Thursday, August 29, 2013

SOUTH AMERICAN MAMMAL MAY BE NEW SPECIES


    Scientists agree that the immense biodiversity represented in the plants and insects of our planet’s wild places accounts for the bulk of the estimated seven million species unknown to biology.  But the discovery of a new mammal?  It’s a rare happening; but not one altogether impossible.

Olinguito.  Public Domain Photo
    On August 15, a team of Smithsonian scientists, led by Kristofer Helgen, Curator of Mammals at the National Natural History Museum, made an outstanding discovery—the first of its kind in over 35 years.  After extensive investigation, the team announced the discovery of a small carnivorous mammal—the olinguito.



    The olinguito, or Bassaricyon neblito, is related to a small group of tree-dwelling mammals native to the Rainforests of South America, the olingos.  Relatives of the raccoons, coatis, kinkajous, and olingos, olinguitos resemble teddy bears, with large eyes and a thick, earthy brown coat; but are notably smaller than the rest of the olingos, hence their name.

    Species of olingos inhabit the same geographic region—the cloud forests of the Andes mountain range, spanning from Colombia to Ecuador—but habitats vary in elevation.  Just how many species of olingos should be recognized as separate by taxonomy has long been a source of confusion.

    Resolving this issue was the sole purpose of the study conducted by Helgen and his team—until it became apparent that he was on to something bigger.  After examining over 90 percent of the world’s museum-bound olingos, processing DNA sequences, and reviewing historic field data, he was struck with an anomaly.

    Helgen reports that he first noticed a marked inconsistency in certain specimens’ teeth and skulls.  Upon further examination, it was noticed that the undescribed species also grew a longer and thicker coat than other olingos.  This inconsistency, after reviewing field logs, was attributed to a known species of olingos, which were observed at elevations of 5,000 to 9,000 feet in an isolated region of the Andes Mountains in the early 20th century.  The question then was, “does this species still exist in the wild?”

    Days later, Helgen and team departed for South America to research just that.  When they arrived, they quickly located the misrepresented olinguitos.

Hiding in Plain Sight


    After entering a DNA sample from an olinguito in a public database of DNA sequences, Helgen was surprised to find that there was a match. Not only was this new species residing in the trees under a false name, one specimen even traveled the country as a zoo feature under the same guise. 

    City zoos in Louisville, Tucson, Salt Lake City, and even New York City and this nation’s capital, all had records of this misidentified mammal passing through in the 1970s.  The olinguito has been hiding in plain sight.

Almost a New Species


    Hopi Hoekstra, curator of mammals at the Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard University, says that she is not yet willing to dub the olinguito a separate species.  However, she maintains that genetic data will be the last step to describing the olinguito’s existence.  The puzzle is almost complete.

    For those who have lost faith in the developing world’s sense of wilderness, the emergence of the olinguito serves as a refreshing reminder that there are still large portions of our world not thoroughly studied and understood.  Only in furthering our knowledge of biology and biodiversity can we take further measures to protect what is still here.  The olinguito, for instance, occupies a habitat on the fringe of human occupation, and is threatened by further habitat encroachment.  With any luck, this marked development in science will help to protect the olinguito and its unique habitat.  

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

SECRET FLY BROKE GEORGE PERRY'S RECORD "MULTIPLE TIMES"

    Here's a groundbreaking article from investigative reporter Scott Bowen.  His reporting is in-depth, informative, and even still manages to send an effective message.  To read, click HERE.  Enjoy.

Monday, August 26, 2013

THE BOOKS ARE OPEN AT ROSE RIVER FARM!

    Rose River Farm, one of Virginia's premier private trout waters, has officially opened their books for reservations for the fall season.  

The farm offers excellent access to buckets of trout and what has been described as western style fly fishing.  Last year, one lucky angler took a seven-pound rainbow from the Rose.  Weather permitting, Douglas Dear, farm owner, plans to open on September 11th.  So book now to get a spot on this popular river.

    Since their completion in 2011, Rose River Farm also offers Mongolian Yurt-style cabin rentals, which afford excellent access to countless hikes and some of the best small stream brook trout fishing in the Shenandoah National Park.

    For more information about Rose River Farm, long on to RoseRiverFarm.com, or check out their Facebook page.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

CHECK OUT MY FLICKR PAGE!

I've begun posting pictures on Flickr.  

Not all are outdoors related, though the outdoors, specifically fishing and wildlife, is my favorite subject.  Hope you enjoy all the same!

 
Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

MOTHER NATURE STRIKES AGAIN...

    After a long week at work/school, there's only one thing on your mind.  

An early retirement on Friday night is the perfect setup for an early morning the next day.  The weekend is forecasted to resemble Spring Break in Eden--70 degrees, sunny, a slight breeze to rustle the leaves.

    But it's summer.  It rained all day Friday, all over the state, and all the rivers resemble the "Chocolate Mudslide" at your local creamery.  Typical.

    I guess it's time to hit the stillwaters!


Wednesday, August 21, 2013

A NORTH WOODS HAUNTING

    All my life I’ve been haunted by waters, by fish lost.  

Photo by Matt Reilly
It’s our very nature as humans to try and quantify the world around us—science in its most primitive form.  Thus, it is the habit of fishermen to yearn for understanding of the underwater worlds they frequent, to try to place limitations on that which they cannot see.  It’s no surprise, then, that when a fish of unexplained origin or unheard of proportions reveals himself to us, only to slip from our grasp, that we are haunted by its very existence—the wonder and the allure of the unknown.



    The fish that most effectively taught me this lesson inhabits a large glacial pond in the Northeast Kingdom.  On a bluebird day, boaters slice the water’s surface toting tubers and excited passengers; and swimmers clog the fishing access from mid-morning to sunset.  Houses and cabins line the shorelines.  A gravel road winds in amongst them, around the pond, and slides 1000 feet down the mountain to the base of Mount Pisgah, into a town just as cheery as the summer scene above it.

    Pushing upward, past the pond, towards the mountain’s peak, there sits back in the hemlock and spruce trees a log cabin, my grandparents’—a B&B they adapted after selling a larger establishment in town.  I was staying there for the month of July, when, except for my daily duty to the woodshed, I was free to explore and fish the surrounding woods and waters.

    It was on one such bluebird day—the kind with the boaters and the swimmers, when the air smells pure and flows freely through your lungs—that I decided to spend the afternoon on the larger pond chasing smallmouth.

    I included my younger brother in the ritual, lugging paddles, vests, rods, tackle—all essentials down the short dirt road to the cabin where our aluminum canoe was tied to a paper birch, bobbing in the wake of the boats, tugging at the rope to be set free.

    When we had filled the canoe and untied the rope, I put my brother on course towards the southern shoreline, and paddled into a gentle breeze.

    The pond’s bed dropped out from beneath us for the length of the trip, carved by ancient glaciers and since filled with cool spring water, but recovered again into a wide, rocky flat when we reached our destination.

    Casts in all directions provoked strikes; and the medium-sized, energized bass, grown strong on the abundant minnows and leeches, rattled our light tackle for excitement that lasted hours.

    Evidently we should have taken food, because our stomachs bottomed out before the fishing did.  So, after turning the bow towards the tie-up, I dropped a small spinner 60 feet behind the canoe and rested my rod perpendicular to our course to try some trolling on the return trip as an extension of the day’s fishing.
We settled into a paddling rhythm fairly quickly, but slowed the pace when we passed over deeper water to make trolling the most effective.

    My mind occupied itself recalling the contours of the bottom from a map studied earlier in my stay, but was interrupted by my brother’s probing question:  “Do fish really even swim out here in the mid—“
The aluminum of our vessel rattled.   My reel lodged firmly in the thwart, angled back.  Conversation was ended abruptly.  Our forward progress tapered quickly, as the monofilament protruding into the depths stretched.

    We were moving slightly backwards by the time I grabbed the rod.  It throbbed, powerfully, and any doubt of life on the other end was eliminated.

    The first few moments of the fight consisted of using the canoe as a drag system as I held onto a steadily pulsing rod, bent double over the stern.  Soon though, my opponent gained height in the water column, and flanked us to the left, into open water.  There the fish remained again, rolling, until finally feeling a particularly violent bout of desperation.

    The line sliced towards the surface, guided by an unidentified ball of energy.  When it broke the surface, it was a bony head that then dove again, propelled by a double-jointed green tail, splashing water with each stroke.

    It was headed towards us when it dove, and I could then feel a slight relaxing in the pressure as the end of the line made steady progress towards the surface.  Staring over the side of the canoe, into the depths, anticipation bubbled in my face. 

    Just then, a hint of a golden flash broke the darkness for an instant as pressure lessened on the rod.  But in a last effort to evade comprehension, the Unknown freed the hook from its jaws, and dashed tragically back to into the rocky abyss.

    The canoe continued to rock for several moments, as I sat in silence, contemplating, trying to grasp my loss and what had just transpired.

    Solemnly, I inquired to my brother in the bow, allowing me my time, “How big, you think?”  After a thoughtful glance at the paddle in his lap, he placed a fist around the paddle, several inches up from the blade, and held it up.

    “You too, huh?,” I returned.



    Though disappointed, and deeply heart-wrenched at losing what I was relatively sure was a northern pike—a reclusive species for that region, and a fish not known by biologists to inhabit the pond—I was filled with a warm sort of appreciation for the mystery the world had spared me the answer to, and a thankfulness for the opportunity to brush paths with such a creature from another world, if only for a moment.  In that, wonder is a fickle beast—its quest is for answers, but their acquisition is the ruin of it. 

Saturday, August 17, 2013

A NEW STRETCH


These stretches of river I often find the most rewarding. 


The ones that traverse miles of private land and filter out the day trippers. From the look of this sandbar, this is one, and it looks like I need to do a bit more research here!