Higher Calling Wildlife

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Wildlife Cloning

Illegal Wildlife Cloning-(New Report!)

February 3, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

Wildlife cloning is already happening — and it is happening both in illegal circumstances and sanctioned by the government.

Watch my special report on wildlife cloning.

The Marco Polo sheep, one of the world’s most iconic wild sheep species, is now at the center of a debate that raises urgent questions:

• Is wildlife cloning helping conservation—or harming it? • Who regulates cloning endangered animals?

• What happens when science moves faster than ethics and law? This video explores the dark side of wildlife cloning, conservation risks, genetic manipulation, and the long-term impact on biodiversity.

If you care about endangered species, conservation science, or animal ethics, this is a conversation we need to have.

Check out the video and watch till the end and share your thoughts—should wildlife cloning be banned, regulated, or embraced?

Chester Moore

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Uncategorized

Mountain Goats in the Smoky Mountains? Vietnamese Mountain Hogs? Huh?

January 31, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

Over the years, I’ve heard some fascinating claims about animals that supposedly live in places they don’t belong. Mountain goats in North Carolina. “Vietnamese mountain hogs” roaming the southern woods. Exotic species hiding in plain sight, just out of reach of official recognition.

Check out our latest video here.

At first glance, stories like these don’t sound completely unreasonable. The animals people describe often look unfamiliar—thick-bodied, oddly shaped, or sporting features most folks don’t expect to see locally. The locations aren’t impossibly remote. And once a story starts making the rounds, especially when it’s repeated with confidence, it begins to feel less like rumor and more like fact.

That’s how these legends gain traction. Someone sees something unusual. A name gets attached to it. Then the explanation spreads faster than the evidence.

One experience in particular stayed with me. Years ago, I personally came across an animal that people around me were calling an “Asian mountain buffalo.” The story surrounding it was detailed and persuasive. Multiple people insisted it was something exotic—an animal that had escaped captivity or been quietly released years earlier. And I’ll admit, at first glance, it really did look out of place. Big. Heavy. Different from what most people expect to see in that region.

But the more I listened, the more I realized something important was missing from the conversation: basic questions.

No one was asking where the animal came from. No one was comparing it to known species. No one was slowing down long enough to separate what they were seeing from what they were assuming. The mystery wasn’t being examined—it was being protected.

That moment stuck with me because it revealed how easily ordinary animals can be transformed into something extraordinary once curiosity gives way to certainty. When people stop questioning, familiar species become cryptids. Farm animals turn into foreign beasts. And the truth gets buried under a more exciting story.

In this video, I take a closer look at several cases just like that—situations where animals were believed to be something they weren’t. Not because people were foolish, but because human nature tends to favor a good story over a careful explanation. We want the world to be more mysterious than it is, and sometimes all it takes is an unfamiliar shape or an unusual setting to spark a legend.

The goal isn’t to mock these stories, but to understand them—and to remember that the simplest explanation is often the most accurate, even when it isn’t the most exciting.

Chester Moore

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Why Reporting Wildlife Tags Matters: A Mountain Goat Story from Mount Blue Sky

January 29, 2026 Chester Moore 1 Comment

A massive, woolly mountain goat slowly lifted her head above a granite outcrop, silhouetted against the thin alpine sky.

For years, photographing a mountain goat had been a personal goal of mine. But as a Texan who lives at just 14 feet above sea level on the Texas coast, I felt every step as I climbed near 14,000 feet on Colorado’s Mount Blue Sky. The altitude slowed me down, sharpened my breathing, and reminded me just how far from home I truly was.

As I carefully made my way toward the rock, I realized the goat was a nanny—and tucked close beside her was a beautiful, very young kid. The moment was brief but powerful. I raised my camera, capturing her strength and grace, and I made sure to focus on the collar and ear tag she wore, knowing those details mattered beyond the photograph itself.

When I returned home, I contacted Rebecca Boyce with Colorado Parks & Wildlife to learn more about the goat I had photographed. What I discovered was fascinating. The nanny, identified as Ear Tag #1128, had been fitted with a GPS collar in October 2016. At the time of capture, she was estimated to be five years old or older and in good body condition. Her collar transmitted data until January 2017, when it likely failed due to a malfunction.

According to Boyce, the data revealed that from October 2016 through January 2017, the goat spent her entire time within just 2.2 square miles around Mount Blue Sky. Even in its short lifespan, the collar provided valuable insight into how these animals use the rugged alpine landscape.

That experience reinforced an important lesson for me and my family: turning in any tag or collar information you encounter truly matters. Those small details—often overlooked—help wildlife biologists piece together the stories that guide conservation and management decisions.

Sharing this moment with my daughter, Faith, and my wife, Lisa, made it even more meaningful. Standing together on that mountain and later learning how one observation could contribute to conservation became a highlight of our conservation awareness work. It reminded us that meaningful conservation doesn’t always start with grand actions—it starts with paying attention, respecting wildlife, and choosing to share what we see so it can make a difference.

Chester Moore

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Watch my full video investigation here.

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Mysterious Wildlife

Canada Lynx in the America South? (Video)

January 17, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

Are Canada lynx found in the American South?

For decades, people across the southern United States have reported seeing unusually large wildcats — often identified as Canada lynx (Lynx canadensis) — despite the species not being officially confirmed in the Deep South.

These sightings have fueled long-standing rumors of secret lynx stocking programs, whispered explanations passed through hunting camps and rural communities.

Similar to past mountain lion misidentification stories in the South, reports of “lynx” often reveal how unfamiliar wildlife, poor lighting, and size exaggeration can create persistent legends.

But where did these stories really come from? In this investigation, I examine the biology and confirmed range of the Canada lynx, how it differs from the far more common bobcat (Lynx rufus), and why misidentification has played such a powerful role in Southern wildlife lore.

This documentary explores whether Canada lynx have ever occurred in the American South, how they differ from bobcats, and why generations of Southerners have reported seeing “lynx” where none are officially recognized. Even popular references reflect this confusion.

A famous “souped-up wildcat” joke told by comedian Jerry Clower illustrates how people have long described unusually large or intimidating wildcats using the word “lynx,” regardless of species.

Jerry Clower talked about a “lynx” in Mississippi.

By separating rumor from record, folklore from biology, and perception from documented range, this film traces how the idea of “lynx in the South” took hold — and what the real history actually shows.

Chester Moore

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Hogs

I Didn’t Expect to See This on a Trail Camera

January 10, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

For years, feral hogs have been one of the most familiar — and destructive — wildlife problems across the American South. They’re usually described the same way: dark, bristly, aggressive, and unmistakably hogs.

But every so often, something shows up that doesn’t fit the mold.

Recently, I was sent a trail-camera image of a large, white, heavily built hog with an unusually thick, almost wool-like coat. The person who sent it to me (Raul Alcocer) didn’t know what to make of it.

I showed a diehard hog hunting/trapper the photo and their first reaction wasn’t scientific — it was visual.

They said it looked like a polar bear.

That nickname stuck. They called it a “polar bear hog.”

Watch the full analysis here

At first glance, the reaction is understandable. The animal’s color, bulk, and coat texture don’t match what most people expect to see when they think of a feral hog.

And once you start asking around, it becomes clear this isn’t an isolated case. Hunters and landowners across the South have reported giant white hogs, pale hogs, and oddly built feral boars that don’t resemble the typical wild hogs they’ve dealt with for years.

These animals stand out because they’re rare — not because they’re impossible.

Why some feral hogs look so different

Feral hogs in North America are not a single, uniform animal. They’re the result of centuries of mixing between escaped domestic pigs, Eurasian wild boar stock, and ongoing uncontrolled breeding. Over time, that has produced a population that is genetically chaotic.

Most of the time, feral hogs trend toward a familiar “wild” look: darker coloration, bristly hair, leaner bodies. But the genetics behind them don’t disappear. Under the right conditions, old domestic traits can resurface, even generations later.

That’s why white or pale feral hogs occasionally appear. In many cases, their ancestry traces back to common domestic breeds such as Yorkshire or Chester White pigs, which were widely raised across the South for decades. When those genetics re-emerge in the wild, the results can be surprising — especially to people who have spent their lives around hogs.

In rarer cases, some hogs show woolly or curly coats, a trait associated with old European domestic breeds developed for fat production and cold tolerance. These traits are uncommon, but they are real, and they help explain why some feral hogs look more like livestock from another era than modern wild animals.

Whether you watch the video or just read this, the takeaway is the same: the wild still has the ability to surprise us — sometimes in the form of a hog that looks more like a polar bear than anything people expect to see in the woods of the South.

Chester Moore

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Uncategorized

When a Gator Eats Your Fish: Fly Fishing Florida’s Exotic Canal Species

January 8, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

Southern Florida has a way of pulling me back into the margins—the narrow strips of water most people drive past without a second thought. Canals, ditches, overgrown drainage cuts. They’re not postcard places, but they’re alive. And on a recent trip fly fishing for invasive exotics, they delivered one of the most intense, unforgettable days I’ve ever spent with a rod in my hand.

I was fishing with Paul Fuzinski of Aptitude Outdoors, targeting non-native fish in southern Florida and field testing custom fly rods from Mudfish Adventures.

The plan was simple: pack light, fish tight water, and throw flies where no sane person would think to cast. The reality was a wild mix of explosive strikes, technical casts, toothy predators—and one very large reptile that reminded us exactly where we were.

The canal itself was tiny. Narrow enough in places that a long cast would put you into the opposite bank. The water was dark and slow, bordered by thick brush that seemed designed to eat flies. It was the kind of place where accuracy mattered more than distance, and where every fish hooked felt magnified by the intimacy of the setting.

Chester using two old pilings as a casting platform.

The oscars were everywhere.

Big ones.

Thick-bodied, aggressive fish that slammed flies with the confidence of something that had never seen consequences. We were throwing short, sharp casts—sidearm, backhand, under branches—often landing flies in pockets no bigger than a trash-can lid. When the fly landed clean, the response was immediate. A flash, a surge, and then the line would come tight as another oscar tried to bulldog its way back into cover.

We caught a bunch of them. Solid fish that pulled far harder than most people would expect from a canal species. On a fly rod, they were all heart—short runs, violent head shakes, and an absolute refusal to quit.

Chester with a Mayan cichlid from a previous trip.

Then things escalated.

Paul hooked into what was clearly one of the better oscars of the day. The fish ate deep and turned hard, digging toward the middle of the canal. Paul had it under control, working the fish steadily toward him, when the water erupted.

A 10-foot alligator surged out of the canal and grabbed the fish before Paul could land it.

Just like that—the oscar was gone.

There was no drama, no hesitation. One second Paul was fighting a fish, the next he was holding a slack line and staring at a swirl that said everything about who really owns these waters. We both just stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. That’s southern Florida fishing. You’re never at the top of the food chain.

We kept fishing—because that’s what you do.

The challenge of the day wasn’t just the fish or the wildlife, but the casting. The brush was relentless. Mangled backcasts, tight windows, vines at shoulder height. Every decent presentation felt like a small victory. You had to visualize the cast before you made it, commit fully, and accept that losing flies was part of the game.

Paul switched things up at one point and broke out a tenkara rod—long, simple, elegant. It is technically fly fishing.

Watching him use it in that tight canal was impressive. He dapped tiny flies into micro pockets and started reminding us just how diverse these waters are.

Micro tilapia came first, darting and flashing like quicksilver. Then a Mayan cichlid—a beautifully marked fish with an attitude entirely out of proportion to its size. On the tenkara rod, it was pure fun.

That fish hit a nerve for me.

Standing there, watching Paul land that Mayan cichlid, I flashed back to when I first started fly fishing canals south of Miami years ago.

Those early days shaped how I see fishing. I learned quickly that you didn’t need wilderness to find wild fights. In urban canals and roadside ditches, I caught hard-fighting Mayan cichlids, jaguar cichlids that hit like freight trains, and peacock bass that made every cast feel electric.

Those fish taught me creativity. They taught me to see opportunity in overlooked places. They also taught me respect—for the resilience of fish and the strange, complicated ecosystems they inhabit.

That complexity was impossible to ignore on this trip.

Catching invasive exotics on flies is undeniably fun. It’s visual, aggressive, technical, and wildly accessible. From urban ditches to the edges of the Everglades, these fisheries blur the line between city and wild. But there’s also an environmental reality layered underneath every strike.

These fish don’t belong here. Their presence is the result of human action—intentional or not—and their impact on native species is real. Fishing for them doesn’t erase that, but it does force you to engage with it. You can’t stand knee-deep in a canal full of oscars and Mayan cichlids without thinking about how fragile and altered these systems are.

That tension is part of what makes southern Florida fishing so compelling to me.

It’s messy. It’s exciting. It’s uncomfortable at times. You can hook a beautiful fish, lose it to a gator, and then turn around and admire the adaptability of life thriving in a place built for drainage, not wonder.

By the end of the day, we were scratched up, fly boxes lighter, and grinning like kids. Big oscars on flies, impossible casts, tenkara micro-fishing, and a reminder from a 10-foot alligator that this landscape still runs on its own rules.

From urban ditches to wild water, southern Florida keeps teaching the same lesson—it’s not about where you fish. It’s about paying attention to what’s there, and seizing the day.

Chester Moore

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Check out my YouTube video on the return of black bears to East TX.

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Uncategorized

Monster Black Bears! We’re Talking True Giants!

January 2, 2026 Chester Moore Leave a comment

Stories about giant black bears have circulated for generations, but separating fact from exaggeration requires leaning on official records, check-station data, and documented wildlife management actions. According to state wildlife agencies and verified reporting, a small number of black bears in North America have reached extraordinary sizes—well beyond what most people associate with the species.

Black bears are remarkably adaptable animals, capable of thriving in forests, swamps, agricultural landscapes, and mountain terrain. According to wildlife biologists, when genetics, age, habitat quality, and food availability align, some males can reach weights that rival much larger bear species. The following examples represent the most credible heavyweight black bears on record, based on official agency data and documented cases.

A huge bear captured and move in Tennessee.

The most frequently cited benchmark comes from eastern North Carolina. According to the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, the heaviest male black bear recorded in the state weighed 880 pounds. Agency records list the bear as having been taken in Craven County in November 1998, making it the largest confirmed black bear in North Carolina’s long-running dataset covering more than five decades.

According to multiple outdoor media accounts referencing that event, the bear was harvested by hunter Coy Parton near Vanceboro. Wildlife officials have long noted that North Carolina’s coastal plain—with its agricultural crops, swamp forests, and abundant mast—produces some of the largest black bears in the eastern United States.

Canada has also produced verified heavyweight black bears in recent years. According to Outdoor Life, hunter Shaun Stratford harvested an exceptionally large black bear on September 16, 2021, north of Temagami, within Ontario’s Wildlife Management Unit 40. According to the report, the bear weighed 803.9 pounds after being field dressed, with the weight recorded during recovery.

A 696-pound black bear harvested in Louisiana’s first season in 40 years back in 2024.

According to wildlife professionals quoted in the coverage, a black bear with a field-dressed weight exceeding 800 pounds would likely have weighed well over that amount alive, though no official live weight was recorded. The bear’s size was significant enough that Stratford required assistance from companions to load and transport it from the field.

In the northeastern United States, Pennsylvania stands out as a consistent producer of large black bears. According to the Pennsylvania Game Commission, the heaviest black bear officially documented in the state weighed 733 pounds live. That bear was harvested during the 2010 fall bear season in Clinton County and weighed through the agency’s official check-station process.

According to the Game Commission, Pennsylvania has documented numerous bears exceeding 600 pounds, particularly in the state’s north-central region. Biologists attribute those weights to extensive hardwood forests, productive mast crops, and a bear population that includes older age-class males capable of reaching extreme size.

New Jersey has also recorded a notable heavyweight in recent years. According to New Jersey wildlife officials and regional reporting, hunter Brian Melvin harvested a black bear near Kinnelon on October 15, 2024. The bear was officially weighed at a state check station and recorded at 770.5 pounds field dressed.

According to officials, that weight placed it among the largest black bears ever documented in the state. While estimates of the bear’s live weight circulated publicly, the only confirmed figure remains the check-station measurement, which wildlife agencies consider the most reliable data point.

Not all heavyweight black bears are documented through hunting. According to Florida media reports, a 740-pound black bear was trapped and euthanized by wildlife officials on January 18, 2015, following repeated human-bear conflicts. According to those reports, the bear’s weight was measured during the official response, and it was described at the time as the largest black bear recorded in Florida.

According to wildlife biologists across multiple states, bears reaching these sizes are typically older males that have survived for many years, dominated prime habitat, and exploited seasonal food sources such as acorns, agricultural crops, and natural protein. These large males play an important role in bear population dynamics by influencing breeding patterns and habitat use.

The heaviest black bears on record are reminders of what the species is capable of under the right conditions. According to verified agency data and documented cases, these animals were not myths or inflated campfire stories, but real bears measured by professionals.

Somewhere today, in a river bottom, coastal swamp, or hardwood ridge, another black bear may be quietly growing larger with each passing season—unknown to the record books, but fully capable of becoming the next heavyweight legend.

— Chester Moore

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Key Deer

The Key Deer and the Screwworm: How Science Saved an Endangered Species — and Why It Matters Again

December 31, 2025 Chester Moore Leave a comment

This past December, I found myself in Big Pine Key, camera in hand, surrounded by the quiet beauty of Florida’s Key deer.

I was there with my friend and collaborator, Paul Fuzinski of Aptitude Outdoors and his wife Christina photographing and filming these animals as part of our ongoing work in wildlife documentary storytelling.

The tiny Key deer move differently than most whitetails—smaller, gentler, almost ghostlike as they slip between hardwood hammocks and pine rocklands.

And when I say tiny we’re talking a big buck tops out at round 60 pounds on the hook. They are the smallest subspecies of whitetail and are a federally endangered species.

In fact, standing there in the early light, it was impossible not to think about how close these deer once came to disappearing altogether.

Their survival is not accidental. It is the result of one of the most important — and often overlooked — wildlife conservation victories in North American history.

In the 1950s their population was down to 50 when the Boone & Crockett Club (B&C) donated $5,000 to hire a game warden named Jack C. Watson to protect them from poachers. Eventually, this action and his efforts were heralded as saving the species altogether.

This action of the B&C is virtually unknown outside of the club itself and a few people in the Keys. I found it out while doing some serious research on the species a few years ago. This is literally a case where hunters stepped in and saved a species outright.

Most recently, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) officials, Hurricane Irma in 2017 killed 21 deer with an additional dozen killed in the chaotic aftermath. With the latest estimates showing only 949, that hurts.

For perspective, I have hunted on a single 5,000 acre low-fence Texas ranch with more whitetails than that.

Additionally, an old foe last seen in the U.S. more than 30 years ago, hit the Keys hard in 2016. But Texans came to the rescue.

“Screwworms infested the population, which is spread across more than 20 islands. It led to 135 Key deer deaths, including 83 that were euthanized to reduce the risk of further infection,” said Dr. Roel Lopez. “This was a significant blow to a species, which is uniquely located in that area.”

Doctor Lopez is director and co-principal investigator for the Key deer study, San Antonio, a project of Texas A&M University (TAMU). TAMU, along with various agencies including USFWS, alleviated the crisis by preventive treatment and fly eradication efforts. This included feed stations lined with anti-parasitic medications and releasing 60 million sterile male screwworms to mate with wild female flies and curb reproduction.

That is a big effort for a little deer, but there is much love for them among those who understand their delicate existence. A single disease outbreak or storm could literally wipe out the population.

A more consistent issue is roadkill.

When we visited, the sign at the refuge headquarters said 121 were killed by vehicles in 2024 and by our visit Dec. 10, 2025 some 91 had been hit.

The National Key Deer Refuge was established in 1957 to protect and preserve the national interest the Key deer and other wildlife resources in the Florida Keys.

The Refuge is located on Big Pine and No Name Key and consists of approximately 9,200 acres of land that includes pine rockland forests, tropical hardwood hammocks, freshwater wetlands, salt marsh wetlands, and mangrove forests.

It gives them a place to exist but as roads intersect much of it, mortality is still an isssue.

In 2025 New World screwworm has been detected again in parts of Mexico, raising concerns among wildlife biologists, veterinarians, and agricultural officials.

History has shown that the screwworm does not respect borders. Left unchecked, it can move northward, re-establishing itself in regions where it was once eradicated.

For wildlife like the Key deer, the return of screwworm would be catastrophic. For livestock, it would represent billions of dollars in losses. And for conservationists, it would mean fighting a battle we already know is costly, complex, and urgent.

Standing in Big Pine Key this December, watching a doe and her fawn move through the palmettos, it was impossible not to think about how fragile recovery can be. Conservation victories are not permanent unless they are protected.

The story of the screwworm reminds us that vigilance is just as important as scientific innovation.

It also reminds us that many of the greatest conservation successes happen quietly, behind the scenes, through collaboration rather than controversy. Texas A&M’s role in eliminating the screwworm helped save not only the Key deer, but countless other wildlife species and agricultural livelihoods across the country.

The Boone & Crockett Club’s recognition of this effort underscores how deeply connected hunting heritage, science, and wildlife conservation truly are.

Paul and I left Big Pine Key with more than footage. We left with a renewed sense of responsibility to tell this story fully. In 2026 we will be producing a mini-documentary focused on the Key deer, not just their beauty, but the unseen threats they’ve survived and the people who stepped in when it mattered most.

The Key deer are still here because science, cooperation, and commitment won out over complacency. As the specter of screwworm once again looms to the south, their story serves as both a warning and an inspiration.

Sometimes saving wildlife isn’t about finding something new.

Sometimes it’s about remembering what almost happened and making sure it never happens again.

Chester Moore

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