I had the extreme privilege of talking with Corbin Maxey about my zoo history writing project. You might have seen him on NBC’s “The Today Show” wielding his exotic ambassador animals and laughing with the hosts. Corbin is a lot of fun to talk to, and his energy about animals and conservation is truly infectious. I hope you enjoy the interview, and please share with anyone who might be interested!
Also please consider subscribing to his podcast “Animals to the Max.” He has interviewed an amazing list of personalities who are passionate about animals. You can listen for free on iTunes, Stitcher, or anywhere else you listen to podcasts.
“Ambika! I remember visiting her as a young girl!” an Elephant House patron exclaimed to keeper Kayleigh Sullivan. Kayleigh, smiling, said that she hears that frequently from longtime DC residents. Ambika is certainly a city treasure—at 71 she is the third oldest Asian elephant in North America. (The record for longevity of an Asian elephant in captivity is 86 years.) She has been a DC resident since the Kennedy administration!
Born around 1948 in the wild, she was captured in India’s Coorg Forest when she was about eight years old. After her capture, she worked as a logging elephant, carrying gigantic felled trees through the forest with her trunk for two years before she was gifted to the National Zoo.
It is unclear as to how Ambika was the lucky elephant chosen to be rescued from brutal logging work, but after a 47-day journey on the S.S. Steel Architect, she arrived in the United States on April 14, 1961 (a few months after the arrival of celebrity white tiger Mohini). She was presented as a gift from the children of India and the Maharaja of Mysore to the children of America. At the time of her arrival she was about nine years old, 9 1/2 feet tall, and 2,800 pounds.
Before settling into her new home, however, Ambika toured the United States through the Share Your Birthday Foundation of Philadelphia, making appearances at schools and playgrounds to promote international goodwill among children. After her tour, Ambika (meaning “gift from heaven”) was ceremoniously presented to the National Zoo on January 5, 1962. She settled in nicely with another young female Indian elephant named Shanti (not the current Shanthi). The zoo also housed a feisty female African elephant named Nancy and a male African forest elephant named Dzimbo.
When Ambika arrived in DC, it was believed that she was pregnant. She had been bred in India shortly before leaving the country, so local DC newspapers kept the locals apprised as electrocardiogram tests (to detect a fetal heartbeat) were administered by Georgetown University. In late 1962 the word started to spread—not pregnant. Zoo officials were bummed by the news. A birth would have been only the third elephant to be born in the U.S. in the last 44 years.
Ambika is a very well-mannered and friendly lady. She often sports a smile. She is the peacemaker of the herd, making sure that everyone gets along. Her keepers used to wade into the pool with her to give her baths. They used to ride on her back. They used to ride her in the pool! One keeper would even lie down on the ground in Ambika’s path to demonstrate the trust they have developed with her. Today, her keepers follow protected contact regulations, meaning a barrier separates them and the elephants at all times. She is also known for her fun sense of humor—often silently sneaking up on her keepers, earning her the nickname “Sneaky Biki.” Keeper Kayleigh notes that another quirk is she likes to flap her ears against your face when you’re working with her. “She gives us her silly smile as she does it.”
Ambika—with her distinctive pink trunk, her social nature, her particular habits, and her signature smile—is truly a gift. —Cindy Han, Zoogoer magazine
Ambika’s life at the National Zoo had been pretty stable, that is, until 1976 when her best friend Shanti passed away at the age of 32. Just a few weeks later, the year-old and current resident Shanthi arrived from Sri Lanka. And to this day, Ambika and Shanthi—The Golden Girls—can often be seen standing side by side in the elephant yard. Ambika has not had any of her own calves, but Shanthi gave birth to Kumari in 1993 (but succumbed to the deadly EEHV virus in 1995) and again in 2001 to male Kandula. Kandula lived with Ambika and Shanthi until his move to his current home at Oklahoma City Zoo in 2015. Ambika is quite cautious of change, but when the calves arrived she played the role of “auntie” with grace.
Ambika can indeed claim acting on her résumé: she became a star in the June 1982 when she and Shanthi appeared on an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was a rainy day when Fred Rogers visited the zoo, but the filming seemed to go well until Rogers climbed on Ambika’s back. According to the zoo’s newsletter, The Torch, “As soon as Mr. Rogers was perched atop Ambika’s back, she decided she wanted a bath and lumbered eagerly towards the pool. While zookeepers headed her off, ‘little’ (4,000 pound) Shanthi’s curiosity was piqued by the cameraman and his fascinating equipment. As she set off to investigate, our fleet-of-foot staffers quickly foiled a farcical finale.” The episode aired on June 4, 1982. (Spoiler alert: He also feeds the giant pandas.)
Despite her advanced age, Ambika is a healthy girl, which is attributed in great part to the wonderful care she receives on a daily basis. As elephant curator Tony Barthel humorously describes Ambika, “I tend to think of [her] as that 100-year-old person who still drives around and maybe uses the internet.” Keepers say her bloodwork always looks great. She and Shanthi (who is 44 years old) receive daily treatments for arthritis (supplements as well as foot and joint treatments). Elephants go through six sets of teeth during their lifetime, and Ambika is on her last set, so dental care is important. To help her chew her hay, her care team chops it up for her. (Elephants in the wild would starve to death after losing that last set of teeth, which is one reason why elephants are able to live longer in captivity.) Her only major health scare came in 2007 when she demonstrated symptoms of abdominal discomfort. A blood clot the size of a basketball was detected in her uterus, but with immediate treatment she made a full recovery.
When talking to the keepers, it is clear that they truly adore Ambika. With her increasing age, she doesn’t follow commands as well as she used to and might present the wrong body part. Keeper Kayleigh says, “We let her get away with it, because it’s Beeks.” Kayleigh also mentioned that age has not hindered Ambika’s love for water. “She loves to swim, and she will not hesitate to go all the way under. And sometimes you’ll see her floating on her side—it must feel good to take pressure off those arthritic legs and feet.”
When asked to describe our 70-year-old Asian elephant Ambika, keepers called these monikers to mind: friend, mentor, comedian, research partner and colleague. —National Zoo Facebook page
With a complete renovation of the elephant space in 2013, the zoo was prepared to increase the size of their herd and reinstate their breeding program. Ambika’s circle of friends has more than doubled in size. Arrivals since 2013 include Bozie (from Baton Rouge Zoo), the “Calgary Zoo trio” of Kamala, Maharani, and Swarna, and most recently “Big Spike,” also from Calgary. (Maharani and Spike have a recommendation to breed from the Association of Zoos and Aquariums’ Species Survival Plan, so we are all hoping for a baby in the next few years!)
A wonderful opportunity to meet Ambika and her friends is World Elephant Day on Monday, August 12. Listen to keepers talk about their daily routine with these amazing animals, attend special demonstrations, and learn how you can do your part to help save this endangered species.
Last year, Ambika’s birthday (the actual day of which is unknown) was celebrated on World Elephant Day, but according her care team, look for a special birthday celebration around the first of the year in 2020. Will she receive 20 cakes again? Stay tuned!
ID help: How do you spot 7,200-lb Ambika out of the herd of seven elephants? She has an extremely long trunk that is lighter pink in color at the end. She likes to tuck a piece of hay in the corner of her mouth, and she is often hanging out with the larger (9,000 lb.) Shanthi and Bozie, who has two prominent domes on the top of her head.
“Asian Elephant Is Not Pregnant, Zookeepers Find.” Washington Evening Star, January 15, 1963.
“‘Birthday’ Elephant Arrives at Zoo.” Washington Post, January 5, 1962: A2.
Casey, Phil. “Cleanup Time for Elephants.” Washington Post, July 16, 1968: B1.
Gabbett, Harry. “People-to-People Elephant Arrives from India in ‘Interesting’ Condition.” Washington Post, April 15, 1961: A1, C1.
Galloway, Marie. “Pachyderm Pals; at the Zoo, Ambika, Shanthi, Kandula and Marie Care for One Another.” Washington Post, February 25, 2007: B8.
“Gift Elephant from India Gets VIP Ceremony.” Washington Evening Star, January 5, 1962.
In 1925 when Dr. Harry Wegeforth realized that, as a full-time surgeon, his responsibilities as president of the San Diego Zoo were piling up, he hired a former teacher and single mother, Belle Benchley, as a temporary bookkeeper to help him handle the day-to-day operations. Little did he realize he had found a gem who in two years’ time would be running the place.
Born in 1882, Belle Jennings moved from rural Kansas to the San Diego area with her family when she was five years old. One of eight children, her public elementary school was located in her own home. After graduating from the San Diego Normal School, she spent four years as a school teacher on the Pala Indian Reservation, north of San Diego. In 1906 she married William Benchley, with whom she had one child, Edward; she spent the next seventeen years in Fullerton, California, as a wife and mother. Divorcing in 1922 and moving back to San Diego, she found herself looking for a steady income to help support her and her growing teenager at home.
The job title of “bookkeeper” was quite a misnomer from the start. Knowing little about animals other than her childhood encounters with wildlife in the California countryside, Benchley was hungry to prove herself an effective staff member. She would spend her lunch breaks and any other chance she could get to familiarize herself with the zoo animals and their caretakers. (She joked that since there wasn’t any money coming in she didn’t have much bookkeeping to do!) She picked Harry Wegeforth’s brain as much as she could to get a sense of his plans and ideas for a rapidly growing, already well-respected zoo.
Wegeforth and Benchley made a great team. Benchley picked up quickly on Wegeforth’s vision for a world-class zoo and ran with it. Wegeforth’s trust in Benchley grew rapidly, and eventually Belle was not only keeping the books, she was assisting him with animal acquisitions and trading, helping with fundraising, speaking at public and private functions all over the country, and performing as much of the day-to-day that needed to be done—and not afraid to get her hands dirty with zookeeping duties if called upon. When in 1927 Wegeforth was looking for a new zoo director, he and the zoo board decided to follow the model of the London Zoo by hiring an “executive secretary” instead of a “director.” Dr. Harry knew exactly who he wanted for the job, even though hiring a female leader had never been done before . . . anywhere—women rarely even served as zookeepers at that time. “You might as well run the place,” he told her, “you’re already doing it anyway.” From that day on, Belle Benchley (“The Zoo Lady”) became a household name in San Diego.
Benchley was well respected not only by Wegeforth but also by the entire zoo community. The animal keepers noticed that she had an amazing almost sixth sense when it came to working with the animals. She could even spot something wrong with an animal from her vehicle and report it to the caretakers. She especially had a special bond with various primates—chimpanzees, orangutans, and eventually the gorillas that arrived in 1931. When primate keeper Henry Newmeyer noticed that Maggie the orangutan had escaped her enclosure and searched everywhere for her, he frantically ran to find Belle for help. Knowing Maggie very well, Belle knew exactly where she would be. “Henry, let’s go check your car,” she said. As they scurried toward the parking lot, sure enough, Maggie was sitting in the driver’s seat of Henry’s car, honking the horn, trying to make the vehicle move. (Maggie loved to go for rides around the zoo with Henry. She was even known to ride aboard the zoo bus with him or Belle!)
Another indication that Benchley was loved by the zoo staff came in 1933 when she found herself in the hospital for eleven weeks following an auto accident. The keepers and other staff members would visit her daily; “[s]ometimes as many as eight would come during the same day or evening,” she recalled. Staff would often sneak in some of the animals when visiting her—baby foxes, binturongs, and other small mammals. Maggie the orangutan was another visitor that they “smuggled” in. “This attention, the time for which had to be borrowed from their all too few leisure hours, touched me deeply because it showed that I had won a place with them not based on relationship of boss and employee, but upon friendship and confidence,” she reminisced in her memoir.
Benchley believed that her proudest moment as zoo director was the acquisition of gorillas Mbongo and Ngagi in 1931. Belle so desperately wanted gorillas in San Diego (only a few zoos in the country had them), and after reading in the newspaper that well-known adventurers and filmmakers Martin and Osa Johnson were looking for a home for a pair of mountain gorillas that they had brought back from the Belgian Congo, Belle immediately penned a pleading note to them. In her letter, she touted San Diego as the perfect place for their gorillas—warm climate, year-round outdoor habitats, fresh fruits and vegetables, an impressive animal longevity record, one of the only zoo hospitals in the country, not to mention the best care team and medical staff. After receiving her letter, the Johnsons immediately moved San Diego to the top of the list; and after seeking recommendations from other top zoo administrators and researchers, they backed up Benchley’s claims. Not only were the gorillas headed to San Diego for half the price that other zoos were offering, the Johnsons also funded the construction of new gorilla enclosures for Mbongo and Ngagi.
Benchley fell in love with the gorillas from day one, spending as much time as she could with them to make sure they settled in and enjoyed their new home. The gorillas grew to love her visits as well, emoting pleasure rumbles when she appeared and clapping their hands when they didn’t think she was giving them enough attention. Because not much was known about the species at the time, zoologists from around the world started showing up to study Mbongo and Ngagi’s behavior and personalities. Zoo attendance soared as visitors made a bee-line to see the gorillas in their new home. Although the pair was believed to be a breeding pair, the keepers figured out a few years later that both gorillas were male. Benchley was devastated when Mbongo, her “lovable clown,” died in 1942 of a fungal infection. When he fell ill, she would spend evenings with him, holding his hand and comforting him. When his heart finally stopped, she wrote, “I tell myself over and over that we were lucky to have had him so long; that I have no right to feel as I do; but I find myself dreading to go by that cage . . . [knowing that] I have lost a rare friend indeed.” Mbongo’s death was followed by Ngagi’s, her “perfect gorilla,” a year later after a blood clot clogged an artery. Today, Mbongo and Ngagi are memorialized at the zoo’s entrance by large bronze statues.
Most of the animals in the Zoo knew her. They’d wait for her car. And it wasn’t to be fed. They knew Mrs. Benchley, and she knew them. —Ken Stott, zoo curator and historian
Belle had many, many more animal friends on the zoo grounds. One such pal was Bum the Andean condor, who would stick his beak into her pocket to retrieve snacks she brought him. In a newspaper article, she noted that Bum “likes me best. When he sits on the ground and spreads his wings, they measure more than eight feet across. He is so large and strong that he could knock down and beat me to death with his great wings. Or, he could cut off my finger with his large beak. Instead, he holds his head for me to pat, turning it around so that I can rub the sides and back. . . . He unties my shoe laces without touching a thread of my silk stockings. If I run on the outside of the cage, he spreads his wings and runs with me.”
Another animal that attached herself immediately was Mickey the Baird’s tapir, who arrived in 1934 from Ecuador, extremely homesick and refusing to eat. Belle would arrive every day extra early so that she could sit with Mickey and feed her breakfast. She would talk softly to her and pet her to calm her. Eventually, Belle was convinced that Mickey thought she was her real mother. The keepers called her “Mrs. Benchley’s string,” as they were so closely tied together.
Dr. Wegeforth mentored Benchley especially well not only in negotiating for new animals but also in the art of raising funds for the zoo. During Belle’s early years, the Great Depression put a damper on the zoo’s budget. Zookeepers came to expect a late paycheck. Wegeforth and Benchley worked out deals with local businesses to provide food for the animals. Any scrap of material that could be found was used to build needed enclosures. By 1932, the zoo owed $6,000 in back taxes. City tax assessors threatened to sell the zoo to the State of California if they did not come up with the funds. After Wegeforth and Benchley continued to fight for their exempt status (as they leased and did not own the property), the assessors finally backed down. A few years later the zoo pleaded for the city voters to approve a small tax to help support the zoo. The measure passed, giving the zoo a bit of financial breathing room.
Wegeforth taught Benchley not to be shy when asking for donations. Belle’s son, Ed, recounted the time when she shamed a wealthy local man who had not renewed his zoo membership as expected. “Mother said she sympathized with him, since he’d just built his new bride a mansion and may have needed time to afford a membership. So mother offered to give him a membership and said he could pay back the zoo when things got better financially. The man said, ‘Get the hell out of here!’ But he put his check right in the mail!” Benchley laughed. That trick was right out of Dr. Harry’s playbook.
More than love of animals is required to make a zoo director or an animal man. I have often had to dismiss men, despite their love of animals, because they lacked that something which, for want of a better name, is called animal instinct, a vague term adequately describing something that one either has or has not. Animals discern it first. You may not recognize that you have it until the animal makes you aware—by the nature of his response—that a bond of confidence exists between you. —Belle Benchley, My Life in a Man-Made Jungle
On top of all her responsibilities, somehow she found time to bring the San Diego Zoo to homes nationwide through her extremely popular books. She published My Life in a Man-Made Jungle in 1940 and My Friends, the Apes in 1942. She wrote another memoir, My Animal Babies, in 1945 and a children’s book, Shirley Visits the Zoo in 1947. One woman was so inspired by My Life in a Man-Made Jungle that during the zookeeper shortage brought on by World War II, a woman named Georgia Dittoe moved from Los Angeles to become San Diego’s first female zookeeper and help out with Benchley’s amazing zoo.
The 1940s were full of ups and downs for Benchley and the San Diego Zoo. The bombing of Pearl Harbor was felt immensely in the military coastal city, and actions were taken at the zoo to prepare for possible air raids. (All zookeepers were given rifles in case of animal escapes, and the windows of the reptile house were reinforced as much as possible. Fortunately, the rifles never had to be used.) Belle lost several staff to the draft; in fact, the first number drawn by the Selective Service System in 1942 belonged to zookeeper Howard Lee. Newspapers across the country featured him and his profession, providing the zoo with an unexpected nationwide promotion. (The zoo received another publicity boost when newspapers circulated a photo of young chimpanzee Georgie contributing one of his tire toys to a scrap rubber drive.)
The largest loss had come earlier in 1941, six months before Pearl Harbor, when Dr. Harry Wegeforth died of a heart attack at the age of 59. Benchley had lost a great friend and colleague. She confided in a friend, “I have never felt so all alone in all my life” and often found herself asking, “What would Harry do?” But true to her go-getter attitude, she became even more determined to carry on Wegeforth’s legacy. She would not let him down.
Zoo admission dropped as expected during the war, but because San Diego was a military town, residents both civilian and military used the zoo as a needed escape from the stressful wartime events. According to the zoo, “Belle Benchley took over many of the duties herself during this time, spending long hours taking care of the animals, managing budgets that were tighter than ever, and using some of Dr. Harry’s schemes to acquire needed items and food for the animals.” Largely because of her, the zoo made it through these hard times much better than most other zoos across the country.
After the war ended, Benchley and the San Diego Zoo resumed building their world-class reputation and resuming activities that were put on hold during the war. The zoo’s fame continued to grow, more visitors entered the gates, groundbreaking research was performed in the zoo’s hospital facilities, and new, exciting animals made their home in San Diego. In 1946, the zoo acquired an exotic species of antelope—the bontebok—considered extinct in the wild. This was a testament to their success in breeding threatened species. In January 1949, the zoo obtained two snow leopards, believed to be the first ever in captivity. That same year, to Belle’s extreme delight—and after she had written many letters, made numerous phone calls, and had her hopes raised only to be disappointed several times before her efforts paid off —the zoo obtained three baby gorillas. Ten thousand people came to see them the first day they were on exhibit. One of the gorillas, Albert, would become the father of the zoo’s first baby gorilla (Alvila) born in San Diego in 1965. Other exciting events included the birth of a northern fur seal (the first in captivity) in 1950, the first million-visitor year in 1951, and the arrival of four koalas from Sydney, Australia, in 1952.
Benchley made history yet again in 1949 when she became the first female president of the American Zoological Association. She served a one-year term, after having served on committees in the organization.
When Belle retired on December 10, 1953, San Diego city and county officials designated it “Belle Benchley Day.” About 800 people attended her retirement dinner, at the end of which she was presented with the gift of a three-month trip around the world. She was now able to take that vacation that eluded her during her hard-working zoo years. When she announced her retirement to the zoo board, they strongly protested. How in the world would they survive without Belle? She replied, “I’m sure the zoo will be around long after I’m gone. After all, I brought a lot of people working here up from pups, and saw to it that they learned their lessons well.” She also knew the zoo would be in capable hands with Dr. Charles Schroeder, long-time zoo veterinarian, at the helm. He would serve as director for the next nineteen years.
Benchley didn’t become a stranger to the zoo. She would often visit her human and animal friends for the rest of her life. She loved to show off the zoo to her family, especially her granddaughter, Laurel.
Now and then I meet someone who says, ‘I don’t like animals.’ I know that person has missed the proper chance to know animals and has thus been deprived of one of the richest experiences in life. I cannot keep from pitying him, for to know animals is to love them. —Belle Benchley, My Life in a Man-Made Jungle
Belle Benchley died in 1972 at age 90. Her gravestone is inscribed with “The Zoo Lady” and, so appropriately, a smiling gorilla.
Personal connection: Belle Benchley’s paternal grandfather, Austin H. Jennings, a native of Delaware County, Ohio, was one of the founders of Ohio Wesleyan University, the alma mater of yours truly!
San Diego Zoo: The Benchley Years
1925: Benchley hired as temporary bookkeeper
1926: First issue of ZOONOOZ (zoo’s member magazine) published (the publication is still in circulation)
1927: Ellen Browning Scripps Hospital and Biological Research Institute built (first zoo veterinary hospital); Benchley named executive secretary of the zoo
1928: Young orangutans Maggie and Mike arrive from Asia; 30 tortoises arrive from the Galapagos Islands (some of which still live at the zoo!); San Diego Zoo was third largest in the world
1931: Gorillas Mbongo and Ngagi purchased from Martin and Osa Johnson
1932: Tax assessors threaten to sell the zoo to the State of California
1934: First zoo tax passed by city residents
1937: Scripps flight cage built (largest aviary in the world)
1938: Giraffes Lofty and Patches arrive (survived a hurricane on the journey to the United States)
1940: Benchley publishes My Life in a Man-Made Jungle
1941: Dr. Harry Wegeforth dies at the age of 59; zoo plants its own garden to save money during the war
1942: First Andean condor hatched in captivity in the United States; Benchley publishes My Friends, the Apes
1943: Benchley hires SDZ’s first female zookeeper, Georgia Dittoe; first hippo born at the zoo (Rubie gives birth to Lotus)
1944: First captive-bred cobra hatches
1945: Benchley publishes My Animal Babies
1947: Four rare Northern seals arrive
1948: Arrival of five-year-old orangutan Doris (an immediate favorite with staff and visitors) to be a mate for Kokok
1949: Gorillas Albert, Bouba, and Bata arrive (Albert later became the father of Alvila, the zoo’s first gorilla birth, in 1965); Benchley begins term as American Zoological Association president (1949–1950)
1950: First fur seal birth in captivity
1951: Zoo attendance beaks the one million mark for the first time
1952: Four koala arrive from Sydney, Australia; first rhino (black rhino named Sally) arrives from East Africa
1953: Benchley retires on December 10
“Animals Respond When She Speaks.” Washington Post (October 3, 1937): PY2.
“An Eventful Century at the Zoo.” San Diego Union-Tribune (May 8, 2016): 2.
In a few weeks I will be visiting the San Diego Zoo for the third time. Failing to do so previously, I’ve made it a point to read up on this amazing zoo’s history before I visit. In the interests of chronology, I will begin with Dr. Harry Wegeforth, the zoo’s founder, first president, and colorful character.
Born in 1882, Harry Wegeforth grew up in Baltimore and demonstrated an early interest in animals. He read animal behavior books, hosted circus performances with toy animals, and loved hunting for snakes and turtles in his Baltimore neighborhood. At age 12 he would sneak off to the local circus to attend practices. He became so adept at tightrope walking that he was invited to go on tour with them, but an older brother intervened and put an end to his circus career. In 1906 he received his medical degree from Baltimore Medical College and completed postgraduate training in surgery at Johns Hopkins University. In 1908 Wegeforth headed west in search of a place to start his medical practice. He ultimately chose San Diego, and eventually two of his brothers, also physicians, followed him to the coastal city.
In 1916, Harry and his brother Paul served as surgeons for the Panama–California Exposition, which was held in San Diego’s Balboa Park. What Harry would say to his brother one day during one of their drives through Balboa Park is forever etched in San Diego Zoo lore. Driving past the lion cages at the Exposition, Harry casually mentioned to his brother, “Wouldn’t it be splendid if San Diego had a zoo? You know . . . I think I’ll start one.” It turns out, he wasn’t joking. And so, famously, “it began with a roar.”
Determined and energized from the start, Harry immediately sent out a call for interested parties to help him form the Zoological Society of San Diego. The Park Department agreed to turn over the menagerie of animals to the zoo after the Exposition ended. As a result, the zoo began as only a row of cages in Balboa Park, which featured lions, bears, deer, buffalo, ducks, lynxes, golden eagles, a badger, a gray fox, a coyote, and a few birds. With little to no financial help, he mostly used his personal funds to start the zoo from scratch. He dedicated this pet project to the children of San Diego. After all, he wouldn’t want to let down the children.
San Diego residents also donated animals found in their yards or held as private collections. As the number of animals grew, Wegeforth made it clear to the city that these cages simply would not hold up—it wasn’t just “Wegeforth’s Folly” anymore. He needed land in order to give San Diego the world-class zoo that he had envisioned and to give the animals a better life. Ultimately, as a physician, one of his top priorities was the health and well-being of the animals.
Eventually, the city council initially allotted 17 acres of canyon land in Balboa Park that they had thought would ultimately be unusable. Determined to prove them wrong, Dr. Wegeforth would ride his horse around the land, sketching in his head ideas for the zoo’s layout. He turned his medical practice into a “war room” for contractors and designers to work on the blueprints and planning.
I have never met a man with Doctor Harry’s animal-like persistence, or his tenacity of purpose to do the job and carry it to completion, come hell or high water. —Dr. Charles Schroeder, in his introduction to It Began with a Roar!
As I was reading about Wegeforth, I found myself making comparisons between him and Jungle Jack Hanna, the famous former director of the Columbus Zoo. One obvious reason was his sheer enthusiasm for creating a world-class zoo, even though he had little to no experience operating a zoo. Another was his innate ability to attract donors for his ambitious ideas. The World War I years proved difficult to attract the donations he needed in order to carry out many of his plans, but during the 1920s he worked the fundraising circuit so hard that a slew of wealthy San Diego philanthropists, including a cash donation of $57,000 from Ellen Browning Scripps (one of many of her gifts to the zoo over the years), helped Wegeforth catapult his vision to the next level. He was also able to obtain more land from the city, which expanded the zoo grounds to a more respectable 210 acres by 1922. Scripps also funded the fencing around the zoo grounds so that the zoo could begin charging an admission fee (although Wegeforth demanded that children always be admitted free of charge). This would help bring in additional revenue that the zoo so badly needed. Scripps also donated funds to build what would become in 1923 the largest aviary in the world, measuring 95 feet high by 115 feet long.
No one person gave so much of his personal energy, interest, devotion and very life to the development of a public project as Doctor Harry gave to the creation of the Zoo. —Tom Faulconer, Zoo Director, 1923–1926
His job was that of manager, promoter, planner, financial advisor, and much of the time in the early days he was the sole support. —Official San Diego Zoo Guidebook, 1950s
Yet another characteristic of Wegeforth reminded me of Hanna was his penchant for drumming up crazy ideas.
In 1917 the zoo received its first large donation in the form of a 1,800-pound Kodiak bear named Caesar. She had been a “mascot” aboard a U.S. Navy ship. At a year old, Caesar was friendly with the humans but became too large and rambunctious to remain a shipmate, so the Navy donated her to the zoo. One problem: the zoo did not own a vehicle large enough to carry out the transport. Dr. Wegeforth and Dr. Joseph Thompson, a member of the zoo’s board came up with a plan, which Wegeforth recounted in his diary:
“We scratched our heads, wondering how to get her to the Zoo. None of us knew anything about crating bears, nor did we . . . even [have] the money to rent a truck. We did the only thing we could—put a collar and chain around Caesar’s neck and seated her beside Dr. Thompson in the front seat of his auto. As the citizenry gaped, the two of them drove through the city to the Zoo, which was then just a few cages left from the Exposition” (Wegeforth and Morgan, p. 76).
(The fact that Caesar broke out of her rickety cage multiple times and could snap 2x4s like toothpicks also contributed to Dr. Harry’s argument that a real zoo with secure bear grottos needed to be built sooner rather than later.)
In the early days of any zoo, it was pretty much agreed upon that you weren’t a legit zoo unless you had elephants. After a few failed attempts at procuring these popular giants (which made Wegeforth the butt of many jokes in the local newspaper), Dr. Harry finally arranged for well-known animal dealer Frank Buck to bring back two Asian work elephants from Calcutta in 1923. The fact that this delivery was actually coming to fruition threw Dr. Harry into a total frenzy. Again, the transport issue posed a problem. Additionally, the zoo didn’t exactly have the funds to pay for the elephants. Wegeforth called upon wealthy local businessman John D. Spreckels, who had provided funds for such purposes in the past—which also meant that he was familiar with Dr. Harry’s amusing tactics to procure donations. After much song and dance from Wegeforth, Spreckels finally agreed to fund the elephants. But for that price, he declared, they better be white elephants! (This was a jab at P. T. Barnum, who had claimed he possessed a white elephant, but it was actually light grey.)
Dr. Harry solved the funding problem, but now he was still facing two problems: how to transport the elephants AND how to make them white!
After the elephants arrived via Pacific Ocean and then by rail from San Francisco, having been cooped up in transport crates and exhausted from the long journey, the two elephants—Empress and Queenie—refused to move an inch. Dr. Harry and his head keeper, Harry Edwards, tried to coax them along, but they would not budge. Knowing that they had been work elephants in India, Dr. Harry figured that they were used to being ridden. Dr. Harry mounted one and convinced Edwards to mount the other. Giving the elephant a nudge did the trick, and the duo rode the elephants from the train station all the way to the zoo. Like witnessing Caesar in front seat of a roadster, imagine seeing two men riding elephants on the road!
The final problem was solved by Dr. Harry’s great sense of humor, which he conveyed in his diary:
The next day I bought a large keg of white powder and four of the largest powder puffs I could find. I went back to the Zoo and set the keeper to experimenting on the elephants. The result was eminently satisfactory. The next problem was to get Mr. Spreckels to the Zoo. I mapped out a little campaign and, over a period of some time, talked him on every possible occasion about . . . snakes . . . when at last he asked to see one. . . .
An hour and a half crawled by before we could . . . rush Mr. Spreckels over to the elephant compound where the men had been busy wielding valiant powder puffs. There stood the two snowy white, bulging beasts—looking like nothing any mortal had ever seen, their black eyes and pink mouths the only spots of color in the large white expanse. The keepers carried out the white color scheme, for they too were covered with powder from head to foot. (Wegeforth and Morgan, p. 100)
Mr. Spreckels loved the joke so much that not only did he fund the elephants but he also agreed to fund a new building for them.
One of the earliest indications that Wegeforth had a knack for using creativity to bring in funds was back in October 1917 when the zoo completely ran out of money. Before receiving permission from both his zoo board and the military, Wegeforth organized a wartime track-and-field competition to be held between the locally stationed U.S. Navy and Marine Corps. The military and zoo board initially rejected the idea for fear that the event would disrupt wartime mobilization efforts, but Wegeforth used his “tall and fancy talking” to change their minds. Wegeforth later recalled, “We convinced the committee that our show would not appreciably cut the receipts of any military or Red Cross affairs” (Wegeforth and Morgan, p. 91). Ultimately, with a 10-cent entrance fee, the event generated enough revenue from ticket sales to keep the zoo in operation until the end of the year.
That event proved amateur compared to what Wegeforth concocted in 1923. In addition to elephants Empress and Queenie, Frank Buck’s large delivery to the zoo from Asia included a 23-foot-long, 200-pound python named Diablo. When the snake arrived, he staged a hunger strike and refused to eat one bite for five months. Concerned that he would starve to death, his keepers began regular force-feedings to keep him alive. Dr. Harry recalled, “At first we had large sausages made of mixtures of horse meat, fowl, and rabbits, which we forced down his throat. It took six men to hold him and a tub full of meat mixture to feed him.” These feedings caught the attention of the local, and ultimately, the national press. As the feedings attracted more and more spectators, Dr. Harry decided, again initially with no approval, to turn it into a fundraising event. The feedings were moved to the large stadium in Balboa Park, and adults were charged a dime to attend (children were free). Thousands showed up to witness how many men the nasty python would toss into the nearby pool of water.
So successful were the feedings that they became a nationally known ongoing zoo event—about every 90 days—until Diablo’s death in 1928. More elements of entertainment were thrown in so that Diablo was only part of the spectacle. For example, one of the most popular sideshows was Mike the well-dressed orangutan who always made a grand entrance in an automobile.
Whenever anybody started to knock my plans, I just kept right on boosting them. The idea of failure never entered my mind. —Harry Wegeforth, diary entry
Dr. Harry Wegeforth continued as president of the San Diego Zoo until his death in 1941. He left an indelible legacy there, all while maintaining his full-time private medical practice. He made sure that the zoo was one of the first to adopt modern cageless, expansive enclosures for the animals. He also founded the precursor to today’s Association of Zoos and Aquariums (AZA) in 1924 to encourage zoos to collaborate and educate each other. Also known as a master negotiator and trader of animals, in 1925 he negotiated a deal to bring to San Diego the first koalas outside Australia. (To this day the zoo houses the largest colony of koalas outside Australia.) In 1927 his interest in disease in wild animals led to the establishment of the Hospital and Biological Research Institute, which employed the zoo’s first official veterinarian. He clearly planted the seed for the San Diego Zoo to flourish into the extremely well-respected institution that it is today.
But perhaps one of his best decisions was the hiring of Belle Benchley as his secretary in 1925 and in 1927 as the director of the zoo—the world’s first female zoo director, and the subject of my next story.
Stephenson, Lynda Rutledge. The San Diego Zoo: The First Century. Volume 1: The Founding Era, 1916–1953. San Diego: The Zoological Society of San Diego, 2015.
Wegeforth, Harry, and Neil Morgan. It Began with a Roar!: The Beginning of the World-Famous San Diego Zoo. San Diego: Pioneer Printers, 1953.
Wilkens, John. “From folly to famous: When the San Diego Zoo opened nearly 100 years ago, there was little indication that it would grow into a global landmark.” San Diego Union-Tribune (May 8, 2016): 1.
I struggled writing this piece, but I have to keep in mind that many stories from zoos past are not uplifting. It only highlights how much zoos have changed their focus from animal displays to research, welfare, and conservation of the animals. It also serves as a reminder about how far humans have come with advances in medicine. Zoos are a much better place because of these improvements. —Karie
Some animals that you surprisingly will not find at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo are the extremely popular penguins. After learning that the zoo used to have these affable birds, I had to do some digging into their DC story.
What I found was that during the time that the zoo featured penguins, they were a difficult beast to manage in captivity for a multitude of reasons. Relationship status: It’s Complicated.
In his book published in 1930, National Zoo Director William Mann noted, “We have never had much success with penguins. Of six Humboldt’s penguins (Spheniscus humboldti) from Chile, none lived longer than two months, as they were all affected with aspergillosis, a fungus disease of the lungs, when they arrived, and had lived for a week or so previously on an unnatural diet of bread and water. A rock-hopper penguin (Catarrhactespachyrhynchus) from southern New Zealand lived for one year and five months” (234–35). One of the rockhoppers died from injuries in a fight with two other birds. (The Washington Post article about the incident blamed the dreadful summer heat for the fight.) Additionally, penguins are susceptible to heat stroke and bacterial infections. Their living environment needs to be climate controlled with excellent ventilation systems. Care during transport to the zoo and upon arrival is vital (dehydration and heat exhaustion are common). Unaccustomed to eating dead fish, many have to be force-fed at first. In a nutshell, they are a very high maintenance bird.
These hazards did not stop the zoo from trying, however.
In 1933 the zoo acquired four Galapagos penguins from the Hancock Pacific-Galapagos Expedition, but the next year they were not listed in the zoo’s collection of animals. One can only assume that they succumbed to aspergillosis or other illnesses that plagued so many captive penguins. That same year the zoo also attempted to maintain a collection of African (jackass) penguins. Over the next year, sadly, the zoo would lose six of them to illness.
Still, the zoo kept trying. In late 1936 the National Zoo acquired six more African penguins after completing a major addition to the bird house, which included an improved refrigeration system and wading pool.
In 1938, as Hitler was invading countries in Europe, two of the birds provided DC with a much-needed diversion from the growing unease on the world stage. Penguin couple Millie and Moe produced two eggs—the first to ever appear at the zoo. And according to the Washington Post, no African penguin had been hatched successfully in any American zoo. Millie and Moe took turns incubating the eggs around the clock, while the city had to wait a month for the outcome. Meanwhile, another penguin couple began building a nest, as crowds poured into the bird house to catch a glimpse of the action.
After forty days (March 12), one of the eggs finally hatched—a “tiny clump of fuzz,” creating lots of buzz. The bird house was packed with photographers and reporters, along with DC residents trying to catch a glimpse of history. A local radio deejay even broadcasted the chick’s every move over the airwaves. The chick (whose gender was unknown) was named Malcolm, after Malcolm Davis, the bird keeper that spent most of his time attending to the needs of the parents-to-be. Over 20,000 visitors flocked to the bird house to catch a peek at the new arrival. (It’s not a surprise that the zoo topped 3 million visitors that year.)
Behold the Ides of March—the second egg hatched on March 15. The chick, named “Minnie,” gave the zoo another reason to cheer.
Less than a week later, first-born chick, Malcolm, died. On the positive side, the zoo’s director Mann noted, this birth was a boon to science, and the chick would be given to the National Museum for research and display. Then, on April 3, the only African penguin chick in captivity, Millie, died. Millie was transferred to the National Museum to be put on display with Malcolm. The zoo was devastated, but they remained optimistic that their two breeding couples would continue to hatch eggs. In fact, a month later, Mollie laid two more eggs. They, however, never hatched. The other penguin couple, Ada and Tux, weren’t having success, either.
The next year, in June 1939, Mollie again gave the zoo a shot of optimism. One egg hatched, and the little chick seemed to be thriving. At 24 days old, little Minnie penguin made his/her debut. Again, the National Zoo made history—Minnie was the oldest penguin chick to survive at the time. Sadly, the streak ended at 37 days. Minnie passed away, leaving the zoo officials scratching their heads. There was a reason that penguin births were so rare in captivity. But why? To add to the mystery, mother penguin Mollie died suddenly on August 15. The zoo could only speculate that she died of a broken heart after losing her baby (and further posited by the autopsy). In tribute to Mollie, the Washington Post called her the penguin that would not quit. She made history. She was the matriarch of the zoo’s favorite family.
(Side note: This was not the only death from a broken heart the zoo experienced in the penguin colony. In 1947, the zoo’s emperor penguin died after his female friend passed away. He refused to eat, had to be force-fed, and eventually collapsed and died in his enclosure.)
Even after the failure to raise a penguin chick to maturity, the zoo continued to nurture its penguin colony, making sure that the adults stayed healthy and thrived. One question: should they try to find Moe a new mate?
Another difficulty in keeping penguins, for most zoos, is the cost to transport them from their native areas. The National Zoo, however, has always benefited from DC’s government ties—foreign dignitaries would gift U.S. presidents with various animals from their native countries, which would then be sent to the zoo; and animals that had been subject of government/military studies would also be sent to SNZ to retire (see, for example, Ham the Astrochimp). Procuring penguins was also made easier by these ties. One example was a big reason why the National Zoo were able to exhibit penguins: five U.S. Navy expeditions to Antarctica.
Admiral Richard E. Byrd’s expeditions to Antarctica had previously brought back penguins for other zoos (namely Philadelphia and Chicago), so Director William Mann made a formal request on behalf of the National Zoo beginning in 1939. Malcolm Davis, head keeper in the bird house, accompanied Byrd on the expeditions.
After the first expedition, Davis returned to DC with one emperor penguin and 13 Adélie penguins. The emperor, according to the New York Times, was the first of its penguin species to be brought north of the equator. The 50-pound gorgeous and stately bird (named Dugan) was immediately the talk of the town. Unfortunately, in May 1940, a few months after his arrival, Dugan succumbed to a fungal infection in his throat, which the zoo at the time could not treat.
The next year, in May 1941, the second Antarctic expedition brought back 3 emperor and 4 gentoo penguins. Director Mann declared that the National Zoo now had “the best penguin collection.”
One has to but to walk through the 176 acres of natural parkland set aside for the Zoo and see the animals to understand why Washingtonians consider the hatching of penguin eggs of more interest than a clash on Capitol Hill…. A free show presents the world’s most remarkable birdhouse in any zoo….
—Washington Post, December 28, 1941
Little did they realize that seven months later the country would be at war, during which time very few animal collecting trips occurred. The Smithsonian Annual Reports for the years 1944–46 list 3 emperor, 4 jackass, 2 Humboldt penguins in the collection, so clearly there was a bit of fluctuation in the bird house in the 1940s. (And I’m not sure what happened to the 13 Adélie penguins from the Byrd expedition.)
In 1947, the third Byrd expedition (Operation Windmill) brought four different species of penguins to the National Zoo: emperor, macaroni, Adélie, and rockhoppers. (The New York Times reported that a total of 57 penguins were sent to New York as part of the expedition.) In the Washington Post, Mann touted the collection of six different species, which were the most popular exhibit at the zoo and the “finest penguin collection in the U.S.” He enthusiastically pointed out that between 30,000 and 60,000 people visit the zoo on weekends, and many of them head straight to the bird house.
Some of the penguins from Operation Windmill almost didn’t make it to the zoo. On April 14, 1947, eight of the birds decided to do some sightseeing when their crate broke open while being lowered from the ship. They jumped into the Anacostia River, rolling around on their backs and enjoying their freedom. Zoo officials feared that the dangerous levels of water pollution would kill them. Harbor police were able to capture five of them within a few hours. One was found four days later twenty miles away in Maryland. The other two were presumably never found.
The zoo again topped 3 million visitors the next year (and the few years that followed), and once again more penguins arrived: 4 king, 8 emperor, and 4 Adélie collected by another Antarctic expedition. A Washington Post article mentioned that the emperor penguins replaced the dozen from the previous expedition—all of which had died of respiratory disease. The National Zoo was still the only zoo to house emperors in their collection. The jackass and Humboldt penguins seemed to thrive the best in DC.
The zoo wasn’t having any luck with penguin births, either. One Humboldt chick hatched in 1948, but it lived only a few days. Director Mann believed that the DC climate made it impossible to them to survive.
At this point, all of the emperor penguins collected by the Antarctic expeditions had died. A fourth expedition brought back seven of these penguins (along with 4 Adélie) in March 1955 to give it another try. (King and Humboldt penguins also arrived that year from other sources, and a few other emperors went to the Bronx Zoo to be displayed in their new state-of-the-art penguin house.) The zoo worked hard to prevent the respiratory disease that was killing the birds—improved cleaning methods and better air filtration, lowered temperature and humidity levels. Still, the birds struggled to thrive. According to the 1955 Annual Report, researchers at the National Institute of Health had isolated the organism and were working to find a chemical or bacterial agent that would eradicate it.
By early July, all of the emperor penguins had died, all from aspergillosis, and only one of the Adélie was still living. Now the Bronx Zoo was the only zoo in the country to exhibit the large emperors, and zoos in Tokyo and Switzerland were the only other places in the world to house them. Mann lamented, “We had the best doctors we could get. We tried to filter the air—we tried everything.” He noted that the two in the Bronx were thriving—one had even laid an egg—so it was a true mystery as to why those in DC did not live. A Washington Post reporter pleaded with the zoo to end the quest for emperor penguins after another expedition was requested by head keeper Davis. However, the plea was ignored, and three more emperors were brought to the bird house. All died within five days from the same fungal disease. According to the 1956 Annual Report, the birds were treated with two medications via a nebulizer, but the pathology report suggested that had the treatment been started earlier it would have been effective. The 1957 Annual Report also detailed a research effort to study the fungal infection by a biologist (Dr. William Sladen) at Johns Hopkins University and scientist at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Research Laboratory in Patuxent, Maryland. New treatments were being developed, and much more had been learned about the disease, but a cure still had not been developed.
(Side note: To this day, SeaWorld San Diego has been the only North American institution to house a successful captive emperor penguin colony. Since 1980, more than twenty emperor penguins have been hatched and raised there.)
In 1958 the research efforts intensified, as the zoo acquired 12 Adélie penguins by way of the U.S. Navy’s Operation Deep Freeze for the primary purpose of studying the disease. The birds arrived in February, and by the end of June, four were living. A new antifungal drug, called a “miracle drug” by the Baltimore Sun, had been administered for the first time that year, “with some degree of success,” according to the Annual Report (174).
The 1960s seemed to welcome a turning point for penguins in captivity. Researchers were finally starting to understand and better treat the dreaded aspergillosis. Zoos were collaborating on care and treatment of their penguin collections (see Davis 1967). Exhibit spaces and hygiene practices were improving. In 1961, the Baltimore Zoo acquired 10 Humboldt penguins—after attempting to house penguins a few times in the 1950s. Their proximity to Dr. Sladen at Johns Hopkins undoubtedly gave them confidence to manage a successful penguin colony. On the emperor penguin front, the Aalborg Zoo in Denmark received more than ten emperor penguins in 1963, one of which lived until 1983. (However, they did not have a chick that hatched and survived more than a few days.)
At the National Zoo, the 1960s seemed to mark the end of the penguin collection. Head keeper Malcolm Davis retired in July 1960, and in December 1962 the remaining five penguins in the collection were sent to Saint Louis Zoo while the bird house underwent major renovations.
The renovations took several years to complete. Finally, in March 1966, the beginning of construction on the new multi-climate building was announced. (We can only speculate that construction was delayed due to budget constraints.) The sole indication that the building was complete the next year is a photo of penguins enjoying their new digs, courtesy of the Washington Post. The 1968 Annual Report mentioned the purchase of macaroni penguins, which arrived in May 1968.
That is where the story mysteriously ends. After 1968, the local newspapers and Smithsonian annual reports do not mention any presence of penguins at the National Zoo. I can only speculate that without a penguin expert on staff, the zoo decided to focus their efforts on other species and sent any remaining penguins to the Baltimore Zoo. An article from July 1987 indicated that then-director Michael Robinson had a vision to introduce penguins by the year 2000, but that obviously never became a reality.
Although it’s unfortunate that the National Zoo does not feature penguins, one only has to travel up to Baltimore to enjoy the largest African penguin colony in the country. In fact, over 1,000 chicks have hatched there. The impressive exhibit is well worth the trip, and I highly recommend purchasing a penguin encounter for the rare opportunity to interact with (and pet!) their ambassador penguins.
UPDATE (9/3/2019): According to a few sources close to the zoo on social media, a bout of avian malaria is what ended the penguin program at the National Zoo. I was able to verify that there was indeed an outbreak among SNZ’s macaroni penguins in 1969 (“Blood parasites of penguins: a critical review”).
“Valuable Penguin Killed in Fight with Zoo Mates.” Washington Post, July 27, 1926: 2.
Mann, William M. Wild Animals In and Out of the Zoo. Volume 6 of the Smithsonian Scientific Series. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1930.
Given that the Smithsonian’s National Zoo currently houses only three species of bears (don’t get me wrong—they’re really great bears!), it’s crazy to think that in the early 1900s the zoo had one of the largest collections of bears in the country. In his book published in 1930, Dr. William Mann—the zoo’s director from 1925 until 1956—listed twenty-one different species/subspecies of bears (170 individual bears total) that had lived in Rock Creek Park’s “Bear Row” since 1890.
As you can imagine, housing so many bears can create quite a space conundrum. In the early 1930s, when zookeepers noticed that two particular bears—Snowy, a male polar bear and Ramona, a female Kodiak bear—seemed friendly towards each other, they were placed in the same enclosure (along with Snowy’s female polar bear friend, Marion). To the zoo’s surprise, Ramona became pregnant and gave birth in February 1935. One cub lived fifteen days and the other died a few days later, but the zoo was now aware, and quite giddy, that the two could breed successfully. This mix was simply unheard of . . . but more on that a bit later.
Snowy and Ramona were reunited after the birth. The genetic experiment recommenced with all scientific eyes on DC.
The local press has some fun with the “modern saga of The Three Bears.” Dubbed a polygamist by the Washington Post, Snowy the polar bear had apparently become irritable when Ramona was moved to a private enclosure with her cubs. Marian, the polar female, felt scorned by her crabby male friend, who ignored her. The drama was mostly kept to a minimum when the threesome was reunited. The Post informed its readership of the latest in the rare soap opera unfolding in Rock Creek Park.
Exactly a year later, in February 1936, Ramona gave birth to four cubs. (She had been separated from the other adult bears a few months earlier so that the keepers could more closely monitor her and better attend to the needs any cubs. The vet staff wanted to take every precaution necessary.) The first of their kind, three of the yellowish-white hybrid bears—two males named Taku and Fridgee, and a female named Pokodiak—lived to be healthy adult bears; the fourth had died a few weeks after birth.
At the time of their birth, there were no other confirmed instances of hybrid Kodiak-polar bears in either the wild or in captivity. Other hybrid bears existed: A black bear–European brown bear hybrid was born at the London Zoo in the 1850s but did not live to maturity; a European brown bear–polar bear hybrid was born at a zoo in Stuttgart, Germany in 1876 and did live to adulthood. A Kodiak and a polar bear, however, had not proven to be a successful breeding pair. In the wild, it could have happened, but their habitat ranges were far enough apart that it would have been an extremely rare occurrence. Grizzly bears (Ursus arctos horribilis) would be more likely to mate with polar bears because they can be found in northern Canada, closer to the polar bear range. Kodiak bears (Ursus arctos middendorffi) have a much more limited habitat range on Kodiak Island in southwest Alaska.
It was as unnatural, Dr. Mann said, as if two mules had produced offspring. —Washington Post, January 8, 1949
At three months of age the “three little Whatsit bears” were introduced to the public. The cubs delighted the District. Camera crews risked falling into the bear pit to get a good photo. The Washington Post described the combined 42 pounds of fluff as “plump and wooly like Chow puppies.” Over the next several months, the cubs were treated to a diet of cod-liver oil, fruits, vegetables, and meat juice to ensure that they remained as healthy as possible. The local paper noted that they were treated just as well as human babies.
Snowy and Ramona again reunited after spending two and a half years apart. (By this time, Marion was placed in a separate enclosure.) Another male cub, Willie, was born in February 1939. As the first litter of cubs were three years old at this point, their playful antics and the birth of Willie certainly played a role in the zoo breaking the three-million-visitor mark that year. DC was bear crazy way before the pandas arrived!
The successful births of the four healthy cubs may have surprised the genetics world, but, according to Dr. Mann, an amazing twenty-three Kodiak-polar cubs were born over the next twenty years. Only four, sadly, lived to adulthood.
The biggest surprise (and presumed impossibility) of all occurred when Pokodiak and Willie produced a healthy male cub in 1950 (the other five in the litter did not survive). Believed to be sterile, this second-generation hybrid cub gave the genetics world something to scratch their heads and talk about—not only because he was a second-generation hybrid but also because his parents were brother and sister (although as you might remember from Mohini’s story, inbreeding was not uncommon in zoos back then).
It shouldn’t have been born at all. It violates all the laws of zoology and biology, of Mendel and Darwin, of.… It violates the laws of everything.” —Zoo Director Dr. William Mann in the Washington Post, January 27, 1950
In the history of second-generation hybrid bears at the National Zoo (1950–1976), two of fourteen cubs survived. The first “miracle” cub born in 1950—aptly named “Gene,” short for genetics—became quite a celebrity at the zoo. An estimated 30,000 visitors attended Gene’s first day on exhibit as an adorable, wobbly three-month-old. He even shared an enclosure with another celebrity bear of the same age—Smokey, the National Parks spokesbear. They got along very well—they liked to wrestle, one larger but the other faster, according to Dr. Mann. That year, with a total of forty bears calling DC home, the National Zoo’s attendance reached an amazing 3.4 million visitors.
The Kodiak-polar bear era at the National Zoo ended when the last hybrid bear, Pokodiak, passed away in 1974 at 38 years of age. (Unfortunately I could not track down where Gene’s path led him in adulthood.) The Smithsonian Annual Report noted that the hybrid bears were famous for their scientific uniqueness and wowed audiences with their massive size. (Kodiak bears are larger than grizzly bears. Male bear Willie was nearly 1,400 pounds!)
With climate change a grim reality, the hybridization of bears will become more common in the Arctic regions of North America, as a shared habitat becomes more frequent. In 2006, the occurrence of the grizzly-polar bear hybrid in the wild was confirmed by DNA testing near Sachs Harbour on Banks Island in the Canadian Arctic. Confirmed hybrids have since risen to eight—and all descending from the same adventurous female polar bear.
To end on a happy note, head over to the National Zoo and say hello to the fabulous giant pandas, sloth bears, and Andean bears (and all the other wonderful animals as well!) as spring rapidly approaches.
Altshuler, Melvin. “Zoo’s Who’s Whos’ News.” Washington Post, September 27, 1950: B1.
“Bear-Faced Remarks.” Washington Post, July 23, 1957: A1.
Brinkley, Bill. “Genetic Wonder of Wonders, Hybrid Cub of Hybrid Bears May Be Seen at Zoo.” Washington Post, January 27, 1950.
Brinkley, Bill. “Hybrid Bears Have Babies, Baffling All.” Washington Post, January 5, 1950: 7.
Brinkley, Bill. “Poster Bear Smokey Joins Zoo Star List: Move Over, Gene.” Washington Post, June 17, 1950: 1.
For International Polar Bear Day, I’d like to recount an entertaining story I recently stumbled upon while researching zoo history. And you will be happy to know that I can call it entertaining because no people or animals were hurt in this escape story. And who doesn’t enjoy an entertaining, benign escape story?
For a zoo employee, no day is ever the same—you never know what challenges or rewards you will face on a daily basis. But imagine coming to work and finding seven polar bears pillaging a concession stand, chowing down on sugary goodies. That’s exactly what happened on the wet, soggy morning of July 17, 1969.
The Brookfield Zoo, located in suburban Chicago, prides itself on being the first zoo in the United States to incorporate cageless, moated exhibits. These natural settings were a request from Edith Rockefeller McCormick (daughter of John D. Rockefeller), who donated 83 acres of land for the specific purpose of creating a modern, innovative zoo modeled after the cageless exhibits she admired in Europe. Zoo construction began in 1926 but was halted during the Great Depression; the zoo finally officially opened in 1934. Not only did it gain international recognition for its moated exhibits, but it was also the first zoo in America to house giant pandas (Su-Lin arrived in 1937), which drew millions of visitors through its gates during its first decade of operation.
The moated grotto exhibits, often cited as favorites, gave visitors an unobstructed look at the animals and allowed them to throw food to the begging bears—a very common practice at zoos in those days. In fact, the Brookfield Zoo had a concession stand right across from the polar bear enclosure that sold marshmallows for bear feedings in addition to human treats. The polar bears could watch that stand every day, all day in hopes that visitors spent their coins on goodies for them.
The moats and marshmallow combo worked out well for the bears and visitors entertainment-wise, but the zoo wasn’t prepared for what happened in the summer of ’69.
Between the evening of July 16 and the early morning hours of July 17, Chicago experienced torrential downpours. Flooding was so bad that even the deep moats in the polar bear exhibit flooded, creating a pool instead of a barrier. The seven (yes, SEVEN!) very smart polar bears were able to swim out of their enclosure and made a bear-line right for the refreshment stand that had taunted them every day for years.
When employees arrived the early morning of the 17th before the zoo opened, the bears had already broken the concession stand windows and had finished the supply of marshmallows. They had moved on to the stash of ice cream and chips, as well as tossing around a cash register.
When approached by the zoo employees, five of the bears immediately swam back into their enclosure. One had run over to say hello to the grizzly bears, who wanted no part in a cordial visit from their neighbor. The other bear made a run for the zoo restaurant, but guards, using vehicles with sirens and horns and firing a few shotgun blasts in the air, were able to redirect it back towards the polar bear exhibit. The bears didn’t need to be tranquilized, but the guards were prepared to do so if necessary. The local fire department was immediately called in to pump out the flooded water while the bears were kept busy with more marshmallows.
The incident made the national news, and a children’s book, The Marshmallow Caper, was written about it. It was also the first time in the zoo’s history that the gates had to close, as it is normally open 365 days a year. Luckily it was an event that could be looked back on with chuckles instead of tragic evocation. Keeper Jim Rowell remembered, “It sounds funny now, but any time an animal escapes it can turn into a nightmare.”
I could not find any details about modifications the Brookfield Zoo made to prevent the bears from escaping again, but the zoo did end the sale of marshmallows and prohibited animal feedings in 1970. Sorry, bears.