Author Craig Childs shares science, history and lyricism with 'The Animal Dialogues'

Untitled Essay

Amy Dennis, Staff Member at Salida Campus

The call came about 3PM. Our neighbor to the south, rushing his words in his excitement, called my husband to let him know that “there is a sick elk on your property. Parks and Wildlife are watching it!” It’s a quiet place and this was big news. Hanging up the phone, my husband immediately went to a south facing window and there she was. About 50 feet from our house, clearly in distress, she was still on her feet but stumbling and breathing hard. She was removed from the herd, which was keeping its distance. We watched until darkness descended and we could no longer witness her suffering.

We had purchased this piece of property, a small slice of Colorado, several years before, charmed by the sweeping views: Collegiate Peaks to the west, Buffalo Peaks to the north, the Mosquito Range to the east, and far to the south, Methodist Mountain and the Chipeta Peaks, that I liked to call the Misty Mountains. It felt like living in a painting. What we didn’t know at the time, was that after spending tranquil summers fattening up in the wooded peaks around us, large herds of elk would move down out of the forests to winter on the valley floor. Lured by the shallow snows and the waters of the Arkansas River and its tributaries, elk have claimed this ground for generations. Our first winter living here, I was late for work several mornings as I sat transfixed, watching the elk cross through our yard, navigate an ancient barbed wire fence, and eventually move north out of sight.

The next morning, as soon as the sun had spread its light over the Mosquitoes, we rushed to our south facing windows to look for evidence of our sick elk. She was easy to locate; she had not made it through the night. Moving off just a little further from the house, she had lain down and perished. At this early dawn hour, the neighborhood scavengers had already arrived. First came an unkindness of ravens. Ravens, who are not shy, descended on the elk with no hesitation. With much hopping to and fro and squabbling with each other, they discussed how to break through the well furred hide. Soon, the coyotes came to assist. Two of them cautiously approached the carcass, wary of any movement from the large body. Determining that the scene was safe and the cow was not going anywhere, they began their work on the elk, with the ravens cheering them on.

Suddenly, the ravens skittered away. Something had spooked them. A bald eagle had spotted the elk, and, taking charge of the situation, landed right in the middle of the fray. It scattered ravens in its wake and was completely unperturbed by the coyotes as it began its feast. Conspiratorially, the ravens squawked and croaked and danced around the eagle, frustrated and angry at the eagle’s very presence at THEIR breakfast, but in the same measure, hoping its sharp beak and talons would further break open the carcass. We could not tear our eyes away. I had never felt closer to nature than watching the intimate mingling of bird and mammal in the everyday business of extinguishing and sustaining life.

I hoped that maybe the elk’s cause of death might be deduced, purely to satisfy my own hairy ape curiosity. I was pleased that the unexpected loss of the elk would nourish many other animals in the area. I was very interested in inspecting the work of the scavengers, exploring their tracks and traces of activity. It was a weekday, so eventually we both had to prepare to take care of our usual unnatural business and head out to our various human responsibilities. But I knew I’d be back home early that afternoon to glean whatever wildness I could from the life and death of a fallen fellow creature.

Alaska Memoir: An Awe-Inspiring Fishing Expedition

W. Hayes, Staff Member at Steamboat Springs Campus

Alaska. Wild, vast, land both rugged and unpredictable. Untamed yet serene. Described by many in so many different ways. To me, indescribable at times, raw, and mysterious.

It was the beginning of a two-week journey. The first week was an RV adventure and travel by land from Anchorage to Seward to Denali National Park. The first amazing experience occurred while driving north on a deserted Alaska highway in late July. Picturesque landscape was dappled with sunlight, sporadic enterprising site seers and small village life. Soon into our journey, clouds parted, and amidst a forest of trees to my left appeared the snow covered peak of Denali. My partner pulled off of the highway and we photographed the impressive mountain brilliantly backed by a sapphire blue sky. I had prepared myself as the guide books warned, “most guests will never see the famous mountain as it is veiled in clouds for much of the year”. What good fortune to begin our journey with these magnificent breath-taking views. Our luck prevailed with blue sky and rain barren days in which we made friends, fished, and traversed through many Alaskan treasured outings.

The second week was a remote fly out fishing trip on Morraine Creek which traversed through Katmai National Park and Preserve. The weather showed promise as we were dropped off in the middle of a lake from our float plane. We mired through thigh deep water to the lakeshore with a seemingly endless array of dry sack bags and equipment for the week- long adventure. I was thankful to be in the capable hands of our guide who meticulously navigated our raft downstream. We were informed of the exciting time that lie ahead highlighted by an endless salmon run, where salmon spawn and perish, and where abundant leopard rainbow trout feast. I ponder now what the guide thinks to himself as each new customer experiences the first grizzly bear on the bank as the raft drifts by. For us, the excitement led to fumbling the camera, lens cover falling from shaking fingertips, all while the guides’ calm voice and reassuring words stated “all was okay”. How many times had he experienced this moment with his guests?

Bears, especially within Katmai National Park and Preserve, AK, are prolific. I took note that for the first time in my life, the biosphere I had just entered was unlike any other. Bears, especially brown bears, had no natural enemies here. This wilderness encompasses those brave or ignorant enough to enter into an ecosystem that is ripe with unforeseen danger and raw hidden treasures, many unknown or experienced.

First Impressions were deliberate and commanding, requiring full attention and acknowledgement of potential harsh realities. I was now within the food chain, prey, if not attentive and vigilant. Every move and decision were made with the knowledge of having decided risk and potential danger. Fear enveloped my being upon witnessing these great and powerful beasts first hand, up close and personal, nor barrier between. Cautiously, I watched, contemplated, and extrapolated the consequences that could transpire in a matter of seconds.

But then, strangely, fear, at first paralyzing, began to lessen and evolve to a feeling of acceptance. My heart once beating rapid, eyes wide, and adrenaline flow in my blood, slowed. I felt more relaxed just as realizations and discoveries began to unfold before me. I accepted my situation with grace and utmost humility. I succumbed to an overarching sense of calm. I sat quietly, always watchful, observing the great bears’ behavior in their native land. I could only relish internally how grateful I was to live in this moment as witness to the profound activities I was experiencing first hand.

My perception of danger lurking became an intense curiosity. In observation and interest, I would like to think I began to understand the behavior of the bear activity. Bears rely on their intricate yet basic knowledge and instinct, and their learned experiences in order to survive this landscape they call home. Simple actions of these majestic, formidable creatures were at times graceful and other times fierce. The actions the bears exhibited were in one word, purposeful. The purpose solely described as sustenance. The bears reacted and moved knowing every action they took would offer the chance for their survival. The term sustenance is what bears know. In simple terms, and specific to where I was, bears knew to eat enough fish to survive the winter in the barren tundra in which they lived.

There seemed no time for frivolous activity for adult bears, that left to their offspring who meandered close- and not-so-close to their mothers. Adult bears kept a watchful eye on their cubs, as cubs are known to be curious and can stray into potentially dangerous situations.

On one occasion, I witnessed an adult bear scold her two cubs that were attempting to cross into our campsite. Unbelievably, and without time to reason through the events that unfolded, a triangle formed between us, the cubs, and the adult bear. Within seconds the adult bear was at a full charge in our direction. As the moment of peril imagined, with bear spray held as weapon and our only defense, the adult bear stopped, huffed and stamped huge powerful front legs on the gravel a mere ten yards away. What ensued from that moment was nothing less than a miracle and a lesson of human and bear mutual understanding. The adult bear sounded a warning to her cubs and led a charge across the narrow river to a safe passage on the opposite side. Once at a safe distance the bears continued along the riverbank as if nothing had happened. The following morning when the same brood passed our campsite, the cubs scurried hurriedly and close behind the adult bear not once looking up at our camp. I realized the firm scolding the day before was a life- lesson learned culminating in the outward chance bears and humans could survive and cohabitate peacefully, and with respect for each in this mixed ecosystem.

On another occasion, I recognized a young blonde grizzly that showed itself at multiple times while we fished and camped. This bear showed such curiosity that I was enamored to watch and photograph the bear on the bank behind my companion fishing. I never felt a sense of danger in this bear’s presence. I gave it a name, CBD, Cute, But Deadly. When another bear would come, this little bear would scamper away hurriedly. When we moved camp about three miles downstream, I noted a bear of a same semblance. I inquired to my guide, could this bear have traveled “with us”? His response was that he had witnessed two young cubs two years prior on this same stretch of river that seemed to had been orphaned. I thought to myself with great revelation, these two orphaned siblings learned how to survive. The thought gave me pleasure.

I watched as juvenile bears practiced their skill-craft at catching salmon, some making multiple plunges and coming up empty handed. Other bears showed extraordinary skill to stealthily wait and catch an eight- pound salmon feast with each dive. Worried for those with entry level skill, I was reassured that there would be ample food once the salmon spawn and complete the course of their predetermined demise. That again, gave me pleasure.

Lastly, on yet another bear viewing occasion, I watched a mother bear give a signal to her two young cubs to stop passage and wait while she fiercely fended off a juvenile male bear in efforts to protect her cubs. The sounds and fighting were frightful, but the battle was swiftly won by the cub mother. The cubs distanced back safely, stood on their hindlegs together and oddly, resembled two small children holding hands. I was fortunate to have my camera, the images forever etched in my mind and on photographic paper as well.

Time spent in the bush and beyond boundaries allowed me to find a special place deep within myself. Every glorious moment had been spent trying to unscramble and decipher the multitude of events occurring at every glance of my surroundings. I was courageous in ways I did not expect. Camping exposed and vulnerable proved to be so much more memorable than a simple fishing expedition. Humbled, I lived and now share an experience of a connected ecosystem of nature in its finest and infinite resolve. If ever the opportunity presents itself to experience the rawness of an untamed territory, let curiosity and faith guide you toward learning what nature has in store to behold. Release compromising fear and replace it with curiosity and wit to fully engage in an awe- inspiring adventure of unforgettable magnitude.

An Unlikely Encounter with Elk

Becca Katz, Community Member & Former Adjunct Faculty at Leadville Campus

I had set this intention before. I would go hunting. Not actually hunt. I would just go along while my partner hunted. Because I wanted to experience nature in a way I had not. Because I wanted to feel a deep connection to wildlife. Because I wanted to know where my food comes from – and at that time I had committed to only eating wild game and fish that our family had directly harvested.

Still, intentions aside, I had not yet gone along.

Time was running out for this year and work was so busy. Second rifle season was well underway and I just couldn’t figure out when to go. Plus it was cold out, so I had to dig deep to convince myself to traipse around the woods moving slowly, or worse, standing still, in frigid temperatures, in the snow. I suppose I had trouble finding time because I wasn’t looking very hard.

By then, it was the last afternoon of the last day of the hunting season in what was easily the fifth year in a row where I had set my hunting intention. So far, Eric had been on nine days of armed hikes. That’s what I chidingly call hunting without results. He hadn’t even seen an animal, let alone had an opportunity for a clean shot. How you can wander around for nine days with the express purpose of finding elk and not see one animal is still beyond me, but I’m told it’s quite common. And, joking aside, I’m also told by others who hunt that Eric is a solid hunter. Still, this year was looking like a bust.

I got super bundled up in the warmest stuff I could find and wrapped a blaze orange vest sized for a very large human around myself, using a belt to snug it up so it didn’t fall around my ankles. I put on a blaze orange beanie, also several sizes too large, over a sparkly green winter hat I usually wear. I even carried a mostly empty backpack, save the essentials, just in case we got to carry out an animal.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. My walking was too loud. I was stepping in Eric’s footsteps in the snow. Or maybe I was stepping in new snow. Now I can’t remember which is the quieter way to walk, just that whatever I was doing was not it. Too loud. And, per habit, I was trying to chat. To ask questions, really. I knew we were out hunting and I needed to be quiet. I just had so many questions. I tried to keep track of them in my head for later exploration.

I marveled at the early winter woods. How I was noticing sounds and smells usually muted by my profound penchant for conversation. I was feeling really good about finally honoring my intention and getting in touch with nature in this way. I didn’t care if we saw any elk. I just reveled in the novelty of this new nature experience.

I stepped on a twig. Snap. My husband turned around to look at me, smiled and shook his head, amazed that even with my heavy concentration on being a stealthy, quiet hunter, I was a veritable bull in a lodgepole pine china shop.

I smiled back at him, pointed through the trees and whispered, “Do you think that one of those elk might be a cow?” I knew he had a cow, not a bull, tag. I was paying at least a little bit of attention.

Slowly, quietly (as much as that word can be applied to me), we followed the animals into a clearing to get a better look. Eric dropped to his knee, looked through the scope, and took a shot.

An elk went down, got up, and fell again.

My heart pounded with excitement and devastation. I had aided and abetted the killing of an animal. I felt exhilarated and ill.

In spite of my lack of skills (read: noisiness), we now had an elk to field dress (that’s what hunters call the process of removing innards and packaging a large animal so it may be carried out). We walked toward where the cow had run during her final beautiful and death-defying moments before going down. In the field, the grasses started to blur together, the hummocks of earth and plant creating a haystack vibe through which we searched for an elk-sized-and-shaped but landscape-colored needle.

Though it had been still light enough to take a clear shot, Eric…no…We had killed this animal in the waning part of the day. By now, it was getting on evening, the light low.

We couldn’t find her. We would have to come back in the morning and hope other creatures had not carried the elk away.

My sleep was fitful. I had honored my intentions and felt deeply the implications of my meat eating.

The next morning broke cold and crisp as high-mountain early winter mornings tend to do. We bundled up again and set out to find her. In the brighter light, we quickly located her - intact. I looked at her, placed my hand on her, and said, “Thank you.”

Eric taught me how to field dress her - gutting her and peeling away her hide for scavengers. As we cut into her stomach cavity, her carcass farted. I blushed and held my breath, embarrassed and humbled by her animalness. Sick from the fetid stench. I blinked back tears as we cut her into pieces and packaged the parts in game bags, carefully avoiding getting tiny hide hairs on the muscle. As I cut, my hands clunky and fumbling with the cold, I took in her lithe, sinewy body and those beautiful muscles. I knew these muscles would sustain our family.

I honestly never expected to get an animal. Surely my lack of skill and sheer noisiness would have protected me from this. I thought I would make good on my intentions without facing the real implications of what it means to take the life of another being.

As we walked out of the forest carrying our elk, the 11:00am sun poured through the trees. The snow sparkled beneath our feet. The cold air filled my nostrils with a mixture of early winter and recently-dead animal. I felt the weight of her in my pack. My thoughts were lodged in my throat - halfway between my brain and my heart.

And, for once, I was quiet.