Back From the Brink of Extinction

Schafer illustrations of "vanished" Michigan mammals

The fisher, also called pekan, is remarkable for its size — length about two feet, plus another foot of tail.

The quote above is from Michigan Wildlife Sketches: The Native Mammals of Michigan’s Forests, Fields and Marshes, with text by G.W. Bradt and illustrations by Charles E. Schafer, published in September 1972 by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. It goes on to describe the fisher (Martes pennanti) as “just a big marten, living more on the ground than in the trees,” and weighing from eight up to eighteen pounds. Reading on, we learn that a fisher can and will attack a porcupine — successfully! That is impressive! But next, for someone seeking to make a positive identification of the stranger chased by her dog on an otherwise calm and quiet Sunday morning, come more discouraging words: 

Fishers formerly were found over most of Michigan, retreating before the axe and trap until they probably disappeared entirely, although there was the possibility a few stragglers might still be present in remote parts of the Upper Peninsula. 

In fact, however, a few fishers were imported from Minnesota and released in Ontonagon County in 1961, so might some have reached the lower peninsula by now? That is, are they "vanished," or aren't they? I asked around among friends, and several reported fisher sightings here in northern Leelanau Township in the last few years.

I consulted another reference, Michigan Mammals, by Rollin H. Baker, published in 1983 by Michigan State University. Baker notes that the fisher was reported in the late 1920s by the Michigan Department of Conservation as “nearly exterminated, with no chance to make a ‘comeback,” then as “practically extinct” in the department's 1933-34 report. Both trapping and habitat destruction combined to bring about the devastation of the Michigan fisher population until the U.S. Forest Service helped in the rehabilitation of their populations, desirable as a check on porcupine numbers.

Baker calls the fisher’s life “rather antisocial,” the males solitary except during courtship and mating. (Is the fisher’s life also “brutish and short”? One wonders.) “There is some evidence that fisher may associate with gray wolves” (scavenging wolf kills is the extent of their “associating”), but the fisher seems to have found interesting primarily for its role as a killer of porcupines:

Most noteworthy is the predator-prey association developed between the fisher and the porcupine. In fact, Powell and Brander (1977) suggest that their adaptive relationships have been environmentally selected in order that successful coexistence occurs, with depressed porcupine populations causing fisher to depend on other food sources….

Meat forms most of the diet of this “formidable … woodland carnivore.” And any mammal that can tackle and kill a porcupine definitely deserves to be called “formidable,” we can probably all agree.

Schafer shows fisher with its eye on a porcupine

My fisher sighting was startling, as the large, dark grey mammal streaked across open ground with my old dog in hot pursuit. (Luckily, Sarah obeys very well the “Leave it!” command. I would not want her tangling with a fisher! ) I didn’t get a good look at the stranger’s face but had time to take in the size of the animal and its beautiful coat — “thick, luxuriant, glossy but fairly coarse compared to that of the marten,” according to Baker. But no photograph! I was sitting quietly with morning coffee and book when fisher and dog hove into view. 

So there it was — my first and possibly only lifetime sighting of a fisher in the wild, exciting enough that a coyote in the driveway six days later seems barely worth mentioning. But now the Artist proposes a name for a character, one I envision as a meat-eating loner detective: Martin Fischer. I mean, we have to disguise the name a little bit, don’t we?

As for my old reference books, they may underestimate today's fisher population, but they still offer a wealth of information. 

Slow Books

The self-described "slow food" movement pits itself against speed and convenience, urging us to slow down and enjoy meal planning and preparation, not just chow down in a rush. Slow food offers meditative, voluptuous, healthily hedonistic pleasure. The same is true of what I like to call slow books.

Proust leads the list. I used to say, dismissively, that life was too short to spend it reading Proust. Then one summer I tumbled into SWANN'S WAY, and my life was forever changed. Those hawthorne trees in bloom! The magic lantern slides! Who would want to hurry through such mesmerizing reveries?

Another slow series is the literary and artistic history of our country by Van Wyck Brooks. Beginning with THE FLOWERING OF NEW ENGLAND, 1815-1865, one can at first become impatient with what seems a long-drawn-out setting of the stage. That was my initial reaction. When I realized that what I was reading would be the pace of the entire book, I slowed down and relaxed into it, no longer frantically dog-paddling for a distant shore but content now to float along on the current, with only the occasional lazy sweep of an arm through the water. One morning during a period in which I was reading Brooks, someone tried to engage me in an "Ain't It Awful?" political discussion. "Sorry," I said with a peaceful smile, "but I'm back in the nineteenth century right now."

Fiction, history, essays--it isn't genre that puts a work in the slow books category. Difficulty is neither a criterion nor a barrier to membership. It's a matter of how long the reader takes to turn each page while remaining fully engaged with the content. Frederick Franck's books on drawing, photographs and texts of Jim Brandenburg, Anita Brookner's fiction, M.F.K. Fisher's travel memoirs are all slow books, as are Anthony Trollope's novels.

You don't read a slow book to "get through it," to have read it, but to immerse and lose yourself. It is "escape" reading of the richest kind.