Guanaco Twins
First Documented in Patagonia!
It is Wednesday, November 24, 1993, late spring along the Cordillera in Chilean patagonia. We are camped by a reed-filled lagoon just east of the white calcium carbonate covered shore of inky blue Lake Sarmiento in Torres Del Paine National Park. Inside tent temperature is 41F; outside, about 31F. There is ice on the tent from last night’s rain.
Westerlies have been swirling and renting piles of heavy lenticular clouds off the third largest glacial field in the world after Antarctica and Greenland. We are part of Dr. Bill Franklin’s team of 25 adventurous souls serving on a volunteer basis to collect research information on the wild guanacos of Patagonia. It is birthing season and our expedition will end up capturing, tagging, weighing, collaring and bleeding over 100 newborn chulengos (baby guanacos.)
Four days have passed since we arrived and set up camp with the help of Bill’s graduate students and staff. By 7:00AM the group is assembled around the open air “kitchen” and campfire - most of us with large, steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee in hand, and plates heaped with French toast, hot syrup and fresh fruit. Not exactly suffering are we? “Merry” Merry Franklin, Bill’s ever affable, smiling wife, and fun-loving Jan Marts and Stanlynn Daugherty are the hard-core cook crew with all of us helping prepare and clean up.
Today began as other days. One often had to check twice to see who was who as five layers of clothing plus balaclavas and gloves were standard wear. The ever restless Patagonia Wind Spirit is temporarily quiet and the sky is clear. We break into groups of five to six participants, each with a leader, to cover a specific area in the park waiting and watching for births and newborns.
Wally Prexl, Iowa State University M.S. student is our leader today. Wally has lived most of his life in Equador, speaks Spanish like a native and walks with an unhurried ease that has most of us puffing to keep up. His special project is studying more (death) frequency of the chulengos, sex ratios of death and reasons for more males dying than females. Last winter there was an 80 percent mortality of 1992 chulengos with pumas causing 90 percent of the deaths. It is our first trip out with Wally, the most colorful of the grad students, who is still squatting by the fire draining the last bit of mate (strong tea) from a silver siphon in a small gourd.
The balance or our capture team is composed of Bernard Guidicelli, DVM (France), Noelene Hayes (Australia), Scott Zimmerman (PA), Doug Frohling (IA), Eric Sharpnack, DVM (OR).
The day is splendid as we head out following Wally up the sharply inclined path from camp. Equipment, extra gear, lunches and cameras are stuffed into our day packs. As we circle the imposing conglomerate fortress, home to puma and condor, binoculars are searching for signs of birth and death. Telemetry is done from the top of this, the largest and highest conglomerate, tracking collared newborns when the wind cooperates.
Topping the first rise, the phenomenal vista of the ragged towers (torres), the snow capped Paine massif and Nordenskjold Glacier greet us. We shed a few layers while looking down upon another phenomenon of this glorious land - a vega. Vegas are small, glacially sculpted lakes, some dry, but most vibrantly colored, water-filled pools surrounded by lush, high-protein grasses. The guanacos love these areas and are often found in groups grazing around them.
Once again, many of the chulengos we catch are not newborns, but several hours to a couple of days old. It is impossible to outrun a chulengo if it is more than two hours old so we use our best llama catching techniques to quietly surround and capture. The guanacos seem spookier. Perhaps this is due to pumas (a number of morts have already been fond) or to the tagging teams loose in the park.
A number of miles, hours and captured chulengos later, we stop for lunch high up on another conglomerate outcropping overlooking an algae-filled vega. It is T-shirt weather for the moment and we are totally filled with the wonder and beauty of this sparse, hard land and the amazing wild camelids that inhabit it.
Continuing on over the very next hill, we look down upon a small dry vega with a group of over a dozen females, six with chulengos already at side. Wait - double take! The most incredible scene! A newborn has just dropped directly in front of us and there is a second one, almost dry, just the left side of the same female. No other female is close. TWINS! Excitement surges through our group. We cannot believe our eyes! While the rest of the team remains on the hill observing, I descend with utmost caution. Getting down on my stomach, I crawl slowly to get near enough for photos and try to sex them. The smaller one is now struggling to her feet. A girl! (The other, larger, first born never put its tail up so it could be sexed the two hours we spent watching) The mother is very nervous and I donut want to interrupt the bonding process, so lay low midst all the thorny indigenous flora. The placenta is dropped about twenty minutes later and the mother moves off a ways with both twins attempting to nurse. She stops by a sandy pit and lays down and rolls, giving herself a fine dust bath while both chulengos stand near watching.
Eric comes slowly down the hill to inspect the placenta. He carefully spreads it out - just one placenta! The larger, unsexed chulengo was in the left horn and smaller female, in the right. Each had it’s own umbilicus. I photographed the placenta. Since the sex of the first-born twin was never determined, there is no way to tell if the possibility of identical twins was even an option. Most likely, regardless of sex, they are fraternal as identical twins have never been reported in llamas or alpacas. (For more about twinning, see Dr. Murray Fowler’s article in the October 1990 “Stars of Tomorrow” issue of Llamas magazine.)
In order to take no chance disturbing the fragile bonding process, there is a consensus not to further stress the twins by capturing, tagging, weighing or collaring. We want them to have every chance possible. While we are watching with awe the twins’ first successful attempts at nursing (one on either side, then both on the same side), another female delivered her baby on top of a large mata negra bush. This shrub at least has no thorns, but the baby definitely is not in a position to get on it’s feet. it looks like a well-used piece of laundry draped over the bush to dry. The mother is quite defensive, wishing to protect her new treasure. One hour passes before we can get close enough to disentangle the little fellow and place him on the ground. After he stands and nurses, we tag and weigh him.
Today we have seen a good example of synchronized birthing that seems to be common in family groups.
A few more photos of the twins, which have both nursed vigorously by now, and we begin the long journey back to camp. Mom and family are moving off together against the magnificent backdrop of glaciated, snowcapped peaks.
Wally has radioed the groups about the nine chulengos we have already tagged and tells them about the twins and where we found them. We walk on light hearts - blessed by having witnessed one of those wondrous, once-in-a-lifetime events of nature.
Epilogue