Free The Lady and the Panda by Vicki Croke

himuntil he was nearly fifty, when the Field Museum sent him out to gather specimens of the still little-known fauna of western China. The assignment, initially conceived as a ten-year survey, was a windfall for Smith, who hungered to make a name for himself in the field.
    From 1930 to 1932 he was able to live the life of a collector. During this period he provided the museum with seven thousand specimens, or “deaders” as he sometimes referred to them: mammals, reptiles, birds, and fish. It was a sizable catch, in keeping with that of similar expeditions. But the exhausting work certainly wasn't making him rich, and his desire for a panda began to burn early. Even though the Field Museum told him to forget about the animal in order to concentrate on other wildlife, a panda, he wrote to his sister on Long Island, would be the ultimate prize.
    Smith hoped to accomplish the goal the way he did all his hunting— not so much by chasing animals himself as by setting up an elaborate network of camps—seven in this case—staffed by teams of local hunters. He maintained throughout his life that this was the only sensible approach to wildlife collection in China. It was part of the reason he never had the allure of some of his more charismatic contemporaries, who thrived on field life and enjoyed the actual hunting.
    His long typed reports to the Field Museum over several years read like an encyclopedia of excuses. Nearly every single one informs his handlers of new, unexpected delays in progress, in shipping, in permits— blaming them on a running catalog of difficulties: rain, bandits, inept or treacherous hunters, political upheaval, “certain reactionary elements,” dissension among hunters, official obstruction, and betrayal.
    He lost hundreds of specimens to marauding bandits. When his camp was burned, he also lost chemicals for specimen preservation. It was at a critical moment too, for shortly afterward, a coveted giant panda was shot by his men. The specimen moldered in a charcoal burner's hut for seven long months, emerging in very poor condition. Hundreds of beautiful bird trophies he reported collecting often vanished before he had the chance to ship them out to those who had commissioned them,though, of course, he may have exaggerated the size and quality of his losses to his bosses.
    Added to all that, his health often gummed up the works. Rotted teeth needed extracting. Intestines, heart, and nerves were shaky. There were battles against tuberculosis, headaches, and raging infections. He was as familiar with the hospitals of Shanghai as with the routes that led west.
    It appeared that whenever big events occurred in the field, Smith was absent. He was away “in quest of supplies” the time bandits burned down a major part of his operation. He was not with the men when that giant panda was shot. The worst debacle of the expedition occurred when a huge cache of specimens for the museum languished in-country, unbeknownst to Smith, because of a shipping mix-up. Smith felt terrible about the problem when he learned of it, coming to believe later that the repercussions were dire. Though the Field Museum had contracted him for a decadelong survey of Chinese animals, the project was abruptly curtailed. About a year and a half into the endeavor, Smith was told to have his work wrapped up in six months. The museum cited the financial strain of the Depression as the cause.
    Smith was stunned. This should have been the period of high payoff for all the foundations he had laid. Now he was being suddenly recalled. It was unfair. He fretted that the shipping fiasco, which was not his fault, had prompted the museum to drop him.
    Ultimately, Smith was able to continue his association with the museum, if on a less formal basis. He would be freelancing, which would allow the institution to choose his offerings à la carte rather than having to underwrite the entire tour. Who wouldn't stew? He was dumped off a secure payroll only