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Elk: How Did a Native Texas Animal Become an Exotic?

A bull elk bugling against a mountain backdrop is one of the defining images of the American West. In Texas, it is also the image of a contradiction.

Free-ranging elk roam portions of the Trans-Pecos today, yet Texas does not classify them as game animals. They are legally treated as exotics, putting them in a dramatically different management category than white-tailed deer, mule deer, pronghorn and desert bighorn sheep. Spend enough time around Texas hunters and wildlife enthusiasts and sooner or later someone will explain why.

“Elk aren’t native to Texas.”

There is a problem with that statement.

It isn’t true.

The evidence for native elk in Texas isn’t based on a single old story or someone’s interpretation of what Texas wildlife should look like. It comes from historical eyewitness accounts, archaeological remains, radiocarbon-dated elk bones, prehistoric evidence and modern genetic research. Even the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department (TPWD) acknowledges the historical presence of elk.

So how did a native Texas animal become an exotic?

That story takes us from Spanish explorers and ancient archaeological sites to free-ranging elk in the mountains of West Texas — and finally to the Texas Legislature in 1997.

Texas Parks and Wildlife Says It

Before digging into centuries-old journals or archaeological evidence, consider what TPWD currently says about elk.

On its official elk species page, the agency states:

“Historical evidence indicates that elk may have been present over much of Texas.”

TPWD further notes that by the late 1800s, records indicated elk remained in the Guadalupe Mountains of Far West Texas. The agency also acknowledges that free-ranging elk currently exist across a large portion of West Texas.

American Elk (Cervus Canadensis) from the viviparous quadrupeds of North America (1845) illustrated by John Woodhouse Audubon (1812-1862)

That alone should give pause to anyone making the blanket claim that elk aren’t native to Texas, but it is only the beginning. One of the most comprehensive examinations of the subject was conducted by Richardson B. Gill, Christopher Gill, Reeda Peel and Javier Vasquez. Their study, Are Elk Native to Texas? Historical and Archaeological Evidence for the Natural Occurrence of Elk in Texas, was published in the Journal of Big Bend Studies.

The researchers assembled evidence from history, archaeology, morphology and genetics. Their conclusion was not that elk might occasionally have wandered across the Texas line. They concluded that native elk occurred across Texas before their extirpation.

Elk on the Canadian River

The written record reaches back more than four centuries. In 1601, Spanish governor of New Mexico Don Juan de Oñate explored country northeast of Santa Fe. Along the Canadian River, his party encountered an animal that certainly didn’t sound like a whitetail.

The account described deer as large as horses traveling in herds numbering in the hundreds.

“Translation: Elk,” I wrote when I first explored this history.

That wasn’t an isolated report. In 1759, Capt. Juan Angel de Oyarzún reported elk in Texas, describing animals known as buros whose bodies and antlers were substantially larger than deer. His account even noted the use of their antlers by Comanches in making bows.

Then there was East Texas. In 1772, French Capt. Athanase de Mézières described “red deer” — the European relative of elk and terminology Europeans sometimes applied to them — in country between present-day Nacogdoches and the Sabine River.

These weren’t all reports from mountains along the New Mexico border. The researchers documented reports from the Panhandle and North Texas through Central and East Texas and into South Texas.

That matters because the old idea was not merely that Texas once had elk. A common assumption has been that native Texas elk were essentially restricted to the Guadalupe Mountains. The historical record tells a much bigger story.

Bones Don’t Tell Hunting Stories

Historical accounts can be challenged. Maybe an explorer mistranslated a word. Maybe someone saw a large deer and called it something else. Maybe an animal mentioned in an old journal wasn’t what a modern reader thinks it was.

That’s why the archaeological evidence is so important.

Gill and his colleagues documented elk bones, antlers, teeth and paleofeces from Texas archaeological and paleontological contexts. Their research includes evidence extending back into the Pleistocene.

Consider Baylor County in North Texas. An elk tibia recovered near Seymour produced a radiocarbon age with calibrated ranges including A.D. 1461-1668 and 1782-1797. In other words, there was physical evidence of elk in North Texas overlapping the era in which Europeans were beginning to document the state’s wildlife.

Another elk bone, a proximal phalange, was recovered from the Spider Knoll archaeological site in Delta County in Northeast Texas. The archaeological context was dated to roughly A.D. 970-1430.

Those locations are a long way from the Guadalupe Mountains.

The researchers also examined antler evidence and prehistoric rock art potentially depicting elk. Not every individual piece of evidence carries equal weight — some rock art interpretations, for example, necessarily involve interpretation — but taken together with the historical and archaeological record, an unmistakable picture emerges.

Elk weren’t simply animals somebody hauled into Texas on a trailer during the modern ranching era.

They were here.

What About Merriam’s Elk?

There is another wrinkle in the Texas elk story. Historically, some authorities proposed that the elk of the Southwest represented a separate form known as Merriam’s elk. That idea helped create another possible argument: Even if elk once lived in Texas, perhaps those animals were fundamentally different from the elk roaming parts of the state today.

Gill and his co-authors examined that question as well. Their study presented morphological, statistical and DNA evidence challenging the idea that the historic Texas animals represented a separate species or subspecies. They concluded that the native elk and today’s free-ranging animals belong to the same subspecies, Cervus canadensis canadensis.

Then comes perhaps the most fascinating piece of the modern story. DNA research cited by the authors indicates free-ranging elk in the Davis and Glass mountains are genetically indistinguishable from elk in New Mexico’s Lincoln National Forest. The researchers concluded that elk naturally moved south through the mountain ranges connecting New Mexico and Texas and recolonized portions of their former Trans-Pecos range.

That is something very different from an exotic animal escaping from a high-fence ranch. It is recolonization.

In my earlier story on Texas elk, I quoted the researchers’ conclusion that the evidence substantiated native elk in Texas before their extirpation and described today’s Davis and Glass Mountains animals as resulting from natural immigration out of New Mexico.

That brings us to 1997 and one of the strangest chapters in Texas wildlife history.

What Happened in 1997?

Before Sept. 1, 1997, elk did not have the same legal status throughout Texas. State law specifically regulated elk as game animals in 15 counties: Brewster, Culberson, Dallam, Deaf Smith, El Paso, Hartley, Hudspeth, Jeff Davis, Moore, Oldham, Pecos, Potter, Presidio, Reeves and Terrell.

Then came House Bill 1489 during the 75th Texas Legislature.

The legislation systematically removed elk from those provisions of the Parks and Wildlife Code. It removed references to elk from hunting-license requirements in those counties, game-breeder provisions and sections dealing with TPW Commission proclamations and permits governing the taking of elk in portions of West Texas. Most importantly, it explicitly added elk to provisions defining exotic animals.
The House subsequently passed HB 1489 by a non-record vote. The Senate approved it 31-0.

But the official legislative analysis contains something extraordinary when viewed through the lens of what we know today.

Supporters of HB 1489 did not argue that elk had never been native to Texas. The House Research Organization analysis acknowledged that elk were indigenous to Texas at some point in history.

The argument was instead that Texas probably had no endemic elk for thousands of years and that significant natural recolonization from neighboring states was unlikely. Existing elk, supporters maintained, were present because private landowners had imported and bred them. Supporters also argued that game-animal classification interfered with private-property management and landowners’ ability to benefit economically from animals they had acquired.

But the analysis also preserved an opposing argument.

Opponents argued that elk were indigenous to Texas and could reestablish themselves if suitable habitat existed. They specifically pointed to the possibility of elk migrating naturally into Texas from neighboring states and argued that elk should remain a publicly managed wildlife resource rather than be treated as exotic animals.

That argument looks particularly interesting today because subsequent genetic research concluded that free-ranging elk in the Davis and Glass mountains resulted from natural immigration from New Mexico into former Texas range.

In other words, one of the possibilities raised during the 1997 debate appears to have happened.

Native or Exotic?

There are legitimate debates to be had about elk management in Texas: How should free-ranging populations be managed? What role should private landowners play? How should naturally occurring elk be distinguished from animals brought onto high-fence ranches? What effects could expanding populations have on agriculture, habitat and other wildlife?

Those are management questions. Whether elk historically occurred naturally in Texas is a different question, and the evidence for that is overwhelming.

There are eyewitness accounts extending back to the early 1600s and archaeological elk remains from locations far removed from the Guadalupe Mountains. There is evidence spanning widely separated regions of the state, modern genetic research supporting natural recolonization of former range and TPWD’s own acknowledgment that historical evidence indicates elk may once have occurred over much of Texas.

Even the official 1997 analysis of the legislation that helped turn elk into a legal exotic acknowledged their indigenous history.

The legal classification changed.

The natural history did not.

The Mystery That Remains

I started digging into this because I kept encountering the claim that elk aren’t native to Texas. They are, and the historical and physical record makes a powerful case for saying so.

The more interesting question now is why a native animal that Texas once managed as game in portions of its historic range was removed from that system in 1997. HB 1489 tells us what happened, and the legislative record tells us some of the arguments made at the time. It does not necessarily answer every question about why the change happened or why Texas has maintained that classification as our understanding of the state’s elk history has grown.

Maybe some of those answers are still buried in old files, memories and conversations from nearly 30 years ago. For now, that part of the story can remain an open question.

But the identity of the animal itself should not.

Long before Texas had high fences, exotic-game ranches or even a Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, elk left their bones in Texas soil. Spanish explorers encountered them. Native people knew them. They ranged across a landscape far larger than the mountains along our western border.

They disappeared, and eventually, some came home.

Texas law may call the elk an exotic.

Texas history calls it a native

Chester Moore

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The Real Wildlife Behind the Chupacabra Mystery

Chester Moore Files #3

I once retrieved the carcass of an alleged chupacabra. What I found points toward a fascinating intersection of wildlife disease, canid biology and one of America’s strangest modern legends.

By Chester Moore

I have what could legitimately be called a chupacabra skull sitting in my collection.

That doesn’t mean I believe it came from an unknown, bloodsucking predator. In fact, I believe the animal was most likely a coyote or medium-to-large domestic dog suffering from a severe condition that transformed its appearance. But the story of how I came into possession of it—and what wildlife science tells us about animals like it—offers an interesting look at how real wildlife can become the foundation for extraordinary legends.

My friend David Clever first encountered the animal after a massive flash flood. The carcass was bloated and floating in a pool when he initially saw it. When he returned later, decomposition had progressed, but the animal was still largely intact. He noticed something immediately unusual about it: there was essentially no hair, the skin was grayish and wrinkled, and the proportions of the front and rear portions of the animal appeared strange.

David later contacted me while I was doing other wildlife research in the Texas Hill Country and asked whether I wanted to retrieve what remained.

Of course I did.

What I eventually recovered was exactly the kind of animal that, if photographed beside a rural Texas road or captured on a trail camera, would almost certainly have been called a chupacabra. I kept the skull, and remnants of the unusual skin remained with the specimen. My assessment is that it was most likely a coyote or a domestic dog, although without genetic testing I can’t definitively identify it.

The experience made me look much more closely at the wildlife behind the chupacabra phenomenon.

Hear the Full Chupacabra Investigation

I recently explored the subject in depth on my Dark Outdoors podcast in an episode called “The Horror and Science of Chupacabra.” The program looks at everything from the original Puerto Rican legend to Texas “blue dogs,” coyotes, canid genetics and my own encounters with animals that could easily have been labeled chupacabras.

Listen on Spotify

Listen on Apple Podcasts

Looking at the subject from a wildlife perspective reveals something fascinating. We don’t need an undiscovered species to explain many of the creatures people are encountering. Nature already has the ability to turn familiar wildlife into something that looks almost unrecognizable.

When a Coyote Stops Looking Like a Coyote

The number one animal I see associated with modern Texas chupacabra reports is the coyote.

Most people know exactly what a healthy coyote looks like. Give that same animal a severe case of mange, however, and identification becomes much more difficult. Hair loss changes the apparent proportions of the animal. Legs suddenly look unusually long, ears seem oversized, the tail loses its familiar bushy appearance and ribs may become visible as the animal’s physical condition deteriorates.

Skin can become thickened, wrinkled and grayish or bluish. A badly affected animal may also move differently because it is sick and weakened. Those characteristics can combine to produce an animal that bears surprisingly little resemblance to the healthy coyote pictured in a field guide. The transcript of my investigation describes this same combination of hair loss, gaunt appearance, exposed ribs and altered skin in animals people have identified as chupacabras.

Foxes can become even more dramatic-looking because their ears are already large in proportion to their bodies. Remove the coat from a fox and those ears suddenly dominate its appearance. At night, add eyeshine from headlights or a flashlight and it’s easy to understand how someone seeing the animal for only a few seconds could believe he encountered something truly unusual.

Even raccoons can become virtually unrecognizable when mange removes their characteristic coat and facial mask. In one case I remember seeing presented as a mysterious animal, the supposedly inexplicable creature was a severely affected raccoon.

These animals aren’t imaginary. The mistake comes in explaining what they are.

My Own Nighttime “Chupacabra” Encounter

I’ve experienced firsthand how dramatically disease can alter our perception of wildlife.

I was working near a wooded area where I had been conducting research related to red wolves. One evening I spotted something moving low through the brush. I couldn’t immediately identify it and initially considered a coyote or perhaps a hog.

I made a canid vocalization and something answered.

Soon I could see a skinny animal with unusually prominent ears in the moonlight. It moved away when illuminated but circled back and growled several times. Then it made an aggressive run toward me, getting within roughly 10 to 15 yards before retreating.

Once I got a good look, I realized it was a domestic dog suffering from an extreme case of mange. I estimated that about three-quarters of its hair was missing.

I knew what I was seeing because of my experience with wildlife. But put someone unfamiliar with mange in that same situation—alone at night, hearing growls and suddenly seeing a nearly hairless canine charging out of the darkness—and the encounter takes on an entirely different character.

That is one of the reasons I don’t ridicule people who report seeing strange creatures.

They may have seen exactly what they say they saw. The question is what biological explanation lies behind it.

The Science of the “Blue Dog”

The so-called Texas “blue dog” is especially interesting because the strange coloration associated with some alleged chupacabras can have a biological explanation.

Research discussed in my podcast examined tissue samples from animals associated with the chupacabra phenomenon. The animals included familiar species such as raccoons and domestic dogs, and severe mange was a common denominator. Researchers described animals with very little hair and thickened, dry and wrinkled skin. The discussion also connected secondary bacterial infection from extensive scratching with the bluish appearance reported in some animals.

Put all those characteristics together and you get something that can look almost otherworldly: little or no hair, gray-blue skin, an emaciated body, prominent ears, unusual-looking legs and perhaps abnormal behavior from an animal weakened by disease and desperate for food.

There is another important factor. Sick predators still have to eat.

A severely compromised coyote, fox or other predator may seek easier sources of food, potentially bringing it closer to homes, livestock and poultry. That increased proximity to people also increases the likelihood that someone will photograph or encounter the animal.

Suddenly, the “monster” is showing up in the backyard.

Coyotes, Wolves and Chupacabra Genetics

Another fascinating component of the Texas chupacabra story involves canid genetics.

Coyotes don’t exist in complete genetic isolation from other North American canids. The history of wolves and coyotes includes hybridization, and the red wolf story in particular has become deeply intertwined with questions involving coyote ancestry and introgression.

That has led some people to suggest that unusual coyote-wolf hybrids explain the strange appearance of Texas chupacabras.

I don’t think that’s what is happening.

Hybridization could certainly produce individual canids with unusual size, coloration or other physical characteristics. But it doesn’t explain the severe hair loss, damaged skin and emaciated appearance characteristic of many supposed chupacabras. My investigation concluded that mange is a far more convincing explanation for those features.

The genetics question is fascinating on its own. It just shouldn’t be used to explain something that wildlife disease already explains quite well.

How the Chupacabra Changed

There is also a cultural component that makes this wildlife mystery unusual.

The chupacabra that emerged from Puerto Rico in the 1990s wasn’t necessarily the same creature people began calling a chupacabra in Texas. The Puerto Rican legend centered on mysterious livestock attacks and animals allegedly drained of blood. Some descriptions were almost alien in character. As the story spread through Mexico and eventually into the United States, the image of the creature evolved.

In Texas, the chupacabra increasingly became canine.

Trail-camera photographs, roadkills and sightings of strange hairless animals became attached to the name. Eventually, a term originally meaning “goat sucker” could describe almost any weird-looking hairless mammal someone encountered.

That’s an important distinction because explaining the Texas animals doesn’t necessarily explain every story that originated in Puerto Rico.

Earlier Puerto Rican accounts even included the so-called Vampire of Moca during the 1970s, involving mysterious livestock deaths and reports very different from later Texas hairless-canid sightings.

Folklore evolves, and sometimes real wildlife gets absorbed into it.

There Is a Real Animal Behind Many Monsters

The lesson I take from the chupacabra isn’t that people are foolish for believing they saw something unusual. It’s almost the opposite.

Wildlife can be incredibly difficult to identify under poor conditions. Disease, injury, genetic variation, decomposition and simple viewing angle can make a familiar species look completely foreign. Add darkness, a brief glimpse and a little adrenaline, and identification becomes even harder.

I’ve experienced that personally. I’ve had a severely mangy canine approach me aggressively in the dark, and I’ve gone into the field to retrieve the remains of an alleged chupacabra. I still have the skull from that carcass.

My suspicion remains that the skull belongs to a coyote or domestic dog. Perhaps one day I’ll have genetic testing done and get a more definitive answer.

Until then, it’s a fascinating reminder that the line separating wildlife from folklore isn’t always as clear as we imagine.

I don’t believe most Texas chupacabra reports represent an undiscovered species. The evidence points much more strongly toward coyotes, foxes, raccoons and domestic dogs transformed by severe disease. That was also the conclusion I reached in the podcast: many of these creatures are real animals, just not the monster popular culture created.

And from a wildlife perspective, I find that explanation more interesting than a monster.

A coyote doesn’t have to be mythical to become almost unrecognizable. Nature can do that all by itself.

For much more on the history, strange reports, science and my firsthand experiences, listen to “The Horror and Science of Chupacabra” on the Dark Outdoors podcast.

Listen on Spotify

Listen on Apple Podcasts

Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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To support the efforts of Higher Calling Wildlife® click here.

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

They Poached the Buffalo—Then Brought Out a Chainsaw

Years ago, I traveled to a location where someone had illegally killed a buffalo, cut off its head with a chainsaw and left the rest of the animal behind.

It was one of the most disturbing wildlife crimes I have encountered, but unfortunately it was far from the only one.

As a hunter and lifelong wildlife conservationist, I believe an important distinction needs to be made whenever stories like this are told: Poaching is not hunting.

Legal, ethical hunting operates within seasons, regulations and conservation systems designed to manage wildlife populations. Poaching is the illegal taking of wildlife. The two should never be confused.

Hear the Full Story on Dark Outdoors®

I recently explored the buffalo case and several other disturbing wildlife crimes I’ve encountered or investigated in an episode of Dark Outdoors®.

Listen: “He Beheaded the Buffalo With a Chainsaw”

Apple Podcasts:
https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/he-beheaded-the-buffalo-with-a-chainsaw/id1630809603

Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/episode/4SG6LVStcRBMSyRKn54uMQ?si=39034865b8234bbf

The episode examines not only the buffalo case but also other examples of poaching and wildlife trafficking, including crimes that demonstrate just how serious—and sometimes dangerous—wildlife crime can become.

Wildlife Belongs to More Than One Generation

Wildlife conservation depends on limits.

Seasons, bag limits and other regulations aren’t simply obstacles placed in front of hunters. They are part of a larger wildlife-management system intended to ensure that wildlife populations remain viable for future generations.

Ethical hunters operate within that system.

Poachers deliberately operate outside it.

That difference matters because wildlife isn’t an unlimited resource. An animal illegally killed for its antlers, horns, hide, head or simply for someone’s amusement has been stolen from everyone who values that resource.

This is why I reject the tendency to describe serious poaching simply as “illegal hunting.” Hunting and poaching aren’t interchangeable terms.

The People Who Stand Between Wildlife and Criminals

Wildlife officers and game wardens work a side of conservation that most people rarely see.

Their jobs can involve far more than checking licenses or making sure hunters follow bag limits. They investigate illegal killing, trafficking and commercialization of wildlife, sometimes dealing with people who are willing to threaten or use violence to avoid being caught.

Federal wildlife law enforcement also deals with a global trade in illegally obtained animals and wildlife products. That world can involve smuggling networks moving wildlife and wildlife parts across international borders.

Wildlife crime can become big business, and protecting wildlife sometimes requires serious law-enforcement work.

Hunters Have a Stake in Fighting Poaching

Hunters should be among the loudest voices opposing wildlife crime.

The overwhelming majority of hunters aren’t the people cutting heads off illegally killed animals, slaughtering wildlife outside established regulations or trafficking protected species. They’re people who buy licenses, support conservation programs, follow seasons and care deeply about the future of wildlife.

I have hunted my whole life. This is me with an Eastern wild turkey I took in New York in 2019. The Moore family loves to eat wild game.

Calling a poacher a hunter gives the criminal a connection to legitimate hunting that he or she hasn’t earned.

A person who deliberately steals wildlife isn’t representing hunting.

They’re stealing from wildlife.

They’re stealing from hunters.

And they’re stealing from everyone else who believes wild animals should still be here for the next generation.

That’s why poaching isn’t hunting.

It’s wildlife crime.

Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

The Screwworm Map Everyone Should See

As the New World screwworm continues its push northward in Texas, wildlife professionals, livestock producers, hunters and conservationists are understandably focused on where it might show up next. No one knows exactly how far this outbreak could spread, and predicting that would be irresponsible. But history gives us something valuable—a look at where this devastating parasite has gone before.

One of the most fascinating resources I’ve come across is a historical map published by Oklahoma State University Extension showing the migration of New World screwworm during the major 1951 outbreak. The map doesn’t depict today’s outbreak or attempt to forecast tomorrow’s. Instead, it illustrates where screwworms spread during that historic event, where they survived the winter of 1951-1952 and where they commonly overwintered during average years before eradication.

Looking at it today is impossible to ignore.

The light blue portion of the map covers a remarkable area of the southern United States, stretching from Southern California across Arizona, New Mexico and Texas before reaching into Oklahoma, Arkansas and parts of the Gulf Coast. In other words, history shows that under favorable conditions, screwworms were capable of expanding across a huge portion of the country. The darker shades represent areas where the flies actually survived the winter, allowing populations to persist into the following year without having to migrate north again.

That doesn’t mean those same areas will become infested in 2026. Weather patterns, surveillance efforts, livestock management and, most importantly, the sterile insect technique have dramatically changed the equation since the 1950s. Still, if we’re talking about a cone of possibility, this map deserves serious attention because it represents places that have historically supported screwworm populations.

As someone who has spent much of this year reporting on the screwworm situation, I immediately began thinking beyond livestock. Cattle understandably receive much of the attention because of the enormous economic consequences of an outbreak, but wildlife has just as much at stake. White-tailed deer, mule deer, desert bighorn sheep, elk, pronghorn and countless other mammals can all become hosts if they have an untreated wound.

It can impact any warm-blooded animal.

That is one reason wildlife agencies have become deeply involved in monitoring the current situation. A widespread screwworm outbreak wouldn’t simply affect agriculture. It could reshape wildlife management across large portions of the southern United States and northern Mexico.

Check out out interview about screwworm with legendary whitetail biologist Larry Weishuhn.

One of the encouraging aspects of this situation is that we are not fighting an unknown enemy. The United States successfully eradicated New World screwworm decades ago through one of the greatest insect control programs ever undertaken. Today’s response benefits from modern diagnostics, coordinated surveillance, sterile fly production, interstate cooperation and a wealth of scientific knowledge that simply didn’t exist during the 1951 outbreak.

Even so, history has value because it reminds us what this insect is capable of when conditions are favorable.

Too often, people view historical maps like this as either predictions or relics. They’re really neither. They’re reminders. They remind us why vigilance matters, why containment efforts deserve public support and why wildlife professionals, ranchers and government agencies are taking this outbreak so seriously.

When I look at this map, I don’t see a forecast.

I see a warning from history.

The areas shown here aren’t places that will necessarily be impacted in the months ahead. They are places that history tells us could be impacted if screwworm were ever allowed to gain the upper hand again.

Hopefully, we never allow that to happen.

Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

The Buffalo That Almost Got Me: Why Yellowstone’s Latest Bison Attack Hit Close to Home

The recent Yellowstone National Park bison attack that left a 65-year-old visitor with a femur broken in four places after being tossed into the air has captured national attention. According to reports, the man and his grandson were not intentionally harassing the animal, a reminder that while many wildlife incidents result from people getting far too close, nature doesn’t always follow our expectations.

That story immediately took me back to one of the most intense wildlife encounters I’ve ever experienced.

Photo by Chester Moore

Ironically, the huge bull bison in my recent Lamar Valley photograph was the very same animal from that encounter. Seeing him again brought back memories that have stayed with me ever since.

One of the biggest misconceptions surrounding wildlife attacks is that every victim must have done something foolish. Certainly, many people ignore common sense around Yellowstone’s wildlife. Every year visitors crowd bison for selfies, approach calves, or underestimate just how fast these massive animals can move.

But the outdoors is still wild.

Sometimes you can do nearly everything right and still find yourself in a dangerous situation. Wild animals have minds of their own, especially during the rut, when mature bull bison can become extremely aggressive toward rivals and anything else they perceive as a threat.

My encounter was a reminder that no amount of outdoor experience should ever replace humility.

Here’s what happened.


As the sun rose over the Lamar Valley in Yellowstone National Park, the silhouettes of American buffalo (bison) dotted the horizon.

Truly wild bison are a rare commodity, and seeing them in person is a powerful experience when you consider they were nearly driven to extinction just over a century ago.

While slowly driving through this incredible setting, a pair of beautiful pronghorn caught my attention.

I pulled over to take a few photos.

Another gentleman had stopped to do the same, and as we adjusted our camera lenses, his wife suddenly shouted from their truck.

“Bison!”

This was the mad bison! I came close to being a victim of bison attack that day. (Photo by Chester Moore)

Turning around, we found ourselves nearly eye to eye with a massive bull bison.

And he looked angry.

Really angry.

The whites of his eyes showed as he grunted from only about 15 feet away. At that distance, we were roughly half a second away from 1,500 pounds of fury.

We slowly and calmly backed away.

Thankfully, a couple of other bison crossed the road and caught his attention.

He immediately charged one of them, slamming into another mature bull. The younger animal fought back briefly before deciding retreat was the wiser option.

The big bull then rolled violently in the dirt, grunted, pawed the ground and bucked like a rodeo bronc.

Yes, this was the same bison that had quietly walked up behind us only moments earlier.

It was a powerful reminder of just how quickly these animals can change from seemingly calm to explosively aggressive.

Bison injure more people in Yellowstone than any other animal.

Many visitors look at them like oversized cattle grazing peacefully in a pasture because they’re accustomed to seeing people in the park.

That isn’t docility.

That’s confidence.

There’s a tremendous difference.

I understood the danger before this encounter. In fact, later on the trip I passed up what looked like an outstanding fishing hole in Lamar Valley because it was surrounded by large bulls, cows and calves.

Being caught between a mother bison, her calf and a trout stream is a terrible idea.

I found another place to fish.

The trout cooperated just fine.

As I sat later reflecting on the trip, I realized Yellowstone had once again offered more than beautiful scenery and wildlife photography. It had provided perspective.

Sometimes only time spent in truly wild places can do that.

This encounter also reinforced something I try to communicate through my writing and speaking: respect wildlife, keep your distance, and never assume an animal’s behavior will remain predictable simply because it has tolerated people before.

Wild places deserve our admiration—but they also deserve our respect.

I’m just thankful I’m writing about this encounter instead of having someone else write the headline for me.

“Wildlife Journalist Suffers Bison Attack” is one headline I hope never to read.

Chester Moore

Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

To support the efforts of Higher Calling Wildlife® click here.

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

Shark Camp For Kids Returns to Port Arthur (Moore to Teach Two Days)

Sharks have a unique way of capturing the imagination of young people. For some children, that fascination becomes the first step toward a lifelong appreciation for wildlife and conservation.

That is one reason the Museum of the Gulf Coast’s upcoming Shark Camp is such an exciting opportunity for Southeast Texas families.

From June 15–18, children in 1st through 5th grade will spend four mornings immersed in shark education, ocean exploration, conservation lessons, and hands-on activities designed to make learning fun and memorable.

Topics include:

  • Bull Sharks of Sabine Lake
  • Great White Shark conservation
  • Ocean ecosystems
  • A special “Swim with Sharks” green screen experience

Wildlife journalist and conservationist Chester Moore will teach two sessions during the camp, sharing stories and insights from years of shark research and outreach efforts along the Gulf Coast.

Moore has long believed sharks can serve as ambassadors for marine conservation and inspire young people to become more interested in wildlife stewardship and the natural world around them.

The excitement does not stop when Shark Camp ends. On June 20, the Museum of the Gulf Coast will host the free “Great White Sharks in the Gulf Family Day,” a shark-themed event featuring conservation exhibits, educational displays, interactive activities, and a screening of the documentary Gulf Great White Sharks.

Following the film, Moore will take part in a live Q&A session and host a signing for his new book, Gulf Great White Sharks: Their Return and Other Large Sharks of the Forgotten Sea, which officially debuts at the event.

The family day celebration is free and open to the public and highlights the growing interest in great white sharks and other large shark species found in Gulf waters.

Shark Camp Details:
June 15–18
10 a.m.–12 p.m.
Museum of the Gulf Coast
Cost: $20 per child

To register:
Call Dana at (409) 982-7000
Email: mogc.educator@gmail.com

Opportunities like this remind us that conservation starts with education—and sometimes all it takes is one shark encounter to change a young life forever.

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

Mountain Goats in the Smoky Mountains? Vietnamese Mountain Hogs? Huh?

Over the years, I’ve heard some fascinating claims about animals that supposedly live in places they don’t belong. Mountain goats in North Carolina. “Vietnamese mountain hogs” roaming the southern woods. Exotic species hiding in plain sight, just out of reach of official recognition.

Check out our latest video here.

At first glance, stories like these don’t sound completely unreasonable. The animals people describe often look unfamiliar—thick-bodied, oddly shaped, or sporting features most folks don’t expect to see locally. The locations aren’t impossibly remote. And once a story starts making the rounds, especially when it’s repeated with confidence, it begins to feel less like rumor and more like fact.

That’s how these legends gain traction. Someone sees something unusual. A name gets attached to it. Then the explanation spreads faster than the evidence.

One experience in particular stayed with me. Years ago, I personally came across an animal that people around me were calling an “Asian mountain buffalo.” The story surrounding it was detailed and persuasive. Multiple people insisted it was something exotic—an animal that had escaped captivity or been quietly released years earlier. And I’ll admit, at first glance, it really did look out of place. Big. Heavy. Different from what most people expect to see in that region.

But the more I listened, the more I realized something important was missing from the conversation: basic questions.

No one was asking where the animal came from. No one was comparing it to known species. No one was slowing down long enough to separate what they were seeing from what they were assuming. The mystery wasn’t being examined—it was being protected.

That moment stuck with me because it revealed how easily ordinary animals can be transformed into something extraordinary once curiosity gives way to certainty. When people stop questioning, familiar species become cryptids. Farm animals turn into foreign beasts. And the truth gets buried under a more exciting story.

In this video, I take a closer look at several cases just like that—situations where animals were believed to be something they weren’t. Not because people were foolish, but because human nature tends to favor a good story over a careful explanation. We want the world to be more mysterious than it is, and sometimes all it takes is an unfamiliar shape or an unusual setting to spark a legend.

The goal isn’t to mock these stories, but to understand them—and to remember that the simplest explanation is often the most accurate, even when it isn’t the most exciting.

Chester Moore

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

Why Reporting Wildlife Tags Matters: A Mountain Goat Story from Mount Blue Sky

A massive, woolly mountain goat slowly lifted her head above a granite outcrop, silhouetted against the thin alpine sky.

For years, photographing a mountain goat had been a personal goal of mine. But as a Texan who lives at just 14 feet above sea level on the Texas coast, I felt every step as I climbed near 14,000 feet on Colorado’s Mount Blue Sky. The altitude slowed me down, sharpened my breathing, and reminded me just how far from home I truly was.

As I carefully made my way toward the rock, I realized the goat was a nanny—and tucked close beside her was a beautiful, very young kid. The moment was brief but powerful. I raised my camera, capturing her strength and grace, and I made sure to focus on the collar and ear tag she wore, knowing those details mattered beyond the photograph itself.

When I returned home, I contacted Rebecca Boyce with Colorado Parks & Wildlife to learn more about the goat I had photographed. What I discovered was fascinating. The nanny, identified as Ear Tag #1128, had been fitted with a GPS collar in October 2016. At the time of capture, she was estimated to be five years old or older and in good body condition. Her collar transmitted data until January 2017, when it likely failed due to a malfunction.

According to Boyce, the data revealed that from October 2016 through January 2017, the goat spent her entire time within just 2.2 square miles around Mount Blue Sky. Even in its short lifespan, the collar provided valuable insight into how these animals use the rugged alpine landscape.

That experience reinforced an important lesson for me and my family: turning in any tag or collar information you encounter truly matters. Those small details—often overlooked—help wildlife biologists piece together the stories that guide conservation and management decisions.

Sharing this moment with my daughter, Faith, and my wife, Lisa, made it even more meaningful. Standing together on that mountain and later learning how one observation could contribute to conservation became a highlight of our conservation awareness work. It reminded us that meaningful conservation doesn’t always start with grand actions—it starts with paying attention, respecting wildlife, and choosing to share what we see so it can make a difference.

Chester Moore

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

When a Gator Eats Your Fish: Fly Fishing Florida’s Exotic Canal Species

Southern Florida has a way of pulling me back into the margins—the narrow strips of water most people drive past without a second thought. Canals, ditches, overgrown drainage cuts. They’re not postcard places, but they’re alive. And on a recent trip fly fishing for invasive exotics, they delivered one of the most intense, unforgettable days I’ve ever spent with a rod in my hand.

I was fishing with Paul Fuzinski of Aptitude Outdoors, targeting non-native fish in southern Florida and field testing custom fly rods from Mudfish Adventures.

Paul with an oscar/

The plan was simple: pack light, fish tight water, and throw flies where no sane person would think to cast. The reality was a wild mix of explosive strikes, technical casts, toothy predators—and one very large reptile that reminded us exactly where we were.

The canal itself was tiny. Narrow enough in places that a long cast would put you into the opposite bank. The water was dark and slow, bordered by thick brush that seemed designed to eat flies. It was the kind of place where accuracy mattered more than distance, and where every fish hooked felt magnified by the intimacy of the setting.

Chester using two old pilings as a casting platform.

The oscars were everywhere.

Big ones.

Thick-bodied, aggressive fish that slammed flies with the confidence of something that had never seen consequences. We were throwing short, sharp casts—sidearm, backhand, under branches—often landing flies in pockets no bigger than a trash-can lid. When the fly landed clean, the response was immediate. A flash, a surge, and then the line would come tight as another oscar tried to bulldog its way back into cover.

We caught a bunch of them. Solid fish that pulled far harder than most people would expect from a canal species. On a fly rod, they were all heart—short runs, violent head shakes, and an absolute refusal to quit.

Chester with a Mayan cichlid from a previous trip.

Then things escalated.

Paul hooked into what was clearly one of the better oscars of the day. The fish ate deep and turned hard, digging toward the middle of the canal. Paul had it under control, working the fish steadily toward him, when the water erupted.

A 10-foot alligator surged out of the canal and grabbed the fish before Paul could land it.

Just like that—the oscar was gone.

There was no drama, no hesitation. One second Paul was fighting a fish, the next he was holding a slack line and staring at a swirl that said everything about who really owns these waters. We both just stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. That’s southern Florida fishing. You’re never at the top of the food chain.

We kept fishing—because that’s what you do.

The challenge of the day wasn’t just the fish or the wildlife, but the casting. The brush was relentless. Mangled backcasts, tight windows, vines at shoulder height. Every decent presentation felt like a small victory. You had to visualize the cast before you made it, commit fully, and accept that losing flies was part of the game.

Paul switched things up at one point and broke out a tenkara rod—long, simple, elegant. It is technically fly fishing.

Watching him use it in that tight canal was impressive. He dapped tiny flies into micro pockets and started reminding us just how diverse these waters are.

Micro tilapia came first, darting and flashing like quicksilver. Then a Mayan cichlid—a beautifully marked fish with an attitude entirely out of proportion to its size. On the tenkara rod, it was pure fun.

That fish hit a nerve for me.

Standing there, watching Paul land that Mayan cichlid, I flashed back to when I first started fly fishing canals south of Miami years ago.

Those early days shaped how I see fishing. I learned quickly that you didn’t need wilderness to find wild fights. In urban canals and roadside ditches, I caught hard-fighting Mayan cichlids, jaguar cichlids that hit like freight trains, and peacock bass that made every cast feel electric.

Those fish taught me creativity. They taught me to see opportunity in overlooked places. They also taught me respect—for the resilience of fish and the strange, complicated ecosystems they inhabit.

That complexity was impossible to ignore on this trip.

Catching invasive exotics on flies is undeniably fun. It’s visual, aggressive, technical, and wildly accessible. From urban ditches to the edges of the Everglades, these fisheries blur the line between city and wild. But there’s also an environmental reality layered underneath every strike.

These fish don’t belong here. Their presence is the result of human action—intentional or not—and their impact on native species is real. Fishing for them doesn’t erase that, but it does force you to engage with it. You can’t stand knee-deep in a canal full of oscars and Mayan cichlids without thinking about how fragile and altered these systems are.

That tension is part of what makes southern Florida fishing so compelling to me.

It’s messy. It’s exciting. It’s uncomfortable at times. You can hook a beautiful fish, lose it to a gator, and then turn around and admire the adaptability of life thriving in a place built for drainage, not wonder.

By the end of the day, we were scratched up, fly boxes lighter, and grinning like kids. Big oscars on flies, impossible casts, tenkara micro-fishing, and a reminder from a 10-foot alligator that this landscape still runs on its own rules.

From urban ditches to wild water, southern Florida keeps teaching the same lesson—it’s not about where you fish. It’s about paying attention to what’s there, and seizing the day.

Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.

Monster Black Bears! We’re Talking True Giants!

Stories about giant black bears have circulated for generations, but separating fact from exaggeration requires leaning on official records, check-station data, and documented wildlife management actions. According to state wildlife agencies and verified reporting, a small number of black bears in North America have reached extraordinary sizes—well beyond what most people associate with the species.

Black bears are remarkably adaptable animals, capable of thriving in forests, swamps, agricultural landscapes, and mountain terrain. According to wildlife biologists, when genetics, age, habitat quality, and food availability align, some males can reach weights that rival much larger bear species. The following examples represent the most credible heavyweight black bears on record, based on official agency data and documented cases.

A huge bear captured and move in Tennessee.

The most frequently cited benchmark comes from eastern North Carolina. According to the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, the heaviest male black bear recorded in the state weighed 880 pounds. Agency records list the bear as having been taken in Craven County in November 1998, making it the largest confirmed black bear in North Carolina’s long-running dataset covering more than five decades.

Check out my YouTube video on the return of black bears to East TX.

According to multiple outdoor media accounts referencing that event, the bear was harvested by hunter Coy Parton near Vanceboro. Wildlife officials have long noted that North Carolina’s coastal plain—with its agricultural crops, swamp forests, and abundant mast—produces some of the largest black bears in the eastern United States.

Canada has also produced verified heavyweight black bears in recent years. According to Outdoor Life, hunter Shaun Stratford harvested an exceptionally large black bear on September 16, 2021, north of Temagami, within Ontario’s Wildlife Management Unit 40. According to the report, the bear weighed 803.9 pounds after being field dressed, with the weight recorded during recovery.

A 696-pound black bear harvested in Louisiana’s first season in 40 years back in 2024.

According to wildlife professionals quoted in the coverage, a black bear with a field-dressed weight exceeding 800 pounds would likely have weighed well over that amount alive, though no official live weight was recorded. The bear’s size was significant enough that Stratford required assistance from companions to load and transport it from the field.

In the northeastern United States, Pennsylvania stands out as a consistent producer of large black bears. According to the Pennsylvania Game Commission, the heaviest black bear officially documented in the state weighed 733 pounds live. That bear was harvested during the 2010 fall bear season in Clinton County and weighed through the agency’s official check-station process.

According to the Game Commission, Pennsylvania has documented numerous bears exceeding 600 pounds, particularly in the state’s north-central region. Biologists attribute those weights to extensive hardwood forests, productive mast crops, and a bear population that includes older age-class males capable of reaching extreme size.

New Jersey has also recorded a notable heavyweight in recent years. According to New Jersey wildlife officials and regional reporting, hunter Brian Melvin harvested a black bear near Kinnelon on October 15, 2024. The bear was officially weighed at a state check station and recorded at 770.5 pounds field dressed.

According to officials, that weight placed it among the largest black bears ever documented in the state. While estimates of the bear’s live weight circulated publicly, the only confirmed figure remains the check-station measurement, which wildlife agencies consider the most reliable data point.

Not all heavyweight black bears are documented through hunting. According to Florida media reports, a 740-pound black bear was trapped and euthanized by wildlife officials on January 18, 2015, following repeated human-bear conflicts. According to those reports, the bear’s weight was measured during the official response, and it was described at the time as the largest black bear recorded in Florida.

According to wildlife biologists across multiple states, bears reaching these sizes are typically older males that have survived for many years, dominated prime habitat, and exploited seasonal food sources such as acorns, agricultural crops, and natural protein. These large males play an important role in bear population dynamics by influencing breeding patterns and habitat use.

The heaviest black bears on record are reminders of what the species is capable of under the right conditions. According to verified agency data and documented cases, these animals were not myths or inflated campfire stories, but real bears measured by professionals.

Somewhere today, in a river bottom, coastal swamp, or hardwood ridge, another black bear may be quietly growing larger with each passing season—unknown to the record books, but fully capable of becoming the next heavyweight legend.

— Chester Moore

Follow Chester Moore and Higher Calling Wildlife® on the following social media platforms

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@thechestermoore on Instagram

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Email Chester at chester@chestermoore.com.