My Father, the Condor Man — Part 1
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Dad was born in 1930, in Elkhart, Indiana to solidly Republican parents. His father, the son of German immigrants, earned a living as a local goods merchant. His mother, a somewhat imperious woman who used her membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution to cover up the grunge in her immediate ancestry, adored my father, the youngest of four siblings. Now, at 90, he is the last surviving member of that generation of his family.
The path which led Dad to Ventura was a long and winding one. He was a music major at Indiana University, did some time in the military (Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri) and then joined a touring singing group in the late 1950s: Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians who travelled about the US and were headliners in Las Vegas for a time. He left the group to go on an ill-conceived silver-mining adventure (which fell through) and wound up, penniless, unemployed, but talented in Los Angeles in 1959 where he became a founding member of the Dapper Dans of Disneyland barbershop quartet. He met Mom in 1960 and they married the following year.
While working at Mickeyville (as he sometimes called it) he began spending time at an Audubon nature center, working there as a guide and naturalist. His love for the outdoors, his affability, and ability to listen to others and mediate disputes led to him being offered a job as the condor naturalist for Audubon in the back country of Ventura county. Feeling ready for a new adventure beyond the “Happiest Place on Earth”, Dad and Mom bought a tract home for $13,500 in the mostly agricultural neighborhood of Montalvo in Ventura and he began his twenty-year mission working to save the California Condor.
One of his primary tasks was to discover where the condors were nesting, feeding, and mating. With life-spans of over 40 years in the wild, these grand creatures had wingspans of up to nine or ten feet. This allowed them to fly great distances in their exploits, making Dad’s task a challenge. Condor plumage consists of black feathers with a large white triangle under each wing. Their heads are featherless, making their scavenging inside the intestines of carrion a less messy task than if they had a crown of plumage. They are also fairly undifferentiated in terms of gendered appearance. Their sex life appears to be rather dispassionate. In the abstract of an article my father wrote in 1972, he and his friend and co-author Sanford Wilbur wrote the following:
Koford (1953) … observed sexual display among California Condors (Gymnogyps californianus) on more than 30 occasions, yet only once did he see what he thought was copulation. Some of the displays he watched were quite intricate, with considerable posturing and “male” aggression, but no such activity preceded this copulation. The birds sat several feet apart for over 1 hour, then one climbed onto the other’s back, staying there 1/2 minute and flapping gently at the apparent moment of coition. Afterward they sat quietly 1/2 hour before flying away. This led Koford to state that “possibly in Gymnogyps copulation is not immediately preceded by display.”
We have records of 8 California Condor copulations, 5 of which are similar to that described above. The three other occasions began similarly, with the birds sitting quietly, but then the “male” displayed briefly before the “female” with wings half spread and head drooping forward. This elicited no apparent response, but the male immediately walked behind and mounted the female. The apparent moment of coition was accompanied by gentle wing flapping in all instances.[1]
Needless to say, this was not a dinner-time topic of conversation in the house when it was published (I was seven years old at the time). On the other hand my father was quite happy to share non-copulatory condor life with all of us in the family. A few times a year we’d take the twisting drive to Mt. Pinos in northern Ventura County, which was one of the best California condor viewing points on the planet. I always loved the smell of the pines there in the summer and in winter the fun crunch of snow. Around the time the “Copulation by California condors” article was published, we drove up to Mt. Pinos the week after Kaye’s 6th birthday. This was when my parents discovered that Kaye could easily get carsick and when I excitedly discovered that my sister was capable of throwing up a rainbow colored pile of vomit (we had all eaten her birthday cake with various shades of frosting for lunch). After that adventure Dad and I were more likely to head out into the wilderness together and let Mom and Kaye have fun window-shopping or going to the movies back at home.
One of the classic hikes Dad would take me on to get condor information was to Thorn Point Fire Lookout. Located deep in the heart of the Sespe Wilderness, Dad asked the rangers there to keep an eye out for Condor behavior. The trail to the fire lookout was an arduous one for me. It was always hot and tiring, but the treat of being pulled out of class to go on a hike with Dad was far more precious to me than any discomfort the hike itself caused. Dad would keep me entertained and distracted from the difficulty of the hike by pointing out the flora and fauna along the route: various purple lupines, hot pink California Snow Flowers, and tangy but edible Hollyleaf Redberries. Chipmunks, Wolf Lichen, Tortoiseshell Butterflies, and Nutall’s Woodpeckers would await our arrival among the tall Ponderosa pines which shaded the north side of the slopes. Once we arrived at the lookout, while Dad chatted with the ranger about condor sightings, I’d cool off in the high-mountain breeze and munch on some of the home-made cookies Mom baked for Dad to bring to the lookouts to relieve the monotony of their freeze-dried meals.
In 1967, Dad captured the first condor to be studied by the Los Angeles Zoo. Dad found the juvenile condor with a damaged wing, hanging helplessly upside-down in the chaparral. As I recall the story, Dad knew the condor would die if he left it there, even if he untangled it from the shrubbery. So he decided to catch it and stuff it in his sleeping bag (which he had been using while out scouting for condors in the wilderness). The rescue was a success! The bird became named “Topa-Topa” for the prominent mountains in the area. Dad called the bird “Tope” and loved recounting the tale of how, as he seized him to stuff him in his sleeping bag for transport, Tope twisted his head around and bit him heartily on the hand. My father marvelled at just how incredibly strong the condor’s jaws were! Of course, for a creature that lives by dismembering carcasses to eat parts of them, he remarked later, the strength of its jaws should have come as no surprise.
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Dad was always popular at my elementary school when he’d give his annual Condor presentation featuring Gertrude, a nine-foot felt condor Mom had sewn for him to roll up and take to school presentations. Inevitably kids would gasp as Gertrude would be unfurled, revealing the magnificently huge wingspan of the Condor to the audience. My father instinctively knew how to charm school children into attentiveness with his delightfully leading questions and anecdotes about encounters with rattlesnakes and condors. At home he would tell tales of the dignitaries he’d accompany on treks to the Sespe or Mt. Pinos to see condors. Senators, Movie stars, even a prince of Nepal (he got me his autograph). I knew my father had a unique and valuable job and I was always proud of him. I still am.
[1] S.R Wilbur and J.C. Borneman. “Copulation by California condors” 1972, The Auk, Vol. 89, Issue 2. USGS Publications. https://pubs.er.usgs.gov/publication/5224747
