Father Antonio de la Ascension, the barefoot Carmelite friar and record keeper for the Spanish expedition.
âBirds the shape of turkeys,â the friar wrote. âThe largest I saw on this voyage.â This clipped account is the first known written reference to a California condor, and one of the few firsthand accounts of condors eating dead whales. âHere indeed is material with which to stir the most dormant imagination,â wrote condor historian Harry Harris in âThe Annals of Gymnogyps to 1900.â
Civilized man for the first time beholding the greatest Volant bird in human history, and not merely an isolated individual or two, but an immense swarm rending at their food, shuffling about in crowds for a place at the gorge, fighting and slapping with their great wings at their fellows, pushing, tugging at red meat, silently making a great commotion, and in the end stalking drunkenly to a distance with crop too heavy to carry aloft, leaving space for others in the circling throng to descend to the feast.
Father de la Ascension was not so overwhelmed. Like the Spanish scribes who followed him, he rarely did much more than note the bare existence of the condors. I suspect that this was true in part because the word âextinctionâ had no meaning then, or at least not the meaning it has today. Animals that disappeared were meant to disappear, and it wasnât necessarily permanent; if God wanted something back, all he had to do was snap his fingers.
But the notion that the world was limitless was changing in the 1600s, thanks to a wave of commercial extinction driven by a global fur trade. In the 1500s, European royal families started wearing garments made of fur. By the time our friar saw those condors on the beach, squirrels, foxes, martens, and weasels had been all but erased from the forests of Europe and Siberia.
By the middle of the 1700s, Russian hunters were headed for the condorâs feeding grounds. At the far edge of the ocean they paused to kill all Russian coastal fur seals. Then they moved west across the Bering Strait, looking for the rookeries. When the islands in the Bering Sea were bare, the Russians worked their way down the coast of Alaska; when those animals disappeared, the Russians trapped their way down the coast of North America, wiping out the fur seals, harp seals, harbor seals, and walrus.
Condors had less to eat when the Russian traders moved on. Whales were still around, but the beaches werenât thick with them. The carcasses of animals such as tule elk and pronghorn were also available, but that might not have been enough to hold the condors in the long run.
The king of Spain stepped in and saved the species at this point. Itâs likely that heâd never even heard of condors, but the birds came with the land, and he wanted the land. Rumors that the Russians were preparing forts to protect their pelt-trading interests were enough to convince Juan Carlos III to make a bold move of his own: he would string a line of forts and missions north from the tip of Baja California. Spaniards living in Mexico were ordered to go north and settle in uncharted wilds. Indians would tend to the needs of the settlers after being brought to Jesus. Those who declined would be dealt with. Those who worshipped old gods would be sent to hell.
In 1769, the âSacred Expeditionâ left the bustling tip of Baja California, bound for Alta California and the heart of the condorâs domain.
Mounted soldiers wearing heavy leather armor rode their horses through the heat, armed with leather shields, heavy guns, heavy swords, and extremely heavy lances. Two other groups of soliders boarded warships in La Paz; the plan was to meet in San Diego and march forward en masse.
Amazing things would happen to members of the Sacred Expedition. Horrible things would happen, too, but Iâll get to those stories later. First I want to tell you about the mangy, nervous animals
âBirds the shape of turkeys,â the friar wrote. âThe largest I saw on this voyage.â This clipped account is the first known written reference to a California condor, and one of the few firsthand accounts of condors eating dead whales. âHere indeed is material with which to stir the most dormant imagination,â wrote condor historian Harry Harris in âThe Annals of Gymnogyps to 1900.â
Civilized man for the first time beholding the greatest Volant bird in human history, and not merely an isolated individual or two, but an immense swarm rending at their food, shuffling about in crowds for a place at the gorge, fighting and slapping with their great wings at their fellows, pushing, tugging at red meat, silently making a great commotion, and in the end stalking drunkenly to a distance with crop too heavy to carry aloft, leaving space for others in the circling throng to descend to the feast.
Father de la Ascension was not so overwhelmed. Like the Spanish scribes who followed him, he rarely did much more than note the bare existence of the condors. I suspect that this was true in part because the word âextinctionâ had no meaning then, or at least not the meaning it has today. Animals that disappeared were meant to disappear, and it wasnât necessarily permanent; if God wanted something back, all he had to do was snap his fingers.
But the notion that the world was limitless was changing in the 1600s, thanks to a wave of commercial extinction driven by a global fur trade. In the 1500s, European royal families started wearing garments made of fur. By the time our friar saw those condors on the beach, squirrels, foxes, martens, and weasels had been all but erased from the forests of Europe and Siberia.
By the middle of the 1700s, Russian hunters were headed for the condorâs feeding grounds. At the far edge of the ocean they paused to kill all Russian coastal fur seals. Then they moved west across the Bering Strait, looking for the rookeries. When the islands in the Bering Sea were bare, the Russians worked their way down the coast of Alaska; when those animals disappeared, the Russians trapped their way down the coast of North America, wiping out the fur seals, harp seals, harbor seals, and walrus.
Condors had less to eat when the Russian traders moved on. Whales were still around, but the beaches werenât thick with them. The carcasses of animals such as tule elk and pronghorn were also available, but that might not have been enough to hold the condors in the long run.
The king of Spain stepped in and saved the species at this point. Itâs likely that heâd never even heard of condors, but the birds came with the land, and he wanted the land. Rumors that the Russians were preparing forts to protect their pelt-trading interests were enough to convince Juan Carlos III to make a bold move of his own: he would string a line of forts and missions north from the tip of Baja California. Spaniards living in Mexico were ordered to go north and settle in uncharted wilds. Indians would tend to the needs of the settlers after being brought to Jesus. Those who declined would be dealt with. Those who worshipped old gods would be sent to hell.
In 1769, the âSacred Expeditionâ left the bustling tip of Baja California, bound for Alta California and the heart of the condorâs domain.
Mounted soldiers wearing heavy leather armor rode their horses through the heat, armed with leather shields, heavy guns, heavy swords, and extremely heavy lances. Two other groups of soliders boarded warships in La Paz; the plan was to meet in San Diego and march forward en masse.
Amazing things would happen to members of the Sacred Expedition. Horrible things would happen, too, but Iâll get to those stories later. First I want to tell you about the mangy, nervous animals
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