If "Airborne Beavers" wasn't on your bingo card for today, well, join the club.
The North American beaver (Castor canadensis) is a singular critter. These semi-aquatic rodents are symbolic of ambition and enterprise; there's a reason the term "busy as a beaver" is a thing. After some difficult times during which their fur was prized for, among other things, men's hats, they have rebounded magnificently, now back in and even surpassing their original range. Their dams and lodges are famous for their scale, their construction, and the care with which the beavers maintain and repair them. When I was a kid back in Allamakee County, Iowa, beavers were present all up and down the trout streams in that region, and part of my annual winter trapline efforts were focused on keeping them from pushing too far up our own Bear Creek.
There are, though, downsides to their resurgence, and that is that their activities in cutting trees and damming streams can cause crop and other property damage. That is what was happening in Idaho in 1948, leading wildlife biologists to try a novel solution: Airborne beavers.
Over the years, Idaho Fish and Game has tried its best to keep beavers safely away from the hustle and bustle. To this end, the agency has experimented with a number of different tactics—but one idea from 1948 really, uh, jumps out.
Back then, Idaho Fish and Game employee Elmo Heter decided that the best place for these beavers would be a remote area called Chamberlain Basin (now part of the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area). The habitat would have all the amenities the beavers needed, and would be far away from human activity. Unfortunately, because of its remote location, there were no roads to get there.
The only logical solution? Planes.
Not just planes. Obviously, you couldn't just toss beavers out of an airplane and hope they hit something soft. No, the enterprising rodents would have to be parachuted into their new homes. Now, the Idaho Fish and Game people had to work out just how this was to be done, and they did so with the help of a hard-headed old male beaver named - of course - Geronimo.
Apparently, horses and mules were easily spooked by the beavers—the rodents’ constant movement and pungent smell unnerved the pack animals. So Heter decided to try flying the beavers in. This was right after World War II and there was a surplus of parachutes, so the proposed plan re-purposed supplies that would otherwise sit around in storage.
With the help of test beaver Geronimo, Heter created a special wooden box that opened on impact. In total, 76 beavers were dropped in Chamberlain Basin, with all but one surviving. They went on to live fruitful, busy lives in their remote new home.
The story of the furry skydivers may sound too silly to be true, but there is video evidence. Fish and Game historian Sharon Clark found the forgotten footage, and thanks to the magic of the internet, we can all enjoy it today.
What this piece doesn't mention is that Geronimo was used to test the beaver box not once, but several times; the exact number of jumps Geronimo made is unclear but would certainly qualify him for his jump wings. What's more, Geronimo's last jump was into the Idaho wilderness that would become his home, as well as the other 74 beavers that made the trip. The one fatality, reports indicate, was a beaver that somehow got out of his beaver box in mid-descent and decided to try his luck on his own, which unsurprisingly didn't work out too well.
Still, 75 of 76 air-dropped beavers is a pretty good record.
See Related: Arctic Beavers Expose Arctic Methane. Here's Why That's a Problem
Wayward Beaver Invades Tennessee Hospital: Brave Policeman Wrangle the Dam Rodent Out
Here's that rediscovered video.
Sorting beavers by size and weight probably wasn't in these guys' job descriptions. But these are, we must note, probably World War 2 veterans, and it's not at all unlikely that one or more of these men may have been an Airborne troop in that war himself and was able to provide the beavers with some valuable advice.See, this is not only an unmitigated win for the beavers and the state of Idaho, but it also serves as a great illustration of what a government arm can get done if they just ignore the red tape and do it. Were this stunt to be duplicated today, it would no doubt require a mile-high stack of permits, permissions, and environmental-impact statements, not to mention a hundred pounds or so of protective gear for each beaver wrangler. But in 1948, these men saw a job that needed doing, and they just went ahead and sorted it out.
It was a win for the taxpayers. It was a win for the beavers. And it was a win for these manly men, bravely sorting beavers by size and weight with their bare hands, who, we have to remember, had forever after a story to tell that would be hard to top.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I helped take a bunch of beavers through Airborne training?"
Folks, it just doesn't get any more 'Merican than that.
