Traveling abroad to find home
By Katie Doyle
Last winter, I stepped out of a cable car packed with people and onto a volcano in the Canary Islands, staring speechless at the North Atlantic Ocean 12,000 feet below. It was the furthest I’d ever been from my home in Wyoming and the incredible reality promptly knocked the wind out of me. My classmates on the study abroad trip scattered, eager to explore Mount Teide, whose eruption helped form Tenerife, the largest of the seven Canary Islands. I heard someone behind me ask the purpose of the barbed wire fence that stretched out before us, and the cable car operator replied, “It’s to keep the sheep out.” I immediately snapped out of my bewilderment and into wildlife biology mode, unsheathing my binoculars and searching for a good spot to settle in.
As I sat on top of Teide, binoculars glued to my eyes, I felt the familiar excitement and hope course through me that had I felt so many times during my four years working seasonally in wildlife management in Montana, Idaho, and Texas. During those years I honed my deer, elk, and bighorn sheep spotting skills, and I was thrilled at the chance to perform my favorite activity to look for a new species in a foreign place. It felt both familiar and strange, the kind of experience that blew my mind, inspired me to continue travelling, and made me miss home all at once.
Unfortunately, our group was limited to one hour at the top of the volcano. When our time was up, I reluctantly put away my binoculars and stored away this sunny memory to call upon during the long, dark Wyoming winter to which I would soon return. Although I did not spot them, the sheep held my attention for the remaining few days of our trip. As our bus took us down winding roads away from the park, I asked our guide, Omar, to tell me everything he knew about them.
As he described the sheep, a species called mouflon, he showed me a picture on his phone of a large male with big curling horns and dark brown fur perched on the side of a cliff. Like the bighorn and barbary sheep they resemble, mouflon thrive in steep, rocky, and dry environments like those found in Teide National Park. He explained that hunters introduced them to Tenerife in 1970 to diversify big game hunting opportunities on the island. Mouflon hunts did not become as popular as people expected, and with no predators to keep them in check, their populations flourished in the national park.
Teide’s high, rocky features are a great fit for the mouflon, but the land that encircles the volcano is home to delicate plant species that have suffered from the sheep’s introduction and population growth. Omar pointed out the bus window at a scene that looked so much like the sagebrush steppe I was used to back home, and he explained that many of the plants we saw are endemic to Tenerife, meaning they do not grow naturally anywhere else in the world. Introduced mammals like mouflon sheep and European rabbits eat and trample these delicate species. Coupled with recent rising temperatures, this has increased stress on the plants and the park biologists that manage them. Twice a year, managers cull the mouflon populations to cut down their numbers on the island and reduce their impact on the plants.
The brown, rocky ledges turned to lush green forest as we drove, and massive turquoise waves rode onto black sand beaches. The awe and bewilderment rushed back into my mind, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the mouflon. Even though I knew the amount of stress they cause to native vegetation and park biologists, and that ultimately they should not be here, I still wanted to see them browsing the high cliffs.
This internal conflict reminded me of the landowners and managers that I work with in Wyoming to better understand the human side of wildlife management. I chose this type of work for my graduate studies after finishing my wildlife degree, entering the field, and quickly realizing the inseparable effects that wildlife and humans have on each other. Recently, my focus has been on private landowners outside of Yellowstone National Park, who are most affected by deer, elk, and pronghorn that migrate out of Yellowstone and onto private lands during the winter, when resources are few and scattered. Once there, they can damage infrastructure, compete with livestock for food, and pass diseases to livestock. I spent a year traveling to these landowners’ homes, sitting at large, wooden kitchen tables and listening to stories of grandmothers who counted migrating deer each fall and fathers who taught their sons and daughters to “leave some hay for the elk” when harvesting each year. Their love and respect for wildlife shone through as they spoke of their responsibility as stewards of the land and their job to keep it healthy for all who inhabit it. But their brows furrowed and wistful looks faded as they detailed the time and money that living with wildlife requires. For them, the season’s first migrating animal can spark just as much worry as it does joy.
As we pulled into the parking lot of our hotel, my classmates and I talked about the effect that our time in Tenerife had on us and what we wanted to take home from the experience. Some students felt that the trip broadened their professional opportunities, others excitedly talked about the bird species they could now cross off their “must see” list. I felt that my experience confirmed my career choice. My interest in the people involved in the protection of our natural resources grew immeasurably and my eagerness to find the mouflon told me that the wildlife management field is where I belong. The travel brochures show beautiful landscapes and fun in the sun, I thought, but the value of travel is found in the parts that hit close to home.
Katie Doyle is a graduate student at the University of Wyoming pursuing the master’s degree in Environment, Natural Resources, & Society. This piece was produced for the Western Confluence magazine fellowship course.
