View this post on Instagram After a day of squirrel hunting across dozens of acres of usually productive oak woods, this was the only squirrel I harvested. Despite it being Maine’s squirrel season, there’s scarcely an Eastern gray to be found. Woods that are normally a cacophony of raucous, territorial barks are now no louder than the library. Where small, gray arboreal-acrobats once bounded through the fallen leaves and the empty branches of trees, now there’s just an inescapable stillness. In a normal season, I’d have no problem filling my bag limit on a perfect autumn day like this — but then again, this is no normal season. It’s the first year after the great squirrel-pocalypse of 2018. You see, where the duff is now dotted with acorns, last year there was a dearth. Squirrels across the region became desperate, questing across dangerous, asphalt-paved terrain in the search of something to satisfy their hunger. Few survived the gauntlet. Dead squirrels seemed as common on the roads as cars. Pancake flattened bodies, like tracks of gray footprints, meandered across the pavement, disappearing into the distance — as far as the eye could see. Wisps of fluffy tail fur, caught in the breeze of passing vehicles, waved like miniature flags placed to mark their resting place. In my basement there are bins of dried acorns, still in their shell, waiting to be processed. Like an archive, they’re labeled by year. 2016. 2017… 2019. The conspicuous gap where 2018 should be speaks to the reason my squirrel bag has felt so light this year. This “masting” — the synchronized fruiting or non-fruiting of a tree species across a region — helps to control animal populations that feed upon them. Squirrel numbers had become bloated. Predation on acorns was rampant. Then, suddenly, the supply of nuts was contracted and a region-wide die-off occurred. This year I’ll struggle to put just a few gray squirrel meals on our table. Though, with their high fecundity, the population will rebound quickly. Until then countless thousands of acorns will go uneaten, leaving them on the ground to do what they’re intended to do — become seedling oak trees. Cycles without end. I’m just glad to be a participant. #WildFed A post shared by Daniel Vitalis (@danielvitalis) on Nov 25, 2019 at 6:25am PST
After a day of squirrel hunting across dozens of acres of usually productive oak woods, this was the only squirrel I harvested. Despite it being Maine’s squirrel season, there’s scarcely an Eastern gray to be found. Woods that are normally a cacophony of raucous, territorial barks are now no louder than the library. Where small, gray arboreal-acrobats once bounded through the fallen leaves and the empty branches of trees, now there’s just an inescapable stillness. In a normal season, I’d have no problem filling my bag limit on a perfect autumn day like this — but then again, this is no normal season. It’s the first year after the great squirrel-pocalypse of 2018. You see, where the duff is now dotted with acorns, last year there was a dearth. Squirrels across the region became desperate, questing across dangerous, asphalt-paved terrain in the search of something to satisfy their hunger. Few survived the gauntlet. Dead squirrels seemed as common on the roads as cars. Pancake flattened bodies, like tracks of gray footprints, meandered across the pavement, disappearing into the distance — as far as the eye could see. Wisps of fluffy tail fur, caught in the breeze of passing vehicles, waved like miniature flags placed to mark their resting place. In my basement there are bins of dried acorns, still in their shell, waiting to be processed. Like an archive, they’re labeled by year. 2016. 2017… 2019. The conspicuous gap where 2018 should be speaks to the reason my squirrel bag has felt so light this year. This “masting” — the synchronized fruiting or non-fruiting of a tree species across a region — helps to control animal populations that feed upon them. Squirrel numbers had become bloated. Predation on acorns was rampant. Then, suddenly, the supply of nuts was contracted and a region-wide die-off occurred. This year I’ll struggle to put just a few gray squirrel meals on our table. Though, with their high fecundity, the population will rebound quickly. Until then countless thousands of acorns will go uneaten, leaving them on the ground to do what they’re intended to do — become seedling oak trees. Cycles without end. I’m just glad to be a participant. #WildFed
A post shared by Daniel Vitalis (@danielvitalis) on Nov 25, 2019 at 6:25am PST