Previous: Chapter Nine: In the Wind
Wayward Wallabies Went West, Say Scientists
Boca Chica – A local wild breeding population of wallabies – small Australian cousins to the kangaroo – has scientists hopping with excitement, and a recent discovery provides clues to how they arrived in South Texas, on the mouth of the Rio Grande, almost a year ago.
According to a release by the Texas Wildlife Service and Texas A&M University, the recent epochal Category 6 Hurricane Henrietta may have deposited the marsupial migrants from as far away as the western Caribbean Sea.
A new model published by scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Agency suggests a four to five day journey for the pouched mammals, floating on material washed from coastal areas by the storm surge.
What the wallabies were doing upwind of their current home remains to be determined, as visiting Wallabologist Jo Stapleton [sic] had to say:
“Wherever our friends’ recent ancestors may have traveled on their way to South Texas, they didn’t arrive in North America from Australia on their own. We’re looking at a feral population of formerly captive subjects, of a common species well known to the scientific world. They may have been research subjects, or part of a captive breeding program,” Stapleton [sic] said, in an email.
Though the troupe of wayward wallabies seems to have fairly recent roots in the Americas, the mystery of the ‘roos origins may be lost to history.
“Based on population genetics from living specimens, we’re looking at ranges of 125 to 150 years ago as the range in which the original ancestral breeding pairs lived for this population,” said Dr Suse of Texas A&M, one of the authors of the release.
An early study of the wallabies-out-of-water was hampered by the theft of wildlife cameras by the creatures, who are said by the group to have better than average manual dexterity and reaction times than those known in previous wild studies of the species.
Dr Suse remained optimistic that some trace of the wallaby’s passing might remain in local folklore, somewhere along Wallaby Way.
“I can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along their century long journey, our wallabies’ forebears may have interacted with other humans. The fact that they are so prone to stealing and hording human-made objects for no known reason may point to extended periods of adaptation to human habitation.”
Feliz parked the ebike outside the Clarke. The hurricane doors were drawn to one side and the neon was lit. The place was open, but slow, on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Feliz presented an International Driver’s License without being asked. Purvis gave it a cursory glance and took Feliz’s order.
“Welcome to Sustainaville! You ride that mount all the way up the beach?”
“I took the coastal highway. I can beep through the border crossing without really stopping, and it’s just half an hour out of the way.”
Purvis set the glass in front of Feliz, who took it gratefully.
“This place has been in the news a bit, recently.”
Purvis chuckled. “Yeah, we’re clickbait on the regular, around here. You get used to it.”
Feliz’s eyes narrowed. “I was wondering if any of the people involved in that work still come around here? I saw the viral video that was shot here, the wildlife worker with the ‘Down Under’ karaoke finale.”
Purvis was noncommittal. “We see everybody here from time to time. Even Cap Bender shows up sometimes, between missions. Sometimes with a full band.
Feliz said, simply, “I have something I think they may want to see.”
This time it was Frances driving the Camry, with Feliz in the front, and Cap and Merl in the back. They beeped through at the Mexican border, and headed due east, back towards the coast along the southern bank of the Rio Grande.
Feliz’s photographs, messaged from the Clarke to the Rocket Ranch, showed a jumble of structural wreckage along the Mexican extension of Henrietta’s Gift, the massive natural wall of hurricane debris extending along the Gulf Coast. These storm battered pieces of a faraway coastal town might hold clues as to the origin of this part of Henrietta’s Gift, still the wallabies’ impregnable fortification.
Frances drove on, oblivious to the click of the cassette player as it auto-reversed direction to play the second side of Volume 2 of Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits.
Where. Were. They. From?!
The four parked at Faro Bagdad, next to a tall lighthouse from a forgotten century. Feliz led them down to the beach, where Henrietta’s Gift had been breached by highway crews to provide access. Frances clutched a camera, firmly attached by a lanyard to one wrist.
About half a kilometer up the wall of debris, they stopped. Feliz tugged at the edge of a sign painted on moisture-swollen particle board. The printed veneer had been largely battered away by sun, wind, and waves.
“I.D.A P.U.E?” read Frances, photographing the object. A chirp announced that a GPS waypoint had been captured with the photograph.
“Or P.U.B.”, said Feliz.
They walked further. MaryLiz was hoping to spot some unambiguous sign, but a great deal of the deposited material was splintered almost beyond recognition.
Merl called out, from somewhere deep inside the Gift. “Hey y’all, looky here.”
The others threaded their way through the driftwood to Merl’s find: the side of a small building, with sheet metal walls backed by pine framing. Twisted angle irons at the walls’ footing held what was left of the walls to a fragment of decking. Through cracks in the decking, MaryLiz could see the edge of a massive styrofoam block, covered with barnacles and stained the color of fuel oil sludge.
“It’s part of a Marina, probably a fuel dock,” said Merl. “There’s even stuff still inside.” Merl climbed through the remains of a doorway and inspected the underside of the wall. Merl gave a low whistle.
“What do you have?” asked Feliz.
Merl ran one hand along the underside of the wall and pulled a laminated poster free, passing it up to Feliz, who glanced at it, and handed it to Frances.
It was a navigational chart, showing an area of northward facing coastline, with the marina’s former location marked with a fading red smudge of ink near its center.
With grim satisfaction, Frances muttered, “So that’s where they’re from.”