Wild Things: What the mink stole

A mink with a mouthful of fish. Ed Kanze Photo

By ED KANZE

A few days ago, walking a stretch of road that traces the bank of a river, I saw something move. It appeared dark brown or black, approximated the size and shape of a very large sausage, and plunged into tall grass, disappearing.

My curiosity was piqued. I waited. And waited some more. Standing still while exercising my right to remain silent, I peered into the grass where the sausage had vanished. There I could see something dark, and it moved ever so slightly every few seconds.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was glimpsing. Within a minute or two, I had confirmation. The pert, keen-eyed face of a mink nosed out of the grass, sniffed the air suspiciously, and stepped cautiously in my direction. I continued to stay frozen in place.

Step by step the mink came closer. Then its face plunged into the grass. A moment later, up came the pert face, this time with a fish in its mouth. The color and pattern of the scales told me the fish was a rock bass.

According to a deed filed in the county office land records office, we own the property where the mink was fishing. And since we had not granted the semi-aquatic member of the weasel family permission to fish there, technically one could say (especially someone prone to puns could say) that the mink stole the fish. Had it? Not really. The mink has as much right to fish in that spot as I do. Members of my family have lived in this neck of the woods since about 1795. The mink’s family likely has me beat by about 10,000 years.

I lifted my camera slowly, inch by surreptitious inch. When I could see the mink and its prize through the viewfinder, I clicked off a few quick photographs. Note to myself: while in weak moments I hanker to own a mirrorless camera body, one that can shoot wildlife photos without any telltale flicking and clicking of reflective glass, the mink could have cared less about the sounds I was making. As long as I stood still, I felt confident it would accept me as just another piece of the landscape.

What would the mink do next? I hadn’t a clue. I suppose the most likely thing was that the mink, right then and there, would devour the rock bass. Mink don’t practice catch-and-release fishing as some of my friends do. They fish for keeps. But this mink didn’t eat the little bass, at least not right away. It turned and bounded back into the tall grass.

So I kept waiting. I wouldn’t have minded bringing home a few more mink images, but photography wasn’t my chief motivation. Mostly I just wanted to “hang” with the mink, as some would put it, and see what came next.

I didn’t have long to wait. For perhaps a minute or two, the mink remained hunkered down in the grass. I could see just a hint of it, quivering. It was eating a bit of the rock bass, no doubt.

Yet right about the time I expected the mink to emerge with an empty mouth and a full belly, it sprung for the water and began to swim. Mink move through water with their heads out, like human swimmers averse to getting their hair wet. In fact, pretty much the entire upper reaches of this animal, head to tip of tail, stayed dry as it crossed the river, which was about 20 feet wide. 

On the far side, the mink landed on a sandy beach a few inches wide, bounded out of the water, and plunged into a hole in the undercut bank. A few minutes later, it emerged, fishless. Had the mink dined in private, or had it fed the fish to an offspring or mate? There was no way to tell. This being breeding season, I’m guessing the fish supplied nourishment to youngsters.

The drama ended with the mink mounting the bank, briefly rolling while rubbing the underside of its neck on matted grass (scent marking, I’d wager), and then bounding away with great leaps. It disappeared in a tangle of shrubbery.