I often try to open these gently with a story or metaphor.
But today, we’re talking about the time that the Idaho Fish and Game service turned a bunch of beavers into unwitting paratroopers. So.
Today’s Moment of Science…Seventy-six airborne beavers.
Some versions of this tale will tell you those gosh darned rascal beavers kept getting too close to where people lived. However, it’s more accurate to say that as our population grew, humans were establishing communities closer and closer to where wildlife formerly had total run of the place.
Most wild critters weren’t really an issue to humans. Beavers aren’t just any old giant swamp rat though. The little engineers will fuck up your local creek to build themselves waterfront property. That was fine in the age of the beavers (my band name), but then we arrived. The beavers’ habit of occasionally damming up streams had long been a part of the local ecosystem. Suddenly their natural behavior resulted in flooded yards and damaged crops for their new neighbors.
The Idaho Fish and Game service was used to relocating animals humanely to other appropriate habitats. This task was fine if the critter’s new home wasn’t too far of a trek. But often the trip would take days, sometimes traveling on horseback through difficult terrain to their new home.
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to carry beavers by horseback? For days?
Beavers don’t love the heat, would often refuse food during these treks, and sometimes became “dangerously belligerent.” Conservation officers didn’t love the prospect of needing to open crates of hot wet cranky furballs, and the horses got spooked lugging around packs of angry beavers. Worse though, beavers regularly didn’t survive the trip.
So, parachutes.
There were seventy-six beavers that needed to be relocated. And wouldn’t you know it, there happened to be a surplus of parachutes kicking around just a few years after WWII ended. Oddly enough, parachuting them to a new place could be the safer way to go.
Some goddamn dream maker specially designed a beaver box to stay safely closed during their descent and let them wiggle out upon landing. After successfully testing out parachute drops using weights in these boxes, eventually they needed to do some test runs with a critter. A beaver named Geronimo became their hero stunt beaver, going where no beaver had gone before and taking to the skies for practice drops. When he hopped out of the box, handlers would rush to retrieve him. Perhaps knowing where he was going anyway, eventually he started running back to the box.
After the parachute drops were deemed consistently safe, the beavers were loaded up for their homeward dive. Over a few days starting on August 14th, 1948, seventy-six beavers descended into a protected roadless forest.
A year later when researchers went to check up on things, it had all been a success. The critters were safe in their new habitat, had all built homes and dams, and the colonies even had new baby beavers. Surprisingly, along with being safer for all involved, the operation even saved money.
If you’re worried about little Geronimo, don’t be. They set this hero beaver up with a harem of three female beavers, and his colony was thriving after a year.
Do they still drop beavers via parachute? No, for two reasons. First, the operation was highly successful and no Idaho beavers needed flight school again. Second, today they would use helicopters.
This has been your Moment of Science, urging you to watch the footage of this, if only for the line “a load of beaver for the mountain.”
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