The Critter Hunter

He stalks skunks, raccoons, foxes, snakes, and more—any wild varmint that's invaded city or suburb. Got bats in the Attic? Rick Wilberschied is on the case

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Wilberschied, however, is a critter of unique habits. He arrives like an action hero, in full fatigues and his trademark wildlife-print do-rag holding back his rock-star long blond hair—Dr. Doolittle as pro wrestler. He speaks simply and directly, his voice a deep rumble inflected with a Midwestern twang. He lives on ten acres near Harvard, a place that provides not only an escape from the stresses of 15-hour days, but also a small wildlife kingdom in its own right. If the critters are small enough, say a squirrel or a chipmunk, he'll even release animals he's trapped onto the grounds.

He realizes he cuts a rather unorthodox figure but believes his appearance and, more important, how he carries himself instill, not diminish, confidence. "There might be some people who are a little taken off guard at first, but most people who see me realize, 'This guy knows what he's doing.'"

Polo shirts and creased khakis might look nice, he says, but they're not real practical when wrestling a diarrhea-happy raccoon. "I'm watching this reality show with guys who kind of do what I do," he tells me.

"These guys are in, like, a nice button-down shirt, with brown slacks or cords, and some nice shoes, loafers or some nonsense. Completely robotic. I'm like, 'Are you kidding me?' You're not going to catch me in anything like that."

He once responded to a call to extract a "few" bats from the attic of a condo in the northwest suburbs only to find himself facing a 1,400-bat shitstorm that had him plucking guano speckles from his hair all night. Another time, he dislodged an under-eave hive of bees so big it looked like the creature's lair in the movie Aliens. ("It was fine," he says. "I only got stung 20 or 30 times.")

"I'm dirty and sweaty on a daily basis," he says. "When I've gotta pull a dead raccoon carcass out of a wall with maggots spilling all over me, a white button-down shirt and khakis ain't exactly the ideal uniform."

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Some critters go quietly. Others provide 12-round epics. On one call, Wilberschied found himself trying to evict a raccoon and her babies from an opening in the roof of a home in Barrington. The roof was steeply pitched and slick, from being freshly washed—"like standing on a toboggan run with no poles," Wilberschied says.

Unable to shoot her with a dart gun, Wilberschied loaded a syringe pole. "Now, you've gotta remember: A raccoon can grab something like you and me can grab something," he says. "So while I'm trying to spin her around, she grabs ahold of the needle and rips the syringe off and throws it down.

"We look at each other and now I'm like, OK. So I try a noose pole. I'm holding on with one knee and Momma starts nipping me. I stick the pole in there and she lunges out. I start smacking her in the face with the back of my hand. The next time she dives through the loop and I'm able to cinch her up.

"So I pull her out, and now I've got a 15-pound female bouncing around fighting me, and I'm trying to hold on to this roof to keep from sliding down 30 feet, and going off the roof with her in tow. I wrestle her into a trap on the roof, but now I've got to go back to get the babies. The first time I shove my arm in I take a rusty nail right in the bicep, and, I mean, it was like a rusty hypodermic needle. I pull it out of my arm, but now I'm bleeding like crazy. Meanwhile, I got raccoon shit all over me from Momma, who now has diarrhea, and I'm just, like—you know, this is an interesting job."

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We drive. Hoffman Estates, Schaumburg, Oak Park, Vernon Hills. Elk Grove Village, Bensenville, Barrington, Bartlett—his territory ranging from Lake Geneva to the south suburbs, from the lake to DeKalb. Wilberschied estimates that he puts 200 to 300 miles a day on his rig, crisscrossing the collar counties, dipping into the city, checking traps, setting traps, listening to the stories of beleaguered homeowners kept up all night by critters skittering across their ceilings, flapping in soffits, chattering through the walls like noisy neighbors in the next apartment.

His truck is serious—a big black Chevy Silverado four-by-four. Gassing up the thing is a bitch—he spends about $500 a week for fuel. But as the saying goes, he practically lives in it—or spends 15 hours a day in it—so he chose a vehicle that would be comfortable for his big frame. The side panels flip up to reveal compartments containing a large flashlight, extra gloves, paper particle masks, noose poles, a syringe pole, and dart poles. There's a "snake cam," a flexible sheath that allows him to thread a camera into basements in search of hidden critters. There's "eviction fluid"—a stinky concoction designed to mimic the smell of an offensive male raccoon that's sprinkled in an attic, say, to encourage a mom and her babies to pick up and go. The truck also carries small vials of a euthanasia agent, a proprietary blend he calls "nighty-night," administered through a syringe pole.

For the longer trips, Wilberschied relies on the Chevy's high-end stereo system, through which he blasts eighties metal like Mötley Crüe and AC/DC.

He tapped a company called Road Rage Designs to trick up the outside, to make it a rolling billboard, and they did: The truck is dotted with paw-print decals, a big logo sign that says "All That's Wildlife," and numbers to three cell phones that are always on. Some people smile. Some roll their windows down. "Hey, what are you trying to catch?" On our way to one call—a raccoon clan in a basement—Wilberschied notices a couple of gawking teenagers. A moment later one of his phones rings. Working a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Wilberschied shoots me a sidelong glance. "Kid says his friend wants to be an animal bounty hunter, like me."

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This article appears in the September 2008 issue of Chicago Magazine.

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