by Mary Parker Sonis
For the past few years, I have wanted to photograph our native gray fox, but the habits and habitat of this particular canid have made it quite a challenge. Unlike the bolder European red fox (which was introduced to the region in the 1700s for the purpose of sport hunting on horseback), the native gray fox is an elusive creature that protects itself by hiding in the crevices and deep brush of deciduous forests. The red fox is more suited for a long chase over cleared farmlands and pastures. If the gentry had attempted to hunt the gray fox on horseback, it would have been a very short chase. When chased, almost immediately a gray fox will hole up, dive for the underbrush or simply climb a tree.
The tree-climbing ability of the gray fox is unique for any canid in North America. It proves advantageous in escaping predation by any dog or coyote and aids the fox in securing food for its varied diet. The gray fox is extremely omnivorous, more so than the red. Particularly in fall, the gray fox will eat large amounts of berries, acorns and persimmons, along with the expected diet of rabbits, mice, voles and insects.
Although the fox is thought to be strictly crepuscular, or nocturnal, in fact, a fox can easily be observed during daylight hours. We have been told that if we see a fox during the day, it is most likely a sick animal, but this is not always true. Healthy foxes will often venture out during the day. Indeed, a female with kits might need to hunt throughout the day in order to feed a litter of three to seven young.
However, my pursuit of the gray fox has generally been a doomed affair. One fox casually trotted by me at the New Hope waterfowl impoundment, but I was using a slow camera at the time, and by the time the camera struggled to focus, I had nothing to show for my efforts but a picture of tangled greenbrier. That day, I marched through the wet bog for more than two hours in the vain hope of relocating a grizzle-gray coated creature no larger than a tall housecat. Another attempt for the fox photo came on Mt Sinai Road at sunset. A fox crossed the road, and I sprang from my car, camera in hand, only to wander aimlessly in the woods until the lack of sunlight forced me to call off the search.
Last summer, I could be found lurking by the trailer classrooms of Chapel Hill High School, camera ready, searching for the foxes that had taken up residence beneath the trailers. That attempt failed, and probably made me look like a classroom stalker. Fortunately, school was not in session.
My big moment came at Jordan Lake. After taking photos of herons from the shoreline, I decided to check a small reed-filled cove that is home to a kingfisher. Just as I was about to step off the paved lot and enter the woods, I spied a gray fox. He trotted down the single-track path and sat in a bit of sun to scratch his ear with a hind foot. Careful to stay off the noisy leaf litter, I photographed the fox from the paved lot. After a bit of grooming, the fox turned to face me, and I managed to fire off one shot before he noticed my presence and retreated down the path into the dense reeds. I went home delighted, and put the photos up on the computer. In my haste to catch the fox, I had neglected to change the camera settings from the bright light of the beach to the relative darkness of the woods. All of the photos had just a bit of motion blur. Mr. Fox had eluded me without even trying!
This failed attempt was irksome. I stewed. The next morning, still thinking about the fox, I got into the car and headed back out to the lake, hoping for something that we rarely have the opportunity for: the do-over. Before getting out of the car, I made camera adjustments, then headed quietly for the path where I had seen the fox retreat. I arrived at the exact time that the fox had appeared the previous day, thinking perhaps the fox was a creature of habit. I stood by the path near a rocky outcropping that I suspected was a good hiding place for a fox, and I waited, camera raised and ready. Within five minutes, the gray outline of the fox was visible, slipping between the reeds. He silently worked his way to the path and stood before me. Somehow, he did not notice me; I stood utterly still and took my photos.
I could clearly see the almond-shaped vertical pupils that make the fox appear so cat-like. I could see the long curved front claws that the fox uses to climb trees. His rust-hued ears and ruff accented the silvery gray of his back. He was a wisp of a creature that probably weighed no more than 10 pounds. Turning slowly, he stood in profile and I could see an elegant vulpine narrow muzzle and a fluffed tail with its characteristic black topline. What a beautiful creature!
My pleasure in the day (and the moment) was not diminished by the knowledge that many of my neighbors have seen gray foxes lolling on their decks or sunning on mulch piles. The day was rewarding simply because I had failed so many times before.
“When they seldom come, they wish’d for come.â€