Owls Aren't Wise and Bats Aren't Blind (9 page)

That leaves only two predators—humans and fishers—to control the porcupine population. In the absence of fishers for a time in many parts of the porcupine’s range (see chapter 14), humans attempted to control the burgeoning numbers of what had become a destructive nuisance. Mostly these efforts were failures.

A favorite tactic was to pay a bounty for dead porcupines. As with any bounty, the theory was that the money would induce people to go forth and expend great effort to bring about the demise of large numbers of porkies. And as with other bounties, the porcupine bounty proved a failure, mostly because—as any professional wildlife manager will affirm—bounties simply pay people for killing animals that they would kill anyway.

A rule of thumb regarding bounties is that in order to be effective, they have to be set so high as to be prohibitively expensive. Generally, porcupine bounties were established at somewhere between twenty-five and seventy-five cents—rarely, perhaps a dollar—per animal. Although this was a good deal more money back in the 1940s and 1950s than it is now, it was hardly munificent enough to generate any major effort to kill porcupines.

There was one intriguing twist to the bounty business, however. Evidence that a porcupine had been killed was required before payment was made, and the animal’s two ears were the usual proof specified in the bounty law. There used to be persistent rumors that certain enterprising individuals, possessed of somewhat elastic consciences, would cut earlike shapes from the unquilled portions of the porkies. When wizened by a suitable period of drying, the “ears” would be presented as the genuine article to the town clerk or other agent authorized to make payment. These individuals, rarely expert in such arcane fields as porcupine anatomy, were unlikely to question the evidence. Thus, supposedly, an unscrupulous few multiplied their bounty money several fold. Whether this practice actually occurred, at least on any substantial scale, or is merely the result of rural rumor and folklore, is now buried in the past.

At any rate, the return of fishers to their former habitat proved vastly more effective, and much less expensive, than bounties or other human efforts to control excess numbers of porcupines. Partially as a result of smaller porcupine populations, and partly as a result of the disfavor into which bounties in general have quite properly descended, porcupine bounties have mostly— and perhaps entirely—been abandoned.

As already mentioned, porcupines are rodents—relatives of mice, squirrels, rabbits, and woodchucks. Moreover, the porky is a large rodent, second in size only to the beaver among its North American relatives. The normal weight for an adult porcupine ranges from fifteen to twenty pounds, but on rare occasions a big male can reach as much as twenty-eight to thirty pounds. At that size, a porky up a tree can, at a first hasty glance, be mistaken for a bear cub, although a second look will quickly correct that error.

Like all other rodents, porcupines are noted for their gnawing—a trait that often gets them in trouble, especially during times of overpopulation. All rodents have four incisors, two in the upper jaw and two in the lower. A porcupine’s incisors are large and sharp, just right for cutting through tree bark to get at the tender inner layer, or for demolishing anything that contains traces of salt; their incisors also possess the interesting quality of being orange in color.

A porcupine’s normal diet is apt to be deficient in salt, a lack that causes it to seek out anything that can remedy the deficiency. Certain types of plants, natural salt licks, and—more recently—the residue from winter salting of roads to melt snow and ice are as eagerly consumed by porcupines as fresh fruit and vegetables once were by sailors suffering from scurvy. But although consumption of road salt may benefit the porcupine’s health, the interaction between porcupines and automobiles that often results definitely does not—and many are the porkies that end up as roadkill because of it!

Although the inner bark of trees may be the porcupine’s dietary staple in winter, these big rodents consume a surprising variety of foods during the warmer months. Grasses, clover, buds, succulent water plants, apples and other fruit, and a number of herbaceous plants, acorns, and raspberry shoots, among others, are all grist for the porky’s mill.

In winter, the porcupine’s diet becomes far more limited. As already noted, the inner bark of trees is a mainstay, but hemlock twigs are also a favored winter food throughout that tree’s range. Indeed, the presence of a porcupine can often be detected in winter by the large number of hemlock twigs and small branches littering the snow beneath a prime feeding site. Buds of various hardwood species also form an important component of the winter diet.

Favorite feed trees are usually easy to identify, especially if several porcupines live nearby. Branches are apt to be stripped of foliage and small twigs, and large areas of bark are frequently removed. This latter phenomenon can result in girdling and killing the tree, and thus a major overpopulation of porcupines can seriously damage a forest.

The porcupine’s fondness for salt, which amounts almost to an obsession, has already been noted. This characteristic has done little to endear the prickly beasts to humans. Anything that contains traces of salt from sweat is fair game for the porky: ax and other tool handles, canoe paddles, sweaty clothing, gloves, and numerous other items are all eagerly consumed by the sodium-hungry creatures.

The list also includes a few rather bizarre items that might not readily come to mind, and thereby hangs an amusing tale—although it didn’t seem so amusing at the time. Our 1854 farmhouse had a privy (no longer in use) attached to the house in an enclosed corner of the side porch. At the time we bought the house, in the early 1960s, Vermont’s overpopulation of porcupines was at its height, and encounters with porkies were frequent.

One night my wife and I were awakened from deep slumber by the sounds of great and terrible munching, as if an entire army of rats and mice had descended on us and were consuming our dwelling. On investigation, we found that a porcupine had somehow gotten in under the base of the outhouse, climbed the ten feet or so to the top, and was contentedly chewing away, getting its ration of salt from the seats of the two-holer!

Nor is that the end of the list of strange things that porcupines gnaw for their salt. People hiking the Appalachian Trail from Vermont’s Lincoln Mountain have sometimes returned to find their automobiles disabled because porcupines gnawed through various hoses coated with winter road salt. Indeed, signs there have even warned motorists about this potential hazard.

Few things in the natural world seem to elicit as much mildly ribald speculation and comment as the mating habits of the porcupine: How do they “do it”? Frequently the question is rhetorical, followed by the rather hackneyed answer, “Carefully, very carefully.”

Actually, it’s only humans, not porcupines, who make a big deal of all this. When mating time arrives in early autumn, males begin to act uncharacteristically aggressive toward each other, threatening movements and gestures are made, and occasional fights may even ensue. Once a male has established dominance, he may mate with more than one female.

When the actual moment of mating arrives, imagination far outstrips reality; contrary to much rumor and folklore, the whole affair is remarkably simple. The female porky stands on all fours, flattens her quills (remember that the quills are movable), raises her hindquarters, and moves her tail to one side. Presented with such an inviting opportunity, the male mounts her from the rear without the slightest discomfort. Voilà! Mission accomplished.

An extraordinarily long gestation period, at least for a mammal of the porcupine’s rather modest size, follows—a full seven months. By comparison, a coyote’s gestation is only about two months, and that of the beaver just over four months.

In yet another display of their highly individual qualities, porcupines bear only a single young each year. However, the little porky weighs a solid pound at birth, which is a lot of baby for a younger, smaller female that may only weigh twelve pounds or so.

This lone baby, born in April or May, is known by the thoroughly delightful name of
porcupette.
Its eyes are open at birth, and it has a full complement of tiny quills that it seems to know instinctively how to use. The quills present no difficulties during birth, since they’re very soft, but they dry quickly, and the porcupette rapidly becomes armed and dangerous.

From unhappy personal experience, I can vouch for the validity of that statement. Years ago, when I was doing forestry work, my black Labrador, Heidi, often accompanied me in the woods. I never had to keep track of her, for she never wandered far from me, so I let her go about her business while I went about mine.

On that particular spring day, we were far back in the forest, I marking timber and Heidi reveling in the newly bare ground with all its wonderful fresh scents. Suddenly she ran up to me, and I looked down to speak to her. To my horror, I saw that she had carefully retrieved a very live and healthy porcupette!

At my command, Heidi obediently dropped the little creature, which could hardly have been more than two or three days old, and I was able to survey the very considerable damage. Her nose, muzzle, and the inside of her mouth were all riddled with tiny quills—dozens and dozens of them. There was only one thing to do: Heidi and I immediately departed from the forest and made a hasty journey to the vet’s, where he tranquilized the unfortunate dog in order to remove the quills as painlessly as possible.

About two years later my wife felt something odd while she was patting Heidi’s neck. Upon investigation, she found an emerging quill—clearly one that had traveled back from her mouth. This is yet another example of a quill’s propensity for working its way through flesh.

A porcupette is quite precocious. In addition to being born furred, armed with quills, and with eyes open, it can climb and eat solid food only hours after birth. Like other baby mammals, however, the porcupette’s main source of food is its mother’s milk. The mother often leaves her baby tucked safely away in a den or snug nook, going off by herself to forage while the porcupette stays where it was placed.

The young porky is weaned after a couple of months, but mother and baby remain together for a few more weeks. Then the young one wanders off to lead its mostly solitary sylvan life, where it will reach sexual maturity at age three.

Among the many porcupine oddities is the fact that females are far more territorial than males and vigorously defend their turf against other females. Further, it’s the young females, rather than the young males, that disperse widely in the fall. In both instances, this is the opposite of the behavior displayed by most mammals.

Despite the severity of the climate throughout much of their range, porcupines aren’t hibernators and remain active all winter. They do, however, seek shelter in a den of some sort—usually a small cave, a hollow tree, or a protected cranny far back in a tumble of rocks. They may remain in the den for a day or two during exceptionally inclement weather, but emerge to feed as soon as the weather improves a little.

Although porcupines are generally solitary animals for most of the year, they seem gregarious enough during the winter denning period. Where they’re sufficiently numerous, several at a time may share a den, evidently coexisting quite peaceably until spring.

With their bulky bodies and short legs, porkies are ill-suited to plowing through deep, soft snow, so their winter feeding forays are apt to cover only very short distances. This means that trees near a den—especially a communal one—may take a beating and eventually die. While this isn’t a serious problem when porkies are in balance with their habitat, overpopulation can cause substantial damage for some distance around major den sites.

Although porcupines aren’t usually particularly vocal, they have a considerable repertoire of sounds they can call on when the occasion demands it. Several years ago, for instance, I came across a porky track in the snow. Curious to know where it led, I followed it for a short distance to a huge old sugar maple, a good three feet in diameter, which had broken off at ground level and blown down. In the middle of the trunk, between the broken-off roots, was a large hollow leading for some distance up into the trunk. There the porky had made its den.

The tracks clearly indicated that the porky was at home, so I peered up into the hollow, where, in the dim interior light, I could just make out the occupant’s tail and broad rump, completely filling the cavity. Like Queen Victoria, the occupant was not amused.

The porcupine was well aware of my presence, and no doubt had detected my approach long before I reached the den; perhaps to compensate for conspicuously bad eyesight, porcupines have excellent hearing and a keen sense of smell. Displeased, the porky began to emit a whole range of sounds— squeaks, grunts, groans, snuffles, and assorted other odd noises. As it continued to mutter, mumble, and squeak to itself, I was reminded of nothing quite so much as a querulous old man, suddenly awakened from his nap, who peevishly protests the intrusion. The performance was so ridiculous that I actually burst out laughing!

Porcupines can be vocal at other times as well. Robert Brander, a National Park Service ecologist who has done extensive research on porcupines, has documented a fascinating phenomenon. In his research, Brander found that as many as a dozen porcupines may congregate in mid-to-late summer at a chosen location. Usually this is an old clearing that is growing up and provides a good source of food.

Brander believes that socialization, rather than food, may be the primary purpose of these gatherings. Coming together in this fashion, he postulates, may be a useful prelude to the breeding season, which follows in roughly another month. In any event, Brander reports that the assembled porkies are extremely vocal, uttering a wide variety of sounds.

In addition, porcupines are also reported to have a very shrill, high-pitched cry that some have described as a scream. Possibly this is one of the sources of the “screams” often erroneously attributed to bobcats.