They'd planned this moment for months -- years, really -- ever since Dave Thomas first suggested that the Oregon Zoo improve living conditions for its Sumatran orangutans. The great apes, the senior primate keeper told administrators, needed more room to move and a space that challenged their creativity and high intelligence.
Finally, on that morning a couple of weeks ago when Thomas and the others discussed animal safety, Red Ape Reserve was on the verge of opening -- at least if all went well when the orangutans and the white-cheeked gibbons, new roommates, met for the first time.
The two species share space in other zoos and typically co-exist without much trouble. But sometimes the rascally little gibbons stir things up, pestering the far larger, stronger orangutans, which could crush them.
The Oregon Zoo's two gibbons and two orangutans had explored their elaborate new outdoor space, but never at the same time. Keepers stationed all around Red Ape Reserve weren't sure what to expect. The fire extinguisher filled with carbon dioxide could be used to break up a fight, if need be.
Duffy and Phyllis, as the gibbons are called, already were out, swinging like trapeze artists from rope vines in the boomerang-shaped, 5,400-square-foot outdoor space. The orangutans, Inji and her grandson, Kutai, remained in their 820-square-foot indoor enclosure.
Thomas' two-way radio crackled. A keeper relayed that Inji, the 50-year-old female orangutan, had moved toward the steel gate leading to that intriguing new space outside. Ever since she was captured from the wild as a youngster, a practice now illegal, Inji had lived indoors.
Thomas scanned the exhibit to see where the gibbons were. He lifted the radio to his mouth. "OK," he said. "Go for it."
The gate rose with a clang and Inji, a 117-pound redhead with an attitude, muscled her way through.
Moving animals into new exhibits stresses even seasoned zoo professionals, in part because beasts -- particularly primates -- are clever. If there's a loose bolt or a faulty weld, said Chris Pfefferkorn, they'll find it.
Kutai once dug up nails apparently dropped during a long-ago exhibit remodel. He hid them in his cheek, trading them one by one with keepers for treats, said Pfefferkorn, interim deputy zoo director. Today, workers scour zoo exhibits with metal detectors before animals are allowed in.
The zoo's sea otters discovered a plastic shim left behind by window installers, which was bad enough but not as bad as stories Pfefferkorn's heard.
An octopus in Alaska once shattered its tank, spilling thousands of gallons of water just before dignitaries arrived for an aquarium's grand opening. And a tiger pawed a heavy mesh panel in a new exhibit and broke right through it. The incident so startled the cat that it ran back into its cage, much to keepers' relief.
With Red Ape Reserve, the Oregon Zoo's animal managers chose to go slow. They vowed to have the exhibit ready for public viewing by this summer, but declined until last week to pin down a date -- Friday, Sept. 3. They wanted to make sure the animals felt calm and at home, weren't overly aggressive and that the exhibit worked well before opening it.
The strategy proved wise, particularly because keepers and the veterinary staff noticed in early June that Batik, a 22-year-old orangutan, had lost her appetite. After an ultrasound found infection in her gut, veterinarians removed her enlarged right kidney and gall bladder, but she died July 8.
About the time keepers planned to introduce the gibbons to Red Ape Reserve in mid-July, workers discovered windows in need of repair, delaying the move, said Linda D'Ae-Smith, a zoo spokeswoman. Finally, the gibbons got their chance to explore their new outdoor space on July 28; orangutans got their turn about a week later, while the gibbons were sequestered indoors. Thomas and Pfefferkorn figured that if anything was amiss in the new enclosure, the orangutans would find it. Kutai, 16 years old and 250 pounds, is exceptionally curious, creative and tenacious. "Over the years," Thomas said, "he's shown he can problem-solve and work at a task for a long time."
A keeper once pulled Thomas aside, saying, "Kutai has a broom."
The orangutan, who has lived at the zoo since he was 7, had flattened cardboard boxes, connected them somehow and slid them under the mesh cage wall until they reached a tool rack. He maneuvered the cardboard so it grabbed a broom, then pulled the broom into his cage.
Thomas is certain Kutai will discover trouble with Red Ape Reserve -- design flaws or construction errors. Animals usually let the humans know what they've done wrong.
"There'll be a punch list," he said. "Kutai will dig. He'll find things."
Built in 1980, the old orangutan exhibit looked something like a kids' play structure, only bigger. In a large room with a dirt floor, logs gave the animals places to climb. They could play with a tire hanging from a chain or lounge in a hammock. But as Kutai grew older, the space didn't challenge his increasingly inquisitive intellect.
Thomas recalls telling Tony Vecchio, former zoo director, that it wouldn't be right for Kutai to live out his life in the old enclosure. If the zoo couldn't provide something better, he advised Vecchio, then they should send Kutai to a zoo with a superior exhibit.
Such a move, Thomas said, would have broken his heart. At 61, he has cared mostly for the zoo's primates since he started as a volunteer in 1973, joining the staff the following year. He considers them as dear as family.
Financial negotiations followed with Metro, which operates the zoo. Staff and supporters raised money, too, including a $56,000 donation from the Portland chapter of the American Association of Zoo Keepers.
Thomas calls the approximately $3.45 million Red Ape Reserve "fantastic. It's what you dream of."
The combined indoor and outdoor habitats increase the animals' space by more than three-and-a-half times, and keepers expect the outside yard will vastly enrich their lives. Plus, the social aspect of mixing species should intrigue both.
The jumble of logs, thick rope vines and steel sway poles made to look like bamboo mean the gibbons and orangutans never have to touch the ground if they don't want to. They can climb all the way to the exhibit's mesh ceiling and get a bird's-eye view of the zoo. A stout tower in the middle resembles a buttress tree overtaken by a strangler fig. Keepers can ascend the staircase inside and leave treats for the primates in cubbyholes, just to keep things interesting.
The gibbons have been outside before. But Kutai, born in captivity, never had the chance; Inji hasn't experienced the sights, scents and sounds of the outdoors since her capture in Southeast Asia half a century ago.
Critically endangered, Sumatran orangutans live mostly solitary lives in the wild. They forage for fruit among the trees, sometimes crafting tools to extract insects from bark. But their habitat is shrinking fast because of logging, mining, fires and the conversion of tropical forests to oil palm plantations. Other threats, according to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, include hunting and the illegal animal trade.
White-cheeked gibbons, strictly arboreal animals that depend on stretches of forest in the wild, are losing habitat to human activity, too.
The elegant little gibbons -- he's black with white cheeks, she's creamy gold with a white fur halo framing her black face -- seemed to relish Red Ape Reserve's outdoor space from Day One. They explored the whole exhibit, swinging from end to end, climbing the tallest poles and pulling grass, a novel snack. Their activity level in the new space, Thomas said, has increased tenfold.
But how would they fare with enormous new neighbors, the orangutans?
When the gate slid open a little after 9 a.m. Aug. 17 and Inji climbed outside, the gibbons went on high alert. Phyllis, who is about 40, kept her distance at first. Not Duffy. The 16-year-old swung to within 6 or 7 feet of the orangutan and hung by his hands from a rope, eyeballing her.
Then, in a whoosh, he vanished around a corner.
Inji craned her head to see where he'd gone.
The morning was warm. Sun dappled the exhibit's bamboo. Birdsong and children's chatter filled the air. Nearby, an elephant trumpeted. For the orangutan, all of it was new.
Kutai, far more timid, poked his enormous head out a few times and finally emerged from his indoor room about half an hour after his grandmother. He climbed cautiously across the logs, tilting his head to watch the gibbons.
Keepers tracked each animal's movements, relaying information on radios and watching for signs of aggression. "They're just feeling each other out," Thomas said.
The gibbons vocalized, their woo-ooo-eee calls rising and falling like sirens.
An hour later, all four animals had retreated to separate indoor enclosures without incident. The gibbons sat arm in arm observing zoo-goers through the glass. Kutai hung out, while Inji, who has endured 50 years of changes and challenges, rested in a corner. Beads of sweat glistened on her face. She looked beat.
Putting up with roommates, as anyone knows, can be exhausting.
-- Katy Muldoon