Zitting Cis-ta-whaaat?

Reputation. I’ve never met Barack Obama, but I’ve heard he’s a solid guy. In the same vein, certain species have reputations that waft to their seekers long before the birds ever reveal themselves. Conversely, there are banalities like Meadow Pipits. Brown and streaky, they are obviously pipits, and they do indeed inhabit meadows. Nary a thought had I donated to this species before I saw my first one in January; now, they only come to mind as the epitome of blandness. 

And here I must contradict myself and write of another brown and streaky bird that nevertheless has a grand reputation, at least in my mind. Zitting Cisticola. I received my copy of Birds of Europe at the tender age of ten; upon hitting Sylviidae, I remember thinking that the Old World Warblers had been designed by some highly uncreative child who moreover clumsily smeared his hand across the blueprints, effectively destroying any inequality or difference between species. To make matters even worse, this avian engineer hastily bestowed upon this myriad of brown blights the most unhelpful of names: Green Warbler, Greenish Warbler, Dusky Warbler…

One stood out. Zitting Cisticola. Pronunciation was futile; all I knew is that I wanted to see one.

That desire remained unfilled for a decade for the simple reason that Zitting Cisticolas live in southern Europe and that I lived in various parts of the United States. But, two days ago, as I was hiking through the coastal bluffs north of Luanco, a small, virtually tail-less sprite lofted into the air and began calling—zitting, you could say—before diving back into the cover of some gorse. I knew what it was. I cautiously stalked forward and, with a bit of patience and pishing, found myself looking at the little bird with a big name that had caught my attention all those years ago.

Las Islas Canarias

The epitome of spontaneity: purchasing tickets to the Canary Islands six days before departing and making no plans whatsoever. That is exactly what I did with my friends Nait and Virginia. Neither of them are birders; our transportation was limited to wherever our thumbs, feet, or public buses could take us. Therefore, I didn't have any chance to see any of the fancy endemics, but nevertheless I saw a few birds.

Barbary Partridge -- three flushed from a roadside on 7 February

Little Egret -- small numbers along the coast

Cattle Egret -- several seen in flight, first near El Golf del Sur and later near Los Realejos

Common Buzzard -- one or two on the north side of the island near Ocotava

Eurasian Coot -- twenty or thirty in the large reservoir between Ocotava and Los Realejos

Whimbrel -- two or three on the rocky coast surrounding Las Galletas (my first experience seeing the Eurasian white-rumped Whimbrel--made me do a double-take!)

Ruddy Turnstone -- a flyby at Las Galletas on 7 February

Yellow-legged Gull -- very common along the coast

Rock Pigeon -- no comment

Eurasian Collard-Dove -- common. I threw my shoe at one that was disturbing us as we tried to sleep in a park in Ocotava

Plain Swift -- several swirling overhead near Cantaras on 8 February as we sat along a roadside munching on Nutella and tuna sandwiches

Eurasian Kestrel -- the first bird of the trip, actually, a dead bird in the gutter as we walked away from the airport late in the night on 6 February. Afterwards I found them to be extremely common (I saw 20+ in ~15 kilometers of walking on 10 February.)

Southern Gray Shrike -- one near El Fraile on 7 February

African Blue Tit -- a couple in urban trees in El Taco on 8 February

Canary Islands Chiffchaff -- abundant in the countryside around Cantaras. I saw and heard a few others in subsequent days in the vicinity of Ocotava

Spectacled Warbler -- Fairly common in the coastal desert outside Las Galletas where we hung out. 

Eurasian Blackbird -- these buggers woke us up singing nearly every morning at four.

White Wagtail -- one or two

Berthelot's Pipit -- common, particularly in the arid areas on the southern end of the island.

Eurasian Linnet -- small numbers in the countryside between Cantaras and La Laguna on 8 February

Island Canary -- very common, particularly in the north

House Sparrow -- a few

So, it could be said that the trip was a failure in the birding department. But, of course, there is more to life than birding. Perhaps I'll return someday; I doubt it, though.

Algunos aves de España

I'm in Spain. True, I'm here to study. I'm not birding--false. Class ten minutes imminent begs brevity, so I will scribble about a few highlights and toss out a couple photos.

BULLFINCH! I was out for a run and saw a pair. Bird I've wanted to see for a long time...in fact, I used to have a stuffed animal Bullfinch that I ordered off eBay at the age of ten because I admire this species so much.

Gray Wagtails. They're badass longassed.

Tits. Great, Blue, Coal, Long-tailed. 'Nuff said.

Firecrest. A psycadelic kinglet, pretty much.

A dabble into Orange-crowned Warbler taxonomy

Psshhhh, psshhhh, psshh-psshhh. A whirlwind of Audubon's Warblers, Anna's Hummingbirds, and Bushtits made the twigs and leaves boil. Then, a new face--gray, but not a Bushtit. Hello, an Orange-crowned Warbler! The eye arcs and muted breast streaking were unmistakable, but the bird looked like it had been left on the dashboard of a car for a few weeks--gray, faded, a far cry from the rich lemon yellow and olive birds that skulk in every hedge around my neighborhood. It reminded me of the Orange-crowns I see in Michigan. Aha! An eastern bird--Oreothlypis celata celata, a bit lost from its normal wintering haunts in the Southeast. "Eastern" is a misleading designation, since this bird could have hatched west of California in Alaska.

(From Warblers by Dunn and Garrett, p. 159.)

Returning home after my walk, I pulled out my trusty references, since I could not recall having ever seen such a blatantly gray--and therefore O.c. celata--in California.

The Birds of Orange County, California: Status and Distribution: "Gray-headed birds believed to represent V.c. orestera and V.c.celata are uncommon fall migrants (arriving in early September), rare in winter."

San Diego County Bird Atlas: "Vermivora c. celata (Say, 1823), breeding in the trans-continental taiga zona, is even less yellow than orestera; the head is always gray, and in some females the yellowish on the underparts is reduced to irregular blotches. It reaches southern California as a rare migrant and winter visitor (Grinnell and Miller 1944)."

I believe this is a case of subspecies neglect (think Cackling Goose). Were Oreothlypis celata celata considered its own species (I propose "Goldenrod Warbler" for the common name if this ever happens), birders would probably find a lot more of them in California. But, that will probably not happen in the near future--and I hope it doesn't, since identification would be a nightmare! This bird, however, seems to be a slam-dunk.

An intriguing quandary of taxonomy and distribution five minutes from the door!

Trabuco with Chandler

A few days ago, I made my now-annual pilgrimage to the upper reaches of Trabuco Canyon with my buddy Chandler. I first met him nearly four years ago when we thoroughly chilled ourselves body surfing at Huntington Beach. On this hike, we once again ended up wet and cold! No birder is he, but I slung my bins over my neck and kept ear and eye attuned to avian life.

It was cold, but the strenuous climb kept us warm and sweating. Fog rolled in and shrouded the canyon and peaks.

This rugged landscape is the final frontier of Orange County birding. Bolsa Chica, Newport Bay, San Joaquin Marsh--those places are daily visited by dozens of birders. Seldom, though, do binocular-toting bird nuts venture up into these perilous reaches despite the promise of sexy mountain birds. This particular day was lackluster, probably because of the gloom, but we managed to seen several Townsend's Solitaires, two Hairy Woodpeckers, and a Golden-crowned Kinglet.

We made it to the ridge. Now a couple thousand feet higher and hiking roughly level ground, we were cold. Puddles were glazed with ice. We kept our hands into our pockets and kept moving.

It began to rain! First, a Seattle-grade mist, morphing into a steady drizzle. Then, unbelievably, soggy snowflakes began pelting us in the face. Many miles laid ahead of us. As we descended, rain replaced snowflakes. Each mile brought a new milestone: soaked pants that clung to calves, water penetrating our outer layers, shoes officially saturated. It was cold!

Newts saved the day. We saw four, and hopefully did not trod upon too many more. Unlike us, they were enjoying the drizzle!

When we finally reached the car, we stripped off the majority of our clothes and rode home in the waterproof, heated, and wonderful confines of the car.

Ticking away the birds that make up a dull day

Birding is like a hit-and-run accident.

Birding is like a one-night stand.

Birding is like a drive-by shooting.

Go ahead, call me melodramatic. I will not deny these accusations. A synonym for dramatic exaggeration is hyperbole, an apparently acceptable literary technique. I’m safe.

Seriously, though—birding, at least for me, has become an assassin’s business. A flash of black and yellow! Bins up: Townsend’s Warbler. Bins down. End of story. The individual bird is a nobody, a misunderstood and unappreciated cog in the wheel of our superficial birding pleasure.

Birding, birder—these designations release a slight bitter taste in my brain. So, I decided to go birdwatching. Accoutered with only binoculars and sketchpad, I headed out the door to find a bird to watch for half an hour. Just the two of us—me and the bird—for thirty minutes.

Ravens and Audubon’s Warblers I deemed too flighty for half an hour of continuous observation. I could not bear the thought of watching a Coot or a Mallard for such a long time. So, I selected a Say’s Phoebe as my victim. The grass was still damp with morning dew, but I sat anyway, reasoning that a wet butt was well worth the enlightenment.

The phoebe was also sitting in the grass. Occasionally it would float upwards with wings a-quiver, only to suddenly nosedive into the jungle of Kentucky Bluegrass to snag some unfortunate moth. Despite this savage carnivory, I realized that the Say’s Phoebe is a very gentle bird. The tones of sepia subtly blend into each other, accented by salmon-colored flanks. It daintily perches and floats from post to post, occasionally piping a forlorn whistle.

However admiral the phoebe was, my attention suffered continuous assaults. Barely two minutes into my vigil—kippy-tippy-tickery, a Summer Tanager attempted to sabotage my experiment. Then, belligerent grunts gave me a start—three feet behind me, several coots waddled and quarreled, probably indignant about my egregious miscalculation of their race. But for thirty minutes I stubbornly watched that single Say’s.

You could call it birdwatching. In times past I cringed when people called me a birdwatcher. Maybe it’s not such an offensive title after all.

Thanksgiving in Illinois

The sun up, breakfast consumed, and unbridled gluttony still a distant prospect, it was time for a walk. Out the front door, past the ten feet of crabby lawn, and to the street. From my left flew a sarcastic breeze, biting with impending winter chill. I turned my back to its mockery, away from the vineyard of homes, and gazed over the hundreds of acres of hazy corn stubble past the end of the street. Two juncos twittered through the brown, wind-tattered goldenrod, a haggard frontline to the defeated army of corn. Those weedy goldenrods provided the only buffer between the two clone armies. I turned aside to the noticeably new sidewalk that tunneled through the development.

`           

The breeze battled and blew. The same clammy gust stung my cheek and drove a granola bar wrapper across the walkway. Trees absent, the breeze resorted to rustling through a plastic white fence that pathetically enclosed a couple hundred square feet of continuously beheaded yellow weeds. The sterile polymer squealed in response to the blowing assault.

            

It reeked of the American Dream.

            

Aisle upon aisle stood silently, each box containing some self-contained story. Then, an opening, an incongruity—an oddly angular pond, its waters lapping northward under the breeze’s breath. The concrete ribbon wrapped around it. Dim glassy eyes gazed unblinkingly, disapproving of the pond’s encroachment to human society. The pond fostered stubborn insurgents—Solidago and Salix, and those obnoxious fecal machines known as Canada Geese.

            

In the recess of the pond, a sunlit ripple contradicted the wind’s will. I lifted my binoculars to identify the perpetrator—a stubby Pied-billed Grebe, fluffed against the morning cold. He possessed uncontested dominion of the pond, therefore making him the king of the American Dream. He swam against the breeze, patrolling the pond that so odiously invaded the human farm.

            

Shaming the wind roared the restless interstate. Viewed from space, it runs tangent to the pond. Cars and trucks screamed headlong down the cement lanes, flying to family dinners or to restock grocers. Just yesterday I had contributed to the madness. What souls had I pancaked, what peace had I shattered?

            

My thoughts were interrupted by a chortled cough to my right. Red-bellied Woodpeckers are the chain smokers of the avian kingdom. This depauperate carpenter hitched his way up the trunk of the only tree in sight, the cottonwood that stood in defiance beside the highway. He coughed again and then rode an invisible roller coaster southward over the freeway and probably toward nobler trees.

            

I left the pond and walked to the road. Walked and walked, past the yapping shelties, past hundreds of houses, out to the corn. Here, the breeze, uninhibited by human creations, buffeted my cheeks with frigid jabs. Acre upon acre of stubble stretched to the horizon, inviting an endless voyage through the yellow sea. Pattering petrels guard the liquid ocean; swirling larks steward the cornfields. Dozens of doves waddled the worn earth, poking for golden pearls. A kestrel flapped overhead against the wind, his headway was comparable to that of the windblown granola bar wrapper.

           

I needed tea for my chapped cheeks and conversation for my chilled soul. Before turning, I gazed one last time over the fields, picturing them as prairies, clothed with Big Bluestem instead of Zhea mays. In several generations, some audacious child may venture to the balcony of his box and survey this same landscape. Perhaps he will wonder what the cornfields looked like before the triumph of the box  battalions.