How did a bunch of Asian snow monkeys come face to face with a Major League Baseball legend? If you can’t picture it, don’t worry—neither could we. Here’s the story.
SURROUNDED
Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher Nolan Ryan worked out of some serious jams during his 30-year career. But nothing he faced on the mound was quite as unnerving as what he saw near Dilley, a small town in south Texas, in 1996. “There were thousands of them,” Ryan recalls in his signature Texas drawl. “It’s kind of like one of these things you see in Africa—they were all over the truck.” The invaders were two-foot-tall Asian snow monkeys, known for their thick brown fur, long pink faces, and penetrating stare. Dozens of them were peering into the truck, examining Ryan, while hundreds more crowded around. But Ryan wasn’t just a casual observer; he was acting in an official capacity as the Texas-appointed “Snow Monkey Ambassador.” How in the world did he get there?
The story started in 1972, when encroaching urban development outside of Kyoto, Japan, forced a troop of snow monkeys, also known as Japanese macaques (Macaca fuscata), out of their natural habitat in the mountainous region of Honshu Island. Temperatures there can drop well below freezing, making the snow monkeys, the northernmost-dwelling nonhuman primate in the world, well adapted to cold weather. And on Honshu, 150 of them began to terrorize a Kyoto suburb, stealing from gardens, farms, and food markets.
Local wildlife experts decided that the only solution was to relocate the entire troop of 150. But to where? After a long search, officials found what they were looking for: the South Texas Primate Observatory, near Dilley. The monkeys were trapped, caged, and flown across the Pacific by the American National Guard in the first large-scale primate relocation of its kind. After they arrived in Texas, a few monkeys died in the much warmer climate, but the survivors soon adapted, foraging for mesquite beans and cactus fruit on the arid South Texas land. The population was kept secured on the ranch by an electric fence, and for 20 years the animals thrived, with their population reaching about 600.
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But by 1995, the snow monkeys were in trouble. Primate researcher Lou Griffin had been the primary person responsible for bringing the animals to the region, and the land set aside for the monkeys was on her husband’s family ranch. But when Griffin’s marriage failed, her ex-husband’s family partitioned the ranch and the 180-acre parcel where the monkeys lived went into foreclosure. The facilities fell into disrepair, and the electric fence failed. Even worse, the primates were suffering from overpopulation, and several small groups of males had instinctively wandered off the ranch looking for other snow monkey troops to join. Result: Just as they had done in Kyoto, the monkeys infiltrated nearby farms and neighborhoods.
They became a “nuisance,” damaging trees, knocking over garbage cans, raiding kitchens, and frightening people. And thanks to a 1994 U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service ruling that declared the monkeys an “exotic unprotected species,” they did not fall under the protection of the Endangered Species Act. In other words, they were fair game for hunters. Although concerned locals and animal-rights advocates managed to keep most hunters at bay, on the final day of the 1995–96 hunting season, tragedy struck. Four monkeys discovered a trap of deer corn set by hunters, who shot and killed three of the primates—including two nursing females—and blew an arm off of the fourth one.
That was it, local residents decided. Something had to be done about these monkeys.
At a heated public hearing later that spring, citizens argued that the monkeys should have been granted protected status because they were privately owned. It was the same situation, they said, as when cattle roamed away from their land; it’s against the law to shoot them simply for leaving their owner’s property. Although the citizens were technically correct, the Texas Parks & Wildlife Commission (TPWC) hadn’t been quick enough to enforce the rule and, as a result, three monkeys were dead. Now the TPWC had a public-relations disaster to clean up, so they brought out the biggest gun they had: 48-year-old Nolan Ryan, native Texan and popular sports hero, who was serving on the TPWC at the request of the governor. Ryan was crowned “Snow Monkey Ambassador.”
So, what does a Snow Monkey Ambassador do? Ryan had no idea. But one of the first things he was asked to do was to take a ride out to Dilley with a wildlife expert to see the monkeys for himself. They weren’t hard to find; they mobbed the truck and peered in curiously at the two passengers. “I was in there with the lady,” Ryan later told interviewers, “and she said, ‘Let’s get out.’ I said, ‘I ain’t getting out!’”
Ryan reluctantly agreed, and slowly climbed out of the truck. A snow monkey leapt from the roof onto his shoulder, and Ryan became “petrified wood.” But the monkey didn’t bite; it had other ideas. The wildlife expert had brought along Hershey’s Kisses, which the monkeys were far more interested in than anything else. “You give them Hershey’s Kisses, and they sit there and they very neatly open it,” Ryan explained, “and about the time they get it unpeeled, another one will come over and knock them down and pick it up and eat it.”
Ryan wasn’t the only celebrity involved with the snow monkey cause. Las Vegas showman Wayne Newton was also enlisted and put on a benefit concert in San Antonio to raise money for the monkeys. Newton’s work, Ryan’s high-profile “ambassadorship,” and a 1997 National Geographic documentary helped raise the funds necessary to repurchase the sanctuary land, rebuild the facilities, and round up the monkeys.
Since then, the troop’s population has been curbed via birth control, and the ranch is now called the Born Free USA Primate Sanctuary. Along with the snow monkeys, the sanctuary offers a home to primates rescued from circuses and abusers. Nolan Ryan has retired from his post as Snow Monkey Ambassador but still loves to tell the story of his strange encounter.
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