As wildlife biologists and visitors mourn the death of 1K, Zion National Park’s first wild California condor, they still can seek solace and find hope by scanning the sky.
That’s where wildlife watchers, if they are lucky and their eyesight is sharp, might catch a glimpse of 1111, Zion’s second wild condor and the younger sister of 1K, the condor that was found dead from lead poisoning recently in a juniper tree near Pipe Spring National Monument in northern Arizona.
A majestic bird with a 9 ½-foot wingspan, 1K became a marquee attraction at Zion when he hatched in May 2019, and became an iconic symbol of hope for the species, listed as endangered by the federal government.
Now that he is gone, likely poisoned from ingesting an animal felled by lead ammunition, 1K’s fans continue to mourn and public attention is increasingly focused on 3-year-old 1111. Moreover, park and wildlife officials are using the tragedy to call on hunters to use copper and other non-lead bullets to avoid more poisonings.
“People doing condor recovery work watch these birds day in and day out and really get to know them,” said Janice Stroud-Settles, Zion’s wildlife program manager. “So when a condor dies, it is extremely emotional for us.”
Getting the lead out
That’s one of the reasons underlying the intense focus on 1111, who hatched in Zion two years after her brother and has already weathered a near-death experience from lead. When she was trapped and tested in January, 1111 had the highest lead levels ever recorded in a live bird and was transferred to an Arizona wildlife rehabilitation center for some intensive care.
Lead poisoning, wildlife officials attest, is the leading killer of condors ever since the founding of the California Condor Recovery Program in 1982. Since 1996, when the birds were introduced in Utah and Arizona, 53 condors have died from lead poisoning. To cut down on the mortality, the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources’ Hunters Helping Condors program offers hunters in the area surrounding the park a $50 coupon they can redeem at retailers to get non-lead bullets.
The past year has been especially tough on condors.
In 2023, the Utah-Arizona condor population hovered at about 120 birds until the outbreak of a strain of avian flu felled 21 of them, while others succumbed to lead poisoning. Condors in the area now number 83, only four of which are in captivity, according to wildlife officials.
Determining precisely how many condors inhabit Zion at any given time is difficult because they roam a large area, from the Grand Canyon in northern Arizona to Cedar Breaks National Monument in southern Utah. Wildlife biologists attach radio transmitters and number tags to each bird to track their numbers.
Sole survivor
In surviving thus far, 1111 has exhibited some pluck and a bit of luck. After several months of convalescence in Arizona, the sibling survivor was released back into the wild on May 17 and can now be seen flying on occasion in Zion’s Kolob region, according to Stroud-Settles.
In addition to losing her brother, 1111 also lost her parents. Her mother died recently from avian flu, making her the sole survivor. Stroud-Settles said watching the brother and sister cavort about the canyon last April, when 1K was still alive, was captivating.
“They would hang out together below Angels Landing,” the wildlife manager recalled, “and she was looking at his behaviors and trying to imitate him. It was really sweet. They also were roosting together, basically finding a place where they could sleep for the night together.”
Seeing 1111 also brings back fond memories for St. George retiree Pete Gorzalski, a member of the all-volunteer Condor Raiders who spends two days each week at Zion tracking condors and educating visitors about North America’s largest wild bird.
Slinging grapes and cranberries
(National Park Service) Pete Gorzalski
Gorzalski, also known as “Condor Pete,” remembers the bird’s-eye view he had of 1K and other condors hovering or perching near Angels Landing and hanging out too close to hikers. To discourage such fraternization, the park volunteer and fellow Raiders would trek to the top of the trail and haze the birds.
Sometimes, they employed a slingshot and slung semi-frozen grapes or cranberries at the pair.
“I actually had to go through a slingshot training school for that,” Gorzalski said with a laugh.
Condors, he said, recognized volunteers from the uniforms they wore. To instill fear of all people – not just uniformed volunteers – in the condors, the Raiders often enlisted visitors to yell, scream and clap at the animals.
Gorzalski said they also used sports bottles to squirt water at the creatures.
“But these birds were so smart they learned really quickly what tree they could perch in to be two feet [out] of range of the water,” he said. “So that didn’t work that well.”
Rather than hazing condors, Gorzalski prefers educating visitors about them. One of his favorite memories was helping an elderly woman sight 1K through a spotting scope and watching tears stream down her face.
“She told me she had seen a condor when she was a little girl and thought she would never see one again in the wild,” he recalled.
Stroud-Settles and Gorzalski want to ensure others have that same opportunity, which is why they instruct hunters to get the lead out of their ammunition — in other words, use copper bullets — to avoid poisoning condors and bald and golden eagles that scavenge on animal carcasses.
Alas, such advice is too late to soothe Gorzalski’s hurt from the loss of 1K. When the condor’s body was recovered, he said, wildlife officials removed one of his feathers and the tag he wore on his wing and asked volunteers if they would like to hold them.
“I was there with another wildlife official and asked her if she could snap a picture of me holding the feather and wing tag,” he recalled. “After she took the picture, I broke down and lost it. We were all so emotional at the time.”
