Up Moses Creek: Mr. Plume, Part Two
Skunks are equipped with two scent glands that they can deploy to a range of 15 feet. Fred Coyle photo
The first time we saw the skunk, Becky and I were in the yard after supper throwing a frisbee. It’s something we started doing at the start of the COVID pandemic as a relaxing way to end still another shut-in day. Becky pointed, I turned — and there was “Mr. Plume.” He was 30 feet away eating seeds that had fallen to the ground under the birdfeeder. We watched him for awhile, admiring his pure white stripes and fluffy tail. Then, seeing that all he wanted to do was eat, we went back to throwing the frisbee.
And everything was fine until one of Becky’s throws sent the orange disk sailing towards the feeder. When I went to get it, the skunk stopped eating and fixed his eyes on me. He had the steady look that told me he was from a long line of expert hunters — a Daniel Boone who practiced “one bullet, one buck” — and he was judging the range. I could tell he was not going to waste a perfectly good “bullet” on me — unless I came too close.
It got to be a regular thing after that: the skunk would show up at the feeder every evening at about the same time we went out with the frisbee.
But then, one morning while I was on the ridge behind the house with my binoculars trained on a hooded warbler, I heard a faint sound to my right, and there was Mr. Plume. He was frozen mid-step looking at me, and he was close.
Since I’d been standing perfectly still while watching the bird, my first thought was that the skunk might not have seen me until I turned my head. But then I thought that maybe he had seen me and kept coming anyway. When you’re packing like a skunk and are as conspicuous as a black-and-white cop car, you get used to going wherever you want. Everything moves out of your way. Then a thought that made me nervous came to mind: what if Mr. Plume not only knew me, what if he had given me a name? Wham-O Frisbee, perhaps.
That’s when I blurted out, “Well, where did you come from!” Since we were used to seeing each other down at the house, I tried to put a little welcome in my voice.
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Hearing me speak, the skunk started raising his tail. He raised it so gradually and yet so deliberately that it reminded me of times when, as a boy, I watched a bad guy in a black hat face off against Marshal Matt Dillon in “Gunsmoke” and slowly bring his hand closer, ever closer to his six-shooter.
But Plume’s tail stopped just halfway up. His tail was curved like a cat that arches its back when a dog gets close. A naturalist once told me that skunks have to stick their tails straight up to spray, and I hoped he was right. He also told me that a skunk’s spraying apparatus is made up of two scent glands flanking its anus, and that when a skunk sprays, it sticks up its tail, curls its body in a “U” to aim his rear end at the target, and “everts” the two glands — which means he pokes them out like little nozzles. Skunks can spray from one nozzle or the other, or they can shoot both. Their range is good to about 15 feet. Mr. Plume was closer than that.
Trying to inject a little humor into the situation, I spoke again: “Hey, buddy, put that tail back down!” At the same time I slowly took a step back, then another and another. The skunk kept his tail half cocked. Once I’d made some breathing room between us, I pointed past him and said: “You go on now, you go on.” And the skunk did! He turned and ran down the trail.
I’d read in a book that skunks can “gallop” at speeds of up to 10 miles per hour. But Mr. Plume didn’t gallop; his little feet didn’t pound the ground. Instead, he scooted along lightly. It looked like he was clicking his heels together, as if our standoff had made his day.
I was surprised at the size of his tail. It was as big as a white-tailed deer’s. And the skunk kept it straight up as he ran, like a gun sight. I knew that below the tail, two “barrels” were pointed straight at me.
We didn’t see the skunk at the feeder after supper that day. But the next evening, when Becky and I headed out to throw the frisbee, our eyes opened doubly wide. There were Mr. and Mrs. Plume!
(Burt Kornegay ran Slickrock Expeditions in Cullowhee for 30 years, and he is the author of “A Guide’s Guide to Panthertown Valley.” He lives with his wife Becky up Moses Creek in Jackson County. Read part one at smokymountainnews.com/archives/item/34314-up-moses-creek-mr-plume.)
