Hope for Animals and Their World

by Jane Goodall; Thane Maynard; Gail Hudson

  Flying with Cranes

  When I looked outside at six the next morning, the sky was clear, and there was almost no wind. A perfect day for flying! At the hangar, I donned my white crane costume; then came earphones, and finally the helmet. The pilots wheeled the ultralights out of their hangar, and I climbed into the tiny passenger seat in the space behind Joe. After we belted up, he attached my headphones to the system so I could hear him, pulled the cord to start the engine, taxied to the runway—and we took off.

  The golden and pale blue morning air was all around, rushing past us, exhilarating. For the first time ever I felt that I was truly flying, part of the air, and the clouds, and the sky. Spread out over the waking landscape, the other three ultralights flew toward the landing strip adjoining the cranes’ pen. There we all touched down and the cranes were let out to join their strangely assorted parent figures—disguised humans and unlikely flying machines! One of the four pilots, Chris, taxied carefully through the eighteen cranes and about seven of them followed, running after the plane; when he took off, so did they. Up they flew, parent ultralight and its little following. The remaining youngsters on the ground milled around pilot Brooke, making it very hard for him to take off, but he made it with all but one of them flying up after him. He flew in a big circle and swooped back past the remaining crane, which then decided to follow.

  Soon we were all in the air. Because of my extra weight, Joe could not reduce his speed sufficiently to have the cranes actually follow us—but we were often very close to them. The pilots communicate with one another, so they can turn to pick up a crane that has flown off on its own, or know when two or three more join their little flock. One of the cranes absolutely got the hang of gliding in the slipstream of the ultralight he was following, and scarcely had to flap his wings.

  It is hard for me to describe the emotions that went through me as I sat there behind Joe. I felt so much part of the whole scene, flying in that frail little machine above the wildlife refuge, the other ultralights like huge birds, each with its cranes strung out behind, the glory of the morning with its after-rain freshness and rising sun and golden clouds. The reflection of plane and cranes shone in the calm surface of the water below. I developed a new feeling for the cranes themselves on an almost spiritual level of connectedness.

  I wanted to go on flying forever, suspended between heaven and earth with those exquisite young whooping cranes. If only the engine had been silent, the experience would have been unearthly and I could have believed myself a bird.

  I called Joe regularly during the long weeks of the migration—it was shocking how many flying days were lost because of bad weather. At last came the news I had been waiting for: All the birds had made it to Florida. After a journey of twelve hundred miles, all were safely in their spacious new winter home at the Chassahowitzka National Wildlife Refuge. The human team could return to homes and families. And for the cranes, life would finally settle down. Experienced handlers would pen them at night, releasing them each morning to explore their new habitat. The pen, built in a large pond, had two purposes: to keep the chicks safe from nighttime predators, and to continue to teach them to roost in water at night.

  And then, a few months later, Joe called me again, this time with devastating news. All but one of those glorious crane beings were dead, killed in their pen by lightning during a freak storm that also killed twenty people. Yet setbacks like this must be endured, time and again, in the fight to rescue animals pushed, by us, to the brink of extinction. Joe and the rest of the Operation Migration crew would carry on.

  There was good news for that same year: In the summer of 2006, at least six pairs of cranes nested and laid eggs in Necedah—and although only one chick fledged, it followed its human-trained parents to Florida. The following spring (2007) the two adults—known as the First Family—once again nested and laid an egg in Necedah.

  Meeting the Eggs—and Other Birds—at Patuxent Wildlife Center

  On a glorious spring day, five months after my flight in the ultralight with Joe, I visited the whooping crane breeding program at Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Maryland, where two-thirds of all whoopers so far released into the wild were raised. The director of the crane program, John French, along with several members of his team, was there to greet me and explain what was going on. Currently Patuxent is in charge of rearing and training all the chicks destined for Operation Migration. This training is carried out by a team of scientists, veterinarians, support staff, and the crane handlers who directly care for the birds. Many of those working at Patuxent have been there ten to twenty years, giving the crane project consistency and stability.

  The eggs come from Patuxent’s own breeding birds, and are also sent from ICF and other facilities. At the time I visited, there were forty-five eggs in various stages of incubation and “chick season,” as the Patuxent crew calls it, was in full swing. One egg was actually hatching while I was there, and I went to visit it. Chicks must not hear human voices even in their eggs; as mentioned, they hear recordings of crane brood calls and the sound of the ultralight plane from the earliest age. These recordings, they told me, are played at least four times a day during the entire hatching process.

  As we approached the hatching egg, we could hear the desperate-sounding peeping of the chick as he struggled to break through the shell, and every so often a small beak appeared through the little square hole he had already chiseled. I longed to help, but the initial fight to emerge is, said John, critical to the chick’s survival. Chicks that cannot hatch on their own are often weak; in the wild they probably would not make it. Those that break free on their own are usually robust, as if the difficult two-day process also encourages qualities of persistence and determination—very important for a bird destined for a demanding existence in the wild. (We named that struggling chick Addison after a friend of mine who has made generous donations to Operation Migration.)

  Next, I again donned a crane suit and accompanied a two-week-old chick on his daily walk to the wetlands area, along with crane handlers Kathleen (Kathy) O’Malley and Dan Sprague. This regular exercise is necessary to strengthen their rapidly growing legs. It also acclimatizes the chick to a wetlands environment where it learns to hunt, following the example of the human-wielded puppet head as it probes, crane-like, the ground and water.

  On the way back, the chick, along with his “parent,” followed a noisy ultralight around a small circular track. As he grows older, he will learn to follow the plane when it is driven around the track by his handler. At this time, the regular puppet head is exchanged for one with an extremely long neck (known as a robo-crane) so that the handler can continue to interact with his chick even when sitting in the plane. A robo-crane, like the puppet I used at Necedah, can dispense mealworm “treats” to the always hungry chick each time the handler pulls a trigger—it is important to reward them frequently for following the plane. Chicks start this daily training as early as five days of age. By the time they’re sent to Joe and the Operation Migration team in Wisconsin, they have been following the plane for weeks on the ground and are ready to start flying lessons.

  Disease, Heartbreak, and Continued Determination

  Four months after my visit to Patuxent, I learned that out of the forty-five eggs that were there at that time, only seventeen chicks would be available for shipping by private jet to Operation Migration in Wisconsin. Kathy explained that a variety of diseases and genetic problems—such as scoliosis, heart issues, and weak legs—were responsible for the loss of chicks. She has been involved with the whooping crane breeding program since 1984 and has raised more than three hundred whooper chicks, a world record! She definitely has a flair for this work—during her first year in charge, the survival rate went from less than 50 percent to 97 percent.

  She told me that she has spent many nights struggling to save whoopers, and has had to work around the clock with veterinarians for weeks at a time. Once a toxic mold grew in the feed and 90 percent of the b
irds (sandhills and whoopers) became sick. “We had to tube-feed almost all the birds to save them,” Kathy recalled. “We worked for six weeks without a single day off … That was a terrible time. But we got through it.”

  It was Joe who told me that his dream of leading a much bigger flock that autumn was not to be. “But at least we have seventeen birds to train—and there were not many more in the whole world when the first efforts to save whooping cranes were made.” Addison, he assured me, was doing really well—“strong and feisty.”

  A Visit to the Original Flock in Texas

  Meanwhile the wild Aransas/Wood Buffalo flock, which provided those first eggs for the first captive-bred chicks at Patuxent, has steadily increased. In the fall of 2006, 237 birds returned from Canada to Aransas in Texas, with 45 fledged chicks including a new record—seven “twins” (meaning both eggs hatched from seven two-egg clutches). And the following year, 266 wild whooping cranes wintered in the refuge.

  The Aransas National Wildlife Refuge was founded by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1937 to protect the migratory and other birds that find a rich food source—blue crabs and other aquatic creatures—in the brackish pools of the marshland habitat. We would not have a story to tell if this land had not been protected back then. Unfortunately the wetlands along the coast of Texas have become increasingly degraded due to human population pressures, heavy commercial shipping, and the introduction of exotic species. And fifteen hundred acres of the refuge was lost when a channel was dredged for the Intracoastal Waterway that cut right through the six thousand acres of marshland.

  By the start of the new millennium, it was estimated that some 20 percent of the original refuge had been lost. Finally, it was decided that something must be done. A major effort to protect and restore the marshlands is now under way: The banks along the waterway have been lined with heavy matting that completely stops the erosion of the salt marsh. New levees have been built, and material dredged from the channel has been piled up on the inside of the barrier and seeded with marshland plants. It is hoped that the cranes will eventually move into this man-made habitat.

  I was in Aransas in 2002 to help celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the entire National Wildlife Refuge System. My visit had been arranged by ConocoPhillips—for many years, Conoco had contributed funds to the preservation of the marshland. At the dinner Tom Stehn, whooping crane coordinator with the US Fish and Wildlife Service, Aransas, presented me with a treasured feather from the wing of a whooping crane (with all its government permissions for ownership!). But before that, there had been time to go out in the research boat. As we moved slowly along the waterways, a roseate spoonbill flew past, the pink of its wings illuminated by the setting sun. And then, filling the air with magic, came the call of the whooping crane. There they were, a pair standing tall and straight, then bowing their heads to search for the blue crabs and frogs of the wetlands. We saw two more pairs before the dusk closed in and we had to head back. We did not try to get close—it was enough to know that they were there, still returning to their old ancestral winter feeding grounds. And one last time, we heard the wild call of a whooping crane sounding over the darkening wetlands.

  This picture is vivid in my mind as I sit, thinking back over the past few years. Despite everything, against all odds, these ancient birds have survived, and it is thanks to the imagination, dedication, and sheer determination of the people I have met during this journey of discovery, and all those I have not. People who have devoted their lives to ensuring that the whooping crane shall not vanish from the marshlands and prairies, rivers and skies, of North America.

  THE ROMANCE OF GEORGE AND TEX

  George Archibald has devoted his whole life to cranes of all species. He has played a role in the conservation of the whooping crane—and not only in conventional ways. The story of his courtship with a whooping crane named Tex is enchanting.

  Tex, who hatched at the San Antonio Zoo in 1966, was hand-raised and imprinted on humans. She was a rare and valuable bird carrying unique genes, and it was important that she reproduce—but a decade of introductions to suitable male cranes failed. Tex preferred male Caucasians. George knew that hand-raised cranes will sometimes lay eggs if they form a close bond with a human—so he volunteered to “court” Tex.

  In the summer of 1976 Tex arrived at the International Crane Foundation, where a shelter had been built for the unconventional couple. Tex’s side was equipped with two buckets—one for fresh water and one for nutritious pellets. George’s side had a cot, a desk, and a typewriter.

  Most of the day, Tex stood nearby and watched George, but sometimes she led him outside.

  Cranes have a remarkable courtship dance that includes bowing, jumping, running, and tossing objects into the air. To strengthen their bond, George agreed to join Tex in this elaborate performance many times daily during the early months of their relationship.

  And it worked. The following spring, Tex laid her first egg. Unfortunately, although it was artificially inseminated, this egg was infertile. So their courtship dancing continued. The next spring she again laid one egg, but to George’s intense disappointment the chick died while hatching. And for the next three years George was working in China, so others danced with Tex. But she never laid for them.

  “In the spring of 1982, I made an all-out effort with Tex,” George told me. For six weeks he spent every hour with her, from dawn until dusk, seven days a week. Once more, she laid one egg. And this time the chick hatched. He was named Gee Whiz.

  Three weeks later, as George was about to appear on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, he heard that Tex had been killed by raccoons. He went onto the show anyway, and after sharing his courtship story with twenty-two million people, he broke the sad news.

  “The studio audience gasped, and that ripple of anguish was felt nationally,” he said. “Through her dance and death, I think, Tex made a great contribution to public awareness about the plight of endangered species.”

  Gee Whiz prospered and eventually paired with a female whooper. Many of his offspring have been introduced back into the wild, and the genes from Tex are alive and well in both captive and wild populations of whooping cranes.

  Angonoka or Ploughshare Tortoise

  (Geochelone yniphora)

  My friend Alison Jolly, a renowned primatologist and author, first told me about the angonoka or ploughshare tortoise, which lives in a remote area of northwestern Madagascar known as the Soalala peninsula. It was called the ploughshare (or plowshare) tortoise because part of the lower shell sticks out between the front legs like a plow.

  “They are marvelously funny animals,” Alison told me. “The males joust with the long ‘plowshare’ spur on their lower shell that sticks forward under their chins. The goal is to tip one’s rival over on his back. They are big, like soccer balls. The one on his back rocks wildly as he struggles for a foothold to turn over again.” Although for the losing male it is, without doubt, a very undignified situation and not funny at all!

  These tortoises live within a six-hundred-square-mile area of bamboo scrub forest and open savanna. Without the dedication of a group of conservationists, it seems almost certain that they would have slipped over the brink into the abyss of extinction. The tortoises were not hunted for food, but irresponsible dealers were taking many for sale to collectors in the international trade in rare species. And the angonoka’s habitat was being overrun with bushpigs, imported from Africa. The local people believe that keeping an angonoka with their chickens will sustain the birds’ health—strangely, people in south Madagascar keep a closely related species, the “radiated tortoises,” with their poultry for the same reason. Maybe there is some truth in it.

  In 1986, the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust (DWCT) launched Project Angonoka in collaboration with the Malagasy government and with support from the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). For more than ten years, this program was headed by Don Reid, whose name will forever be associated with the restoration of the
angonoka. I spoke to Don over the telephone, and he told me that when he first arrived at the site he found himself in a small field station, in the middle of a forest, surrounded by villagers who were not only puzzled by what these conservationists were up to but also suspicious of almost everything done by white people. There were a few WWF biologists who occasionally came and went, and although they were near a main road, it was extremely difficult to travel during rainy season. His job—to start a captive breeding program to try to save the angonoka from extinction.

  Don Reid, whose name will forever be associated with the restoration of the angonoka, shown here with a female in northwest Madagascar. A radio transmitter is glued to her shell. (Don Reid)

  Trial and Error

  “When we started,” Don told me, “we had to do everything from scratch. No one knew anything about the behavior of the tortoises. We didn’t know what their diet was. So we had to go out plant collecting into the forest and sort of guess what they might like.” They learned through trial and error. They found that the tortoises loved an introduced cactus. “They loved it so much we could give them medicine with the leaves,” said Don, laughing. He told me that he found them strange creatures. “They sat around, doing nothing, for weeks throughout the long dry season,” he said.

  They started the captive breeding with eight individuals, five of whom were males, all of whom were confiscated from local homeowners. Gradually, over the years, others were confiscated, babies hatched, and the captive population grew.

  Between January and July, each female digs between one and seven six-inch-deep nests, twenty-eight to thirty days apart. “She nests only at night,” Don told me. “In each nest she lays only one, huge, egg. At midnight.” Amazingly, all the eggs hatch within two weeks of one another, in the height of the wet season.