The Fox and the Quail: A Tale of Two Catalina Endemic Species

by Carlos de la Rosa

It is about 8 p.m. on Catalina Island. I’m driving up Stage Road and my headlights land on a small, furry creature sitting by the side of the road between two eucalyptus trees. The first thing I see is a yellow, bright, single spot of light. The reflection comes from the end of a radio collar worn by the Catalina Island fox. The little fox calmly sits as I coast to a stop on the steep grade. It closes its eyes to the glaring lights and waits. I’m driving an electric car, a rather quiet vehicle, so there are no loud engine noises or exhaust fumes. As I stop the car, silence surrounds us.

The fox sits about 10 feet from the car, still a bit blinded by the lights, but seemingly unafraid. I take my camera out of the case from the back seat, slowly open the door, lean out, and take a few photos. Its ears turn to the slight noises coming from my camera, in tune with its surroundings and secure in its ability to confront any threat. It grew up surrounded by dangers, exploring and hunting among sharp cacti, learning to avoid deadly rattlesnakes, becoming surefooted in the loose rocks on the hillsides of its Island home. If all goes well, the little fox will live to the ripe old age of 9 or 10 years and produce several batches of pups. With an unconcerned swish of its tail, the fox stands up and slowly walks away over the edge of the road into the sheltering shadows.

Encounters with the Catalina Island fox are frequent in the interior, especially at dusk and during the night, but often in the middle of the day as well. I have seen them several times while hiking. In many cases, they didn’t seem concerned, but kept a respectful distance that seemed quite short to me, considering how endangered and susceptible they are to harm. Foxes evolved on their Island habitat for thousands of years, unexposed to many of the dangers they face today. Today they must deal with cars and trucks barreling down the Airport Road. Some diseases can decimate their populations. Water tanks, electric fences, guns, and dogs are among other present-day menaces.

At 3 to 4 pounds, the Island fox is a small version of the mainland gray fox that can weigh up to 15 pounds. Santa Catalina, Santa Cruz, San Clemente, Santa Rosa, San Nicolas, and San Miguel islands all have their own unique subspecies of fox, all small, all showing variations in their genes. On all of these islands, the fox is the top native terrestrial predator, a fierce little bundle of energy that chases after mice, quail, lizards, and insects but that also likes regular vegetarian meals as part of its diet. They eat the fruits of toyon, manzanita, prickly pear cactus, and saltbush, as well as other plants.

A different day. It is spring and, elsewhere on the interior of the Island, a different scene unfolds. A covey of quail quietly forages in the grassy vegetation along an old, seldom-used dirt road. Twisted oak tree branches reach in all directions, providing a broken canopy that lets light hit the ground in splotchy patterns. In the sunny patches, tiny miner’s lettuce plants intermix with scarlet pimpernel flowers, grass shoots, lichens, and mosses. I work my way slowly along the trail, unaware of the quail just ahead, photographing small flowers and the insects that visit them, often on my knees, face close to the ground. At one point, I start to stand up, brushing the dirt off my pants. A loud, explosive sound, like hundreds of pieces of wood running across a fence, knocks me off my feet and sets my heart to racing speed. I fall flat on my rear, startled. I see the flock take off low to the ground and alight about 100 feet ahead on the road.

After a few minutes, heart back to normal, I watch the quail continue to forage. I see a few males, sporting a beautiful black top-knot of feathers that bob when they walk. I start hearing different sounds too, like the repeated pips and calls of the males communicating with the females, the patter of tiny feet on the grass, the rustle of feet scratching the soil, beaks picking seeds, grasses, little flowers and insects and wings brushing against the vegetation. If I were a fox, I’d need to be very skilled and focused to be able to catch one. There is safety in numbers.

In April and May, quail mating season on the Island, the call of the males is eerie and melancholic, especially in the foggy silence of an interior morning. The repeated three-note call sounds something like “phee-phee-phuiii,” ending with a falling note, almost like the answer to a question. “I-am-heeere.” I’ve read that their nests are well hidden shallow depressions on the ground, under logs or dense clumps of grass, lined with plant materials where ten to twelve eggs are laid. The precocious chicks hatch from their tiny eggs and, within hours, are fully mobile. I’ve seen them cross dirt roads, two handsome parents followed by several little trails of dust crisscrossing in the dirt.

So here they are, two endemic species on Catalina Island, two species that depend on each other – one as a predator, the other one as prey – participating in the web of life. Both depend on healthy habitats full of insects, grasses, seeds, fruits, water and lack of disturbance.

The interior of Catalina Island is a place of wonder. It has served these and other species well for thousands of years, providing everything they need in food and shelter. As residents and visitors to the Island, as stewards and managers and as conservation-minded people, we honor this historical and evolutionary relationship and strive to help it continue. By restoring Island habitats and their populations, we become integral players in their sustained future.