Tag: animals

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Wolf Country Even Today?

By Katie Hunhoff

A taxidermied wolf inside the Pine Ridge Visitors Center near Kyle was struck by a vehicle and killed on the Pine Ridge Reservation in 2012.

Was a gray wolf roaming the lakes country of Marshall County this winter? A coyote hunter from Britton thinks he may have shot one by mistake in January. Wildlife officials are investigating his report.

Several years ago, a gray wolf was shot near Custer. John Kanta of the state Game Fish and Parks Department thought it wandered from the Great Lakes region.

Another gray was hit and killed by a car on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in 2012. He weighed 130 pounds. The remains were preserved by Pete’s Taxidermy of Gregory, and are now on exhibit at the Pine Ridge Visitors Center near Kyle. He was wearing a radio transmitter, so officials quickly surmised that he came from Yellowstone National Park.

Gray wolves are bigger and stronger than timber wolves. Grays were lording over the river breaks of western South Dakota when farmers and ranchers first settled there. The wolves preyed on livestock, so they were eventually hunted to extinction in South Dakota.

One of the last was a wolf named Three Toes. He achieved great notoriety in the hills and plains of northwest South Dakota. Archie Gilfillan, a sheepherder and writer, was intrigued by the local ranchers’ mixture of respect and hate for the wild and wily creature. In his book Sheep, Gilfillan noted that Three Toes, “for 13 years laughed at poison, traps and guns, lived in and off enemy country with the hand of every man against him, a cunning, bloodthirsty killer, a super wolf among wolves and the most destructive single animal of which there is any record anywhere.”

So named because he had lost a paw in a trap early in his life, Three Toes gained a reputation as a bloodthirsty killer by 1912. He left his unmistakable paw print at ranches throughout Harding County. Infuriated ranchers tracked his whereabouts and devastating destruction. They estimated that his lifetime of kills exceeded $50,000 in cattle and sheep.

Three Toes lived to an old age, and reached the peak of his destruction in the 1920s. Gilfillan wrote, “For first, last, and all the time, Three Toes was a killer. Other wolves might kill one cow or sheep and eat off that and be satisfied. But Three Toes killed for the sheer love of killing. He would kill on a full stomach as well as when hungry. On one occasion he visited three different ranches in one night, killed many sheep and lambs at each one, but ate only the liver of one lamb.”

Officials bumped the bounty for Three Toes to $500, but no hunter could catch the cunning old wolf. In July of 1925, federal wolf hunter Clyde F. Briggs settled on a ranch near the center of Three Toes’ hunting range. For weeks Briggs set his traps and Three Toes carefully eluded them. But he was tricked on July 23 by a hidden trap. The earth around him was scratched and plowed by his frantic efforts to escape from the trap’s grasp by the time Briggs arrived. The trapper muzzled and hog-tied the big wolf and put him in the backseat of his car, intending to deliver him to Rapid City alive. But soon a passenger cried, “I think he’s dying.”

“Briggs stopped the car, and looking around, found the wolf’s eyes fixed on him. But the eyes did not see him, for the wolf was dead,” wrote Gilfillan. “Call it a broken heart, or what you will — something of this sort is what killed the old wolf. He was resting easily when found, his wounds were superficial … but there was something in his grand old spirit that could not brook capture, and Nature, more merciful than he had ever been, granted him his release.”

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Fall Roundup

Around 20,000 spectators were on hand to watch the 52nd annual Custer State Park Buffalo Roundup last Friday. Park employees and volunteers gathered about 1,200 bison into corrals to be branded, vaccinated and checked for pregnancy. Around 400 bison will be auctioned off on November 18 to keep herd numbers manageable. Photos by John Mitchell.

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Copper’s Last Stand

By Lee Schoenbeck

To paraphrase Ecclesiastes, there is a time set for everything, a time for birth and a time for death. He sets the time for mourning and the time for dancing. Unfortunately, my old friend Copper has seen his last dancing, his last retrieve, and now it’s time.

When you’re born you’ve begun to die — the trick is to put as much space between the two events as you can. With a new puppy it’s the same story, just less space between. With a hard-working hunting dog, the space is even shorter. Ten or 11 good years is a good run through the winter sloughs and fields up here on the Coteau.

Copper came into our family in a picnic basket with a red bow on it for my daughter Erin’s 12th birthday, a cute, lovable yellow lab puppy. Copper’s bloodline came from a bait shop in Browns Valley, Minnesota, the last available of a litter of a hunting buddy’s buddy’s dog. Kind of an inauspicious way to start a decade-long journey as the best hunting dog that ever owned me.

Copper was never a housedog. He lived in an outdoor kennel on our place his whole life. For 12 years Copper and I have shared his morning and evening constitutional and feeding. In the early years these 20 minutes together twice a day were school time, but the smart ones learn quickly. Copper’s first fall was at six months, and before Christmas he was a hunting guy’s best buddy afield.

With great ones you don’t get many memorable stories because performance in the field is the norm. Copper lived for flushing roosters out of cattails in waist-deep snow in the sloughs of the Coteau. He’d hunt all day and only give up when the shotguns were emptied and he’d nestled into the straw in the back of the Avalanche at day’s end.

But I can remember one great (and unfortunately tragic) performance in Copper’s life. It happened on the Missouri River breaks. Copper was working a line of three of us up and down the rolling hills of the river breaks when a rooster flushed high, sucked the wind and was heading for freedom over a hill and a cattle fence to our right. Just on the edge of range my buddy hits the ringneck, clearly wounding it, but leaving it with enough power to coast over the hill, and the next one, into a pasture of large bulls. The bird came down a good quarter mile away, but Copper was on it.

We watched Copper go over the first hill, under the fence, and over the next hill cleanly on the bird’s line. But he was also heading into a crowd of very large Angus. We saw Copper run the bird down, grab it, turn and trot back towards us, with about 15 Angus bulls gaining on him. When we lost sight of him below the first hill, I was pretty sure the herd had just trampled the best dog I had ever owned.

After a few minutes Copper popped over the hill, bird firmly in grasp, trotting at a good pace with the herd still gaining. Like it was just another day’s work, Copper popped under the fence, left the bulls in the dust and dropped a beautiful rooster at my feet. Richard Nixon said that you can’t appreciate the greatest heights unless you’ve experienced the greatest depths. Ten minutes after we celebrated that amazing retrieve, Copper came up lame and never hunted with four good wheels again.

Copper’s had a lot of great days in the field. His picture popping out of the hole in the back of my Avalanche has been celebrated in published hunting stories and social media. But those bookend events on the story of his life have gotten very close together. He hasn’t hunted for two seasons and he really can’t get around very well any more. He sounds like a three-pack-a-day smoker when he breathes. He still smiles and lights up when he sees the Avalanche getting loaded for the field, and his memory is filled with enthusiasm for the hunt, even if his body says he can’t go along.

When you get a dog, you know this day’s coming. You just wish for that one last season, one last hunt, that last flush and retrieve, that last stand on the South Dakota prairie.

Lee Schoenbeck grew up in Webster, practices law in Watertown, and is a freelance writer for the South Dakota Magazine website.

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Head ’em Up

Tara Anderson shared these photos of her family’s cattle drive early this month. The drive takes place west of Wilmot each fall. The herd is driven from their summer pastures in the hills to their winter pasture in Whetstone Valley. “My grandfather, Glenn Ammann, began the tradition decades ago with his Hereford cattle,” Anderson says. “My father, Tyler Ammann, continues the annual event with his herd of 800 Black Angus cattle.” See more of Anderson’s work at www.facebook.com/sweetlifephotographybytara
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Fall at Wind Cave National Park

Joel Schwader shared recent photos from Wind Cave National Park, home to a free-roaming bison herd, pronghorn antelope, deer, 30 miles of hiking trails, camping and the famous cave that spouts air. To see more of this Rapid City photographer’s work and to purchase prints, visit www.joeldphotography.net.

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Off the Beaten Path

By Christian Begeman

I’ve been told that my mom’s family often took Sunday afternoon drives together. Many times Grandpa would just pile them into the car and start driving with no particular destination in mind. One such trip led the family to eastern Wyoming with nothing but sagebrush and open sky. When nature called, as it is wont to do on family trips, the only privacy available was behind the largest sagebrush. Well, the story goes that my dear grandmother saw turkey vultures circling while searching for just the right sagebrush, and the ominous birds succeeded in scaring nature’s calling away. Now since that story came from my beloved uncle, who never let the facts get in the way of a good story, I’m not sure I can say this bit of family history is very accurate, but I do believe the part about just getting in the car and going for a drive. Why? Because I suffer from the same urgings — back roads and random drives are simply good medicine after working the day job all week long.

Lately I have taken particular affinity to the back roads — the graveled county roads that criss-cross most of our farm and ranch land. The roads that only the locals know. I’ve often been pleasantly surprised by the beauty I’ve stumbled upon by just turning down one of these roads less traveled. I’ve seen numerous scenic churches and countless abandoned farmsteads. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to enjoy unexpected wildlife encounters. My favorite thing to find is a lone prairie windmill standing out against the sky, especially around sunset.

In late August, I was heading north through Clark County and decided to take an off the beaten path road along the western edge of the Coteau des Prairie. A lone barn with two apple trees out front caught my attention down a lonesome gravel road. Along the other side of the same road was a long tree belt full of plum trees heavily laden with fruit. A light rain began to fall and I was the only one on the road so I stopped, got my long lens and began wondering what kind of wildlife like fresh plum. It wasn’t long until I saw an orange flash of feathers fly through the trees. I drove a bit closer and shut off the engine. About 10 minutes later two Baltimore oriole females and three males made an appearance and began feeding on the plums. I spent an hour watching them and attempting to photograph the scene. The whole time I was there, not another vehicle was seen or heard. It was one of my favorite parts of the whole weekend.

You know that old saying that talks about taking the time to stop and smell the roses? I’ve found the same sentiment to be true for making interesting photographs. Give yourself time to explore unknown roads. Take the time to drive somewhere you’ve never been. Then find the patience to sit still and see what happens. When you do, the photographic gems you may find down South Dakota’s back roads will often surprise you. Happy trails, and watch out for those dang turkey vultures.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Mysterious Monarchs

By John Andrews

MONARCH BUTTERFLIES ARE just a couple inches long, weigh less than an ounce and flutter through the air with wings as thin as tissue paper, but they may be the most intriguing creatures in South Dakota. When the blaze orange butterflies arrive in South Dakota this spring from their winter retreat in southern Mexico, they will have completed the final leg of a 2,500-mile journey to a place they’ve never seen.

The life cycle of monarchs is six to eight weeks, but the butterflies that hatch in South Dakota in August live an incredible six to eight months. When autumn arrives, they fly the entire 2,500 miles to the Oyamel fir forests, where they hibernate through the winter, often in the same trees as their ancestors. When they reawaken and fly north in the spring, they lay eggs, which dramatically shortens their lifespan. Soon, they die. The process repeats as the butterflies slowly progress northward. The monarchs that arrive here around Mother’s Day are the fourth generation descendants of those that departed last fall.

The migration and monarch life cycle have stumped scientists and butterfly watchers for decades. Why do monarchs that hatch in late summer live four times longer than others? How do they know to fly to southern Mexico every fall? In 1992 the University of Kansas launched Monarch Watch, a nationwide research program devoted to studying the mysterious monarchs. A popular research tool is butterfly tagging. Monarchs are netted and a tiny sticker with a code — no bigger than the nail on your pinky finger — is affixed to a wing. It doesn’t hinder flight, and scientists can track where the butterflies go and how long it take them to reach Mexico.

The Outdoor Campus was the first facility in South Dakota to tag butterflies. Thea Miller Ryan, the Outdoor Campus director, is an avid butterfly observer, though she was hesitant to include monarchs when the facility opened in 1994.”If you want to bring them in and raise them, and you take care of them, and I don’t ever have to look at them, you can do it,” Ryan remembers saying.”They brought them in and six hours later I was hooked. And I’ve never been able to get it out of my system. They are an incredible creature. There’s so much to learn about monarch butterflies.”

Today over 100,000 students and adults across the country obtain tags from Monarch Watch and apply them to monarchs passing through their yards. Every August, Jody Moats, of the Adams Nature Preserve near Elk Point, leads volunteers in butterfly tagging at Spirit Mound. Monarchs cluster by the dozens high in the branches of old hackberry trees. Their wings glow even brighter orange in the light of the sun setting beyond the mound. Children swoop nets twice their height through the trees, hoping to capture and tag the butterflies. Other tagging events are scheduled throughout South Dakota, including one at Palisades State Park near Garretson on Aug. 30.

Monarchs may seem abundant, but their numbers have slowly dwindled in recent years. They face a potentially life threatening challenge: habitat loss. In Mexico loggers are slowly decimating the fir forest, and on the Plains their food source is disappearing. Caterpillars that become monarchs will only eat milkweed, long the scourge of farmers. Thanks to pesticide resistant crops, milkweed has become easier to eradicate. That’s why Ryan and others encourage planting”monarch waystations,” patches of milkweed in yards and gardens that help the butterflies survive.

“People always think of the common milkweed in the ditches, the kind we all had to pull when we were kids,” Ryan says.”But there are a lot of different varieties of milkweed that grow in South Dakota, and you can get those at garden centers. They don’t look at all like common milkweed. They’re really pretty and they bloom in all different colors.”

Monarchs are beautiful to observe, but once you get to know them they become even more fascinating. After all, would you intentionally plant weeds in your garden for any other creature?

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the March/April 2012 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800)456-5117.

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A New State Animal?

By Paul Higbee

Every few years, someone suggests changing the South Dakota state animal. Of course, the only reason we’ve designated a state animal (coyote) is because the other 49 states all have one. This isn’t the sort of thing down-to-earth prairie dwellers would dream up without outside pressure.

That’s not to say South Dakotans are adverse to arguing the merits of various animal representatives. Lately the debate’s focused on coyotes versus bison, fine native mammals both, yet both rather predictable symbols.

So I suggest a compromise candidate: the rattlesnake.

I’ve long believed rattlers embody characteristics I’ve noted in South Dakotans — quiet until riled, plentiful enough but far from prolific, hardy, and somewhat misunderstood. And yes — down-to-earth.

Sometimes I hike with the express purpose of encountering these snakes, in likely places I know up and down the plains, from pastures in northwestern South Dakota to Palo Duro Canyon, Texas. Truth is, I once hoped to do wildlife photography, but the only animals I found cooperative were rattlers. They don’t turn tail and flee. No, they pose: eyes looking straight at you, body coiled, head and rattles up. They’re a good deal easier to photograph than people, that’s for sure. Photographing coiled rattlers isn’t all that dangerous if you eyeball their body length and don’t move in closer than that. A rattler can’t strike beyond its length any more than a 5-foot kid can slam-dunk a basketball. Still, beginning rattlesnake portraitists should know either the vibes from the camera’s click, or the sudden shutter movement, can trigger a strike. It’s startling if you’re not expecting it, even when the rattler flops a foot short (assuming you’ve eyeballed accurately).

Strikes bring to mind other attributes I admire. Rattlers shoot straight. They don’t fake a strike in one direction and then come at you from another. Nor do they sneak up without warning from behind.

Anyway, I’ve now got a small collection of rattlesnake photos, but until recently I’ve rarely shared them with friends. I mean, you don’t keep pictures of coiled rattlers in those plastic wallet holders. There are always people leery of anyone attuned to rattlesnakes. I recall serving jury duty in Rapid City awhile back, when a lawyer questioned a prospective juror during selection.

Lawyer: I see on the pre-trial questionnaire you completed that you list rattlesnake milking as a hobby.

Juror: Yes, sir.

Lawyer: I assume milking means extracting venom from the fangs?

Juror: Yes.

Lawyer: Any uses for this venom?

Juror: No, sir. I just like catching rattlesnakes and milking them.

He glanced at his client and the snake milker was home before the rest of us had our coats off.

Still, in recent years, I’ve sensed a growing affinity between South Dakotans and rattlesnakes. They’re getting together more and more as Black Hills area subdivisions spring up on lands once deemed fit only for snakes. One thing’s for sure: when someone builds a $200,000 home only to find rattlers sunning themselves on the patio or claiming the car for shade, there’s plenty of local sympathy expressed for the reptiles. (“Who was there first?”)

When South Dakota Magazine published a feature on A.M. Jackley, the legendary rattlesnake exterminator who attacked dens across South Dakota with Genghis Khan-like furor, some readers branded him a villain. Yet 70 years ago South Dakotans considered Jackley’s services essential to civilized life. Times and reputations change, even for snakes and exterminators.

But before we do anything official about the state animal, we may want to test the rattlesnake’s general appeal. Maybe put a rattler on the state travel guide cover. Like I said, I’ve got a few photos.

Editor’s Note: This column is revised from the Jan/Feb 1998 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.