificent horses has been wild for about 50 years. The new colts were arriving, and the stallions were competing for the upcoming mating season. Territory and mares are the goals. The stamping, running, squaring off, and jostling of the stallions were quite a spectacle.

Young stallions hang in bachelor groups, sometimes pairs. Successful stallions may have an entourage of more than five mares plus their offspring. Old stallions are isolated and ignored. Their value is gone, even for mere social interaction. One young stallion did allow an older stallion to run with his group. That old gray-haired bugger had a demeanor like he knew he was getting away with something and was having trouble believing his luck.

I spent time around cattle as a child, so I know someting about their heading behavior. And I know how to use pack queues to interact with domestic dogs. (Hint: It's good to be alpha.) Even though it was tangential to the carnivor reseach project, I was curious about the group behavior of the horses.

The horses seem to recognize humans as carnivores -- something to be wary of. I tested various horses’ boundaries, approaching groups or individuals. They treated me as a slow, but potentially dangerous carnivore -- an accurate assessment of most humans.

Despite my puny size, a stallion might be wary of my advances, but that same stallion would rush with ferocious energy to directly confront any of his peers who would test his resolve. At moments like this, I felt a bit like TV's Crocodile Hunter. “And now I’m going to do something incredibly stupid with this very dangerous animal.” I’m glad they were scared of me.

Even to a casual observer, it’s clear that the horses should go. They’re nice to look at, and someone should find them a good home. But the overgrazing of the feral horses makes it even harder for the native foxes and cats to cling to the refuge of the mountains.

Pantanoso Wildlife Reserve and Calilegua National Park

Pantanoso is privately held land adjacent to Calilegua. This territory is virgin subtropical jungle, home of over 100 species of trees. The tapir and jaguar make their homes here. Cougar, jaguarondi, and a wide variety of small carnivores live here.

Parts of Calilegua near the headquarters are work-a-day parklands, with picnic tables, graffiti, litter. A short hike off the main road through the park takes you into verdant, luscious, untouched forest. But there are truly remote places as well. It’s a least a four-day trek through the park, which climbs as high as 10,000 feet.

Pantanoso, a labor of love for Italian environmentalist Francesco Rocca, is a private reserve located on the remote side of Calilegua. It’s a long drive up a dirt road through a village, past cane and mango plantations, through logged forest and virgin forest, and finally the reserve. In October, a dryish part of the year, a few miles of the road were muddy, requiring proficient 4WD skills from Francesco. In the torrential summers the road is impassible, even with a tractor.

I was traveling to Pantanoso with a new friend from Scotland, who is keen on birds. Mary spotted over a dozen new species in Calilegua and Pantanoso, to raise her total for Argentina to over 50. She and I wandered up the same river. She was looking up for birds in the trees and sky, and I was looking down for signs of animals on the ground. I saw frogs, tadpoles, lizards and spiders, but of the larger animals I saw only tracks. The tracks could tell me tales.

I could see the tracks of foxes pacing up and down long stretches of the river in the evening and mornings, looking for prey. I could see raccoons tracking over a small patch of shoreline in the moonlight. I could see tapir getting a drink in the river, grazing on the banks, perhaps taking a nap during the day in a shady spot, and doing their impression of a mountain goat, by hauling their 800 lb bodies up soggy landslides that tested my hiking skills.

One diorama was of a fox and unknown prey. The fox’s steps were small and measured behind a small rock. I could see the fox crouching behind the rock to size up the prey. The tracks showed quick acceleration. After a few strides the fox was stretched out in a full run, leaving deep, long slashes in the mud as it scrambled for traction. Four legs or no, you need some serious balancing skills to run full tilt through deep, soft mud. The path faded into a small puddle. I couldn’t read the outcome, but there were no feathers in the vicinity.

There was no Jaguar to be seen, not even tracks. As I was following some tapir tracks from the riverbed into the forest, I thought to myself, “If I was a jaguar, and I wanted to eat some tapir, I’d find a good hiding spot somewhere around here.” I reviewed the size chart of the jaguar tracks, and I didn’t make it very far into the underbrush this time.

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