Two Last Frontier bears die from bird flu

This family of black bears was photographed near the Glacier Bay National Park o ce on Oct. 11. About 10 days later, one of the cubs fell ill and had to be euthanized. It was determined the young bear

was infected with bird flu. (T. LEWS/NATIONAL PARK SERVICE)

ILLNESS AFFECTING ALASKA WILDLIFE

TWO BEARS HAVE DIED FROM BIRD FLU

BY CHRIS COCOLES

In a third year of Covid now combined with this winter’s uptick in cases of the flu and respiratory syncytial virus, even some of Alaska’s wildlife species are potentially in a health crisis.

In the latter months of 2022, Alaska o cials announced two cubs, a black bear and a grizzly, have died of what’s o cially known as highly pathogenic avian influenza, or HPAI, and commonly referred to as bird flu. According to the state, 53 million domestic poultry animals have been reported to have been stricken with bird flu in 47 states.

In a press release, Alaska state veterinarian Dr. Robert Gerlach said his o ce is dealing with an increase in domestic poultry bird flu cases, which can potentially create outbreaks in wild animals that consume infected birds. That was the cause of death for two bears that are among known bird flu fatalities in the state.

BLACK BEAR’S CONDITION WORSENED The black bear cub that died of the virus inhabited Bartlett Cove around Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve in Southeast Alaska. It was spotted with two other cubs and their sow mother in mid-October looking healthy, but days later the cub was on its own and looked first disoriented and then in the following days appeared even more traumatized and possibly su ering from seizures as well as was foaming at the mouth.

“The park biologist consulted with federal and state biologists and veterinarians and all agreed that the cub should be euthanized to protect people and other wildlife in case the bear had rabies or avian influenza or another communicable disease. On October 20th a state biologist euthanized the animal with a .22-caliber rifle,” a National Park Service press release reported. “A quick assessment found the cub to be a male with no broken bones or obvious signs of trauma. The enclosure had no signs of vomit, feces or any other discharge from the bear during his three days there. The carcass was sent to the state veterinarian for necropsy.”

“The approximately eight-month-old, 32-pound cub was found to be generally in good body condition, but had hemorrhaging along the left side of the skull and a swollen brain. Laboratory analysis results found the bear to be negative for rabies and canine distemper but positive for highly pathogenic avian influenza in

“While mammals are at a lower risk of infection than poultry, scavenging an infected bird provides an opportunity to inhale a heavy dose of the virus while tearing into the tissues,” Alaska Department of Fish and Game veterinarian Dr. Kimberlee Beckmen says of the potential danger to otherwise healthy wildlife from consuming an

infected bird. (T. LEWS/NATIONAL PARK SERVICE)

brain tissue as well as nasal and rectal swabs. HPAI has been detected in only one other black bear, in Quebec in June 2022. In Alaska the virus has previously been detected in only two mammals, both red foxes, but has been detected in numerous wild and domestic birds throughout the summer and fall. The bear cub was likely exposed to the virus by consuming an infected bird.”

KODIAK BROWN BEAR INFECTED To the west across the Gulf of Alaska from Glacier Bay, a Kodiak Island hunter came across a dead brown bear cub on Nov. 26. The hunter collected the carcass and delivered it for a post-mortem examination.

According to a state press release, Nate Svoboda, the area wildlife biologist for Kodiak Island, then informed Alaska Department of Fish and Game veterinarian Dr. Kimberlee Beckmen, who was also part of the team that investigated the black bear death from Glacier Bay. That the Kodiak bear’s death could also attributed to bird flu was made possible by the hunter acting to deliver the carcass to state personnel.

“We appreciate that the public and this hunter reported these animals,” Beckmen said in the press release. “We are dependent on help like this to understand the occurrence of wildlife diseases. Timely reporting and pictures really help.” (Beckmen also advised hunters they can help state wildlife o cers by taking photos of a carcass and o ering more specific details about where it was found. “Get the exact location, take pictures, and let us know so we can pick it up,” Beckmen said, adding, “If you pick it up and turn it in, don’t handle it with bare hands – wear gloves or use a plastic bag.”)

Svoboda, ADFG’s Kodiak biologist, said the brown bear had no signs of obvious wounds or trauma that would indicate it was sick, but the animal did look emaciated.

“That’s uncommon for this time of year when bears should be near their maximum weight prior to denning,” Svoboda said in the press release.

But like the black bear cub in Southeast Alaska, the experts determined the bear’s HPAI infection was due to it consuming a diseased bird, which likely means we haven’t seen the last such death among Last Frontier wildlife.

“While mammals are at a lower risk of infection than poultry, scavenging an infected bird provides an opportunity to inhale a heavy dose of the virus while tearing into the tissues,” Beckmen said. “The cub was emaciated and that, in addition to being a very young animal, would make it more susceptible to succumbing to an infection. Fortunately, the virus is not transferred from bear-to-bear.”

And the press release also reminded that “(the) Centers for Disease Control says this strain is low risk to people and is not a food-borne pathogen. However, proper hygiene is always advised when butchering wild animals for consumption. Wear gloves, wash hands and utensils with soap and water and disinfect surfaces. Cook meat to an internal temperature of 145 degrees and poultry to 165 degrees Fahrenheit to avoid risk of infections.” ASJ

Editor’s note: Sick or dead wildlife can be reported online at adfg.alaska.gov/index. cfm?adfg=distressedwildlife.main.

Author Brian Watkins was tested physically and mentally when he embarked on a Wrangell Mountains solo Dall sheep hunt, an experience that a fellow Alaska outdoorsman refers to as a “dance with the devil.”

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

A SOLO DALL SHEEP HUNT IN THE WRANGELL MOUNTAINS BRINGS EXCITEMENT, DANGER, REFLECTION

BY BRIAN WATKINS

“They’re only 400 yards away, but there’s no obstructions to hide behind. I’m forced to move in for the shot, in plain view, without being detected. My rifle’s slung over my back and I’m on all fours moving as if I were a caterpillar inching along the open mountain face. It’s been nearly a year since I missed with my bow, but this time I have a rifle to fulfill a dream. There’s a band of 12 rams grazing the mountain and one that surpasses the full-curl mark. I have 100 yards to make up before I am comfortable with the shot. Time stands still as I do everything I can to crawl closer.”

Some people spend their whole lives looking for a fulfilling adventure – one that will test their physical abilities. Some look to test their mental abilities. And some yearn for the combination of both.

Everyone has a di erent dream, but there’s an obvious bond between those of us crazy enough to dream of the challenge of a solo sheep hunt. My friend Charles Kahahawai calls it the “dance with the devil.”

I KNEW THE DANGERS of a solo sheep hunt – especially a fly-out, drop-o solo sheep hunt. Tok Air Service dropped me at 7,000 feet and deep in Alaska’s Wrangell Mountains.

As my pilot Zack took o from what would be my home for the next week, reality hit that I was on my own. Survival was dependent on myself alone. I didn’t know what was ahead of me, but I knew I was in my element. The plane slipped out of view and it was time to hunt.

I put my crampons on and headed down the glacier to find a place to set up camp. The area was haphazard with rock slides, icy slopes, deep crevasses and loose boulders. Every step I took needed to be calculated.

I had a satellite phone available, but if I lost consciousness, how would I call? This is the type of thinking that creeps into your thoughts when you’re alone in these conditions. It’s the start of the dance.

I made my way to a flat piece of ground to set up camp. I had three rams a mile away but could tell they weren’t legal through the spotting scope. It was still exciting to have sheep in view already. I spent the afternoon studying the land and how to navigate through the mountain.

As the evening set in, I spotted a group of five rams a few miles away feeding along the bottom of the valley. They were too far to judge, but worth pursuing the following morning. I crawled into bed with high hopes and anticipation.

My nerves were too keen to eat breakfast. The sheep from the night before had awoken before me and were on the move. I threw on my pack and headed towards them.

Watkins gets an acrophobic view of the rugged Wrangells and he knew what he was getting into right away. “Reality hit that I was on my own,” he writes. “Survival was dependent on myself alone.” (BRIAN WATKINS) About the only companions on this trip for Watkins were the sheep he was hoping to harvest. Finding a legal full-curl ram wouldn’t be easy. (BRIAN WATKINS)

AS I CAUGHT UP with the band, I had to get into position to judge legality. In Alaska, rams have to have either both sides broomed o or a full curl on one side. I decided to get higher on my side of the valley for a better view.

I crested the hill and was forced to drop. There were three rams bedded above me and scanning the floor below. Just to the left of them stood four more rams, working their way along the mountain feeding. I was surrounded and without the ability to move. Scaring any one of the groups would clear the entire valley. I was confined to this spot. I got the spotting scope out and worked my way through the rams, judging them.

I studied each ram as I moved from one to the next trying to decide if he was legal. Every ram was barely sublegal, until I locked eyes on “him.” His horns flared out, well past full curl. I immediately began to shake. Buck fever set in and my breaths deepened.

The world seemed to stop spinning as my tunnel vision locked on this beautiful animal. I was caught between three groups of rams, and I had no clue how to proceed.

I ranged the band: 400 yards. My only option was to move in for the shot – in plain view – without being detected. I dropped my pack and slung my rifle over my back. I was forced on all fours while moving as if I were a caterpillar inching along the open mountain face.

It had been nearly a year since I WHEN I GOT WITHIN 300 yards, one of the rams spotted me. I was caught in plain sight and my worst fears came true. The rams were ready to take o . I dropped to a shooting position and squeezed o a shot. Clear miss. My heart sank, and shock took over.

Somehow, the ram decided to run closer. He made his way towards me and set up for another broadside shot. Instinct took over and I put a bullet through his vitals. The ram was hit hard and on the move. I put two more shots through that ram and he fell to his final resting place.

I felt my heart racing and the blood pumping through my veins. I had successfully taken a Dall sheep in Alaska’s Wrangell Mountains. There I stood, a Pennsylvania boy next to a Dall sheep. You dream about these moments growing up; it’s a sort of fairy tale. You see these magnificent animals on television and you read about these badass guys hunting them in magazines. It’s real, but not reality.

I took the risk of a lifetime moving to Alaska on my own, and here I was taking another risk standing atop the most beautiful country in the world next to a full-curl ram.

I spent the next day and a half packing the sheep back to the air strip. I had danced with the devil, but it wasn’t over. I had done what I’d set out to do, but still had days until Zack was due to pick me up. The next step of my dance was about to start.

The physical demand of solo sheep hunting was complete, but the mental games were beginning. I had forgotten to bring a book, a deck of cards or anything for entertainment. I had nothing to do.

The winds blew hard at night, but the sun shined throughout the day. At the time, I hadn’t realized the importance of this time alone. It was on my mind to escape this valley and get home to report my success to family and friends.

At 7,000 feet, there is no wood for a fire and few animals to admire. There was one lone ram that hung out above me. I named him Cam short for camera) and took pictures of him for two days. Occasionally, a bird would fly past for entertainment.

I looked forward to getting water, to eating food and – as gross as it sounds – to taking a No. 2. I played a game of throwing rocks and drew pictures on boulders. Life was simple, life was easy and life was perfect.

Success. This dance with the devil wasn’t a waltz in the park, but even without a partner, Watkins was tickled. (BRIAN WATKINS)

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The author found himself bored and maybe a bit lonely in the days after his achievement, so the return of pilot Zack and the plane that would take him back to civilization was a welcome sight.

(BRIAN WATINS)

“I realized the importance of those couple of days alone after my success. I realized that the life I’ve built is fast paced and always busy. There’s always a schedule to adhere to and deadlines to meet,” Watkins writes about his experience alone. “Suddenly, those deadlines, although relevant to my life, weren’t THE EMOTIONAL DANCE WAS in full swing. I would be lying if I didn’t say I went a little crazy. I sang songs out loud and fake-acted scripts that I made up in my head. I called Zack on the satellite phone and asked to be picked up early. At the time I didn’t realize the value of that last dance.

I got home and made the obligatory phone calls to friends and family to tell the story of my dance with the devil. The excitement was shared and my story was told, just as I tell it now.

Then I realized the importance of those couple of days alone after my success. I realized that the life I’ve built is fast paced and always busy. There’s always a schedule to adhere to and deadlines to meet. Suddenly, those deadlines, although relevant to my life, weren’t important. They were actually meaningless. Stress seemed easier to bypass and everyone’s demands seemed to matter less.

I had changed that week on the mountain. I had found a piece of me that I hadn’t known. It’s hard to explain to someone, unless they too have danced with that devil. ASJ