Dusk Along the Oconaluftee River

(Fig. 1) A younger bull elk, showcasing a velvet coating of skin still hanging from his antlers like a protective sheath. This individual is the result of a successful reintroduction of the species in the Southern Appalachians, a rare occurrence outside of the Cumberland Mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Southwest Virginia.

A dozen or so dark silhouettes are visible as they lumber stoically through the warm, evening mist rising up from the Oconaluftee River and rolling out into the surrounding bottomland. Above them, an approaching storm growls at the golden light now dappling the field. Otherwise, the land is still and silent. One of these shapes raises its head, adorned with antlers reaching up like a driftwood sculpture, and lets out a high-pitched bugle; the music of a lost era. A ravaged sound that has shrunk back into only the most reclusive corners of America's vast countryside. As the piercing yodel bounces from the forest's edges, it can only reverberate from one possible source; a cavernous throat inside of a woolly, tree-trunk-like neck. Elk. "Wapiti."

Elk were once a keystone species in the Southern Appalachians, but have now been extirpated across much of their overall range. Like the white-tailed deer and wild turkey, who share similar tales of extirpation, elk have been reintroduced throughout the mountains. However, unlike the deer and the turkey, only a small population has become established in the Southern Appalachians, radiating from the Oconaluftee River outside of Cherokee, North Carolina into the Smokies and the tribal land beyond. A few other populations exist, but fewer still are stable with any considerable numbers and regular calving cycles. However, the Cumberland Mountains farther west are developing several sizeable herds, spilling vagrant individuals throughout the forests and meadows of surrounding states. But traditionally, this was not the case. Scarce today, elk are meant to be an integral part of a wide variety of rapidly vanishing habitats throughout the mountains; many of which could be saved by the mere presence of these majestic animals and their seasonal habits.

(Fig. 2) An elk cow, grazing along the Oconaluftee River. Cows, such as this younger individual, are generally much darker than bulls.

Unlike smaller deer species who browse on twigs, fruit and herbaceous plants, elk must graze. Drawn to this open, floodplain grassland in the Eastern Smokies, these elk were not only present, but doing a remarkable job restoring habitat. Elk graze the “right” plants; plants that allow rare and almost-extinct meadows, prairies and other open country to recover and thrive in a traditional, natural fashion. A slow, deliberate grazing that snips the grass and wildflowers in a tender, methodical and almost caring manner. Elk are Mother Nature’s selective lawnmowers, and this role allowed them to become a pillar of early indigenous and European-American life before settlements wiped the entire species from the East. Elk prune entire landscapes as deliberate gardeners, provide verdant refugia for other species, and ultimately sacrifice themselves to feed the environment, benefitting predators, decomposers, and ultimately the plant life upon which they feed. However, the most haunting aspect of our elk absence in the Southern Appalachians today is not only a simple lack of elk. 

There is a hole in the ecosystem where herds of Eastern "Wapiti" used to fit perfectly. Plant communities are retreating, along with the weary animals that are supposed to be flourishing alongside them. More than a mere change, this is a biodiversity crisis. Without the stability of these habitats, there is a hefty extinction debt. The mountains will never, ever have the same intact and functional habitats, the forests and fields will not be as wild and unspoiled as they were in the 17th and 18th centuries, until East Tennesseans, Southwest Virginians and Western North Carolinians can wake up to the musical sound of an elk bugling in the distance.

(Fig. 3) A dominant, mature bull elk, bugling as he watches over his herd. Bugling is not inherently aggressive, it’s just a display of a bull’s position in the herd, or his readiness to fight or mate (these two aspects of elk life are highly intertwined, as territorial skirmishes occur in the breeding season for obvious reasons). 

Elk influence everything from trees and grasses to birds, bears and insects. They are, indeed, a keystone species, and their existence forges the destiny of thousands of wild cohabitants. Now, bush hogs and lawnmowers are necessary to cut grass and woody growth, but they can never do what elk did. Elk allowed the grass to grow tall, but seldom brushy and unpleasant to walk through. Our native clumping shortgrasses and other warm-season species were able to thrive as elk “gardened” their plots. Growing sparse up high and thick close to the ground, these native "super-lawns" are a vital habitat few Southern Appalachian human residents can imagine, and one that cannot be achieved without the elk's secret knowledge of maintaining wilderness. A thick bed of grass and loam all but added a fourth dimension to our grassland habitat. The grass is not alone, either. Rather, it is sprinkled with dozens (hundreds, even) of plant species from wildflowers and small trees to mosses and ferns. But don't take my word for it. Note that bobwhites are no longer a common backyard bird, or how the low, unique dirges of marsh meadow grasshoppers have all but disappeared in the mountains. The story of elk is much more complex, and I can’t tell it to you fully here.

Actually, I can't tell it to you fully anywhere. And anyone who thinks they can is probably very, very wrong. The role of elk is so detailed, so profound and utterly pure that living or dead humans will never be able to grasp the full effect of these large deer (or the lack of them) on America's wilderness. Elk are part of a temporal story, tales of how their existence is needed, and how their absence is sorrowful and even dangerous. However, I hope you’ll take the time to appreciate elk and their contributions to not only our past, but modern life. In a time where we are all locked inside, cloister, and often separated from nature, it can be hard to recognize the subtle provisions of the wilderness to our life. When, or if, you ever watch an elk crossing a meadow at dawn or dusk, don't simply see the rugged deer as a novelty. Watch, feel and hear the history and vitality of these animals; they're by no means simply shallow eye candy for National Park visitors or a trophy for wealthy vagrant hunters to hang on a wall. Elk are woven into the fabric of America, and to ignore their vitality is to ignore a profound cornerstone of our history. Not simply for meat and clothing, but for their irreplaceable ecological necessity. Regardless, elk should serve as a lesson for everyone, everywhere to cherish all species, especially those taken for granted. Once, elk were everywhere in the Appalachians. Today, they are extinct and the reintroduced populations from the west are still "critically endangered," for what that's worth. Every time one of these elk is viewed, standing among the waving wildflowers of the Oconaluftee River Valley, we should remember to appreciate and love all of our wildlife, no matter how "common," "drab" or "uninteresting" they seem at the present moment. Because even animals as majestic and important as elk are seldom considered a vital part of modern human life.

(Fig. 4) A spotted elk calf that briefly materialized from the grass to graze and look around before disappearing back into the meadow’s protective blanket of wildflowers. An elk calf (like the fawns of white-tailed deer) is born scentless, giving it a short advantage to hide from predators, avoiding detection on the forest floor or tucked under the grass while his or her mother forages nearby.