It's a Monday afternoon in early March, and I've just arrived in Cabri, a rural community in southwestern Saskatchewan. I'm here for the annual mule deer capture — part of Drs. Trent Bollinger and Maria Mejia-Salazar's ongoing chronic wasting disease (CWD) study at the Western College of Veterinary Medicine.
I have the chance to attend this fieldwork experience as part of a special topics course in wildlife pathology.
Freezing rain followed by snow covers the roads, and there's rampant speculation about whether the helicopter — a key tool in the deer capture process — can fly in such conditions.
After checking into the quaint motel, it's time to search for "live signals." This is the meat and potatoes of wildlife research: the glamorous activity which involves waving an antenna in the air searching out signals from radio-collared animals. Each deer has been fitted with a radio or GPS collar that's used to monitor deer movements and survival.
We're determining the general location of deer, not actually trying to see them. When my turn comes to scroll through the deer numbers and spin with the antenna, I get such a thrill when the beeps start coming in.
Tuesday: The beat of helicopter blades signals the arrival of our first study subjects. While this stirs excitement, it's nothing compared to the actual capture process — something we're left to imagine.
During a capture, the helicopter tracks the deer using the same radio signal we used on Monday afternoon. Once the deer are located, a "netgunner" on board the helicopter uses a special gun to shoot a net over the deer, temporarily stopping them.
Once the helicopter hovers low enough for the netgunner to jump out, he hobbles the deer and places it in the transport sling that's then attached to the bottom of the helicopter. One or two mule deer are transported in this way to the study site where our team is waiting to process them.
The deer are tranquilized and then carried by sling to one of two worktables where a flurry of activity commences. A couple of team members take tonsil and rectal biopsies for CWD testing. Another person collects blood (my favourite job) or ticks while others make modifications to the radio or GPS collar. Finally antibiotic and reversal drugs are administered and the deer is weighed.
This entire process can take as little as 20 minutes. Team members carry the deer to the drop-off area and place each animal in the transport sling. Once recovered from the anesthesia, the helicopter returns the deer to the same area where they were captured earlier.
Wednesday: I'm in the heated research trailer monopolizing the blood processing work at the mobile lab station in an effort to keep warm, a task my colleagues assure me they prefer not to do.
Microscope slides with a thin layer of blood are prepared from the samples taken from each deer. Each slide offers me a new challenge to make the perfect, thumb-shaped smear with optimal edge feathering.
The monkey on my back is the infamous "Slide Box of Shame," located in the veterinary college's clinical pathology teaching area. This box, which is trotted out during fourth-year student rotations, contains several horrendous examples of botched smears that are not to be emulated.
So despite my half-numb hands and limited workspace, my devotion to making the perfect smear persists. I process the remaining blood by spinning it in a centrifuge to separate the different blood
components and then I transfer these to other tubes. The repetitive, systematic processing is soothing.
Thursday: The morning starts out cold, damp and overcast. But by 4 p.m., the sun is shining, and out of nowhere, flies are merrily buzzing around the work site.
It's my turn to take the tonsil samples. I'm always amazed at how much of an animal's head is dedicated to eating and breathing rather than thinking. Way at the back of the throat is my target. With a very long biopsy instrument, a flashlight and two assistants holding the head and speculum, I attempt to collect the sample.
The tiny pieces of tonsil tissue are surprisingly difficult to remove but with a little practice, I seem to get the hang of the grab and twist technique. Determining the age of the deer proves to be much more difficult. Deciphering the message written in the dental bumps, heights and grooves eludes me this time around.
Friday: After moving our workstation from Cabri to Saskatchewan Landing Provincial Park, we wait. A heavy fog blankets the horizon and rules out flying. With the helicopter crew grounded, the deer are unattainable for the next five hours.
With my study materials back in Cabri, there's nothing to do but wait for a change in the weather. I text most of my phone contact list, I walk the frozen beach, examine driftwood and listen to the birds chirping. I finally hear the whirr of the helicopter bringing the first deer of the day, and we're back to work.
Sticky, wet snow falls as the last two deer are delivered. Following a quick picture and farewell from the capture team, the helicopter crew makes a hasty retreat to return the remaining deer and fly to their next wildlife capture in case the weather keeps them grounded in Saskatchewan.
The week began with a drive on difficult roads — and so it finishes on Friday evening. Back in Saskatoon, we're a tired yet cheerful crew. Our team found most of the radio-collared deer, and despite Mother Nature's best efforts, this was another successful capture.
What did I gain from the experience? I learned that wildlife research has its own unique challenges. I had the chance to dust off my anesthesia, blood taking and biopsy skills that have been shelved for the last seven months. Working with a fantastic team of people and living, breathing wild creatures is refreshing. It was a good week.
Raised in Radisson, Sask., Dr. Jamie Rothenburger is a 2010 graduate of the Western College of Veterinary Medicine. She returned to her alma mater in 2011 to begin a Master of Veterinary Science program in anatomic/wildlife pathology.
I have the chance to attend this fieldwork experience as part of a special topics course in wildlife pathology.
Freezing rain followed by snow covers the roads, and there's rampant speculation about whether the helicopter — a key tool in the deer capture process — can fly in such conditions.
After checking into the quaint motel, it's time to search for "live signals." This is the meat and potatoes of wildlife research: the glamorous activity which involves waving an antenna in the air searching out signals from radio-collared animals. Each deer has been fitted with a radio or GPS collar that's used to monitor deer movements and survival.
We're determining the general location of deer, not actually trying to see them. When my turn comes to scroll through the deer numbers and spin with the antenna, I get such a thrill when the beeps start coming in.
Tuesday: The beat of helicopter blades signals the arrival of our first study subjects. While this stirs excitement, it's nothing compared to the actual capture process — something we're left to imagine.
During a capture, the helicopter tracks the deer using the same radio signal we used on Monday afternoon. Once the deer are located, a "netgunner" on board the helicopter uses a special gun to shoot a net over the deer, temporarily stopping them.
Once the helicopter hovers low enough for the netgunner to jump out, he hobbles the deer and places it in the transport sling that's then attached to the bottom of the helicopter. One or two mule deer are transported in this way to the study site where our team is waiting to process them.
The deer are tranquilized and then carried by sling to one of two worktables where a flurry of activity commences. A couple of team members take tonsil and rectal biopsies for CWD testing. Another person collects blood (my favourite job) or ticks while others make modifications to the radio or GPS collar. Finally antibiotic and reversal drugs are administered and the deer is weighed.
This entire process can take as little as 20 minutes. Team members carry the deer to the drop-off area and place each animal in the transport sling. Once recovered from the anesthesia, the helicopter returns the deer to the same area where they were captured earlier.
Wednesday: I'm in the heated research trailer monopolizing the blood processing work at the mobile lab station in an effort to keep warm, a task my colleagues assure me they prefer not to do.
Microscope slides with a thin layer of blood are prepared from the samples taken from each deer. Each slide offers me a new challenge to make the perfect, thumb-shaped smear with optimal edge feathering.
The monkey on my back is the infamous "Slide Box of Shame," located in the veterinary college's clinical pathology teaching area. This box, which is trotted out during fourth-year student rotations, contains several horrendous examples of botched smears that are not to be emulated.
So despite my half-numb hands and limited workspace, my devotion to making the perfect smear persists. I process the remaining blood by spinning it in a centrifuge to separate the different blood
components and then I transfer these to other tubes. The repetitive, systematic processing is soothing.
Thursday: The morning starts out cold, damp and overcast. But by 4 p.m., the sun is shining, and out of nowhere, flies are merrily buzzing around the work site.
It's my turn to take the tonsil samples. I'm always amazed at how much of an animal's head is dedicated to eating and breathing rather than thinking. Way at the back of the throat is my target. With a very long biopsy instrument, a flashlight and two assistants holding the head and speculum, I attempt to collect the sample.
The tiny pieces of tonsil tissue are surprisingly difficult to remove but with a little practice, I seem to get the hang of the grab and twist technique. Determining the age of the deer proves to be much more difficult. Deciphering the message written in the dental bumps, heights and grooves eludes me this time around.
Friday: After moving our workstation from Cabri to Saskatchewan Landing Provincial Park, we wait. A heavy fog blankets the horizon and rules out flying. With the helicopter crew grounded, the deer are unattainable for the next five hours.
With my study materials back in Cabri, there's nothing to do but wait for a change in the weather. I text most of my phone contact list, I walk the frozen beach, examine driftwood and listen to the birds chirping. I finally hear the whirr of the helicopter bringing the first deer of the day, and we're back to work.
Sticky, wet snow falls as the last two deer are delivered. Following a quick picture and farewell from the capture team, the helicopter crew makes a hasty retreat to return the remaining deer and fly to their next wildlife capture in case the weather keeps them grounded in Saskatchewan.
The week began with a drive on difficult roads — and so it finishes on Friday evening. Back in Saskatoon, we're a tired yet cheerful crew. Our team found most of the radio-collared deer, and despite Mother Nature's best efforts, this was another successful capture.
What did I gain from the experience? I learned that wildlife research has its own unique challenges. I had the chance to dust off my anesthesia, blood taking and biopsy skills that have been shelved for the last seven months. Working with a fantastic team of people and living, breathing wild creatures is refreshing. It was a good week.
Raised in Radisson, Sask., Dr. Jamie Rothenburger is a 2010 graduate of the Western College of Veterinary Medicine. She returned to her alma mater in 2011 to begin a Master of Veterinary Science program in anatomic/wildlife pathology.
Share this story