
LEON ANDREW was out hunting with his father when he first encountered the raw power of a herd of caribou. He could see them moving as a vast, dark, almost unbroken mass over the Mackenzie mountains. He was awestruck. “It woke me up to see how many caribou there were,” he says.
Andrew is now an elder of the Dene people, one of Canada’s indigenous First Nations communities, who lives in Délıne, a town in the Sahtú (Great Bear Lake) region of the Northwest Territories. The Dene have long hunted caribou. But the days of those vast herds are threatened. Caribou habitat is being lost, degraded and fragmented by mining operations, forestry, roads and oil pipelines. And all that is compounded by a decades-long confusion over the way different types of caribou are classified – with disastrous consequences for conservation. At least two relocation efforts have ended in tragedy because subtle differences between animals were not recognised. But it looks like a breakthrough is ahoof. Andrew has been involved in a project that aims to resolve the mix-up by drawing on the richness of the Dene language – and by collecting caribou droppings.
The antlered ungulates Europeans know as reindeer and North Americans call caribou are in fact a single species, Rangifer tarandus. But go one level down the taxonomic tree and things get messier. The one name hides an enormous diversity of habitat use, behaviour, size, colour and antler shape. Until about 50 years ago, there were thought to be 55 caribou species and subspecies worldwide. There have been several attempts to overhaul that classification. Currently, there are 14 designated subspecies, although debate still rumbles about whether that’s valid. In North America, caribou are differentiated according to a 1961 classification by Frank Banfield, then chief mammalogist at the Canadian Wildlife Service – but only because no one can agree on an alternative.
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“Caribou confusion has caused at least two attempted relocations to end in disaster”
Today, there are further subdivisions called ecotypes that account for traits such as seasonal distribution and calving habits. The problem is that the distinctions between ecotypes are well studied in some places but not others, and this is setting back conservation efforts overall.
In the 1990s, for instance, caribou were relocated to a declining population in South Selkirk, British Columbia, from two other places. The problem was that South Selkirk has 4 metres of snow covering the soil in winter and the outsiders hadn’t learned the local trick of eating lichen from tree trunks instead of the ground. “How do you think those caribou did?” asks , an ecologist at the University of Montana in Missoula.
Hebblewhite reckons similar problems were at play in a 2012 relocation to the Purcell mountains, also in British Columbia, where 12 out of 19 transplanted caribou were dead within seven months. “Getting the ecotype right really matters,” he says.
Perhaps experienced caribou trackers like Leon Andrew could help? That was the thinking of Hebblewhite’s former student , now based at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg. She reasoned that the Dene’s close relationship with the caribou would be reflected in their names for the animals. Local differences are “exactly what the First Nations people get in a way that Western biologists don’t”, says Hebblewhite.
Polfus’s plan was to review how the Dene language differentiates between caribou and see if the different names mesh with the animals’ genetics. It was no simple matter to get started, though. For one thing, obtaining genetic evidence usually involves capturing animals and taking saliva or blood samples. But the Dene have a deep respect for caribou and dislike these invasive methods. “The elders are very protective of wildlife,” says Andrew. So Polfus and her team asked community members to pick up caribou droppings when they were hunting from which DNA samples could be taken. Collectors got a $25 petrol voucher for every sample they handed over.
With the Dene on board, Polfus still faced the challenge of understanding their language, which comes in many dialects and in which only about 1000 people are fluent. For this, she had the help of local interpreters who did the majority of the translating in real time during project workshops. In the end, more than 100 people from the Sahtú region got involved – the youngest contributor was a 12-year-old girl who collected droppings while out hunting with her father. Polfus published the results earlier this year (Ecology and Society, vol 21, p 18).
The study found that the different Sahtú dialects all recognised three types of caribou: ٴǻı, ʔé and shúhta ʔepe, each with its own behaviour and appearance. These correspond, respectively, to the ecotypes called boreal woodland caribou, barren-ground caribou and mountain caribou (see diagram).
Despite substantial overlap in the ranges of the ecotypes and their known ability to interbreed, Polfus and her colleagues found significant genetic disparities between them too. This suggests that the Dene names reflect underlying differences that will be useful to understand for future conservation work.
Although the First Nation divisions of caribou in the Sahtú region broadly match up with the Western taxonomy, the situation is unlikely to be so straightforward everywhere. Hebblewhite says Canada’s Northwest Territories contain a “caribou soup”, a legacy from the Pleistocene, when ice sheets melted and allowed isolated pockets of the animals to gradually mix. That means different areas probably have all sorts of distinct populations. One example is a hybrid group Hebblewhite identified in the Canadian Rockies. Another is a mysterious ecotype Polfus heard about during her investigations (see “The fast runners“).
But perhaps Polfus’s collaboration can act as a template for resolving the caribou name conundrum elsewhere. This is especially important because land-claim settlements in northern Canada are changing governance structures and providing First Nations people, including those in the Sahtú region, with renewed autonomy to manage the land they have lived on for thousands of years.
Understanding the mosaic of caribou ecotypes has implications beyond successful relocations. Climate change will have an unpredictable impact on the ability of caribou to migrate, eat and survive. “The best way to maintain their future populations is to keep a mix of all the different types of caribou,” says Hebblewhite. “Because we don’t know which ones will be best adapted to the future.”
The fast runners
Some elders of the indigenous, or First Nation, Dene community in Canada speak of the caribou they call ٱԲł’əa, or “the fast runners”.
“They talk about this caribou coming to the Mackenzie mountains from the far ocean shore,” says Leon Andrew, an elder who has been taking part in a project to better classify caribou (see main story).
Jean Polfus, at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg, coordinated the project. She has been told that the legendary caribou have pointed ears and a distinctive white marking on their hind legs. If they still exist, they have no counterpart in Western taxonomy. “It’s an example of an aboriginal language having more refined categories than just species and subspecies,” she says.
If they are out there, the fast runners might come in handy, says Polfus. Maybe they possess genes that help them live in the mountains, while their genetic diversity could prove essential to the caribou’s survival. Both could help caribou conservation programmes respond to a warmer future.
But there’s a lot of wilderness out there — for now the ٱԲł’əa must remain a mystery.
This article appeared in print under the headline “What caribou are you?”
