The Biggest Shell Game in Town

By Christine Gorman

When Lewis and Clark first sighted one in 1805, California condors soared freely from the Baja Peninsula to the Pacific Northwest. Until last month, just 27 of the orange-pated scavengers survived, all of them in the protected aviaries of the San Diego Wild Animal Park and the Los Angeles Zoo. Then on April 29 at 5:38 p.m., there were 28. Named Molloko, the Maidu Indian word for "condor," an ungainly chick, 6.75 oz., pecked its way out of its shell to become the newest member of the embattled clan -- and the first California condor ever conceived in captivity. Said Secretary of the Interior Donald Hodel: "This represents a big step back from the brink of extinction."

The avian milestone is a victory for biologists who persuaded the Federal Government that taking the endangered birds into protective custody was the best way to save them. Some conservationists bitterly opposed the capture of the last condors, arguing that pressure to preserve what was left of their habitat would vanish without a resident population. During the winter of 1985, nearly half of the 15 remaining wild birds perished, victims of lead shot, varmint poisons and land development. Two years later, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service rounded up the last of the survivors.

From the start, like hovering matchmakers, zoo officials tried to anticipate their charges' libidinal needs. Molloko's parents lived for three years in a "condorminium" measuring 40 ft. by 80 ft. by 22 ft. high -- enough room for condor courtship. Since human contact might distract the big birds, staff members observed them from a blind. Says David Rimlinger, manager of the San Diego park's bird department: "They had plenty of privacy, and the enclosure was big enough for them to get away from each other if they wanted to."

The elaborate preparations paid off in January, when the pair finally mated. On March 3 the female laid a 4 1/2-in.-long egg which was placed in an incubator. After 55 days, the developing chick began pecking a hole in the top of its pale green shell. Like midwives, the zoo staff encouraged its efforts by tapping the shell with a thin wire rod. The percussive duet lasted 52 hours, until a hole the size of a quarter had formed. A few hours later, the team carefully removed the remaining fragments and Molloko emerged. By week's end bird handlers were using a condor puppet to preen the rambunctious youngster and feed it 70 minced baby mice, or "pinkies," daily.

Even so, the condor is not back into the woods yet. Little has been done to rectify the environmental hazards that imperiled it. "Breeding in captivity was the easy part," says William Toone, curator of birds at the San Diego park. "The hard part is doing something to control the poisons and getting rid of the lead." Only then do biologists foresee a successful return of zoo- bred California condors, perhaps even Molloko's offspring, to their native home.

With reporting by Paul Krueger/San Diego