At approximately 8:30 AM the challenge was accepted. The players: two Alaska Department of Fish and Game biologists, two Alaska State Wildlife Troopers, one safety officer, one BLM wildlife biologist and two interns. The stage: Chicken Ridge and surrounding area. The foes: careless and conniving hunters, egregious crimes against sportsmanship, testicle-less caribou. The departure time: 10:00 AM. YIKES. FRANTIC PACKING. TRIP PLAN. STOP FOR BREATH. FOOD ACQUISITION. Six hours later our heroes arrive to the Chicken Field Station. They rest their weary heads and prepare for several days of sore legs, thumb cramps, tight backs, caribou blood and hunter’s tales. Day 1: Teams assembled and assignments handed out. ADF&G (Jeff, Bob) along with BLM (Ruth) will patrol the road from Dead Man’s Corner (where last year a hunter took his last breaths in his truck parked on the side of the road—breaking character to tell you that this is actually a true story, troopers drove past this guy several times before becoming suspicious enough to check it out…inside the found, you guessed it, a dead guy) to the Y and everywhere in between. Male Trooper (Russ) and Intern #1 (Steve) will head to the border. Female Trooper (Maggie), safety officer (Leo) and Intern #2 (Katie) will take on Chicken Ridge Trail. All teams mount their trusty 4-wheeled steeds and speed off into the wilderness. Dawn breaks above Chicken (ok, it was actually 9:30 AM, this part exaggerated for effect). Our story follows team 3. Thumbs primed, hand warmers engaged, spines sturdy, team 3 tears up Chicken Ridge Trail in search of transgressing hunters. Quad wheels grip dirt and gravel, splash through puddles, climb treacherous hills, tilt sideways against mountain sides and traverse ridges. In past years chaos has reigned—antlers abound, tattling sportsmen, echoing gunshots, a blood bath, a meat market. This year however, all is quiet. Merely the grumbling of whiny hunters and the groan of four-wheeler engines giving up on the hunt after only a few hours. Skies are blue and views are gorgeous as the crew progresses along the ridge, branching out to investigate side paths, cruising up and down streams (as intern #2’s environmentalist soul cries for the gas and other chemicals leaked into the clear water). With no crimes to avenge, the group merely investigates camped hunters and chats with them about weather and lack of caribou. As the day progresses, weather takes a turn for the cold along the highest ridgeline. Hail strikes the enforcement team and nearly puts holes through their exposed noses. Views remain beautiful. The weary and unfulfilled team crawls to the farthest extent of the trail then and turns around, pounding pavement back to the field station. End of day: 10 PM. Day 2: Teams prepare for another uneventful day. The only intel: caribou between Chicken and Birch Creek, up to 80 miles away. Our crew again speeds off towards Chicken Ridge. Today the sights are similar: whining hunters and a parade of ATVs giving up after mere hours of effort. “Where are the caribou?!” demand the hunters. “How could Fish and Game do this to us? We took off work for this!” exclaim the whiners. The team forges on and is rewarded for their perseverance: two sets of caribou antlers float towards us atop mounds of camping and hunting supplies. Their owners slow their ATVs and prepare to be inspected by State Trooper #2. Conversation ensues, meat is unpacked and inspected, antlers are measured and… what’s this?! A testicle-less caribou is presented. Under state law failure to provide proof of sex (both male and female caribou have antlers) is grounds for a fine and confiscation of the animal. Trooper #2 explains this to hunter #2 while hunter #1 rudely sidesteps questions and barks at us to hurry up. Hunter #2 immediately turns sour and explains that he is on probation and will surely go to jail if ticketed. Trooper #2 holds strong and writes the citation. The hunters pack up and ride, grumbling, away. Later in the evening the plot thickens. Other hunters tell of a fellow sportsman who has had his fishing and hunting guiding licenses suspended numerous times for foul play (baiting animals, running business under wife’s name while suspended etc.). Said sportsman is currently on probation. Said sportsman just rode off with caribou antlers on his wheeler and an accomplice. Said sportsman left much of his caribou meat at the kill site (another citation, hunters are required to harvest as much meat as possible—leaving neck and rib meat is not acceptable). After writing a sad, albeit lessened, citation to a young Guatemalan woman who shot her first caribou while possessing the wrong hunting permit (an honest mistake) the team splits up. Intern #2 heads back to the field station around 7:00 PM. Trooper #2 and safety officer prepare for another 5 hours of work. They ride off further along the trail, return to the kill site, inspect the left behind meat, finish cleaning the animal and haul all the wasted meat out, returning to the field station at midnight. The meat is weighed and it appears justice will be served to the shady huntsman. Day 3: Mission called to lack of activity. End Scene In all seriousness, hunt monitoring was an extremely interesting experience. Most of the hunters we talked to were very nice and had admirable goals of shooting caribou honestly, harvesting the meat correctly and enjoying the prize with friends and family. Some were less friendly. All though, had an irritating sense of entitlement about hunting. This specific caribou hunt takes place in and around Chicken in September. It opens on a certain day and closes whenever a set quota of caribou is met. Often the hunt only lasts a few days and sometimes it is over in a day. This is because hunters swarm the area and pick off caribou from the trail as they migrate through in a large herd. In past years it has been absolute chaos with gun shots ricocheting everywhere, caribou falling all over the place, and arguments abound among hunters. Altogether way too easy of a hunt agree the staff from Fish and Game, BLM and Law Enforcement. F&G, who organize the hunt, say it is a wonder no one has been shot. Because of this precedent, hunters are used to coming in at 8 AM, setting up a small camp and having a caribou shot and cleaned in time to have lunch and head out—easy. This year, when that didn’t happen, all hell broke loose in a different way—a cacophony of complaints. They feel entitled to a caribou rather than privileged to be able to take part in the hunt. I certainly don’t pretend to know much about hunting but this attitude seemed wrong to me. Hunting is a sport that should require skill and patience. In other news, I spent this past week teaching wildlife ecology to 7^th graders at the Lost Lake Outdoor Camp.  It was an absolutely wonderful, exhausting and rewarding experience.  I loved getting to know, impart knowledge to and have meaningful conversations with the middle schoolers and they constantly surprised me with their passion and creativity—especially since I was expecting lots of apathy and attitude.  The camp taught me lots about how to translate my knowledge so that it can be shared in a fun and meaningful way to others.  Having never been to camp myself, I was excited to finally have this experience and help make it magical for the kiddos. Back in the office I am slowly working my way through a leaning tower of unidentified pressed plant specimens dating as far back as 2006.  Lots of hours spent with me, myself, my tunes and my scope.  In all honesty though, I enjoy the challenge and puzzle of plant ID—although I will admit the pile of grasses and sedges remains largely untouched…  After identifying plants, I am mounting them for filing in our office’s small herbarium.  This part of the process is a wonderful creative outlet. Peace, Love and Botany Katie O. Fairbanks

Our steeds for the week.

Hunt monitoring=long hours. Dusk along Chicken Ridge Trail.

Stopping two of the very few successful hunters to inspect their kills.

View from along Chicken Ridge Trail