Outdoors/Adventure

At times when nature can be cruel, an awareness and sympathy for the plight of animals

There were no witnesses, no evoking of sympathy, or the touch of a warm hand to comfort. The story was told in fresh snow. A bull moose, not yet a year old, stumbling along the back road through the night. Hooves dragging in protest of the effort to make a full step.

A snowmachine trail led off toward the promise of birch buds to eat, an exercise in futility as the small hooves broke through the compacted surface and moored the young animal until a valiant effort brought him back to the road.

An owl may have offered support, except no small-mammal tracks would bring one of the great predators to the arena that night. Nor were there coyote yips or wolf howls piercing the night air in anticipation.

Another half mile and an old road recently plowed for wood-cutting offered a final chance to climb out of the high banks along the path and to food. The effort was too much and the young animal succumbed to fate, sliding down the snow into the abyss.

Witness to the hardships endured by northern wildlife has been a part of my life since childhood. My earliest memory is of going out with my Dad, for a winter Sunday drive for no other reason than to see how the local fauna fared.

Slowing to a stop along the backcountry road, where traffic was rare and any that might happen along would likely be sharing the same experience of winter country backroads, Dad reached for his binoculars and scanned the near edge of a stunted shelterbelt.

There were abbreviated pine trees planted in rows the previous summer, that would eventually provide wind breaks on the North Dakota prairie and promote soil conservation, and cover for wildlife. After a moment, he pointed to the north end of the fledgling shelterbelt and told me to look beneath the small branches of one of the pines.

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After straining to find what he pointed to through the binoculars, I made out the snow-crusted form of a ring-neck pheasant. I remember being startled when the form took shape and I realized the rooster had frozen to death, standing in the insufficient cover of the infant pine tree.

Seeming to look back at me, the pheasant’s eye had a glazed-over appearance that, after further straining and focus, revealed it to be crusted ice. We sat and studied the rows of trees and found several more birds frozen in place. “It’s been a tough winter,” Dad told me, “Too much snow covering their food and not enough cover has them struggling and some not making it.”

A little farther down the road, we stopped near a bigger stand of trees, with a good-sized opening in the middle. The snow around the clearing appeared to have been sculpted into a sort of enclosure that contained 12-15 whitetail deer.

The deer were yarded up, inadvertently offering support and willpower to get through the winter. Their appearance left no doubt that they were starving. I remember looking at my father, all I needed to do to get the response I wanted. “I know,” he said, “why don’t we help them?”

At that time, supplemental feeding of wildlife was prohibited, and it pained everyone who cared, including the wildlife managers of the day. Ensuing years sometimes found it OK, and we would always get involved when we could. There remains debate over the validity of supplemental feeding. Clearly there are cases where it can do more harm than good.

Feeding animals around populated areas can create issues as detrimental as lack of food. Done right, in areas where allowed, it may be valuable, and may ease the pain we feel when we witness the suffering. In the end, it is ultimately the carrying capacity of the land that dictates how it goes.

Those early years with my Dad, on those drives, he showed me there were other ways we could help. This began when I was maybe seven years old.

He told me, “You will be out roaming around the country by yourself before long. When you do, remember these animals and remember they need to conserve every bit of energy just to live through the winter. I know you love animals and you’ll want to get close to them. Don’t. You’ll disturb them and they’ll burn calories trying to avoid you that they cannot afford.”

One of the longer-winded statements from a man who spared words to the extreme. I took it seriously and try to be mindful of the sentiment no matter how difficult it may be, or how much effort it takes to skirt food-stressed animals in the late winter and early spring.

Advice that remains as good today as it was 55 years ago. This 2021-22 winter in our part of Southcentral Alaska has been reminiscent of the snowfalls of the early 1970s and 1980s. Food stress began early this winter and by all indications, March will be a rather awful month for our long-legged ungulates.

There isn’t much else we can do for them. Some, myself included, will cut down birch trees on our property, which will buy them a bit of time. But it takes an awful lot of tree tops to accomplish much in the way of supplemental feed. Nevertheless, it may help and it is their natural food.

Nature is a cruel mistress; wild creatures are dying all around us in a never-ending cycle of life. For the most part, this reality is on the periphery and not thrust in our face. With moose, not so much, and I struggle with their plight every time it occurs. And I know I’m not alone.

Intellectually I understand that the young bull who simply slumped into a pile and became raven food overnight, fulfilled nature’s ultimate destiny for it. There were no tears shed, no sympathy given, just another day in the life — or death.

A reality I’ve known my entire life. But, with moose it always hits me hard. Perhaps it their near-constant presence, their beauty, their robust appearance, their general good nature, that grows a soft spot when they struggle.

It seems like watching your neighbor wither away and die for no good reason. I don’t know. I know while staring at the lifeless carcass of the young bull moose, I felt the less for losing another spirit in a world that is running short. I felt no shame driving away through the clouds that had formed in my eyes. Rest in peace young fellow.

Steve Meyer | Alaska outdoors

Steve Meyer of Kenai is longtime Alaskan and an avid shooter who writes about guns and Alaska hunting. He's the co-author, with Christine Cunningham, of the book "The Land We Share: A love affair told in hunting stories."

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