Picture this: the heart-wrenching end of an entire species captured in a single museum specimen. That's the stunning revelation from the Cincinnati Museum Center, where they've just confirmed they possess the world's last female great auk. It's a discovery that tugs at the soul, reminding us of humanity's impact on the natural world. But here's the twist that keeps us coming back – this isn't just about one bird; it's a story interwoven with Cincinnati's own history of lost wildlife wonders. Dive deeper, and you'll uncover layers of mystery, science, and perhaps a dash of controversy that might make you question our role in conservation.
Let's rewind a bit. Back in 1914, Martha, the final passenger pigeon on Earth, met her end right here in Cincinnati. For those new to this, passenger pigeons were once incredibly abundant across North America, flying in flocks so massive they darkened the skies. Their extinction was a tragedy brought on by overhunting and habitat loss – a stark lesson in how human actions can erase an entire population. Then, in 1918, Inca, the last Carolina parakeet, also perished at the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden. These colorful birds, native to the southeastern U.S., were wiped out primarily through hunting for their feathers and the pet trade. It's eerie how Cincinnati has become a graveyard for these iconic species.
Now, enter Eldey, adding her name to this somber list of extinct birds linked to the Queen City. The Cincinnati Museum Center has nailed down her heritage with irrefutable DNA evidence and historical records. In a groundbreaking scientific paper published just last month, researchers unveiled how this resolves a puzzle that's baffled experts in natural history and museums for over 180 years. By proving Eldey was one of the very last of her kind, they've delivered a long-awaited finale to the great auk's extinction saga.
To truly grasp this, we need to go way back – thousands of years, in fact. Great auks, those remarkable flightless seabirds that thrived in the North Atlantic, left behind fossils dating to about 400,000 years ago, as noted in a 2003 study by a Smithsonian researcher. Imagine these birds as sturdy, penguin-like creatures: adults reached around 30 inches tall and weighed about 11 pounds, with sleek black backs, white bellies, and webbed feet perfect for paddling through icy waters. Though shorter than the majestic 4-foot Emperor penguin, they shared a similar silhouette. As expert swimmers, they used their impressive 4.5-inch bills to snatch fish from the sea – think of it like a built-in net that made meals effortless.
Eldey – a nickname given by the museum's zoology curator, Heather Farrington – hails from the mid-1800s. Her sad tale unfolds on Eldey Island, off Iceland's coast, where she and her male partner were tragically strangled to death in June 1844 while protecting their precious egg. The hunters who committed this act also smashed the egg, sealing the fate of their species. For centuries, great auks had been targeted for their meat (which, according to the museum's zoology collections manager Mayala Dean, probably had a fishy taste due to their diet), feathers, and oil. These murderers handed over the bodies of this final breeding pair to an Icelandic pharmacy. From there, the specimens journeyed to Denmark, England, and even the Bahamas before one landed at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County in November 1974, and the other at what was then the Cincinnati Natural History Museum (now part of the Cincinnati Museum Center).
And this is the part most people miss – the detective work that turned a simple display piece into a living history lesson. Cincinnati initially believed it had the male from that infamous 1844 pair, but DNA testing in 1993 revealed it was actually female. Fast-forward to 2017, when a research paper suggested Cincinnati's auk might be one of those last two. Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, scientists revisited the mystery, carefully extracting a tiny tissue sample – about the size of a couple of grains of rice – from the bottom of Eldey's left foot. Matching it against samples of her organs preserved in Denmark, they confirmed the connection. It's a triumph of modern science bridging the past!
Farrington calls the extinction of great auks a profound tragedy, yet she beams with excitement about owning Eldey. 'Any time we can pinpoint the final individual of a species on our planet, it's incredibly powerful,' she shares. It sparks reflection on what we've lost and perhaps what we can learn to prevent similar fates.
Once a star of the exhibit, Eldey now resides in a special cabinet at the museum's Queensgate site – what Farrington and Dean term the 'priority cabinet.' This secure spot holds the most valuable specimens, prioritized for evacuation during disasters like floods or fires. Her display history is fascinating: famed artist John James Audubon painted a great auk in the early 1800s, though he never encountered one alive. Echoing that legacy, Cincinnati painter John Ruthven, inspired by Audubon, captured his own vision of the bird. In 1976, the Natural History Museum showcased Eldey in a diorama Ruthven painted. By 1990, as the museum relocated from Gilbert Avenue in Eden Park to the Cincinnati Museum Center at Union Terminal, Eldey was tucked away for protection. She briefly reappeared in September 2019 for a four-month exhibit called 'In the Audubon Tradition,' alongside artwork by both Audubon and Ruthven, plus over 250 other pieces.
The museum's collection leans toward birds from the U.S. and tropics, with Eldey as a rare Arctic gem. Nearby is a razorbill, a smaller cousin similar in coloring. Globally, only about 80 great auk specimens exist in museums or private hands – and that's it. No more will come from her lineage. 'This was the absolute end for this species,' Farrington notes.
Interestingly, Martha's remains were gifted to the Smithsonian after her death, while Inca's final resting place remains a mystery. Just like the great auks, hunting was a major culprit in their disappearances. But here's where it gets controversial – is hunting the sole villain, or did factors like habitat destruction and climate shifts play a bigger role? Some argue that blaming hunters oversimplifies a complex web of human expansion and environmental changes. Others point to the pet trade or overhunting as the undeniable killers. What do you think? Should we hold hunters entirely accountable, or is it a shared responsibility? And in a broader sense, as we face ongoing extinction threats today, how can museums like Cincinnati's inspire action without wallowing in guilt?
Do you agree that highlighting these 'last of their kind' stories raises awareness, or does it just make us feel hopeless? Share your thoughts in the comments – let's discuss whether focusing on extinctions motivates conservation or if we need a more positive spin. After all, every specimen like Eldey is a reminder and a call to protect what's left.
