In the Lakota culture, the black-footed ferret is called itopta sapa: ite—face, opta—across, sapa—black. The Lakota admired itopta sapa for its cunning and elusiveness and held it sacred. Creatures that were hard to kill, like itopta sapa, were thought to be protected by the earth power and the thunder beings. Today the Lakota still consider this ferret sacred.
At one time, short- and mixed-grass prairies, home to the black-footed ferret, covered nearly one-third of North America, from Canada to Mexico. This vast area was also home to the great bison herds as well as the prairie dogs that lived in huge colonies, and provided food and homes for the ferrets, who lived in their burrows.
When Europeans arrived in North America, things began to change. Human developments transformed the prairies, so that more and more prairie dog habitat was destroyed, and the ranchers began their ongoing campaign to poison as many as possible. They maintained that the rodents competed with their livestock for grass and that their burrows would cause broken legs. By 1960, using the most conservative calculations, prairie dogs had lost some 98 percent of the land they had once occupied. New diseases were also brought to the prairies: Sylvatic plague, for example, entered North America around the turn of the century and is having a devastating impact on prairie dog towns to this day.
Prairie dogs, being rodents, can quickly bounce back from a population decline, but not so black-footed ferrets. They are predators with a naturally low population that is spread out over a wide area. As their numbers declined, it became more and more difficult for them to replenish themselves.
In 1964, the federal government was actually debating whether these wild ferrets should be listed as extinct when a small population (only 20 of the 151 prairie dog colonies in the area were occupied) was discovered in Mellette County, South Dakota. As time went on, however, it became clear that this small population was decreasing, probably because of fragmented habitat and the poisoning of prairie dog colonies.
In 1971, six of the Mellette County ferrets were captured to form the nucleus for a captive breeding program. Tragically, four of these precious lives were lost when they were vaccinated against distemper, even though the vaccine had not harmed the Siberian ferrets on which it had been tested. Three more were then captured, but the program seemed doomed. Over the next four breeding seasons, one of the captive females refused to mate, and although the other twice produced litters of five, each time four of the five were stillborn, and the fifth died soon after birth. Meanwhile, the wild ferrets of Mellette County were disappearing—the last time one was seen was 1974.
I can imagine the desperation of the team working on the captive breeding as they watched the species falling into extinction. In 1979, the last remaining captive black-footed ferret died of cancer, and the federal government again debated listing the species extinct.
And then, on September 26, 1981, two years after the death of the last captive black-footed ferret in South Dakota, something very exciting happened. In Meeteetse, Wyoming, on the property of John and Lucille Hogg, a small animal got too close to Shep, their blue heeler ranch dog, when he was eating his dinner—and Shep naturally killed it. John found the strange-looking animal by Shep’s dish and tossed it over the yard fence, but when he told his wife about it, she became curious and retrieved the body. She was enchanted by the beautiful little creature, and took it to the taxidermist to be preserved. And the taxidermist recognized a black-footed ferret!
A group of excited ferret enthusiasts quickly gathered to survey the area. How excited Dennie Hammer and Steve Martin must have been when they saw two emerald-green eyes shining as a little head popped up from a burrow—vindication at last for their conviction that wild ferrets still existed! Yet only pure luck had provided this proof. Over the next five years, private, state, and federal conservation biologists and many volunteers worked to learn more about the ferret population. They searched for the ferrets with spotlights, trapped them and marked them with tags, fitted them with tiny radio transmitters on neck collars (so the team could spy on the ferrets’ nocturnal habits), and used a new technology, tiny transponders that could be implanted in the neck (which allow short-range identification of an individual animal).
“None of us took them for granted,” Steve Forrest, a team member, told me later. “We knew the ferrets as individuals. We lived with them. We knew these were the last members of the species.”
In April 2006, thanks to my friend Tom Mangelsen, the photographer, I met some of that original dedicated team—Steve and Louise Forrest, Brent Houston, Travis Livieri, Mike Lockhart, and Jonathan Proctor. We gathered in Wall, South Dakota, at Ann’s Motel. I soon found that this would be an all-night experience, for the ferrets are not active till around midnight. We set out in the evening, stopping for a picnic to watch the sun set behind the extraordinary rock formations of the Badlands, bringing out the fantastic colors—ocher, mauve, yellow, gray, and all the subtle shades between.
Gradually, as we drove toward the prairies, the day faded until all color was drained from the landscape. There was no light pollution apart from the headlights of our trucks, and the stars were large and brilliant in the wide sky. It was strange to think that we were driving over the thriving underground prairie dog towns—that were home, too, to the black-footed ferrets.
It was close to midnight when Brent called out: “There’s one!” And I saw the eyes of a small animal shining brilliant emerald green as they reflected his spotlight. As we drove closer, I made out the ferret’s head as she looked at us, listening to the engines. She did not vanish as we cautiously drove closer. And when she did duck down, she could not resist popping up for another look before disappearing. When we eventually went over to peek down the burrow, there was her little face, peeking back at us, not at all afraid. Travis later returned to take a reading of her transponder chip—which is how I know she was female.
Travis, who was in a second truck, found another ferret—a male—who soon darted into a burrow. It was the time of year, Travis explained, when males check out the burrows looking for females in estrus (in heat). Sure enough, after a while the ferret bounded out and raced to another burrow. He moved like lightning, his tiny body stretched out long and thin. We followed. Obviously, no suitable female there, for soon he reappeared, stood upright to look around, and stretched tall as he could—checking for coyotes and foxes. Then he streaked off and vanished into yet another burrow. That burrow was apparently female-less also, for he soon emerged again. During his next cross-country run, our ferret bumped into—physically bumped into—a horned lark! As the startled bird flew up, the ferret did a complete backflip to land, like the acrobat he is, on all four feet facing the way he was going before. Without a pause he raced on toward the next burrow. It was a fabulous show! I doubt anyone has ever seen a black-footed ferret–horned lark encounter of that sort.
The next day, Tom and I were able to sit down with Travis, Steve, and Jonathan (the others had to leave) and talk about the black-footed ferret recovery program. Steve described the harrowing events that took place four years after the miraculous discovery of the wild Meeteetse ferrets. In August 1985, they got permission to assess the status of the ferret population, as they had done each year. They found 58 individuals, a marked decline from the 129 found the previous summer. In September, they estimated there were only thirty-one, and by October the wild ferrets were down to just sixteen.
The biologists believed that the ferrets had been afflicted by distemper, and they sought permission from the Wyoming Game & Fish Department (responsible for the black-footed ferret program) to capture some individuals so they could get blood samples for veterinary testing. Permission was refused on the grounds that the procedures were too invasive. The situation worsened—it became clear that the juveniles were not surviving.
Brian Miller, whom I met later, was part of the team at that time. “Walking the area was not like previous years, when ferrets reliably occupied areas,” he told me. “Now you would see a ferret in his or her territory on one night, and the next night that area was empty.” This situation, while desperately alarming to the biologists, was ignored by Wyoming G&F. Finally, a meeting was arranged to discuss the ferrets’ plight. Steve, Louise, and Brent, along with other biologists, were all present, as were various staff of Wyoming G&F, a representative of IUCN, and a group of old-time game rangers who had no understanding of—or patience with—conservation biology.
At this meeting, the scientists were criticized for not providing good data—data about the suspected distemper epidemic that they had not been allowed to collect! The discussion became heated. The scientists stressed the urgency of trapping more ferrets for intensive captive breeding. Permission was again refused. Things were going badly for the researchers and, thus, for the future of the ferrets when the Wyoming G&F veterinarian came into the room, clearly agitated.
At that time, there were six ferrets in captivity, trapped earlier for the captive breeding program that had, after prolonged pressure from many sources, eventually been agreed to by Wyoming G&F. One of the six, reported the veterinarian, had died, and another was very sick. The reason—distemper, almost certainly contracted in the wild. “All at once it was very quiet,” said Steve, flashing a broad smile as he recalled the discomfort of their obstinate adversaries. At last, the scientists had their evidence.
Yet even then, they were only allowed to catch animals from the central part of the range—leaving the most vulnerable individuals in the peripheral areas to disappear, lost forever. And despite the fact that the ferrets were clearly on the brink of extinction, Wyoming officials did not deviate from a planned strategy—only six more ferrets (the original six were dead or dying) could be caught. And they could only trap one per day—because that was the rate at which cages were being constructed. Offers to bring in a company to make them faster were ignored.
“We started right away,” Steve told me. Over the next three nights, they covered forty square miles of prairie, trapping ferrets in a desperate attempt to save the species. On the third night, Brent had just trapped two when an officious local game officer arrived and told him he had exceeded his quota. “He told Brent to release one of the two,” said Steve, “and Brent refused.” They practically came to blows as the game officer simply cut the trap open.
By that time there were so few ferrets, and Wyoming G&F had been so uncooperative, that there had been little choice as to which individuals were trapped. Thus the nucleus of the breeding group was three adult females and one juvenile (Emma, Molly, Annie, and Willa), as well as two juvenile males (Dexter and Cody). A specialist in captive breeding warned that without an adult male the onset of breeding would be delayed, but Wyoming G&F ignored this advice, and though an adult male was seen in a peripheral area, his capture was not permitted. Thus there were no litters in the captive group the next season.
It was an agonizing time. Brian Miller, who had paired the captive ferrets, told me how they had watched the breeding cages on a remote camera all night. “We were wondering,” he said, “if we were watching the modern version of Martha, the passenger pigeon.” Martha was the last individual of a species that is now extinct. She died of old age in a zoo and is now mounted in the Smithsonian. “I once went to see her,” said Brian. “Was that to be the fate of Emma, Molly, Annie, Willa, Dexter, and Cody, too?”
By the following summer, 1986, it seemed that only four adults—two males (Dean and Scarface) and two females (Mom and Jenny), each of whom gave birth—were left in the wild. Now, finally, Wyoming G&F agreed that all four adults and the eight remaining juveniles should be trapped for the breeding program.
The biologists worked hard for the rest of the summer, and eventually the last ferret was captured—Scarface. At this point, eighteen captive black-footed ferrets, a handful of biologists, and an unproven captive breeding program were all that was left to buffer the species from extinction. Despite the fact that discord and bad feelings continued to plague the program, the ferrets began to breed, and gradually other centers were established across the country, so that the outbreak of disease or some other disaster at one facility would not wipe out the entire captive population.
Next, the arguments began over when and how ferrets should be reintroduced into the wild. The most acrimonious argument concerned the pros and cons of “hard release” (when animals are taken straight from the cage and let loose, usually with some food provided for a while) versus “soft release” (when the animals are given a variety of opportunities to gradually get used to a new life in the wild). Many of the field biologists felt strongly that it was not ethical to suddenly dump ferrets from small cages into the dangerous world of the prairies with no experience or training, but in 1991 the first forty-nine captives were hard-released into Wyoming’s wilderness.
The next release site was Conata Basin in South Dakota, where I had met my first ferrets. Later I would meet Paul Marinari, who told me about one night he will never forget. He was searching for ferrets with Travis and four other biologists, spread out over the prairie. Suddenly his radio sprang to life and a message “crackled through the South Dakota night proclaiming that multiple ferret eye-shine was detected from one burrow. This signified the first observation of a wild-born ferret litter (from captive-born parents) in the state. Those moments were goose bumps on goose bumps!”
Eventually, it was proved conclusively that hard release is not the best option—not only does soft release lead to much better short-term survival rates, but more individuals live to breed the following season as well. Gradually, more and more released ferrets survived. It had been established that they could be bred in captivity and that they could survive and breed in the wild. But could their habitat be preserved?
Paul Marinari releases a black-footed ferret into a preconditioning pen before its final journey into the wild. (Ryan Hagerty)
During my visit with the team, as I came to understand the challenges they faced, I was interested to talk further to Jonathan Proctor about his work with the prairie dogs and the prairie ecosystem. Jonathan explained that one of the main problems for conservationists is that almost no rancher has a good word for prairie dogs. I met one of these old-timers as he drove by Ann’s Motel. The prairie dogs, he said, were a real nuisance. There were all those holes in the ground that caused cattle and horses to break their legs. And, he said, the prairie dogs competed with the herds for the new grass. While no one I talked to had actually encountered any cows or horses with broken legs on the prairie, I listened to his point of view and respected what he had to say. I said it was a shame there wasn’t some way around the problem without poisoning those cute little animals.
“Best prairie dog is a dead one,” he said—but he reached out and touched my arm, as though he knew what I meant, and told me he’d watched my shows and thought I did a great job. It is so important to talk with people and listen to their point of view, to try to find solutions that will work for everyone. For this conflict between people and wildlife gets ever more intense as our human populations multiply and more and more wild land is taken over for development.
Perhaps, in the end, tourism will save the great American prairies, along with all the fascinating life-forms that make up the ecosystem. And the last of the old-time ranchers can offer visitors a taste of the old days, staying in an old-style homestead on land where, once again, bison roam. And where the Central Plains Indians (such as the Lakota and the Sioux), so much a part of the great prairies, and who are even now helping with restoration projects, will have a major role to play.
On the last morning of my visit to Wall, South Dakota, we gathered for breakfast, not wanting to part. How much I had learned, how complex the issues were, and how many challenges lay ahead. Before we said our good-byes, Travis told me about one of the individuals who had made a major contribution to the program. She was known, simply, as No. 9750 (the 97 indicates the year she was born). In 1996, Travis had released thirty-six captive-born ferrets into the wild, and No. 9750’s mother had been one of the only four to survive. No. 9750 was born the following year in the first cohort of wild-born black-footed ferrets in the Conata Basin. “Their future was uncertain,” Travis told me. “But No. 9750 survived and prospered and became a founder of the black-footed ferret population that now numbers approximately three hundred adults and kits annually in Conata Basin.” No. 9750 lived for four years, which is quite old for a wild black-footed ferret. She had produced four litters and raised a total of ten to twelve youngsters.
In October 2001, Travis came upon No. 9750. She looked exhausted after raising her last litter, emaciated and with thinning hair and deep-sunken eyes. Kneeling to look down at her in the burrow, he knew she would not see another spring. Listening to Travis, I was miles away from the breakfast table, with its empty plates and cups. I was out on the prairie, bleak with approaching winter, with this tough dedicated man who was talking softly, saying good-bye to a very small, very tired black-footed ferret. “I want to say thank you, honey. I know we’ll not see each other again.” I could tell, by his voice, that he was all choked up, but I could not see for the tears in my eyes.
In April 2007, I squeezed a morning out of my tour schedule to visit the captive breeding program at the US Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) National Black-Footed Ferret Conservation Center in Wellington, Colorado, home to about 60 percent (roughly 160 individuals) of the captive population. (The rest are scattered in various zoos.) There I had a wonderful reunion with Travis, Brent, and Mike, who are all working there, and met for the first time Dean Biggins and Paul Marinari, both of whom I had heard so much about.
It is important, Paul explained, to determine exactly when the male and female are ready for breeding, whether the male’s sperm count is healthy, whether a female has been successfully inseminated, and so on. One three-year-old female was having a small amount of saline solution squirted into her vagina. Not far away, Paul encouraged a male to leave the lower portion of his housing and climb up a piece of black tubing into a small wire cage. Once the ferret was there, Paul demonstrated how to gently squeeze the scrotum, which needed to be firm. If it was, he would be anesthetized and subjected to electro-ejaculation.
Next, we looked through the microscope at the fixed sample from another male and saw the little sperm there. He was ready, anyway! The results of all these necessary but undignified procedures were displayed on charts pinned up on the walls—showing which female had bred with which male, which couples were really incompatible, how many offspring had survived, and which, from the genetic point of view, could be allowed to breed. Clearly, the program has been successful—since it was initiated in 1987, it has resulted in the birth of more than six thousand black-footed ferret kits.
There was one great moment when Paul opened the upper cage of a female who had given birth two days before and I got to peep in—one of the first people to see the five tiny kits pink, naked, and blind, curled up there. Paul told me he never tired of watching them change “from a pile of squirmy little worm-like beings to chattering kits at sixty days of age.” Some of them would be selected as reintroduction candidates. “Then,” he said, “they undergo the most dramatic events for any captive animal: release into a preconditioning pen and, hopefully, reintroduction to the wild.”
Travis was the one who first told me about the “ferret school” that starts when a captive ferret mother and her kits are placed in a large outdoor area where prairie dog burrows are occupied by prairie dogs. It will be the home and hunting ground of the kits for the next several months before they are sent for release into the wild, usually with their mother. This experience—living in a prairie dog burrow and hunting prairie dogs as prey—is a critical phase in preparing them for life on the prairies.
“It’s where the kits get to experience wind, rain, dirt, and all the outdoor sounds of the North American prairie—and ultimately live prairie dogs,” said Paul. “When the kits are placed into these pens, I often wonder what they must be thinking. They often stand in wonderment at such a large enclosure (compared with their indoor cage setting). Then they immediately play follow-the-leader as they almost stumble over their dam, who leads them around the pen, going in and out of each prairie dog burrow opening. Eventually, they settle down, becoming more and more secretive until the day arrives when it’s time to free them from their captive setting for life in the wild.”
The goal of the Black-Footed Ferret Recovery Plan is to reintroduce the ferrets into all eleven states where they once lived. Since the start of the program in 1991, Dean told me, more than three thousand ferrets have been released at reintroduction sites in eight of those states (Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and Kansas, and also into northern Mexico). Several of the sites, including the one I visited in Conata Basin, have successfully established wild black-footed ferret populations. Releases have occurred on federal, state, tribal, and private lands, and the black-footed ferret recovery program now encompasses many partner agencies, organizations, tribes, zoos, and universities. Wyoming Game & Fish, despite some of its past shortcomings, has been an integral and important part of the ferret program, overseeing a large population of ferrets in the state.
Dean, as mentioned earlier, was part of the team that captured the last wild ferrets in existence during 1986–1987 in Meeteetse. One of these was a female they named Mom. Before they captured her, she left a little paw print in the soil outside her burrow, and Dean had made a cast of it. As I was getting up to go, Dean gave me a replica of that cast. I looked down at the tiny print and thought of that bitter time when the dedicated team, to try to save a species, took the last wild individuals into captivity, and I was moved almost to tears. On the back Dean had written:
“Mom” August 30, 1986
Meeteetse, WY.
One of the last 18 black-footed ferrets.
To Jane from Dean Biggins, Travis Livieri, Brent Houston, Paul Marinari, Mike Lockhart 4.25.07.
It is one of my most prized possessions and travels with me around the world.