Mammals of California

Awareness leads to appreciation, and with that comes empathy. Empathy forges a connection.

California is home to some of the world's most iconic topography, but pay attention and you’ll notice it brimming with wildlife. Exploring their fragile relationship gives me a deeper connection with the place I live. 

Read the field notes

“If you want to see a lot of different mammals in one place, you could do worse than California. With over 200 species, there’s a greater variety of mammals living wild in California than in any other state in America.”

“The cubs climbed trees to forage and play while the sow kept a watchful eye and gently coaxed them along.”

“The island fox is a distant relative of the mainland gray fox. They’re incredible little creatures, and I do mean little. Evolving in isolation, they’re around the size of a domestic cat and one of the smallest canid species in the world.”

A chance mutation has produced a handful of coyotes in California with blue eyes. I happened to be out with a local guide, Daniel Dietrich, who first spotted the one-in-a-million occurrence, so when we found this one I knew I had the opportunity to photograph something truly special.

When they’re hunting, long-tailed weasels move like greased lighting. For this image I was happy to get a sharp, relaxed image.

Lying in the tall grass by the banks of a lagoon and trying to keep my distance, this river otter seemed just as curious about me as I was in it. The trickiest part of creating this image was predicting where the otter would surface next by following the trail of air bubbles.

As I walked down the trail to Abbotts Lagoon in Point Reyes, the sun rose with my spirits. The loose gravel crunched underfoot, the grass silently bent with the ocean breeze, and it already felt like a good day. Mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus) stared at me from the coastal scrub, assessing the threat and weighing up their flight response. One casually hopped over bushes before glancing back. The others simply froze until I was far enough away for them to relax. Brush rabbits (Sylvilagus bachmani) littered the path in a frenzy of activity before daylight exposed them further to coyotes.

At the trail’s end, I slid down to the banks of the lagoon just in time to see a northern river otter (Lontra canadensis) swim past. It was on a mission to hunt in deeper waters, and after a brief pause to chatter at a heron, its dark head soon blended with the surface ripples, and it cruised out of sight. On the walk back, I noticed something move in my peripheral vision and glanced around in time to see an American badger (Taxidea taxus) scurry underground. I still hadn’t met another human that morning.

A few hours later, I sat in my car near the Estero Trail, eating lunch and casually scanning the nearby fields for bobcats. Then, something much smaller and considerably faster caught my eye; a long-tailed weasel (Neogale frenata). It disappeared into a burrow before I could react, but I put down my sandwich, stepped out of the car, and lay in the grass. When it popped up again, the weasel seemed as curious about me as I was about it. I spent an entertaining hour photographing it scampering around. The whole time I sat there, a bachelor group of tule elk (Cervus canadensis nannodes) watched cautiously from the hillside.

As the afternoon wore on, I still hadn’t found a bobcat (Lynx rufus), so I explored another area of the park. I was immediately rewarded with the sight of a sand-colored cat napping in the grass. Perhaps it had completed a successful hunt and decided to sleep off a belly full of gopher. I positioned myself at a respectful distance and waited for her to wake up. When she did, my patience was rewarded as she walked right past me. On the way back to the car, I noticed a motionless black-tailed jackrabbit (Lepus californicus) at the edge of the field.

By the time the sun dropped into the ocean, I was standing near the lighthouse. I scanned the water for gray whales (Eschrichtius robustus), but realistically, I knew it was too late in the season to catch their migration. Still, I couldn’t find a reason to complain; I had shared a fantastic day with an astonishing variety of mammals. Astonishing but not surprising.

If you want to see a lot of different mammals in one place, you could do worse than California. With over 200 species, there’s a greater variety of mammals living wild in California than in any other state in America and more than many countries, for that matter. They range from blue whales—the largest animal on the planet—to tiny kangaroo rats, from iconic predators like mountain lions to the endangered San Joaquin kit fox. The variety reflects the state’s rich natural heritage, from the Pacific Ocean to the High Sierras, with desert and forest between, so we must engage in conservation efforts to protect their habitat.

As a group, mammals sit six steps up the eight-runged classification system we use to categorize the natural world, so it’s a broad taxon. With such diversity, it begs the question: what defines a mammal anyway? People often point to the presence of fur or hair, warm blood, or live young. However, Dr. Danielle N. Lee states, “The drop-dead criteria is, do you make milk from mammary glands?” That leaves a lot of room for other characteristics, and California has seen its fair share.

In The Rise and Reign of the Mammals, Steve Brusatte describes all modern-day mammals as “simply the few survivors of a once-verdant family tree, which has been pruned by time and mass extinctions.” California’s rich fossil record provides insight into the many extinct species that used to call the state home. These include mammoths, mastodons, short-faced bears, giant ground sloths, and the famous saber-toothed cat. One loss is particularly painful, though. It’s a curious penance that we, its mammal cousins, celebrate the California grizzly on our state flag after hunting it out of extinction.

A different kind of bear featured in one of my all-time favorite wildlife encounters. Allison and I were in Tahoe for a weekend during the dog days of summer. When we arrived, the air was thick with wildfire smoke, and an ominous haze hung in the air. I hoped to photograph a black bear (Ursus americanus), but Tahoe is a vast place, and they could have been anywhere. One thing was sure, though: we were in a drought, and if I wanted to find wildlife, I’d have to follow the water.

We drove to Taylor Creek and walked alongside the river. I was delighted to find a North American beaver (Castor canadensis), but I was hot and sticky after a few hours, and I still hadn’t found a bear. Then, just as I was considering giving up for the day, I heard something in the bushes. I froze in my tracks and listened.

I told myself the rustling could be anything, but I knew it was bigger than a chipmunk. Suddenly, I saw the flash of a bear cub scamper past. I instantly knew the mother must be nearby, but it was a second cub that I noticed next. They were fast, and the thick undergrowth made photography difficult, but I was grateful to have seen them. I waited another minute, and then the mom appeared. She was big, but I remembered everything I had read about black bears, so I stayed calm and watched from a safe distance.

The bear family started to move to my left, so I walked toward a clearing where I expected them to appear. That gave me ample distance with enough clear space to find focus. Sure enough, all three bears came into the clearing. They were so relaxed, and of course, that relaxed me. The cubs climbed trees to forage and play while the sow kept a watchful eye and gently coaxed them along. I ensured she knew I was there, but I backed away whenever the cubs came near, and she seemed to acknowledge that. Whenever she looked at me more intently, I spoke quietly and took a few steps backward.

Over the next hour, she led them to the river for a drink before crossing over to find some berries. She stripped them from the branch while the cubs climbed the tree above her. Entering another clearing, she tore bark from a fallen tree, possibly looking for ants, and one of the cubs copied her. Watching them learn by example was incredible. Finally, they crossed back over the river and headed back into the undergrowth. It was time for us all to part ways, but I whispered a thank you as they departed.

A black bear encounter is always a memorable experience, but it’s possible in almost every state. There are some mammal encounters, however, that are only possible in California. Just off the coast, Channel Islands National Park is home to an animal found nowhere else: the island fox (Urocyon littoralis).

The island fox is a distant relative of the mainland gray fox. They’re incredible little creatures, and I do mean little. Evolving in isolation, they’re around the size of a domestic cat and one of the smallest canid species in the world. So, of course, we had to make the trip over to see them.

When we arrived on Santa Cruz Island, it was a hot summer day, so we sat at a picnic bench to make a plan for the afternoon. Mainland fox sightings can be rare in daylight, and island foxes are one of the rarest mammals in North America, so I wondered how difficult they’d be to find. While I pondered this question, one of them popped out of the long grass beside me, passed under our table, and crossed the trail. That answered that.

Over the next hour, I wandered around the harbor area and through the campsite in pursuit of these little foxes. They showed no fear of humans but no interest in us either. This was the best-case scenario because it showed they weren’t dependent on humans for food but comfortable enough to let me photograph them while they explored, hunted, and slept. I was so absorbed I barely noticed how sunburnt I was getting. Those fantastic little foxes made me very happy.

There are still many mammals I hope to see in California, from bighorn sheep to orcas, but my personal white whale isn’t a whale at all. It’s a mountain lion.

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