Llamas

There's More To Them Than You May Know

By Hugh Jones

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A beast of burden, that's the llama's legacy–much like its relative the camel. But camels of the Old World summon visions of plying the Arabian desert. In the New World, the llama's trail leads from the mountains of South America to the plains of Oklahoma, where 40 ply the pasture at Jerry Mitchell's place, Salida Del Sol Llamas.

On this day, their biggest burden appears to be the same as everyone's, avoiding the heat. In that pursuit, they're scattered, some by the barn, some under shade trees, others down by a pond. But one loud whistle brings an interested throng, crowding around the bed of Mitchell's pickup and the bale of hay sitting there.

"They're pretty smart; they know what the whistle means," he says, wiping his brow as he wrestles the hay. Fair enough, but what exactly does one do with this creature?

"For one, I don't have to mow the lawn," he says. "They like the grass when they're not eating hay. I guess they've always been used as pack animals, carrying loads, sometimes pulling a cart. Llamas are strong for their size. They're raised for their milk and wool. Some use them as guard animals, and some just keep them as companion animals."

Wait a sec...back up. Guard animals?

He nods. "They make good guard animals. People put them in with sheep, goats, even cattle. They keep coyotes away. We had a big ol' coyote come up against the fence line here, but he didn't cross when they took off after him. I imagine we've had some on the property, but they've never gotten a young one."

Mitchell, president of the Oklahoma Llama Association, has raised llamas for about seven years, since retiring from the oil field. In a rural setting in Bridgecreek, southwest of Oklahoma City, he shares property with several relatives, including a daughter who has an operation called Puesta Del Sol Llamas. In Spanish, his means sunrise, hers sunset. Among their activities is attending shows in several states, and this endeavor stretches all the way to a granddaughter. Although Llamas aren't particularly sociable, Mitchell insists they're good with children.

The name is Spanish, but that's where the resemblance ends between Salida Del Sol and the Llama's original home, which is thousands of miles away and thousands of feet up. Native to Peru, Bolivia and the western coast of South America, their thick woolly coat is meant not for Oklahoma summers but for low temperatures in the Andes Mountains. Their history is closely linked with the Incas who domesticated them and had immense herds. Shepherds sheared them at regular intervals, their wool made into clothing. After the Spanish conquest, their role as beast of burden increased. Noted for strength, endurance and capable of carrying about 100 pounds, thousands were used in hauling silver from mountain mines. Even their dung was used for fuel. Today, Mitchell uses it for fertilizer.

Although related to the camel, there are distinct differences. Actually, the llama is called a camelid, along with three others: the alpaca, guanaco and vicuna. The llama is the largest, though considerably smaller than a camel, standing three to four feet at the shoulder. A full grown one can weigh between 250 and 500 pounds. The llama doesn't have a hump. Camels and camelids have two-toed feet and walk on a kind of leathery pad, making for good traction. Llamas are far more agile.

Now comes the confusing part. Camels are ruminants, meaning they have stomachs divided into four compartments and chew their cud. (If you don't know what cud is, look it up. It's certainly not what I would want to do with my dinner.) Camelids, with three-part stomachs, aren't ruminants, but they do ruminate. And, well, the explanation gets technical, so let's just leave it at that and move on to something I know more about–being gross.

Gross as in the whole camel family has a reputation for spitting. And if a person isn't careful, he may be the object of said spit. But Mitchell points out, this behavior is meant for other llamas. It's their way of telling off each other. There's a definite pecking order in the herd. It's not normal for them to spit at humans, unless they've been raised improperly and don't realize the difference between them and us.

"What you don't want to do is get in the middle of a food fight," he says with a knowing grin. "In the winter, we feed them supplements that come in pellets. I got between one that spit at another, and, boy, it stings like getting hit by a BB."

Hmmm, wonder if they could be entered in a watermelon seed spitting contest? So how does one know if he's about to become a target? "If it lays its ears back, that's a good time to walk away."

Llamas can make good companion animals. But if you want a touchy-feely type pet, keep looking. It's not that llamas don't like humans. Mitchell says they do, and they're curious about us. They just don't care about being touched, even by their own kind.

"Each animal has its own personality," he says. "It's a matter of gaining their trust to be able to get close to them."

Okay, they're not the friendliest animals on the block. But I've come away with a new found respect for them and their long, colorful history. Fact is, they're an animal that gives us a lot, and asks for little in return.

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Jerry Mitchell


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