B.P.O.E. Lodge 944
Ashland Oregon

Those Orginal Ashland Elks

by "A Servus"

Part 1: The Original Elks

For countless centuries before the first American settlers swarmed into the Rogue Valley during the early 1850s, Elks had been regularly meeting and doing their good work near the present site of Ashland. These big-hearted Elks joined together, enjoyed Elk festivities, and passed the true meaning of Elkdom on to their younger members. Yes, the natural four-legged brotherhood and sisterhood of Cervus rooseveltii (Roosevelt elk) long roamed our valley, foothills, and mountains. By far the largest herbivore of the region, herds of Roosevelt elk had likely been hanging out in our neck of the woods since around the end of the last Ice Age.

Those hungry two-legged farmers and miners from back East followed the example of the Shasta and Takelma Indians, as well as that of the Rogue Valley’s ferocious grizzly bears: they hunted elk for food (and, later, for sport). However, the relentless hunting pressure and increasingly effective use of firearms by local nimrods[see column to the right] became so successful that, by around 1900, very few elk were left in our area. Only after this sad fact did Oregon’s big-game regulations really come to act as an effective factor in the state’s wildlife conservation efforts. And, only decades after that did state game officials bring a few doubtlessly frightened Rocky Mountain elk from Idaho and release them in the high country around Prospect and Crater Lake --- there to become the nucleus of our region’s present elk herds.

In fact, our region’s last remaining native elk had apparently “hid out” way up in that very same remote portion of the Cascade Range, where a few of them may have joined forces with their newcomer Rocky Mountain cousins. In contrast to the few remaining native elk inhabiting the distant Cascades, those of the Siskiyou Mountains (the lower slopes of which rise up from Ashland’s Main Street) had apparently been pretty well wiped out by miners and commercial hide-hunters long before that. In 1924, it was front-page news in the Ashland Daily Tidings (December 3, 1924, p.1) when a lone bull elk stumbled down out of the snowy hills and into Lithia Park. He was (at least so far as A. Servus has been able to determine) the very last wild, four-legged Elk known to “step hoof” into the city limits. The poor bloke was immediately shot.

Part 2: “What’s in a Name?”; also “A True-Life Adventure”

Never let it be said that A. Servus is too proud to admit error. Your loyal and thoroughly humbled correspondent has one minor correction to make: In Part 1 (April issue) of this series, A. Servus’s fact-filled memory was not operating at full-power, and he thus proved to be a bit careless with his scientific terminology. Up until just the past few years, the scientific name of the Roosevelt elk was actually Cervus elaphus roosevelti, it being a subspecies of North American (a.k.a. Rocky Mountain) elk, Cervus elaphus.
And just what does this puzzling bit of scholarly nomenclature mean? The answer to that question is doubly puzzling: “Cervus” comes from the Latin term for deer; “elaphus” is derived from the Greek word for…deer. That means, of course, that the official scientific name for our four-legged Elk brothers and sisters translated roughly as “Deer deer.” (That scientific name, perhaps the brainchild of the “Dept. of Redundancy Department,” has only recently been changed to Cervus candensis ) But now also consider the strange factoid that the generic name for those arrogant, antlered, tulip-munching hoofed locusts lately infesting our yards (the ones that we commonly call “deer”) is Odocoileus, meaning “hollow toothed,” and you will begin to appreciate the relentless logic of biological taxonomy. (Fortunately, when lumped together, deer, elk, moose, and such are all referred to as “Cervids.”)

Still reading? Terrific. A. Servus now intends to reward your patience by regaling you with the tale of his very first personal encounter with a herd of wild elk: In the summer of 1970, while still very “short in the tooth” and having only recently moved to the Pacific Northwest from the East Coast, an ignorant city-slicker Servus eagerly purchased all the latest in backpacking equipment and set off on his first overnight trip into the howling wilderness. This was his dream come true. Along a deeply forested trail, your intrepid servant was climbing, albeit very slowly and laboriously, up the forested lower slopes of Mt. Rainier. It was nearing dusk --- and still far from any mapped campsite --- when the trail finally brought him up onto the crest of an open ridge, where the firs and cedars gave way to a refreshing expanse of lush grass and wildflowers. There, visible to him for the first time, was the sunset-bathed majesty of the icy 14,400’-high mountain, all pink and glowing against a purple-and-turquoise sky. Incredible sight!

As our panting and sweat-soaked traveler stopped to catch his breath, drink in the beauty, and heed an urgent call of nature, the wind suddenly shifted. As if ordered by the Great Mountain’s Spirit to frighten the novice woodsman, the quiet meadow instantaneously filled with the sound of what seemed like thunder. And then: Elk to the left of him, elk to the right of him, pounded and thundered --- their hooves kicking up dust across the patches of barren ground. Sweeping around him and past him, some within a few yards, a large herd of cows and calves on the run…hurtling straight down the hillside and into the forest…their racing pace now marked by the on-going crashing din of dead branches being torn from the trees…until that sound gradually fades in the distance far below…

After some moments of heart-thumping terror, dauntless young Servus recovers his composure. With darkness upon him, he pitches his tent there in the ridge-top meadow, right next to the trail. Servus spends a near-sleepless night watching the constellations slowly whirl overhead…his ears ever alert for any sound that might herald the dreaded “Return of the Elk.”

Part 3: More Four-legged Elklore

Like their friendly two-legged namesakes of Lodge #944, the original Elks of our region were and are social critters. However, elk society is basically — at least for most of the year---a true matriarchy. Under the leadership of an experienced dominant cow, a herd of mature cows, their calves, and adolescents of both sexes form a social group from year to year. The calves (born around the end of May when feed is plentiful for mothers and the weather mild) nurse frequently for the first month or two and are then weaned over the course of the summer. Herds can range between just a few animals to over thirty.
During the summer, a calfless-cow acts as a designated “babysitter” while the mother cows shove their pesky young ones away; this is so that the moms can wander off together for a bit, feed on the grass, and presumably brag or complain about their offspring.

When a young male has finished his yearling (second) summer, the adult bulls that suddenly show up at the herd (with some serious romance on their minds) drive the poor bloke off. (So much for impressiveness of those first year’s antlers he was so proud of.) Junior usually finds a few other guys in the same predicament to hang with for the first few years, and these fellows hover near the fringes of the cow-herd, even re-joining it during the winters right after mating season and the bulls are gone.

After five years or so of antler envy, the male’s now become a full-grown bull, ready to rock and roll. Although the bull typically joins a small temporary group of other mature bulls each year from winter through summer, during the early-fall rutting season, it’s definitely “every bull for himself!”

Challenges, stand-offs, savage fights (occasionally to the death) mark the rut. The bull elk entering the dating game carefully prepares himself for the rigors of combat and courtship in remarkable fashion: First he repeatedly rubs his muzzle (which has scent glands on each side) against a number of trees and posts, to mark his favorite hang out. Then he picks out one unfortunate bush or small tree to thrash and shred with his up-to-5’-long antlers, sometimes abusing the same bush for several days at a time.

Frequent loud bugling warns competitors that he’s almost ready for battle. Next, and now nearly ready for prom, the swollen-necked bull urinates frequently and copiously at his chosen spot in the woods. Sloshing his antlers into the resulting mud, he tosses the mixture onto his back and flanks. One final touch is to roll around in his aromatic wallow before trotting off to the dance.

With the disappearance of southern Oregon’s wolves and grizzly bears by around 1900, the main predators of our elk have been cougars and, of course, the ever-increasing numbers of ourselves. Cougars focus on young or injured animals. Occasionally, a black bear will successfully compete with a cougar for a tasty meal of elk venison. We two-legged ones generally go after the mature bulls.

During recent decades in Oregon, about 200,000 elk tags were sold each year (with an annual return of over $2,000,000 to the state treasury.) Perhaps 10% or so of yearly elk deaths are caused by vehicle accidents. Early dawn and twilight dusk are the hours when elk (and deer) are most active, and that’s definitely the time when drivers on forested roads should slow down and exercise the greatest caution. Remember, “the Elk life you save may be your own”: A full-grown bull elk crashing through your car’s windshield and joining you on the front seat, antlers and all, has the makings of a double tragedy.

 

Last updated on 5/31/04