Author: Jim Kroepfl

The Christmas Visitor by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl
Mountain Lion
Photo by Joy Wilhelm

The Wilhelms, who live at the end of North Inlet Road in Grand Lake, had a visitor as wondrous as Santa this Christmas morning. A mountain lion added to their celebration by strolling across their yard, just fifteen feet from their picture window. Joy Wilhelm was quick thinking and snapped the accompanying photo, and then a neighbor friend posted it on Facebook for the rest of us to enjoy. From everyone’s reaction, it’s clear that not many have had the opportunity to see a mountain lion this close . . . without also seeing their life flash before their eyes.

I’m calling this beautiful creature a mountain lion, but this species actually goes by more names than any other animal—85 to be exact. The most common are puma, cougar, panther and catamount; the more exotic include fire cat, ghost cat, Indian devil, mountain screamer and sneak cat. Given some of their more sinister names, humans have obviously feared this animal throughout history. So, my question is: does the mountain demon (yet another of their more colorful names) deserve this reputation?

Today, mountain lions thrive in fourteen Western states, including ours. There’s also a very small and endangered population, less than a hundred, in Florida. Given their solitary and elusive manner, it’s impossible to get an accurate count, but it’s estimated that somewhere between 3,000-7,000 mountain lions call Colorado home. (Yikes! That’s waaaay more than I personally expected.)

If you’ve ever hiked, I’m sure it’s crossed your mind that a mountain lion kills by jumping down from a tree, landing on the unsuspecting person’s back, and then clamping onto the base of the skull and breaking the neck with their seriously huge chompers. I’m not advocating blowing off this potential danger, but according to the Colorado Division of Wildlife, there have been less than a dozen fatalities as a result of mountain lion attacks in North America in more than one hundred years. Two took place in Colorado, with unfortunately one of those occurring in the Rocky Mountain National Park back in July 1997. There are an average of five non-fatal attacks across the U.S. and Canada each year. The last non-fatal attack in Colorado was in June 2016, just northwest of Aspen. Bottom line: mountain lions are definitely responsible for bad things, but probably not as often as any of us imagine.

Should you ever encounter a mountain lion without a protective pane of glass separating you from it, here’s what to do. First, do NOT run; it triggers their chase instinct. Maintain eye contact and never turn your back. Yell, wave your arms and try to look big. If that doesn’t work, fight back and do not play dead. Most importantly, protect your neck and try to remain standing.

The Wilhelms may not get another chance to view their king cat because a male’s territory is 100 miles and a female will regularly roam between 30-60 square miles. Their maybe-once-in-a-lifetime encounter was, luckily, filled with awe and wonder, just like Christmas morning should be.

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.

Brrrrr/Tweeeeet by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl
Fluffed-up blue jay in winter.
Fluffed-up blue jay. Photo by Bee Haven Acres

I’m now timing my walks with my dog Gage to coincide with the highest temperature of the day—or at least I try (I don’t need to explain to any local that our weather reports are probably created using a magic eight ball). Gage is “big boned,” weighing in at eighty pounds, and has a gorgeous, thick coat that I just may need to repurpose when she no longer needs it. Bears and marmots hibernate and hummingbirds migrate, but what happens to those brave birds that choose to winter here instead of Lake Havasu?

In the RMNP, over 270 species of birds have been documented. Once I got the idea for this article, I’ve been paying more attention, and I’m frankly astounded by all the different kinds of birds that are still around. But how do they manage to survive the winter? Birds aren’t exactly chunky; a large blue jay weighs 3.8 ounces and a chickadee tips the scale at just 0.44 ounces. How did their tiny, stick legs not freeze during our recent -20+ degree nights?

In reality, a bird’s legs and feet are covered in scales, not living tissue. And they have an adaption in their circulatory system where blood is circulated between colder outer areas and warmer inner areas, which is why a duck’s feet don’t turn into popsicles when they paddle the icy lakes. When roosting, birds will either stand on one leg and tuck the other in, or they crouch down and cover both legs. Birds produce more feathers in the winter, and they fluff them out to create air pockets for additional insulation. When they’re cold, they shiver to raise their metabolic rate. They also have oil producing glands which are used to coat their feathers as a waterproofer. At night, birds like crows gather in large flocks and crowd together in a small, tight space so they can share body heat.

And how do they find food? Chickadees, crows and jays have spent all fall hiding caches of berries, nuts and dead insects. These little geniuses can remember literally a thousand locations, whereas I can’t ever remember where I left my one phone. The term “bird brain” shouldn’t be an insult, it should be synonymous with Einstein. On very cold nights, a chickadee will stuff itself, adding 10% more body weight, and then go into a stupor and slowly digest the food to provide enough energy to survive until morning.

The biggest thing we can to do help our feathered friends is to put out food and water so they don’t have to use up their precious energy searching. I’ve never had bird feeders because, call me crazy, I’m not into daily bear visits. But now that the bears are busy dreaming of unlocked garbage dumpsters, I’m going to put out bird food. Try suet, which is like bird peanut butter, or seeds that are high in fat. And when you’re outside, look up and appreciate who is keeping you company this winter.

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.

What is that Flash of White? by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl
Ermine
Photo by saxzim.org

What keeps astounding me is how many critters live among us that I’m obliviously unaware of. This week one evening, I was hunkered down in my office that looks onto the patio beneath the deck. A flash of white outside caught my eye, but after not seeing anything, I resumed my writing. Then it happened again—a white streak crossing the window at eye level. What the heck? It’s not like Grand Lake has laboratories that a white mouse could have escaped from to save itself from cosmetic testing. Then I made a point of watching. Unbelievably, I soon saw a creature jump onto the table and then dive into the three foot pile of kindling I’d collected for our winter fires. It was pure white and the very tip of its short tail was black. It seriously took my husband quite a while scouring the Internet to figure out that I just encountered my first ermine.

This little scrapper actually has three correct names. “Ermine” is used when it’s fur is pure white, which happens in the winter, and it’s called a “stoat” when it has reddish-brown fur on its back and white fur on its belly, which is it’s summer coat. It’s also called a short-tailed weasel. Ermine can be found in North America, Europe and Asia in the subarctic and arctic climates (when winter is just rolling in, it’s kind of daunting to face the fact that subarctic mammals thrive here). Due to the ermine’s warm coat, it doesn’t need to hibernate, which is also what made its fur a prized material for the royals’ collars and coat linings in Medieval Europe. Despite that, the number of ermine in the wild is still large and stable.

And, like it’s adorable cousin the otter, it’s a ferocious carnivore. It will feed on pretty much anything it can catch—including the voles that scamper under the snow and continue destroying our lawns all winter (gorge to your heart’s content, Whitey!). Their sleek, flexible bodies allow them to easily enter their preys’ dens and burrows. The ermine will kill the inhabitant by inflicting a bite to the back of the neck, suffocating it by crushing the connection between the brain and body. After filling its white belly, it will save the excess meat for later. Then, instead of returning to its own home, the ermine will take over the now-vacant burrow . . . and then decorate the chamber’s walls and floor with the dead animal’s skin and fur. Yes, they’re seriously the Buffalo Bill (think “Silence of the Lambs”) of the Rocky Mountains.

But this wily badass doesn’t only go after small mammals. I watched a heart-warming YouTube video of a stoat (it was summer) chasing down and killing a rabbit ten times its size. And, when it can’t manage to catch the rabbit, it resorts to hypnotizing it with a “dance” until it can deliver the killing bite. So, here’s my question: do I really want to fight off the ermine for kindling all winter, or do I just resign myself to buying firestarter?

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.