“echidna,” given to the animal by scientists, comes from Greek mythology. In ancient myth, Echidna was a hybrid monster—half beautiful woman and half snake—in other words, half mammal and half reptile. That seemed like an apt description for this animal. Though the echidna is placed firmly in the mammal camp (class:
Mammalia
), it has some reptilian characteristics. For example, a female echidna does not give birth to live offspring but actually lays an egg—a leathery, soft egg like a turtle's or snake's—and she lays it inside a pouch on her own belly. The egg incubates in this little pouch and when it hatches, the baby echidna (called a puggle) is only the size of a jellybean. The developing puggle remains in the pouch for two or three months until the growth of spikes makes it necessary for the mother to evict it.
Echidna sexual relationships are among the most unusual in the mammal world. At the beginning of the breeding season in winter, a single female echidna may be followed for weeks by as many as ten males in single file, each hoping to father the one puggle she will have that year. This strange procession is known as an echidna train, and the males are usually lined up from largest (at the front of the line) to smallest (serving as the caboose). After weeks of rejecting their advances, the female will finally select one male—usually the largest—although rival males may need to engage in a head-butting contest in order to defend their ascendancy. Mating includes lengthy foreplay during which the male probes the female for several hours with his snout and strokes her spines, followed by belly-to-belly coupling to avoid mutual spiking—an event that can last as long as three hours. Afterward, the male and female go their own ways,with the female preparing to lay her egg and the male possibly joining another echidna train in the hopes of mating again.
The echidna is a charming and enigmatic animal—and one that we gathered, by the calm manner of its rolling gait, is not easily intimidated. Geoff waited until the echidna had safely crossed the road, and then we got out to take a peek. It must have sensed us coming, but instead of running away, it showed off a simple but impressive defense strategy. As if it were on an elevator, the echidna seemed to literally sink inches down into the ground. “It's digging in,” Geoff said. “Not much can get at it now.” The echidna had used its sharp-clawed feet to burrow rapidly downward, and all that remained of it on the surface was its spiky back. It looked like a huge ball of black yarn stuffed with knitting needles.
Although echidnas are sometimes killed on the road, they are the only Tasmanian animals that can have revenge on a hit-and-run driver. In return for being sent to echidna heaven, they can retaliate with a spike in the tire.
7. THE ROAD TO TIGERVILLE
G eoff had invited us to spend our first night in Tasmania at the King family home. His wife and two young sons were away on vacation, so he had the one-story sprawling wooden farmhouse to himself. When we went inside, we saw that his living room was lined with an assortment of natural history ephemera. A plaster cast of a Tasmanian devil's footprint. Skulls of various animals. Seashells and driedout sea sponges. Driftwood painted with intricate designs. There was also a small library of books on Tasmanian flora and fauna. He had field guides on birds, mammals, shells, reptiles, trees, wildflowers, and rain forest fungi. There were also books on aboriginal history, as well as a government report dating from 1980 called
The Tasmanian Tiger
, which analyzed the possibility of the tiger's survival. It was full of charts and graphs.
In the kitchen, Geoff cut the cream-colored, tonguelike abalone meat into thin pieces and quickly sautéed them in butter, with a touch of fresh garlic. He presented us with two small plates. “I wanted you to taste themost tender bits,” he said. Then he returned to
Mammalia
), it has some reptilian characteristics. For example, a female echidna does not give birth to live offspring but actually lays an egg—a leathery, soft egg like a turtle's or snake's—and she lays it inside a pouch on her own belly. The egg incubates in this little pouch and when it hatches, the baby echidna (called a puggle) is only the size of a jellybean. The developing puggle remains in the pouch for two or three months until the growth of spikes makes it necessary for the mother to evict it.
Echidna sexual relationships are among the most unusual in the mammal world. At the beginning of the breeding season in winter, a single female echidna may be followed for weeks by as many as ten males in single file, each hoping to father the one puggle she will have that year. This strange procession is known as an echidna train, and the males are usually lined up from largest (at the front of the line) to smallest (serving as the caboose). After weeks of rejecting their advances, the female will finally select one male—usually the largest—although rival males may need to engage in a head-butting contest in order to defend their ascendancy. Mating includes lengthy foreplay during which the male probes the female for several hours with his snout and strokes her spines, followed by belly-to-belly coupling to avoid mutual spiking—an event that can last as long as three hours. Afterward, the male and female go their own ways,with the female preparing to lay her egg and the male possibly joining another echidna train in the hopes of mating again.
The echidna is a charming and enigmatic animal—and one that we gathered, by the calm manner of its rolling gait, is not easily intimidated. Geoff waited until the echidna had safely crossed the road, and then we got out to take a peek. It must have sensed us coming, but instead of running away, it showed off a simple but impressive defense strategy. As if it were on an elevator, the echidna seemed to literally sink inches down into the ground. “It's digging in,” Geoff said. “Not much can get at it now.” The echidna had used its sharp-clawed feet to burrow rapidly downward, and all that remained of it on the surface was its spiky back. It looked like a huge ball of black yarn stuffed with knitting needles.
Although echidnas are sometimes killed on the road, they are the only Tasmanian animals that can have revenge on a hit-and-run driver. In return for being sent to echidna heaven, they can retaliate with a spike in the tire.
7. THE ROAD TO TIGERVILLE
G eoff had invited us to spend our first night in Tasmania at the King family home. His wife and two young sons were away on vacation, so he had the one-story sprawling wooden farmhouse to himself. When we went inside, we saw that his living room was lined with an assortment of natural history ephemera. A plaster cast of a Tasmanian devil's footprint. Skulls of various animals. Seashells and driedout sea sponges. Driftwood painted with intricate designs. There was also a small library of books on Tasmanian flora and fauna. He had field guides on birds, mammals, shells, reptiles, trees, wildflowers, and rain forest fungi. There were also books on aboriginal history, as well as a government report dating from 1980 called
The Tasmanian Tiger
, which analyzed the possibility of the tiger's survival. It was full of charts and graphs.
In the kitchen, Geoff cut the cream-colored, tonguelike abalone meat into thin pieces and quickly sautéed them in butter, with a touch of fresh garlic. He presented us with two small plates. “I wanted you to taste themost tender bits,” he said. Then he returned to
Similar Books
