Obsessive-Compulsive Birding

The Cost Effective Solution to Maximize Birding Potential

2012-01-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

Financially impoverished birders have two options. The first is to never take birding trips; the other is to embark on bum adventures on minimal budgets. The latter is, of course, the superior option. A five-day break before my spring semester started provided a perfect time span for such a bum trip, so my girlfriend Alison and I headed north, to the Upper Peninsula.

The Bum Code of Birding has but three rules:

1. Never spend money on unnecessary luxuries (e.g., hotels, showers, food, etc).
2. Pay for necessities (bridge fares, parking fees, coffee) with scrounged change.
3. Avoid plans. Drift.

Follow the rules, and you will enjoy abundant success.

The eastern Upper Peninsula, in the vicinity of Sault St. Marie, is a popular destination for northern specialties in the winter. We wandered the area, finding birds like Bohemian Waxwings...

...Pine Grosbeaks...

...Pine Siskins...

...and Common Redpolls. All of these birds were at Dunbar Experimental Forest well south of the Sault. The feeders there teamed with hundreds of siskins and redpolls. Strange combinations of southern and northern birds--American Robin and Pine Grosbeak, Red-winged Blackbird and White-winged Crossbill--made things interesting.

A day of birding the Sault was plenty. The Sault style of birding--driving around country roads, occasionally pulling over to check out a shrike or Snow Bunting--appeals to neither Alison or me, so we moved westward, into the land of spruce and birch, to search for denizens of the boreal forest.

At Peshekee Grade, west of Marquette, we donned snowshoes and tramped through a couple feet of snow to look for Boreal Chickadees, Gray Jays, and Black-backed Woodpeckers. The line between walking and wallowing loses sharpness in snow of this depth--we both took our fair share of spills.

Ah, but it was worth it! The loss of a bit of dignity is certainly compensated by the sight of Boreal Chickadees, brown and raspy-sounding, clambering through the snowy spruces.

Our other targets, however, remained concealed in the frozen forest. The Gray Jays, however, were kind enough to find us the moment we began to eat lunch back at the car. They liked tortillas just fine but refused to eat Clif bars.

Many miles of hiking over the next couple days failed to produce our other quarry, the Black-backed Woodpecker. But, the remainder of our time was filled with adventure--the discovery of the most immaculate gas station bathroom in existence, the consumption of pasties that exceeded a pound in weight, and a brief jaunt "just to stretch the legs" that morphed into a ten mile hike at Pictured Rocks. I look forward to the next bum trip I will take. Where I will go and which birds I will see will remain unknown until the very moment of occurrence.

Winter Stewardship

2012-01-11T16:11:00.000-08:00

No, it wasn't a dream! I really do have a job wandering around outside looking at birds! I worked another shift Monday morning and once again thoroughly enjoyed
myself.

The biggest surprise came early in the shift. While pishing at a flock of chickadees at the edge of the preserve, I noticed a midget of a bird, wings crackling with energy, bouncing around in the underbrush nearby. "Oh, cool, Golden-crowned Kinglet." It had been awhile since I'd seen one in the preserve. Suddenly, the bird, which I had not yet glassed, opened its bill and uttered a snappy jid-it, seemingly indignant I had mistaken him for his cousin. Yes, a Ruby-crowned--a bird worth ignoring in California, but, here in Michigan, an excellent bird for the winter.

Compared to October and November, when the skies are full of flyovers, the January skies are bleak and empty except for the resident Red-tails or geese winging over. It was a pleasant surprise, then, when this Northern Harrier cruised overhead. It was a new campus bird for me.

It was a chilly morning, temperatures lounging a few degrees above freezing. Too warm for snow, but plenty cold for frost and stiff fingers.

The preserve was a farm back in the olden days. Some of the clues to its history are subtle, like the uneven ground from the tilled fields, but others, like the skeleton of this old car, are blatant evidence of the past.

A would-be white landscape now masquerades as a different place, a place much farther to the south with scarce snow, maybe Tennessee. The dearth of snow this winter is frightening. The woods are brown and steel-gray instead of white. Here and there, however, scraps of color--lichens or rose hips--can be found.

Even if it's the "wrong" color, the preserve still an art gallery with innumerable exhibits. Some are only visible if you kneel in the leaf litter with a critical eye. Beetles may belong to the phyla Arthropoda, but their sculpture outdoes that of some human artists I have seen.

What surprises are waiting in the woods for next time?

The Preserve

2012-01-08T15:32:00.000-08:00

After a series of boring, frustrating jobs, I've finally landed one I genuinely enjoy: preserve steward in Calvin's ecosystem preserve. My responsibilities? Walk the trails, greet visitors, clear fallen branches, pick up litter, and, oh, watch birds.

It is tempting to surmise that frigid (well, actually, it's been extraordinarily warm this winter) woods are lifeless, but three hours of roaming through them will convince you otherwise. Bird numbers and diversity were low, as would be expected, but my wanderings produced a couple goodies, including a Northern Shrike and a Great Horned Owl. I had packed only my wide-angle lens, so the shrike in this photo may or may not be identifiable.

The woods really are beautiful this time of year. I will cherish the privilege of being paid to wander through them.

Christmas in the Canyon

2011-12-31T11:43:00.000-08:00

“So, what are you going to do with Alison when she’s here next week?” my mom asked from across the table, sandwich poised halfway to her mouth.

Swallowing a mostly-chewed chunk of apple, I rattled off the traditional activities: seawatching, hiking, cooking. I paused, watching the sandwich approach my mom’s mouth, and then revealed, a touch reluctantly, my final plan: “I was also thinking about hiking up Silverado Canyon at two in the morning to look for owls.”

The sandwich stalled and took a nosedive to the plate. “Are you crazy?” my mom demanded. “Alison won’t want to do that.” I ducked my head and smirked.

The interior of the car was dim—nearly as dark as a deserted canyon in the wee hours of the morning, but light enough to spy Alison’s bags heaped in the trunk with a check of the rearview mirror. I could glimpse Alison herself in the passenger seat if I shifted my eyes to the right. Hitting my turn signal and glancing over my shoulder to change lanes, I breached the lapse in conversation with a proposal. “Now, this scheme has been condemned as foolhardy by my parents, but would you be interested in a middle-of-the-night hike up Silverado Canyon for owls?”

Alison did not hesitate. “What kind of question is that? Uh, YEAH! When are we going to do it?”

I thought for a moment, smiled, and said, “Christmas morning.”

That is why we are speeding down Santiago Canyon Road in the dark, the clock on the dash displaying 2:04. With every blink, my eyelids stick together like fingers covered in pine sap. Up ahead, a distant pair of headlights rises, momentarily disappears behind a knoll, reappears, swings around a bend, disappears behind another bend, and then assaults our eyes with brightness at point blank range as it roars by with a rush of wind. The night is restored to blackness, the only illumination coming from our headlights. Another car passes, igniting the blackness with its beams. “I don’t get it,” I complained, “where are all these people going so early on Christmas?”

“Home.”

“Oh.”

The clock reads 2:28. With a turn of the key I kill the clock and the car. Everything is black, black as a womb. I give Alison’s hand a squeeze and climb into the night. The air is cool but lacks the anticipated chill. Everything is black. I shoulder my backpack, grasp my staff in one hand and Alison’s hand in the other, and we begin the march. Before we can even circumvent the gate, a pair of booming Great Horned Owls interrupts us. A good sign.

Night. Far from a sinister void of anything good, the blackness teems with life. The hooting owls accompany our footsteps; nearly every bush has its own rodent rustling in the leaf litter; and a few crickets, evidently on the brink of torpor, chirp sluggishly from the roadside. Human influence is nearly imperceptible. Traffic noise, houses, and lights are absent; indeed, the only sign of our species is the scuff of concrete beneath our boots.

The steep climb warms our bodies and we stop to strip off our outer layers, breathing heavily. There is no moon; the steep canyon walls on both sides and the sky lose their individual identities and blend together, the only difference between earth and firmament being the scattering of stars overhead. I tilt my head backward and give a garbled whistle, a pathetic rendition of a Western Screech-Owl’s call. Almost immediately one stammers an angry response from the oaks lining the stream below the road. I call back once or twice more and then we continue up the road, the owl still chirring and whistling to itself in the night.

“Screech six,” I announce, waving a hand in the general direction of a muffled whistle off to the right. “Let’s get up into saw-whet country!” We continue the upward hike with renewed vigor.

A conifer—a Douglas-fir—projects from an opposing hillside, its shape only barely distinguishable from the sky. The road, steeper now, is now longer paved. Our boots are much less bored—every step has the potential for pits, rocks, or uneven surfaces. Much more interesting than flat concrete. Screech-Owls and Great Horns have become commonplace—it is unusual for ten minutes to pass without hearing one or the other. A new voice is added to the owl equation, bring us to a halt, straining our ears. It is strange—a plaintive, continuous whistle, emanating from deep in the canyon. “Saw-whet?” Alison whispers, and, cupping my ears, I can differentiate the individual whistled toots. “Yeeup—let’s move up.”

Anyone who can whistle can imitate a saw-whet. I run my tongue over my lips, tilt my head back slightly, and broadcast a tooted challenge into the canyon. A screech—number ten or eleven, I’ve lost track—chirrs in response. Several minutes pass without a sound except for my whistling. Then, during a pause in my imitations, a timid tooting begins to our left, down the hill. It sounds distant, but it crescendos from a muffled, meek whistle to a loud, pugnacious one. The bird is close. I stab the foliage with the powerful beam of the flashlight, but the oaks, seemingly offended by this foreign light source, conceal everything with a dense screen of leaves. The tooting stops, a shadow darts overhead, and the tooting resumes from uphill. Finding the bird in the beam proves to be impossible, but it is privilege enough to hear it call at such close quarters. Several times, possibly in response to a second saw-whet tooting farther down the canyon, the bird gives a sharp, shouted k’eeOW, like Green Heron but more rubbery sounding.

Our pursuit of the saw-whet has distracted us from noticing the development of the day. The day, practically a zygote when we began the hike, is now a fetus, almost ready for birth. I shake my wrist to dislodge my watch from the sleeves—it’s five past six. “Time to descend,” I sigh wistfully.

The day is born. The sun isn’t up—it won’t be for some time, with these steep ridges and walls that frame the canyon—but the birds are. Towhees, thrashers, and juncos replace the owls. Wrentits whistle from every side. I glance slyly at Alison, who is smiling. “Hey!” I exclaim, suddenly remembering something. “Merry Christmas!”

Uh-huh...black-and-yellow

2011-12-20T18:30:00.001-08:00

Few things sting as much as a text about a rare bird at one of your local patches. The sting isn't softened by several thousand miles, either. About a month ago, I seethed with rage when I received word about a male Hooded Warbler at Irvine Regional Park, a mere mile or so from my house. I consoled myself with that thought that, given the date, the bird would probably winter, allowing me to see it over Christmas break.

My prophecy came to pass. Twelve hours hadn't passed since my plane touched down in Orange County before I was admiring this golden knight of the underbrush. Despite its bright colors, the bird was surprisingly elusive--it took me a good hour to locate it, and it would have taken much longer had the bird not started calling. Its metallic chip is the easiest way find it.

The bird apparently wanders a bit, but its favorite area seems to be the low oak brush within the train track loop just east of the ampitheter and the large bronze statue of Mr. Irvine. Here's a map of the location.

Not a bad way to begin break! I've followed it up with sightings of Masked Booby, White-throated Sparrow, Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, and Vermilion Flycatcher. Hopefully this trend will continue for the next two weeks of break.

Falling Away

2011-12-09T18:15:00.001-08:00

LeConte's Sparrow. In a patch of grass smaller than my dorm room. In downtown Chicago.

The sudden remembrance that I am (or, rather, was) the owner of this blog came as a surprise to me this evening; it had been several weeks since I had even thought about this outlet of boasting and bemoaning. Today being the last day of classes of the semester, I deemed it necessary to squeeze the traditional post complaining about the death of my birding life.

My acquisition of a car this year promised increased birding opportunities; if anything, I have birded less this semester than any previously. At times, an entire week would pass without even one lifting of the binoculars to the eyes, or even off their customary bedpost.

Still, the semester wasn't an entire waste. Problematic holes in my campus list, included Connecticut Warbler, Vesper Sparrow, Great Egret (!), Tundra Swan, Barred Owl, and Herring Gull (!!), lost the distinction of being holes. Occasional forays to the Caledonia Sewage Ponds between study sessions yielded Long-billed Dowitchers and Cackling Geese. I finally (i.e., finally) saw my first jaeger in Michigan, a Parasitic. On one fateful morning, a Brown Creeper landed on my jeans and creeped over my crotch. Sage Thrasher and LeConte's Sparrow in Chicago nearly convinced me that this wasteland is actually a fun place to bird.

Oh, and I got intimate with a Peregrine. Really intimate. Like, the four-foot sort of intimate.

I would bore you with more chronicles of this birdless fall, but it's time to get to bed; I'm going birding tomorrow.

Spruced Up

2011-10-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

Meandering languidly along the deserted gravel road, I drew to a stop to survey my surroundings. Jack Pines, everywhere. Squat, gnarled conifers with scraggly needles and contorted limbs, these trees are far from stereotypical idyllic pine tree. In fact, they are ugly, and would hold little attraction to anyone other than maybe Charlie Brown. Actually, Spruce Grouse are fond of them too, and it was for them that my companions and I had traveled here, Vermilion Road in the Upper Peninsula.

My mid-road cogitations were disturbed by the sudden realization that my body really, really wanted me to urinate. The bladder being one authority figure I obey without question, I moved to the side of the road to submit to its will. I took one, two, three steps into the desiccated ferns, reached for the zipper, and—WHOOSH! I involuntarily recoiled from the ash-colored explosion from a low-hanging Jack Pine bough several feet away. Upon regaining control of both mind and bladder, I scanned the branches for the culprit of such a rude disturbance to my personal business. There it was, idly perched three feet up in a pine, red comb flared to maximum, tail fanned: a male Spruce Grouse.

“GROOOUUSE!” I bellowed, hoping my comrades were within earshot. This particular suite of so-called friends derive no greater pleasure than beating and berating me, and the latest subject of my suffering had been my incapacity to walk a straight transect, leading to my chronic separation from the group.

The first to emerge from the ugly forest was Joseph, an abnormally tall, bearded pirate of a birder. He was quickly followed by his similarly tall brother Jonathan, and then by my girlfriend Alison. We converged on the grouse and ravaged it with our eyes.

The grouse, unimpressed, strutted like Santa Claus through the sphagnum, occasionally flaring his tail and fluffing out his feathers. His initial flightiness, perhaps caused by the imminent dropping of my pants, was deceptive; at one point, he proudly sauntered within an arm’s reach. He led us to two more Spruce Grouse nestled in a clump of notably average Jack Pines. We surrounded these boreal chickens, admiring and lusting after their intricately patterned feathers and plump bodies.

Unfortunately, the story lacks a dramatic finale. Two of the grouse sat motionless in pines, apparently disinterested in life, while Santa continued to strut his stuff in the ferns below. After ample observation, we heeded the call of pasties and migrated back in the direction of the car. But first, I had unfinished business to attend to. “Guys, I’ll catch up.”

Sierra Sampler

2011-08-24T20:48:00.001-07:00

Of course, I saw more than Greater Sage-Grouse during my recent stint in the Sierras. Here are a few belated photos and comments for your enjoyment.

Mountain Chickadees are the vermin of the Sierras. And to think, years ago, I fantasized of seeing one. Now I realize that they're basically Black-capped Chickadees with fancy makeup and scratchy throats.

The second greatest avian highlight after the grouse was our successful Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch expedition. Last year, one a hike to Gaylor Lake, I saw two distant flyovers. This year, they were still distant--that's right, about twelve feet distant! There were two families hanging around the perimeter of this gorgeous alpine lake.

The juveniles were uniformly clad in a distasteful gray and polluted the tundra air with their strident supplications for food. On top of this, they were irresistibly cute.

The Sierras are home to some hardcore scenery. Our group did a hike to Cathedral Lake and Tressider Peak. It was beautiful, strenuous, dangerous, and profoundly lacking in birds. The steep, several hundred yard-long descent down a glacier provided a thrill that fully compensated for the paucity of the winged ones.

This American White Pelican flew by while we were observing the sage grouse which I described in a previous post. Later, we snagged the grouse, Wilson's Snipe, and Wilson's Phalarope in the same scope field. Versatility!

Peaking

2011-08-21T19:17:00.000-07:00

It is humiliating, but I must admit it: birding can get in the way of other activies. Like hiking. So, to remedy this chronic problem, I left my binoculars and big camera in the car this morning while I climbed San Jacinto Peak. It's a decent hike--sixteen miles roundtrip with abundant elevation gain to reach the powerful peak at 10,834 feet. I've dreamed of doing the hike for years, but it was only until this summer that I overcame the mental barriers and kicked the mountain's backside.

Here is the story of my ascent.

5:44--I slam the car door, boldly grip my staff, and head up the trail.
5:44:15--I realize I forgot my hat.
5:45--I start up the trail, for real this time...
6:15--The annoying little pain in my left heel (a pebble? a pine needle?) becomes so unbearable that I take off my shoe to rectify the situation. I am horrified to find a blister forming.
6:33--I come around a bend and flush a covey of Mountain Quail out of the trail.
6:45--I reach Saddle Junction, the top of the Devil's Slide Trail, 2.5 miles into the hike.
7:25--A flash of black and white through the trees--my first Clark's Nutsacker of the hike.
8:00--I reach Wellman Divide, 5.5 miles into the climb. I celebrate by devouring a Clif bar.
9:15--THE PEAK! It's windy, rugged, and viciously gorgeous.

10:00--After puttering around the peak for forty-five minutes (few birds--Rock Wren, Mountain Chickadee, Dark-eyed Junco, Anna's Hummingbird), I begin the descent.
11:15--The sharp pain in my left heel with every step becomes more and more excruciating. Investigation reveals that the blister is half-dollar sized. And, to top it off, one is forming on my right heel. At least I'm symmetrical.
11:38--Birds are much less obvious in the heat of midday, but I score my first Red-breasted Nuthatch of the hike.
11:45--I return to Saddle Junction, right on schedule.
12:35--The parking lot. Shoes OFF.

Watch It X--Phish

2011-08-18T21:01:00.001-07:00

I looked up and saw him coming. Part of me cringed, but another part anticipated a new encounter with him, one of the hobos who haunts Newport Pier. His obvious state of inebriation and can of Mike's Harder Lemonade in hand promised a memorable experience. Sure enough, he sidled up and asked me what I was looking at. "A Pigeon Guillemot," I replied, not mentioning that it was found on Sunday by Brian Daniels or that it was the first juvenile recorded in the county.

I offered him a view through my scope, but he declined. "I can see it fine, man, and mah eyes are already swimmin'. Prolly not a hot idea." Then, he began rambling.

"Ever heard of a band called Phish? No, not F-I-S-H. P-H-I-S-H. Yeaaah, duuuuude, they rock. I mean, they ROCK the HOUSE. Like, every one of those dudes has a PhD in his instrument. I went to a concert once and I was like, 'Wow.' And they were like 'Wow.' And I was like, 'WOW.' And they was like, 'Wow.' And I was like, 'Uhhh, okay...wow?' And they were like, 'WOOOOOOWWW!' You really gotta look them up, brother."

So, I did. And they're pretty good.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Aug 18, 2011 6:00 AM - 7:55 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy, misty, light breeze, cool. Pre-work seawatch from the end of Newport Pier. I stupidly keep leaving home at the same time even though the sun rises later, so I took a ten-minute nap in the car before heading out because it was still so dark. Nathaniel the crazy hobo, quite inebriated this morning, came by and rambled on for about fifteen minutes to me about various topics before continuing on in search of more alcohol.
29 species (+1 other taxa)

Northern Shoveler (Anas clypeata) 8 Unusual--a tight flock heading south offshore.
Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 1
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 4
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 220
Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas) 13
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 26
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 2
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 200
Black-bellied Plover (Pluvialis squatarola) 1
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 68
Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) 11
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 21
Sanderling (Calidris alba) 5
Western Sandpiper (Calidris mauri) 2
Red-necked Phalarope (Phalaropus lobatus) 3
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 235
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 475
California Gull (Larus californicus) 1
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 12
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 1
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 5
jaeger sp. (Stercorarius sp. (jaeger sp.)) 1 A smallish, very dark jaeger chasing a couple terns...probably a Parasitic, but meeeehhhh.
Pigeon Guillemot (Cepphus columba) 1 Continuing juvenile found by Brian Daniels on Saturday, 8/13. It was hanging out just a hundred or two feet beyond the breakers just maybe 40 yards north of the pier. Excellent views. Most of the time, it was sleeping, but toward the end it was swimming around more and diving. Apparently the first record of a juvenile for the county.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 1
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 70
Mourning Dove (Zenaida macroura) 3
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 4
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 1
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 1

Pineapple Bruises

2011-08-17T19:32:00.000-07:00

Every birder celebrates his new birds differently; I am no exception. Two timeless rituals accompany my lifers. Actually, both have specific, if not relatively recent, origin, but both have become honored tradition. The first, bestowing a hearty slug to the arm of the companion lucky enough to add a new lifer, originated at the 2009 Young Birder's Conference in San Diego. The second, that of butchering and devouring a hapless pineapple in celebration of another species defeated, was conceived by my old mate Tim last summer as we rampaged the countryside of California. Sadly, I have come to a point in my life where lifers have become about as scarce as affordable gas prices.

One thorn remained in my side from last summer. My aforementioned friend Tim abandoned me last August and journeyed to Lake Crowley, slaying the mythical Greater Sage-Grouse without my permission. The wound festered all winter, becoming dreadfully infected and oozing pus at ever-increasing rates as time wore on. Finally, I decided the situation needed to be rectified.

I spent the entirety of last week camping on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevadas with a group from my church, and, as fortune would have it, Lake Crowley lay a mere half-hour to the south. Accompanied by Alison, my companion of a romantic nature, I embarked before dawn on Monday, bound for the lake.

Girlfriend birding is much like ordinary birding, except one receives a considerably greater amount of flak about missing turns, misidentifying birds, or being hungry forty minutes after lunch than one would birding with comrade. Additionally, there are other inevitable distractions, but I won't dwell on those. I hadn't really researched the layout of the lake, so it took a couple drives up and down the highway and a brief interrogation of a marina worker at the south end of the lake until we found our way to the proper location, Benton Crossing Road at the northern end of the lake. There, we found dire warnings of the imminent presence of our treacherous quarry and knew that the hunt was now in full throttle.

My strategy had been to aimlessly drive around until we found the grouse along a road somewhere--at least, that is how my precursor Tim had succeeded. After almost an hour of futile driving, a new strategy seemed to be in order. None was immediately obvious, but my scheming was interrupted by a roadside Yellow-headed Blackbird. Rolling down the windows, I remarked something about how this spot smelled productive and threw my trusty Taurus into park. It was tranquil and picturesque--a small stream meandered through a verdant cow pasture. Sage ringed the edges of the pasture. The Yellow-headed Blackbird, however, seemed to be a false indicator. There was nothing of interest, unless cows, Brewer's Blackbirds, and Cliff Swallows could be considered interesting. About to turn back to the car, I took one last scan of the field and noticed a grouse-like lump among the cows.

And it was, indeed, a Greater Sage-Grouse, or, more accurately, six Greater Sage-Grouse. I turned and daintily punched Alison's arm. She retaliated with a slug more intense by a factor of at least ten. This bit of business out of the way, we ventured out into the pasture for better looks, braving sharp sage branches, cow patties, and the potentially belligerent cows themselves. We suffered nothing more serious than lightly soiled feet, and in return enjoyed the company of sixteen Greater Sage-Grouse at close range.

This location seems to be a haunt for these grouse--I'd imagine they enjoy grazing among the cows for the succulent grass along the stream.

We saw the birds from Owen River Road near the one-lane bridge, which can be accessed by taking Pit Road north from Benton Crossing Road, turning west on Owen River Road, and then turning north again on Owen River Road.

And no, we did not forget the second tradition. After an hour of grouse appreciation, we returned to our steed the Taurus and unearthed a pineapple from the disastrously messy backseat. The unfortunate pineapple again and again tasted the bite of my pocketknife, and we, in turn, gnawed on the doomed fruit's juicy flesh. The old wound has been drained, cleaned, and bandaged.

Watch It IX--Whaling

2011-08-05T13:58:00.000-07:00

Even though whaling is nearly extinct and universally frowned upon, I engaged in some yesterday. Actually, it was purely accidental--I was tracking a Cassin's Auklet when a pair of giant nostrils rolled up out of the sea in the background. I see whales from shore fairly often, but it is always a treat to see a Blue Whale on the way to work.

I continue to be impressed with each day's individuality. The sea is not static; there is always something different from the previous week. Yesterday, the difference was dramatic: jaegers and Pink-footed Shearwaters suddenly appearing in numbers, Elegant Terns again abundant to the point of irritation, and my first Common Tern and Black-bellied Plover seen from the pier this summer. Regularly birding the same location has its value.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Aug 4, 2011 5:50 AM - 7:55 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: mostly clear, with patchy fog/cloud banks (it was sunny most of the time I was there; however, while driving down, I drove through some really dense fog banks, and towards the end the sun was concealed), calm, cool. It's always a good day when you see a Blue Whale on the way to work. Also, a few notables in the avian department--a bunch of jaegers, a huge influx in PFSH numbers, first COTE of the summer, and a lot more ELTE than the last few weeks.
29 species (+1 other taxa)

Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 1
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 35 Where did they come all come from?? After seeing one or two every seawatch all summer, they were all over the place--this number is very conservative. There could have easily been 50+ present. There was a large, strung-out feeding frenzy of dolphins with WEGU, ELTE, and BRPE attending, and many of the PFSH were zooming around that, some of them landing on the water to check it out.
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 425
Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas) 4
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 5
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 20
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 4
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 400 Including many juveniles.
Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias) 1
Black-bellied Plover (Pluvialis squatarola) 4 First I've seen on the beach this summer.
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 34
Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) 8
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 12
Red-necked Phalarope (Phalaropus lobatus) 32
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 200
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 700 More than usual--there were lots of birds offshore sitting on the water and flying around.
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 3
Common Tern (Sterna hirundo) 1
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 3
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 800
Black Skimmer (Rynchops niger) 2
Pomarine Jaeger (Stercorarius pomarinus) 7 Literally the first bird I saw through my scope was a light-morph POJA. The first I've seen from the pier this summer, and strange that there were so many. Definitely different individuals--I had one light morph adult with full tail spoons, three light morph subadults chasing a single tern, and a couple dark morphs. Quite the show.
jaeger sp. (Stercorarius sp. (jaeger sp.)) 2
Common Murre (Uria aalge) 1 One flying "north"--looked to be in basic-type plumage. Pretty distant.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 11 Back down to regular numbers...
Rhinoceros Auklet (Cerorhinca monocerata) 2 A couple, the first spotted on the water--I hardly ever spot alcids at rest. The other was a fly-by.
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 40
Mourning Dove (Zenaida macroura) 2
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 3
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 2

Watch It VIII

2011-08-03T19:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, I did go seawatching last week, and yes, I did delay for nearly a whole week before before posting my report! The shame is overwhelming; I solemnly promise not to let it happen again, at least not until this week.

It was an entirely ordinary day, except for the deluge of northbound Cassin's Auklets. I carefully tallied forty-eight. To my knowledge, this is a record count for the county. The Birds of Orange County lists a high count of twenty-five, and eBird, though more up-to-date, shows a previous high count of thirty. Interesting.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jul 29, 2011 5:45 AM - 7:50 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy, strong breeze (W, ~10 mph), cool (~65?F). Seawatching before work. Productive--I think the wind might have been blowing birds closer to shore, because a lot of the birds were closer to shore than normal (e.g., PFSH and SOSH visible with the naked eye, and CAAU just a couple hundred yards off the end of the pier). Or maybe it was a coincidence. Also had one distant whale sp. about a mile out--just saw it briefly while I was tracking a flock of CAAU flying by.
27 species (+1 other taxa)

Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 2
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 1
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 325 Perhaps slightly more than normal, including many very close birds (relatively speaking, of course).
Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas) 1
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 11
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 14
Pelagic Cormorant (Phalacrocorax pelagicus) 1 The first I've observed at the pier this summer.
cormorant sp. (Phalacrocorax sp.) 3
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 250
Snowy Egret (Egretta thula) 1 Fly-by bird with a broken leg hanging down.
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 59 Big influx, including many juveniles--the first juvenile shorebirds (other than local breeders) I've seen this summer. Most were south of the pier, and most left once people starting showing up.
Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) 2
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 28
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 300
Ring-billed Gull (Larus delawarensis) 1 Strangely, the first I've had at the pier this summer. A raggedy adult-cycle north of the pier on the beach.
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 400
California Gull (Larus californicus) 2
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 2
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 5
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 2
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 85
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 48 By far the most I've ever seen in one seawatch--almost every time I scanned, I had at least one or two small flocks going "north." Many were exceptionally close to shore. It's entirely possible that numbers like these are always present, it's just that they stick farther out where thy can't be seen.
Rhinoceros Auklet (Cerorhinca monocerata) 2
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 60
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 1
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 1
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 6

Off the Pier

2011-07-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

I've seen more seabirds this summer than any previously thanks to my weekly pier vigils. Shearwaters and alcids are cool, but only a certain level of satisfaction can be garnered from the glimpses had from the pier of black specks bouncing around at the horizon. Earlier in the summer, I swore off pelagics to save funds for textbooks and dates to the sewage ponds. However, when a free ticket came my way (thanks, Rhoda and Joey!) I couldn't exactly turn it down.

The trip was Los Angeles Audubon's thirteen hour cruise on the speedy Condor Express out of Santa Barbara, an annual odyssey into the far reaches of the ocean, the domain of the pterodroma and tropicbird. Two great perils challenge any birder daring enough to sign up for one of these trips: seasickness and sleep. The Condor Express is a large, stable boat, yet somehow several among our ranks lost the contents of their stomachs over the rail. I remained untouched, and even managed to stave off the latter evil, not counting a quick five-minute nap during a lull in the afternoon.

What's out there? Instead of writing "Well, we were cruising along, with shearwaters everywhere, and then we saw an albatross, which we stopped and watched for five minutes....", I'll just give you the photos, perhaps with a brief accompanying comment.

I'll start with the alcids. This grayish little chunk of blubber has been likened to a football. It's a Rhinocerous Auklet, which is actually more of a puffin than anything else. We saw perhaps a half-dozen.

Next on the alcid roster: Cassin's Auklet. Another chunk of gray blubber, but smaller than a Rhino Auklet, with a smaller bill. More of a tennis ball (albeit a very dusty one) than a football. If you squint, you can see the small white mark above the eye.

When I see Cassin's Auklets at the pier (which I do, nearly every week), I see them in flight. From that distance, they look like gnats buzzing along the surface in a fast, direct line the way a gnat would never fly. At a closer distance, from a boat, they look more like horse flies. Note on the bottom left photo the impressive amount of white on the underparts, more extensive and well-defined than is shown in some field guides.

Gem of the swells, the desire of every non-Californian birder...Xantus's Murrelet. I'm rather fond of them myself. We saw about ten, all of the expected scrippsi race.

Before delving any farther into the wonders of the pelagic world, let us pause to appreciate the scum circling around the back of the boat: Heermann's Gulls. Sure, they're common on the beach, but it's cool to see them fifty miles offshore, particularly when they're crisply-fringed juveniles fresh out of Mexico. Oh, and the bird in the background is a Pink-footed Shearwater.

The ball analogies are not exclusive to alcids. I have heard birders compare Red-necked Phalaropes to ping-pong balls. I can't remember the last time I saw a fleet of two hundred ping-pong balls spiraling on the water or twisting and fluttering among the swells.

Bigger, and redder, and farther out: Red Phalarope, still partially in alternate plumage, accompanied by a couple Red-necks.

The leaders almost blew out the PA system on this bird, and for a good reason: it's a Manx Shearwater. In North America, they normally range off the East Coast; however, a few turn up in the wrong ocean every year.

A few Northern Fulmars summer off of southern California every year. This bird was so pathetically ragged and bleached that I felt sorry for it and included it here.

This Laysan Albatross has the distinction of being the first, and only, Laysan Albatross I've seen thus far in my life. They are regular off California, but apparently not in the summer. Its dwarfed bodyguard is another fulmar, a much more pristine one at that.

Laysan Albatross (front), Pacific Ocean (back), sky (top).

Arctic Terns, I can't get excited about them. They're terns that spent their entire lives flying around over the ocean, which would be cool if they were shearwaters or petrels or something, but they're not.

Birders have a thing for jaegers. They compare them to pirates, or brutes, or triathletes, or bodybuilders. But, I must admit, Long-tailed Jaegers deserve admiration. They spend their time beating on those loser Arctic Terns and look classy while doing so.

Skuas are jaegers so intense that they aren't even called jaegers. Born in Antarctica and raised on penguin meat, these beasts roam the oceans the rest of the year, wintering (during our summer) off California and making a livlihood by terrorizing hapless Heermann's Gulls, shearwaters, or whatever else gets in their way.

Yes, skuas demand respect. Even the zombie-birders emerged from their hibernation in the cabin to gape at the two skuas that circled and wheeled in our wake.

Once you start seeing Leach's Storm-Petrels on a California pelagic, it's probably safe to go asleep. They inhabit deep, deep water, the kind of water that is devoid of avian life except for Leach's Storm-Petrels. Seriously, once you get out a hundred miles, an hour may pass with twenty Leach's Storm-Petrels and nothing else. However, birders are attracted to these barren seas with hopes of finding some great rarity. Quality, not quantity. We managed to rustle up a couple Red-billed Tropicbirds to compensate for the scarcity of birds.

And now I shall return to my trusty pier, accumulating dollars in my bank account for other wonders. Wonders like The Essentials of Organic Chemistry.

Watch It VII--Who Cares About Pigeons?

2011-07-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

I won't attempt to conceal this sorry fact about myself: I discriminate against pigeons. When I'm feeling good towards them, I ignore them; at other times, I'll take a few steps out of my way to try to kick one off the pier. In fact, the only pigeons that I really care about are the ones that are black with white wing patches and red webbed feet. In other words, Pigeon Guillemots.

And these lusted-after Pigeon Guillemots were one primary motivations for rolling out of bed at four forty-five in the morning for these weekly seawatches. Note the past tense. I saw one on Friday. It only took twenty hours and two-thirds of the summer to glimpse its velvety black, obese body being carried southward on whirring wings. As the bird disappeared in the shame of defeat, I pledged that, despite this monumental victory, I will continue to seawatch for the rest of the summer.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jul 22, 2011 5:45 AM - 7:55 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy, light breeze (~6mph, WSW), cool (~65?F). An excellent morning of seawatching before work, and not just because I finally pegged Pigeon Guillemot. Many birds, few fish, and no especially bizarre people. The old dude with the cane I see every week finally gave me enough details about his mystery bird that I was able to identify it as a Caspian Tern. Today, he was picking up old fishing line left strewn around and throwing it away. Cool guy.
28 species (+1 other taxa)

Pacific Loon (Gavia pacifica) 2 I was very surprised to have two--and they were definitely different, because I saw them at the same time. First, I got on a loon coming north. It came by fairly close and I was able to ID it as a PALO. Just as it was crossing the end of the pier, I caught a glimpse of a bird on the water at the bottom of my field of view. Another PALO, quite close to the pier! Both were in basic-type plumage, and I could see that the sitting bird at least quite bleached and ragged.
Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 2
Clark's Grebe (Aechmophorus clarkii) 1 One (accompanied by one of the WEGR) swimming around the pier. The first I've observed here this summer.
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 2
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 250
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 35
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 24 These definitely seem to be on the increase. Post-breeders coming from somewhere, I'd presume...
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 425 More than I'm used to, and most were fly-bys. There seemed to be at least one line flying low over the water at any given time, and there were a couple BIG flocks (80+) birds. Strangely, I saw very few birds feeding or anything. Correlation to the fishermen's lack of luck? Hmmmm.
Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias) 1 A tame juvenile perched on the pier railing, looking for handouts. They learn quick.
Snowy Egret (Egretta thula) 1
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 24 Shorebirds are picking up!
Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) 2
peep sp. (Calidris sp.) 9 A small flock heading south...probably WESA.
Red-necked Phalarope (Phalaropus lobatus) 50 I was initially baffled when I kept seeing tiny birds waay out that looked sorta looked like whitish storm-petrels that kept landing on the water. Finally, it clicked--phalaropes! The first I've seen this summer at the pier.
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 200
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 500
California Gull (Larus californicus) 1 One very raggedy near-adult (3rd cycle?) on the beach south of the pier.
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 115 Very strange--all the other terns have been decreasing since I started coming, except LETE, which seems to grow every time I come. Or maybe I just didn't notice them when there were thousands of ELTE milling around drowning everything out...
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 8
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 1
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 32 Very, very few.
Black Skimmer (Rynchops niger) 9
Pigeon Guillemot (Cepphus columba) 1 County bird! By far the most exciting thing I've had of all my summer seawatching, even though I've been expecting it sooner or later. I first got on while it around 0630, while it was well north of the pier, and my impression was of an all-dark, medium-sized alcid. I was getting my hopes up, but with the cloud cover and all anything could appear black. I couldn't see the white wing patches, though it was sorta coming in towards shore, so I couldn't really tell. I wasn't at the end of the pier because of all the fishermen, so I lost it when it went behind. I dashed up to the south side and immediately got on it going past the end of the pier, and all doubt was erased--perfect alternate-plumage PIGU, flying directly by at moderate distance. Gorgeous! It LANDED a short distance south of the pier--way too far for photos, etc., but still nice and close for scope views, and way closer than the usual SOSH/BLSP zone. After sitting for a minute, it dove twice (very abrupt jump with open wings--funky) and then took off again and continued south. Total observation time was maybe six or seven minutes. In flight, looks like a small, black murre--same "flying uphill" aspect, perhaps less pronounced, and the head looks really small and the body very fat. The white wing patches were less obvious than I had been expecting--they were easily missed when the bird wasn't roughly even with the pier. Dark underwings noted when the bird stood up to flap while on the water. Saaawweeeet!
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 9
Rhinoceros Auklet (Cerorhinca monocerata) 1 One fly-by going "north," fairly distant. The first I've observed here this summer--finally!
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 60
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 1
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 10
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 6

Watch It VI

2011-07-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

Some describe it as a twitter, others a whinny, and yet others liken it to a chorus of tiny handbells. I just can't hear it. To me, it just sounds like a Bushtit.

Whatever it may or may not sound like, I was surprised to hear it wafting down the pier on my latest seawatching extravaganza. A new pier bird. It seems that not even the most microscopic patch of shrubbery is free of Bushtits.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jul 14, 2011 5:42 AM - 7:54 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy, light breeze (~10 mph, SSW), very light drizzle, cool (67°F). Low tide. Thick clouds resulted in very dim viewing conditions for the first half-hour or so. Tern numbers are still much reduced from before, but decent numbers of everything else. There was at least one fair-sized (forty-plus strong) pod of dolphins well offshore, being followed by a large flock of gulls, terns, pelicans, and shearwaters. Human-wise, things were pretty normal on the pier today...I surrended the very end of the pier to fishermen and instead watched from about 7/8 of the way to the end.
28 species (+2 other taxa)

Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 2 A pair sitting on the water well to the south.
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 1
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 350 Lots, but they were all pretty distant.
Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas) 1 One, my first of the summer.
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 28
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 5
cormorant sp. (Phalacrocorax sp.) 2
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 85
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 7
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 6 A small fly-by flock just as I was walking down the pier.
Sanderling (Calidris alba) 1 My first of the summer, an alternate-plumage bird on the beach south of the pier.
peep sp. (Calidris sp.) 3 A small group flying north low over the water, not too distant, but blehhh
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 240 A considerable influx. They were everywhere, too--lots of birds flying offshore, lots on the beach. There were also considerable numbers of juveniles. I guess breeding is pretty much done with down in Mexico...
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 675
California Gull (Larus californicus) 4 It has been weird...I've seen very few CAGU this summer on the beach, but today there were four. Oversummering? Or failed breeders coming from somewhere?
Glaucous-winged Gull (Larus glaucescens) 1 An extremely straggly, bleached bird fighting over stale french bread with other gulls at the base of the pier. It was almost pure white, with just a small amount of creamy brown on the underparts. The bill was almost completely black. Interestingly, a very similar bird--probably the same one--was photographed by Eliot Harold maybe a week ago near the SAR mouth. I saw photos on OrangeCountyBirding and it looks very similar. Sweet, the first summering one I've seen in the county.
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 70
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 22
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 2 Very few!
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 1
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 210
Common Murre (Uria aalge) 1 One alternate-plumaged bird going "north." Altogether not too surprising given my previous sightings this summer (and there have been regular reports from La Jolla (Lehman et al). Still weird.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 16 Several small parties of 1-5 going "north", all distant. My highest count yet this summer, I believe.
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 60
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 4
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 5
Bushtit (Psaltriparus minimus) 2 New bird for the pier for me! A couple calling from the tiny patch of ornamental shrubbery near the bathrooms at the base of the pier.
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 1
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 3

Birding--Bad for the Health

2011-07-13T20:37:00.000-07:00

Head entombed in pillows, torso mummified in blankets, I was well along in the process of falling asleep. A dark haze swirled over my mind. The peaceful hum of traffic and the muffled booms of Disneyland fireworks ten miles distant lulled me into unconsciousness, an unorthodox yet soothing lullaby.

SCR-REEEEAAAP!

A Barn Owl shrieked a challenge to muggy night. Barn Owl vocalizations are diametrically opposed to lullabies—sharp, startling, scary. I jerked awake and glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. I made a mental note to register this impolite owl into eBird first thing in the morning.

eBird has been the ruin of my life. I can’t even sleep without being dogged with the obsessive urge to enter checklist after checklist.

Fortunately, a simple solution exists, and, rising on an elbow from my pillows, I reached for it on the nightstand: a pair of earplugs. Nothing but the most raucous mockingbird shouting from my windowsill could disturb my slumber now. I sighed and sank back into my nest of pillows and blankets. Sleep followed quickly.

Watch It V

2011-07-09T17:24:00.000-07:00

Early mornings at the pier are gorgeous. Mist blurs the horizon, the sky blends from pearly pink to slate blue overhead, and the dark ocean gently laps at the beach, frothing like whipped cream. The air is fresh, salty, and only the very slightest whiff of fish offal spoils it, depending on where you stand. But then, the sun rises, casting away all the illusions. The idyllic palm trees and buildings stand on what was formerly a gigantic coastal estuary teeming with life, long since raped and buried underneath roads, houses, malls, and other marks of humanity. The ocean is polluted, the air smoggy, and even the pier itself is heavily littered with cigarette butts, In-N-Out Burger wrappers, and partially decomposed sunflower seed shells. Ah well. Sometimes, reality hurts.

Enough complaining. This week's installment of seawatching was successful--not that it ever isn't--and I thoroughly enjoyed two hours of shearwaters, alcids, and terns before work. One of the most interesting aspects of my weekly visits is the variation in numbers of the common species. I've had mornings when I see at least a thousand more Elegant Terns. Why were there so few (relatively speaking) this week? I just don't know.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jul 7, 2011 5:42 AM - 7:54 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: mostly clear (rather misty, especially early on), light breeze (SW), warm (~68°F). Seawatching before work. A few decent things. Once again, it was nice to actually have the sun out on the birds, though lighting wasn't great on birds that were south of the pier.
23 species

Pacific Loon (Gavia pacifica) 1 This one was unexpected--a bird in basic-type plumage hauling "north" low over the water. Presumably a locally summering bird.
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 330
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 5
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 3
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 55
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 3
Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) 1
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 2
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 110 Numbers continue to grow--including many birds heading north offshore. Also, had my first juveniles of the year.
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 400
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 22
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 16
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 8
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 150 Much fewer than recently. Several weeks ago, I had at least a thousand more in a similar span of time at the same time of day. Hmm, why? Weather conditions? Or maybe stage in breeding cycle of the birds at Bolsa Chica? Shift in food distribution?
Xantus's Murrelet (Synthliboramphus hypoleucus) 2 A prize--a pair, not that far out, going "north." Obviously small and cleanly black and white.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 5 A small flock buzzing north well offshore.
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 32
Mourning Dove (Zenaida macroura) 4 A little fly-by group at the base of the pier as I was heading out...first time I've had them here. Whoopie!
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 15
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 2
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 1
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 2

Two, Four, Six, Eight, Try To Estimate!

2011-07-06T20:53:00.001-07:00

“How many [Ruby-crowned] kinglets?” I asked, notebook in hand, pen poised to record the official tally.

“At least a couple dozen…maybe twenty-six?” responded my girlfriend Alison, behind the wheel as we pulled away from Floral Lane, an alleged hotspot that I have thus far found to be positively underwhelming.

“Don’t be ludicrous,” I scolded. “Fourteen.”

Alison sighed.

“Come on. They were ALL over the place. I saw six in one bush.”

Seeing the validity of both statements, I conceded. “All right, fine. Sixteen.”

Both of us are notoriously strong-willed people. The debate nearly dissolved into blows, but eventually we peacefully agreed that we had, indeed, seen sixteen Ruby-crowned Kinglets on our walk. He who wields the pen holds power.

It’s a time-honored tradition of mine. Go birding, have a good time. Then, afterwards, estimate the numbers of birds you saw and punch them into eBird. How representational are these estimates—often little more than wild guesses—of the true number of birds present? Some situations offer challenges, like…

A cloud of swallows swirling back and forth over a field…thousands upon thousands of gulls blanketing the center dike at Muskegon Wastewater…a chorus of unseen Wrentits trilling from hill cloaked in chaparral…ubiquitous Black Phoebes, one standing guard over seemingly every trash can in the neighborhood.

An even greater challenge faces birders entering eBird checklists from memory: whether a species was even present or not. Did I hear any Song Sparrows on my evening walk around the evening? Well, surely I did—must have just forgotten to write it down on my little pad. How many? Well, I don’t know, but usually there seem to be about three singing males in the neighborhood, so I’ll put down three. Yeah, three, I remember them all now…

I’ve become halfway diligent at jotting down all the species I detect in a pocket notebook that I feel naked without. Recording numbers, however, is another story. Leaving the estimations to the end frequently leads to intense personal frustration (when I bird with myself) or verbal, possibly even physical conflict (when I bird with others). In addition to these negative side effects of estimation, is it even accurate? I decided to test the accuracy of my estimation on a recent evening ramble to Irvine Regional Park by carefully tallying numbers of several species.

The first thing I noticed: Black Phoebes are freaking everywhere. I encountered eleven in less than a mile of walking. On my previous four visits of comparable effort, I estimated three, six, one, and seven birds, respectively. Second observation: Cliff Swallows are impossible to count, screw this. Third observation: Mourning Doves, that’s better. Fly in a straight line, one or two at a time. I can handle this. I ended up with seventeen, compared with forty, twenty-six, eighteen, and thirty-eight on previous visits. Fourth observation: Shoot, eight-thirty, almost my bedtime...better head back.

These two case studies might suggest that my estimation powers are reasonably accurate. I do not, however, flatter myself to be convinced so easily. Oftentimes, when confronted with a species scrawled on my notepad, I am completely at loss as to how many I saw. This challenge is two-pronged. It involves memory, sometimes over hours, and it also requires synthesizing a total of birds seen over a period of time—when out birding, you see those Yellow-rumped Warblers a few at a time, not all at once. Out of curiosity, I googled “estimation games” and blew an enjoyable few minutes testing myself (http://tinyurl.com/3re74py). Embarrassingly, I nearly scored negatively on the “Count 50-99” level, but then I promptly dominated the “Count 20-50” level. It seems that I am forever doomed to be ignorant of my level of estimation skill…

One of my goals for the remainder of the summer is to be more aggressive in keeping track of bird numbers while birding and not saving the estimation for the end. It requires considerable time and diligence, both of which I seem to perpetually lack. But who knows? Perhaps, by the end of the summer, my eBird account will be spewing forth data that are slightly more accurate.

Watch It IV--The Fish Apocalypse

2011-07-01T21:07:00.000-07:00

"I know that human beings and fish can coexist peacefully."

This prophecy, uttered by none other than George W. Bush, has not yet come to pass. Our coastlines are still ravaged with war. This morning, a barrage of mackerel staged an assault on Newport Pier, where bold defenders of the human legacy valiantly attempted to quell the surge with their rods, lines, and hooks. I just watched.

A dozen frantic tails vibrated against the ruthless cement, sending delightful showers skyward. The sun sparkled some, but others remained dark, opaque, and red. Gradually, the symphony of tails experienced a diminuendo, and the accompanying showers weakened to a faint mist, then to nothing. Nothing, except eyes--eyes, wide, unblinking, desperate. Some were stained with red; all were hopeless. As the scores of bodies were dumped into five-gallon buckets, some jerked back to brief life, only to be again overtaken by death. One mackerel, lying on its side on a bed of his fallen comrades, gaped his mouth open and shut, surely reciting "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" in his silent fish language.

During lulls in the battle, when the danger of being snagged with a hook or splashed with blood or entrails abated, I turned my eyes to the mist-shrouded horizon, waiting for the emergence of some pelagic oddity. Pigeon Guillemots, apparently reveling in their continued delinquency, escaped my grasp once again. But, time is on my side. I have the remainder of the summer to resolve this feud.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jul 1, 2011 5:38 AM - 8:30 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: clear, very light breeze (SSW), warm (64-73°F) Morning seawatch--kinda weird to be out seawatching on a sunny morning, which made viewing condition a lot different than usual (e.g., SOSH looked brown, not nondescript black, and the silver blazes on their underwings were really obvious.) Way more fishermen than usual, too, which made viewing a bit difficult. They were also catching a lot more fish than they usually do.
19 species (+2 other taxa)

Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 1 Only one, a distant bird fairly early on. Despite the distance, the morning sun made the pink bill readily visible, and the pale belly and underwings were surprisingly obvious.
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 215 Fewer than normal, though still numerous. There was one bird sitting on the water fairly close to shore most of the morning, and oddly it had symmetrical white patches on the wings, presumably from bleaching/molt. Got me excited for PIGU for the first couple seconds, but it obviously wasn't...
shearwater sp. (Calonectris/Puffinus sp.) 1 Sooo...I think this was probably the bird of the morning, and I don't know what it was. I got on a pretty distant shearwater hauling south(ish). What was surprising about this bird was that it was very clean dark and light--very pale below, with white underwings. Obviously, it wasn't a Sooty. Most likely, it was just a Pink-foot gleaming in the sunlight--the definite Pink-foot I had earlier surprised me with its contrast, but it seemed more strong on this bird, and I didn't see the pink bill, either. Huuuh.
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 18
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 4
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 88
Long-billed Curlew (Numenius americanus) 2 Two flying "north," low over the water--they rounded the end of the pier.
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 1 On the beach.
shorebird sp. (Charadriiformes sp.) 8 A distant flock of small shorebirds going south...I think they miiight have been Semi Plovers, but yeah...beyond my ability.
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 75
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 280
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 85
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 10
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 15
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 2
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 500
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 55
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 4
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 5
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 5
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 10

Watch It III

2011-06-25T18:06:00.000-07:00

poach/poʊtʃ/
verb
1. to trespass, especially on another's game preserve, in order to steal animals or to hunt.
2. to take game or fish illegally.
3. (of land) to become broken up or slushy by being trampled.
4. to cook (eggs, fish, fruits, etc.) in a hot liquid that is kept just below the boiling point.

My coveted Pigeon Guillemots have been poached! (And no, they weren't cooked for breakfast).

When I read the news that someone had spotted two Pigeon Guillemots at Newport Pier early last week, I flew into a rage and swore to duplicate the sighting during my weekly vigil on Friday morning. Arriving at the pier at a time when a vast percentage of the county was still probably asleep, I sauntered down the pier, cast a haughtly glare upon the gaggle of fishermen hogging the rail, and began scanning the swells. Shortly thereafter, a kindly hobo approached, a kleenex dangling from an outstretched hand. "Your nose is dripping," he chuckled.

Thanks. A drippy nose, no Pigeon Guillemots, and eight hours of work ahead of me. Life is a beast.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jun 24, 2011 5:46 AM - 7:53 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy and misty, light breeze (~7mph, SW), cool (~63°F)
22 species (+1 other taxa)

Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 2
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 240
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 7
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 1 The only one I saw was one accidentally snagged by a fisherman. I heard a commotion, looked up, and saw a guy reeling it in on his rod. He got it onto the pier, where it was remarkably calm. Then, one guy held its bill, and the other unhooked it (it appeared to be hooked in the leg). Then, the guy picked it up and chucked it as hard as he could off the pier. It took off flying
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 2
cormorant sp. (Phalacrocorax sp.) 1
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 48
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 8
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 65
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 580
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 60 At the time I arrived, large numbers of terns were foraging their way south. By the time I was leaving, many were heading back north, and lots of the LETE had fish in tow.
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 4
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 32
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 24
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 1000
Black Skimmer (Rynchops niger) 2 A pair flying south over the beach as I was leaving.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 11 Several small parties, all distant, and all going "north."
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 32
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 2
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 5
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 2
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 3

Narcissism

2011-06-23T20:14:00.000-07:00

Humans aren't the only ones that struggle with it...

Lesser Mountains

2011-06-18T20:38:00.001-07:00

As I complete my monotonous tasks in the air-conditioned comfort of the Color Lab throughout the week, I wistfully remember last summer and the excessive time I spent in various mountain ranges. Hikes were had, scrambles up rocky slopes were not uncommon, and plunges into icy mountain streams and lakes provided welcome diversions from birding. I decided that I would have to get into some mountains this weekend, even if they were just the lowly Santa Ana Mountains. I was decidedly unenthusiastic about this decision when I arose at four-thirty this morning, but I dragged myself to the Trabuco Canyon Trail and began hiking before six. After six hours and thirteen miles, I had seen a nice selection of montane birds, including Mountain Quail, Olive-sided Flycathcer, Hairy Woodpecker, Black-throated Gray Warbler, and this Western Wood-Pewee.

The primary motive fueling this hike, however, was not birds--it was other forms of life. These other forms of life--especially butterflies--abounded, much to my joy.

Spring Azure (Celastrina ladon)

Acmon Blue (Plebejus acmon)

Tailed Copper (Lycaena arota)

Dotted Blue (Euphilotes enoptes)

Juniper Hairstreak (Callophrys gryneus)

Gabb's Checkerspot (Chlosyne gabbii)

Leanira Checkerspot (Thessalia leanira)

Red Rock Skimmer (Paltothemis lineatipes)

Gopher Snake (Pituophis catenifer)

Watch It II

2011-06-17T15:26:00.000-07:00

Shaking my wrist to glance at my watch, I was heartbroken to see that I had only five minutes left of seawatching before I had to leave for work. I sighed and reminisced about last summer, when I embarked on road trip after road trip, carefree, birding at will...

Seawatching has been predictable of late--the same suite of species, over and over. But, I don't see Sooty Shearwaters every day, and weekly vigils give me the opportunity to familiarize myself with the regular species. Plus, recently, there have been sporadic sightings of Pigeon Guillemots off San Diego County. With luck, I will duplicate those. Or, a Brown Booby. I'd take one of those, too.

Keeping watching...and wishing...

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jun 17, 2011 5:54 AM - 7:55 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Pre-work seawatch at Newport Pier. Nothing outrageous--and nothing different from the previous few weeks--but lots of action, including several dolphin/sea lion/pelican/gull/tern feeding frenzies occurring offshore. Numbers of several species (e.g., BRPE, HEEG) w8ere considerably higher than previous visits. Weather: cloudy, breezy (8 mph, SSW), cool (63°F). Visibility decent, with Catalina clearly visible.
20 species

Pacific Loon (Gavia pacifica) 2 Two separate birds, both in basic-type plumage, both flying "north" low over the water. Getting a tad late, aren't we?
Western Grebe (Aechmophorus occidentalis) 2 A pair on the water a short distance north of the pier.
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 200 A decent stream of birds well offshore, though slightly fewer birds than previous watches. A few birds came in very close, including two that joined a dolphin feeding frenzy just a couple hundred feet off the end of the pier--sweeeet looks!
Black Storm-Petrel (Oceanodroma melania) 4 A handful waaaay out, at or beyond Lehman distance.
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 9
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 1
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 450
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 2
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 52
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 500
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 4
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 6
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 80
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 1400
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 31
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 15
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 2
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 3
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 2
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 1

Legs

2011-06-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

While navigating the narrow, twisting road into Starr Ranch at some ungodly hour this morning, I realized with a start that it has been at least a year since I banded there. That is a pity, since banding provides a unique way to get intimate with birds while contributing to science and your own knowledge. It was a good morning of banding with 28 new birds banded, 13 recaptured, and 5 released unbanded.

This recaptured Common Yellowthroat had something funky going on with its head, with that orange coloration on the face...jokingly, we said that it beat some of the legitimate Orange-crowned Warblers for that title, but, it really was true!

Speaking of Orange-crowned Warblers, we banded six and recaptured one more. Many were hatch-year birds, easily recognized by their yellowish gapes, buff-tinged wing bars, and loose, fluffy feathering on the underparts. This individual boasted an unusual feature that also identified it as a youngster--a fault bar across the tail. These are formed when the growth of feathers is retarded or stopped during a period of food shortage. For some reason or another, this bird didn't have adequate food one day--maybe it was raining, and the parents couldn't gather enough food, or its nestmates trampled it underfoot and beat it to the food.

Speaking of growing feathers, this Hutton's Vireo was doing some hardcore molting. Note the contrast between the old outer primaries, which appear pale and tattered, and the new secondaries, which are darker and more pristine. Also, one feather (p2) is still in its sheath. This probably indicates that this bird is done breeding, since, as any bird will tell you, the simultaneous stresses of breeding and molting are not conducive to survival.

Speaking of, uh, birds, here's one of the Song Sparrows we handled today. With sedentary species such as this, we seldom catch new birds except for juveniles. This axiom held true today--we banded one new bird but processed four recaptures.

Speaking of brown, streaky birds, we banded two species of finches that often frustrate and foil birders: Purple and House. And, as this photo proves, classic field marks are not always reliable. Purple Finches are supposed to have straighter culmens than House Finches. Well, check out these birds. Sure, in direct comparison to the House Finch, the Purple may have a slightly straighter culmen, but, on a lone bird, I believe birders are universally screwed until someone invents a culmometer. Eastern birds are easier, with their more prominent white eyebrows, but note the considerably chunkier, bull-headed, grosbeak-like Purple (left) with the more svelte House (the opposite of left).

Speaking of identification problems, Black Phoebes pose none whatsoever (except the occasional confusion with Black-necked Stilts, but I won't dwell on that). Remember about that whippersnapper Orange-crowned with the cinnamon wing bars? Well, hatch-year Black Phoebes have them too. (As do Northern Rough-winged Swallows, California Thrashers, Pacific-slope Flycatchers, and many others...what's going on here?!) Also, check out those pale outer webs on the outer retrices, a characteristic shared with several other flycatchers (Eastern Phoebe, Vermilion...)

Speaking of outer retrices, it's late; I'm going to bed.

Watch It

2011-06-09T19:02:00.000-07:00

Glancing down at my feet, I studied the vegetation cover: none. The pitted cement was, however, littered with a dreary conglomerate of cigarette butts, sunflower seed shells, and bloody fish offal. A senile pigeon lay in a lumpy heap several feet away. Sighing, and trying to ignore the overpowering stench of what smelled like putrid sea lion breath, I returned my eye to my scope eyepiece, and instantly forgot my immediate surroundings, mesmerized by a line of Sooty Shearwaters sailing over the gray sea.

A couple hours of seawatching before work in the morning is a good way to at least partially satisfying bird-related cravings during the rest of the day. It's also an effective way to cramp your legs while enduring the angry ramblings of drunken hobos, the cold stares of die hard fishermen, and the insolent curiosity of preppy tourists. Endure these hardships and you may be rewarded with fleeting glimpses of gray specks flitting in and out of the swells.

But, those specks are shearwaters, alcids, and jaegers. So show some respect.

I've been out on Newport Pier every week since I've been home. Hopefully, this trend will continue through the end of the summer. Below is my eBird list from the session.

Newport Pier, Orange, US-CA
Jun 8, 2011 5:58 AM - 7:49 AM
Protocol: Stationary
Comments: Weather: cloudy, light breeze (SW, ~5mph), 62°F

Pacific Loon (Gavia pacifica) 1 One alternate-plumaged bird, close, going "north."
Pink-footed Shearwater (Puffinus creatopus) 6 Several, including one nice close fly-by.
Sooty Shearwater (Puffinus griseus) 375 Only a few, extremely distant birds at first, but by the time I left, there was a steady stream going by fairly close.
Brandt's Cormorant (Phalacrocorax penicillatus) 1
Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) 2
Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) 350
Willet (Tringa semipalmata) 1 On the beach with the godwits.
Marbled Godwit (Limosa fedoa) 4 On the beach south of the pier.
Heermann's Gull (Larus heermanni) 5 More than I've had the last couple times--post-breeding dispersal already?
Western Gull (Larus occidentalis) 250
California Gull (Larus californicus) 1
Least Tern (Sternula antillarum) 25
Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 10
Forster's Tern (Sterna forsteri) 50
Royal Tern (Thalasseus maximus) 15
Elegant Tern (Thalasseus elegans) 800 There seemed to be more terns around than usual.
Black Skimmer (Rynchops niger) 2
Common Murre (Uria aalge) 2 Weird, two! First, I spotted an alternate-plumaged bird on the water (!) fairly close, straight off the pier...first time I've ever had one sitting from a seawatch. Later, I had another flying "north"--could have been the same bird, I suppose, but I caught it well before it crossed the vicinity of the sitting bird.
Cassin's Auklet (Ptychoramphus aleuticus) 8 All fly-bys, all heading "north." Most were distant, but a party of three was only a couple hundred yards from the pier.
Rock Pigeon (Columba livia) 40
American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) 5
Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) 1
European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) 2
House Finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) 1
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) 3

Breaking Lunch

2011-06-04T20:56:00.000-07:00

I'm a big boy now. I've got a job, I've been through a year of college, and I can go to the bathroom by myself.

Let's focus on that first item. My job this summer--in the Color Lab at Behr Process Corporation in Santa Ana--is a good one, but, when various [former] friends of mine subject me to tales of their awesome field jobs banding shorebirds or killing cowbirds or doing point counts, a significant portion of my soul briefly burns with rage before withering and crumbling away to dust. In a sarcastic--and futile--attempt to prove to myself that I could have just as much fun as they, I decided to stage a Big Lunch Break on Friday at Carl Thorton Park just a mile down the road from work.

Thorton Park is one of those unassuming urban parks with some weary-looking grass, a few small trees, and a murky, concrete-lined pond. Oh, and it is terrible for birding. But, it was with a bold spring to my step that I exited the car while simultaneously stuffing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my mouth, positive that I would make great discoveries in this humble place.

The first bird I saw was a Rock Pigeon.

Things quickly picked up--the next bird was a Western Bluebird! I was actually mildly surprised to end up with two pairs of these...they've obviously invaded every little patch of green in the county over the past couple decades with a rigorous nest-box program.

Things went downhill again, with a House Finch. House Finches were actually plethoric, and I was too lazy to obtain a better photo.

chi-BEER! Woot, a Cassin's Kingbird! Surely the best bird of this mad pursuit, I thought. Ah, being wrong can be so enjoyable sometimes...

Lots of Cliff Swallows were flyin' 'round 'n stuff.

Barn Swallows were also present, and, like the Cliff Swallows, they were flyin' 'round 'n stuff.

It was then that I shifted my gaze to the adjacent schoolyard. A lone European Starling waddled about in the grass, but, to my great agitation, it was positioned between my body and a large gaggle of kids on a playground. I had no desire to be seen aiming a telephoto lens at children, so I set off at a brisk walk to gain a more fortuitous angle on this accursed bird. But, this flying rat had other intentions, and took to the sky before I had the chance to document its presence. I snapped a photo of its departure, and it was fortunate, indeed, that I did, as I did not see another starling the rest of my time there.

I thought it impossible, but then I spotted a bird that overcame the Cassin's Kingbird in greatness. A Western Wood-Pewee!

Unfortunately, there were House Sparrows.

A lone Bushtit fussed about overhead in a pine, uncharacteristically without its menagerie of about sixty comrades. Before complaining about the quality--or lack thereof--of this photo, think, have you ever attempted to hurriedly photograph a caffeinated bird the size of a bumblebee?

Speaking of caffeinated birds the size of bumblebees, I also snagged an Allen's Hummingbird. Much coveted by non-Californians, these little beasts are veritable vermin in Orange County.

Two Mourning Doves lurked outside the fence, and therefore outside the park, but I counted them anyway.

A mother Mallard shepherded her ducklings across the barren lawn to a stinky drainage ditch adjacent to the park. I pitied and despised these ducklings for growing up in such a pathetic place.

A murder of crows eyed the exodus of this young family with obvious interest, and, realizing that the wrath of a hen Mallard is something to be reckoned with, prudently refrained from attack.

An irresistibly cute fledgling Black Phoebe added to the surprising suite of flycatchers in the park.

As is horribly typical of these urban parks, one crippled coot was left over from the winter hoards.

My time was running out. At the last possible second, I scored a Great Horned Owl perched on a nearby roof.

I declare this grand undertaking a resounding success. Fifteen species--excluding the Great Horned Owl, whose origin is disputed--were discovered in forty minutes of birding. Jealous?

Bathrobe Birding

2011-05-22T20:02:00.000-07:00

I hate birding and what it has done to my life. That is what I was thinking as my alarm went off at four this morning. My head pounding and my eyes too sore to keep open, I vaulted myself down from my loft bed, switched off my alarm, threw on a sweatshirt and a bathrobe, and climbed out my bedroom window onto the roof.

My life is a strange one, indeed.

Well, you see, most birds have this nasty habit of migrating at night. That would be fine, and would allow birders to slumber undisturbed through the night, except for their other nasty habit of calling while winging overhead.

Almost immediately I was rewarded with the plaintive heep nocturnal flight call of a Swainson’s Thrush flying overhead in the darkness. Another passed over, and another. Turns out that there was a river of thrushes migrating overhead—I estimated nearly forty flew over during the forty-minute span I was listening on the roof.

Perhaps the strangest thing about the whole operation was the utter lack of migrants other than Swainson’s Thrushes. Now, the thrushes are one of the more common passerine migrants at this time of year, but there are plenty of other species that migrate at night that should have been calling.

Actually, I lied. The strangest thing actually happened at 4:21, when my dad came out into the backyard below to walk our new puppy. A Great Horned Owl was hooting in the distance, so, in an effort to spread some owly joy, I whispered, “Dad! Hear the Great Horned Owl?” Unfortunately, from my vantage point, I couldn’t see his reaction, but the flashlight beam danced across the backyard and then the door scraped shut several seconds later. At that moment, I realized how sketchy I probably looked, a robed figure silhouetted against the sky before dawn. Later, I learned from my dad that he took my whispering to be the snarling of a coyote and beat a hasty retreat in the house to protect the well being of both himself and the puppy.

My little night-listening escapade brought forth three questions:

1) Are there any differences between the nocturnal flight calls of “Russet-backed” (C. u. ustulatus) and “Olive-backed” (C. u. swainsoni) Swainson’s Thrushes? Online recordings are scanty, and I haven’t heard the flight calls of the eastern birds since last September.

2) Why has listening for nocturnal flight calls not caught on in California? Back East, it’s the hip thing to stand out in your driveway at three in the morning and then brag on Facebook about all the sweet flyover thrushes and warblers you had. This behavior seems to be much less commonly practiced in California.

3) How does whispering sound anything at all like a coyote???

The Migration Letters

2011-05-20T21:10:00.000-07:00

My Dearest Hodenpyl,

It is with regret that I am informing you that I must break off our association. If all the events of my life were under my complete control, I would linger longer and savor the luscious fruit of migration in your muddy embrace. However, urgent duties and obligations have transported me across the country, thus bringing our symbiotic relationship to a tragic close. Perhaps it is for the better; migration will soon languish and die, and you would surely be heartbroken if I abandoned you in favor of other partners. You can anticipate my return in the fall, and, if you produce plentiful warblers, you will surely be seeing me multiple times a week, at least until mid-October. But, the future is uncertain, so let us not worry our minds overmuch.

In the meantime, I encourage you to seduce other birders. To assist you in this venture, I find it appropriate to offer two small tokens of advice. Birders are fickle creatures, with variable tastes, and you may find it necessary to modify your ensnarement techniques.

First, a word about trail conditions. The swashbuckling attitude displayed by many birders is mere bravado; more often than not, these deceitful knaves are timid and will be easily deterred by a few mud wallows. In many spots—especially by the first bridge—your paths have become genuine quagmires, excessively sufficient to strike fear into the heart of the average birder. Relax. Allow your trails dry a bit, do not allow the vegetation to encroach too aggressively upon the trail, and limit the number of spider webs stretched across the path at eye level. Remember this counsel, and you will enjoy higher rates of birder traffic.

Second, once you have attracted birders, cautiously regulate the numbers of warblers you reward them with. Do not be stingy initially, or you may never see those birders again. On the other hand, do not overwhelm a birder on his first visit. Remembering the abundance of feathered jewels, he will return once or twice, and, upon finding a much reduced warbler population, he will leave, almost surely never to return. Instead, slowly tease your clients into submission, first perhaps with a Golden-winged and then with a few Cape Mays or Bay-breasts.

Oh, one last thing. Mind your geese! Last time I visited, I was nearly devoured by these beasts. While many people may enjoy being goosed, goosing takes on an entirely new—and wholly unpleasant—dimension when the agent of this foul action is, indeed, a goose.

Warm Regards,

Neil A. Gilbert

President, Homework Destruction Society

Studying and Negligence Thereof

2011-05-14T18:54:00.001-07:00

Chem is done at last
Spanish notes in the garbage
But what about migrants?

In Dubious Battle

2011-05-07T17:29:00.000-07:00

Right now, two legendary battles are raging, one causing the other. The first is the migration of millions of birds northward. Millions upon millions of birds are fighting their way north--fighting inclement weather, questionable food supplies, natural predators, and deadly obstacles such as skyscrapers. This enormous army brings forth a second army, not to fight, but to watch this northerly march with jaws dropped. The birders are out in force; I am proud to be among them.

It's been a considerable personal battle lately. Finals are approaching. Study seems prudent. But, my inner birder thinks otherwise. You fool! he screams. You can hear singing Nasvhille Warblers and Yellow-throated Vireos while walking from class to class. GET OUT!!

Lately, I've been very obedient, following orders whenever issued.

In the last week, I've birded almost desperately, foregoing lunch every day so I can ramble across the wilder parts of campus, attempting to rally the tired troops entrenched in the woods and thickets for the day. Finally, Saturday came. I was at Reed's Lake at dawn. There had been an invasion overnight--paratroopers milled in the treetops, whistling and singing merrily in the face of grave opposition. This one had received a bullet to the chest but still clung to life.

This little guy--a Yellow Wagtail, I'm told--was steadfastly guarding a prisoner-of-war camp.

What it is, I don't know, but Operation Murmuring Trees must be important, because this corporal was repeatedly humming it to himself, presumably so he wouldn't forget.

The battle may be over, but the war has just begun. Get out and support your troops.

Sniping

2011-04-10T17:12:00.000-07:00

Skaaap! yelped the plump bird as it exploded from a swampy matrix of weathered cattails and flattened sedge. "SNIPE!" bellowed my friend Jonathan, pointing at the fleeing bird. We pressed farther into the marsh, the boggy ground trying to suck my flip-flops off my feet with every step. Sharp cattail stalks scraped my bare legs, but I pressed on, hoping for more snipe. Crunchcrunchcrunch, a few more steps. Then--skaaap! another snipe burst up, an aerodynamic dart of a bird seemingly woven from wet, muddy grass.

Skaap! Skaaap! Another, and then another. Haphazardly they'd shoot across the marsh, eventually crashing back into the vegetation, invisible until flushed again.

Snipe hunts are one of my favorite spring experiences. Don't miss out--the snipes won't come to you. Trudge through a flooded field or skirt the edge of a pond and await that hoarse cry. And if it fails to materialize, enjoy spring anyway: try to spot frogs before they plop into the water, listen to meadowlarks sing, or--if you're lucky--find some Blue-winged Teal to appreciate.

Should've Put a Ring on It

2011-04-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

Sprawled over the withering concrete bordering the dark, sludgy pond, I cradled my camera in my hands and crawled to the very edge. Cautiously maneuvering my left elbow to keep it out of a pool of fresh duck crap, I promptly placed my right elbow in a nearly identical patch of excrement. Ah, well--a bit of decoration is inevitable in bird photography; it is a badge of honor. Squinting through the viewfinder, I focused on the black, rippling water a few feet front in front of me. A flash of black, white, accompanied with the most evanescent blaze of chestnut. The drake Ring-necked Duck fixed me with a baleful, golden glare.

Go on any Audubon field trip in November, and you'll probably hear old codgers complaining about this bird's name. "There isn't any ring on that neck," they say as they scope a raft snoozing on a distant pond. "If anything, it should be called Ring-billed Duck." It's an age-old complaint, and a just one too. I've seen thousands of Ring-necked Ducks--my first was in the last millennium--but the only spot I've ever seen their neck rings is Irvine Regional Park. Here, every winter, a few Ring-necked Ducks mingle with the feral Wood Ducks and Mallards, vying for bread crumbs from shrieking toddlers. From a distance of eight feet, that burnished collar is difficult to miss.

Flyin' 'roun 'n stuff

2011-03-25T09:30:00.001-07:00

They may, at first glance, seem to be simplistic, childish words. But, those four truncated words capture the essence of bird biology. They fly around and stuff. While I've been home on spring break, I've unintentionally photographed a lot of birds in flight. Perhaps I'll do another post later about the "stuff" part later.

A great deal of my birding over break has involved climbing ridges, which provide interesting encounters with flying birds, often at or below eye level. And sometimes, unexpected birds wing overhead--like this trio of cormorants that buzzed me while I was hunting Cactus Wrens and Rufous-crowned Sparrows. "Hold on a sec, there are four cormorants!" you may be thinking. Oh well, I never could count--and I love the word "trio."

The entire Orange County population of Red-crowned Parrots seemed intent on disrupting my Grasshopper Sparrow search in the grasslands above Irvine Regional Park--a steady stream of screeching birds flew overhead, drowning out everything else.

One of my triumphs of spring break was finally snagging Swainson's Hawk for my Orange County list. They are scarce spring migrants in the county, and the last couple springs I suffered heartbreak after heartbreak of failed vigils.

Swallows spend a lot of time flying--indeed, that's when most birders see them. This one is a female Violet-green.

Ah, hawks. I've never been a hawkwatch junkie, but I enjoy seeing them whenever I can. Raptors definitely aren't one of my strong suits--I have the general policy of identifying all accipiters as Cooper's--but this is blatantly a Sharp-shinned Hawk. Check out that tiny head, square tail, dark cap, and wings held in a bold 'S' curve.

I must admit, I have a sizeable soft spot for White-throated Swifts, those sickle-winged devils that scream through the atmosphere like fighter jets.

Birders covet this svelte, pearly beast, better known as a White-tailed Kite. A pair is nesting at Irvine Regional Park near my house; they are positively fascinating to watch as they shriek and whistle at each other, fluttering and sparring in midair above their nest.

I might as well finish with a Red-tailed Hawk flyn' 'roun 'n stuff.

Context

2011-03-19T20:59:00.001-07:00

I issue you a challenge: go to Pere Marquette Park in Muskegon during the winter, look out over Lake Michigan, and avoid seeing the clouds of thousands of Long-tailed Ducks swarming over the water. Accomplish this, and I will surrender you my binoculars, complete with the casserole composed of granola bar crumbs, sand, and dried snot caked in the ocular lenses.

So why care about one measly Long-tailed Duck at Riverside Park in Grand Rapids, a mere half-hour away? Well--Pere Marquette is on Lake Michigan, and Riverside Park is, as its name implies, on the Grand River in landlocked Kent County. Context is important.

But still--why care? There's the superficial excuse of county listing. County listing--the fun and often addicting practice of listing birds seen within a particular county--isn't the entire answer. My Kent County listing career has suffered from limited transportation; ninety-eight percent of my birding takes place either on campus or at Reed's Lake a few miles away. As satisfying as it was to tick Bucephala hyemalis (errr...Clangula...thanks JOHG) on my Kent County list, it wasn't the sole reason for seeing the bird.

Hmmm. The Grand River is choked with ice during the winter, and all the ducks are forced into small patches of open water within feet of the shore. That's it--this particular Long-tailed would offer close, extended study, resulting in a more satisfactory duck experience than the distant flock scenario. But, what of the hormone-charged male Long-tailed displaying to a group of disinterested females within peeing distance at Pere Marquette? Those were good views, for sure--and the birds were even calling.

Seeing birds in unexpected places is one of those inexplicable joys of birding. Let's examine hypothetical situation. If a Barrow's Goldeneye appeared at Riverside Park, would you chase it? Or would you fly to Seattle and watch a whole flock of them? In an ideal world, I would prefer the latter, but the former is more convenient when there's only an hour available before class.

Wake Up

2011-02-17T17:44:00.000-08:00

I have fallen asleep, snuggled, nearly smothered, under a warm blanket of textbooks, papers, and problem sets. Occasionally, I will stir in my sleep--scan through a flock of waxwings on the way to class, or perhaps even throw my binoculars in my backpack for a quick walk around campus. But then I yawn, rub my eyes, and slide back under the covers. Sometimes, I sleep deeply, engrossed by Plato or phospholipid bilayers. Other times, I toss and turn, tortured by wild fantasies of birds that are beyond reach.

Consciousness has become a rare state for me; if I'm lucky, I feebly stumble from my bed once a week. Lifting my binoculars to my eyes, I flex my atrophied muscles and remember my former freedom from the drowsy fog. But, even these token moments cannot last; the bed calls urgently, and I wearily burrow into the heaps of responsibilities, assignments, duties, and expectations.

On Saturday, after a particularly long spell of dormancy, I wriggled out of my cocoon and journeyed to Grand Haven with my girlfriend Alison. Grand Haven is much like other river mouths in western Michigan--it does, perhaps, offer better than average pier scrambling--but, for the last couple weeks, it has harbored an outcast, a wandering pilgrim of the arctic: a Black-legged Kittiwake.

Twitching--as you may recall, I spend considerable energy bashing it. Well. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Indeed, it was--before we had even pulled to a stop, we had spotted the kittiwake sailing lightly above the parking lot.

We spent a lot of time watching that kittiwake. I was wide awake by now. Scoters, goldeneye, Snow Buntings...distant memories of another life, when consciousness was my normal state of being. All too soon, the sun sank. My eyelids sagged; I battled the weariness, but, against my will, I crawled back into bed.

A Day in the Life of a College Birder

2011-02-03T15:03:00.000-08:00

8:00 A.M., Incidental Observation

Holey buckets, it's cold. Eggs...real eggs. It's been way too long. I can't wait for spring break. Granola is only so good when you have it for breakfast every morning for one..two...three...four weeks in a row.

American Crow--1
Black-capped Chickadee--1
American Goldfinch--2
House Sparrow--1

8:52 A.M., Incidental Observation

Oh, hi Alex! Yeah, I'm going to class. Science Building...chem. Um, I've got...Blankenspoor? He's okay. Dude, I know, that snow day was frickin' sweet! Alright, see you later, have fun in lab.

American Crow--1
Northern Cardinal--1
House Sparrow--1

9:53 A.M., Incidental Observation

Yeah, Margeaux, I'm going to chapel. You? I knoooow, that guy treats us like kindergarteners...seriously, how many times is he going to tell us that to succeed in chemistry, we need to do the problem sets? Hey--Downy Woodpecker! Huh? Oh, nevermind. What class do you have after this?

Downy Woodpecker--1
Black-capped Chickadee--1
House Sparrow--2

10:23 A.M., Incidental Observation

Oh man, it's too nice of a day to head straight for the library for that date with my chemistry book. I'll take a five-minute detour. Mmmm, sunshine! Hey, what are you doing buddy?! Watch where you're driving! Bleh. Library, I can't escape you!

Black-capped Chickadee--4
Tufted Titmouse--1
Red-breasted Nuthatch--1
Northern Cardinal--2
House Sparrow--2

11:30 A.M., Incidental Observation

Aw, man, I'm starving! Time for a toasted bagel with peanut butter, a spinach salad with honey mustard dressing, two slices of pineapple, a banana, and milk. Hey, I wonder if I can make it the entire fifty feet from the library to the cafeteria without seeing any birds. Shoot, nope!

House Finch--1

4:10-4:36 P.M., Traveling Count, 0.25 miles

You can't go climbing after all? Bummer. That's okay, I'll just go for a walk before dinner instead. Alright, man, see you around! Yeah, tomorrow at four sounds good.

Mourning Dove--3
Downy Woodpecker--1
American Crow--22
Black-capped Chickadee--3
American Robin--5
European Starling--2
Cedar Waxwing--18
American Tree Sparrow--1
Dark-eyed Junco--7
Northern Cardinal--2
House Finch--1
House Sparrow--11

5:38 P.M., Incidental Observation

Mmmm...next week, I think I'll try a combination of the kalamata olive sauce and the artichoke hearts on my bruschetta. Argghh! It's so cold. And the architecht who built this library was a moron, because it definitely is designed to allow the greatest possible amount of snow to blow off its roof into people's faces below. Oh hey...starlings.

European Starling--4

Snow (And Tell)

2011-01-27T16:44:00.000-08:00

Just because I've been suffering from a severe lack of time and motivation the last month--manifested in a lack of posts--doesn't mean I haven't been birding. Now, as I have a five-day breather between my January course and the spring semester, I have time, but I still don't have much motivation. So, without further ado, here are some photos with brief blurbs from the last month.

Ice is slippery! And Purple Sandpipers are clumsy! Not that I'm one to talk...

Manistee River. Snowshoeing is extremely fun, except for when you trip over your own feet (not that I don't do that anyway) and when your snowshoeing partner shoves snow down your neck.

A lake-effect snowstorm shortly before it slammed us at Holland State Park.

The Arctic Ocean is a bit of a drive from Grand Rapids, but thankfully Lake Michigan serves admirably to fulfill your iceberg wilderness fix. Just imagine the goldeneye are Spectacled Eiders.

The end of the Grand Haven pier. My buddies the Lautenbachs and I have established a new competitive winter sport, expected to debut in the next Winter Olympics: Pier Scrambling. Basically, it entails slipping and sliding to the end of an ice-encrusted pier while being bombarded with snowballs and hunks of ice. The person to fall into the lake the fewest number of times wins.

Harlequin Ducks provide a mild spice of excitement to any day along the lakeshore.

Calvin's ecosystem preserve is unsurprisingly quiet this time of year. Junco, Tree Sparrow, Downy Woodpecker, Chickadee...it's predictable, or at least I like to think it is. In the past month, I've seen Northern Shrike, Merlin, and Song Sparrow (shush, they're not as ubiquitous in the winter) on campus.

A New Way to Waste Your Time

2011-01-07T18:36:00.000-08:00

Sanderlings don't sweat.

But humans do. Especially when they run.

Bored? Venture into this new land of abnormality.

The Sweaty Sanderlings

Duck Duck Goose

2011-01-02T20:18:00.000-08:00

"RRRRAAAAAAAAAWWWR!" roared the tottering boy, waving his arms and rushing at the grazing herd of geese.

The geese hastily waddled away, easily outstripping the chubby child, and plopped into the safety of the scummy pond. There, they splashed and yanked among themselves.

Stupid kid, I thought to myself, but I was smiling. I would have acted the same at his age; in fact, I still would, if only they weren't White-fronts. The geese, apparently accumstomed to such molestation, patiently paddled just outside of strike range. They accurately gauged my maturity and restraint; I could have easily given them a bombardment worth remembering, though they were safe from stones flung by their assailant.

The kid turned his attention to some ragged Ring-billed Gulls loafing at the pond's edge. Shrieks and squeals sounded from both the boy and the gulls as the birds fluttered off and settled in the center of the pond.

He was learning an fundamental aspect of bird biology: birds have wings, and they use them to escape potential predators.

I smirked, and squatted down to shoot some photos of the White-fronts. The rippling water lent the sterile, sludgy pond a false beauty. I was so engrossed that I didn't even notice his approach.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his words barely recognizeable through the distortion of a lingering baby drawl. His grinning mouth was framed by mountainous dimples, and his eyes, about level with mine as I crouched, shone with excitement and expectation. He clutched two slices of bread in his little hands; perhaps he had intended to feed them to the geese.

"Taking pictures of the duckies," I answered with a big smile, feeling only the slightest stab of guilt at referring to a creature as elegant as Anser albifrons as a "ducky."

"Why?" asked the boy, a frown spreading across his face, trying to comprehend.

"Because, uh, it's fun?" I stammered, my answer more of a question than a statement. I don't even understand myself. How could I possibly explain to a simple mind the joys, the frustrations, the thrills of birding?

Fortunately, the kid's mother came to the rescue. "Don't talk to strangers!" she scolded him, dragging him away by the hand. I sighed a breath of relief.

Later, I spied him on the other side of the pond, scampering after wigeons and Mallards while screaming, "Duckies! Duckies! Duckies!"

Maybe he'll be a birder someday.

Eye on the Tiger

2010-12-30T20:18:00.000-08:00

What does it take to distract an obsessed birder from birds?

Barring the predicted possibilities such as food, girlfriend, or studying, sometimes all it takes is a really good mammal.

Don't get me wrong. Not all mammals are equal. Lesser mammals, such as Fox Squirrels and Eastern Chipmunks, exist primarily to serve as targets for projectiles during bouts of acute boredom. Others, like Bobcats, demand complete attention.

It happened sort of like this. I was at Irvine Regional Park, blissfully enjoying a Red-breasted Sapsucker...

...when, WHAM! I glanced aside and found myself under the cool, calculating gaze of a Bobcat bedded down in the grass. At first, I thought it might be sick--it sat, its eyes sagging shut, apparently uninterested in my presence. However, as I approached, the beast arose and sauntered away, throwing me a condescending glance over its shoulder.

I followed.

The cat didn't care. It swaggered along the edge a thicket, occasionally stopping with its ears pricked, listening for prey. Then, without warning, it pounced, coming up with a juicy vole. It immediately devoured the unfortunate rodent. When I inspected the premises after the Bobcat had left, I found a slimy pile of Bobcat excrement as well as a stain of vole blood.

I should probably stop there.

Under the Weather

2010-12-26T19:27:00.001-08:00

The answer to the question "Where are you from?" has become increasingly difficult for me to answer. At school, I pass myself off as a Californian; here in California, I claim to hail from Grand Rapids. Either way, my interrogator usually remarks on the climate of either location.

After a couple months of living in a more or less constant state of hypothermia, I was ready for a trip to sunny, balmy Orange County.

I curled my upper lip into a sneer and glared at the blurry sheets of water migrating down the fogged windshield. Lively rivulets of water flitted down the side window, and regiments of raindrops marched against the roof. With a weary hand I rubbed my eyes and rested my forehead against the wheel. Despair. Christmas Bird Counts are a classic tradition among birders, taking place regardless of weather conditions. But, I felt very little desire to wander in the rain all day without seeing any birds.

Come on, man up. If I stay out for an hour, I can eat half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I didn't matter that it was only seven in the morning.

I sighed, zipped up my rain jacket, and stepped into the rain, muttering choice homemade curses as the first droplets knifed down my neck. Trudging toward a bland-looking clump of brush, I pulled my hood up and huddled in its dry depths.

Staring into the tasteless bushes, I released a few half-hearted pish sequences through dripping lips. Nothing. I pished a bit more vigorously. A Spotted Towhee peeked out from its leafy lair and then dove back into cover.

Small potatoes. I extracted my notebook from my pocket and scrawled "SPTO I" in black ink across one of its soggy sheets. The ink sprouted veins and became illegible. The notebook returned to its snug home in my pocket, the zipper firmly yanked behind it. "May you be devoured by Turkey Vultures," I politely intoned as I turned to continue up the road.

Ahhh, Christmas Bird Counts. Romanticized during the rest of the year, many are, in reality, terrible ordeals. But this one was the worst I'd ever done. Rain relentlessly splattered every unprotected surface--face, binocular lenses, hands. A stiff breeze buffeted my body, finding every chink and crack in my protective layers. The rain and wind virtually eliminated bird activity. Even the normally ubiquitous Audubon's Warblers were difficult to turn up.

Fifteen minutes of singularly unpleasant birding brought me to the end of the road. I had little to show for it. I bowed my head. A stream of water coursed off my head and fell directly into one of the eye cups of my binoculars. That was the last straw.

Except it wasn't. I had to stay out; it was the Christmas Bird Count. And I wanted that sandwich. Just then I noticed a high-pitched squeak, the sort of squeak that Pacific-slope Flycatchers make. Scanning the dripping bushes, I spotted the culprit, matted and bedraggled, bouncing around the wet branches. It looked almost as pathetic as I felt. But, a good count bird.

Fifty minutes. Fifty-five. I had finally put in an hour. I stomped back to the car, soaked and disgruntled. I retreated to its relatively dry interior and tore in my sandwich. I even delved into my cache of grapes.

The rest of the day, as you can imagine, was toilsome.

Deprivation

2010-12-18T21:07:00.000-08:00

Stop breathing.

No, I don’t mean it in a malicious way. Hold your breath for as long as you can.

How do you feel now, thirty seconds, a minute later? Unless you’ve passed out, which I find highly unlikely (in fact, I doubt you held your breath at all, loser), you’re gasping for breath. When deprived of oxygen, you consume it at larger quantities when finally reunited with it.

Repression of birding brings similar results. All semester, my birding time was severely limited. During the closing weeks of the semester, however, it grew worse. Finals, papers, and presentations dominated my life. Oh, and the scarcity of birds and the sub-freezing temperatures did nothing to add to my motivation.

But that’s over. I’m back at home, free. Let the raw, primitive, unbridled birding begin!

Thrush Porn

2010-11-17T18:37:00.001-08:00

With nearly frigid temperatures, incessant winds, and equally incessant papers, presentations, and exams upon me, I've had very little time for birding in the last couple weeks. However, these extenuating circumstances (or even my temporary, unintentional stint of not owning binoculars) could prevent me from hitting the woods on Tuesday morning. Chickadee. Nuthatch. Junco. Regular winter fare, save for this wretched-looking Hermit Thrush I came across. He gave me quite a show.

Here's a more orthodox photo for your enjoyment.

Spruces and Pines

2010-11-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

It's been too long.

Too long since I've breathed the sweet boreal air, too long since I've had my face frozen off by a stiff Whitefish breeze, and too long since I've gazed upon the intricately mottled flanks of a Spruce Grouse.

Prior to this weekend, I'd actually never seen a Spruce Grouse. Way too long.

I consider Da Yoop (err...Upper Peninsula, but who calls it that?) one of the greatest places on earth. My friends Alison Világ and Harold Eyster agree, which is why we went there last weekend. Good birds, good friends, good food, and good games of midnight euchre in the parking lot at Whitefish Point...doesn't get any better than that.

The only slight challenge of the weekend was staying warm. Temperatures were entirely reasonable most of the time (lows were around thirty), but as a wimpy California, I've lost my perspective. My feet rebelled the first night; by morning, I was sure there was a slice of permafrost jammed in the foot of my sleeping bag. Oh yeah, that's right...we were camping.

Spruce Grouse has always been a painful component missing from my life; the entire drive up, my companions alternated between scoffing at my misfortune and marveling at my how I've survived for so long without Spruce satisfaction. Happily, after a couple misguided skirmishes, we stumbled upon a gorgeous male waddling along the edge of Farm Truck Road.

After this initial victory, these allegedly elusive birds began popping up everywhere; before the weekend was over, we had seen thirteen. Perhaps it was our diligent surveillance of the roadsides that lent us such great success, but I suspect it was actually our discovery of the grouses' greatest weakness: deathly fear of falling trees. Every time I knocked over a leaning tree in a bog, it flushed a Spruce Grouse. Sure, it only happened twice, but hey--that's still one hundred percent effectiveness!

Another virtue of Da Yoop is its winter finches, from the tiny, tidy redpolls to the big, blundering grosbeaks. Though most of the winter finches were less numerous than Spruce Grouse on this trip, we still found a pleasant diversity. The very best was a lone male Pine Grosbeak that waylaid us on our way out to the Tip at Whitefish. Originally, we had planned to scoot out to the Tip first thing Sunday morning without delaying at the feeders, but who can resist a fluffy ball of pink perfection? I certainly can't. We admired it from illegally short distances as it sloppily munched on sunflower seeds (finally, a worse eater than me...wait, I forgot about the risotto. Nevermind.)

The actual rarities we saw were mere footnotes to the Spruces and Pines. The Anna's Hummingbird was a first state record, which meant we were obligated to make the drive over to Grand Marais to see it, and the Spotted Towhee just happened to be visiting the feeders at Whitefish.

Ah, I'm such a filthy twitcher.

I last saw a Spruce Grouse a little over seventy-two hours ago. It's already been too long.

Piping Up

2010-10-17T18:09:00.000-07:00

Drat, it hasn't yet been a month. I'm overstepping my quota.

But, I feel obligated to report that Piping Plovers are adorable. Even scruffy ones with only one leg. The fact that it was a new Berrien County bird wasn't all that impressive given that I've birded the county once before, but it was also a county bird for my friend Alison, whose Berrien list exceeds mine by a few hundred species.

Fish Crows lack the charm of Piping Plovers. The fact that it was a new state bird for me didn't change its status as a sniveling, pathetic invader hanging around a landfill.

Fish Crows ≠ Piping Plovers

Fish Crows < Piping Plovers

Piping Plovers ≈ (chocolate sundae)^3

This is a crude attempt to mathematically communicate the joy of birding.

Death of a Birding Blog

2010-10-02T18:54:00.001-07:00

I'm a college student now; I don't have time for birding.

Just kidding, sort of.

What I actually don't have time for is what I'm wasting my precious minutes on right now: blogging. Fitting in an hour of birding between classes every morning is hard enough without worrying about all the extra time of editing photos and writing boring accounts...all right, I'll quit it with the bad attitude.

My transportation being limited to my own two feet and a rickety bike kindly lent to me by my old birding buddy Jonathan Lautenbach, the majority of my birding operations take place within a mile or two of campus. That's fine, though, since Calvin has proven to be a surprisingly decent birding patch, and Reed's Lake, only a mile or two away, is very productive for migrants.

An eight o'clock chemistry class four days out of the week hampers my morning birding time, but I always carry my binoculars in my backpack for that hour and a half of freedom in the mid-morning. The last month has proven to be exciting, with scads of warblers (like this Parula) infesting the shrubbery.

The single greatest event of the past month, however, is beyond comprehension. September 20th was the date. At 9:11 a.m., my phone buzzed in my pocket while I was photographing the Magnolia Warbler pictured at the top of this post.

It was Caleb Putnam, birding guru of Grand Rapids and beyond. "There's a frigatebird on the lighthouse at Tiscornia--I'm on my way down, want to go?"

YES! I did want to go! But, four classes is a LOT to skip, especially considering that one of them was my biology lab. So, somehow I managed to force myself to decline the offer. Tiscornia Park is a good hour and a half from Grand Rapids; without a car, I was doomed.

The end.

...for the time being, anyway. My phone rang several times during my Spanish class--Caleb, probably with an update about the bird; my friend Alison, presumably gloating; and Jonathan, probably to say he was chasing the bird that afternoon.

Those last five minutes of class were the most excruciating, tortuous, painful seconds of my life. I called Jonathan back, and sure enough, he and his brother Michael were leaving--in ten minutes. Shoot, and I still had two classes. I decided to compromise: go to my next class, Christian Theology, and walk out after the first ten minutes (the quiz, conveniently, was at the beginning of class) and completely skip my last class. Oh, and not to mention those mounds of Chemistry homework I had piled up...

It all worked out in the end. I saw the bird, I fell moderately behind in only a couple of my classes, and...I SAW THE BIRD.

The bird floated around, emanating magnificence, for the first hour or so before strafing the small flock of admiring birders and landing on the lighthouse at the end of the pier. Even the nonchalant fishermen and casual passersby stopped and gaped at this "ginormous black seagull with a forked tail," as it was described by an incredulous girl on the pier.

Jonathan, Michael, and I celebrated with massive ice cream cones that exceeded legal limits of size and deliciousness.

The next day, I had a six-hour date with my chemistry textbook. Ah well. I SAW A FRIGATEBIRD. IN MICHIGAN.

Check back next month--perhaps there will be another post. Perhaps not. Either way, you'll get to absorb the frigatebird's awesomeness once again.

It's Not Easy Being Green

2010-08-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

See that? That is yet another reason why I should get the new Pyle guide. But...money doesn't grow on trees, ya know.

It's a Green Heron. But--check your field guide if you aren't familiar with what a Green Heron is supposed to look like. Dark chestnut, slate, and dull greenish, not pale straw-colored.

When I encountered this bizarre Green Heron along the Upper Santa Ana River, I was bewildered. In addition to being oddly pale, it is very worn--check out those stringy, tattered wing coverts. From some angles, a few patches of more typical slate-colored feathers were visible.

My hypothesis? I believe it is a second-year bird (meaning it hatched spring/summer 2009) molting into adult basic plumage. If it has been wearing those feathers since last summer, it's entirely possible that they've simply bleached and worn to that odd straw color.

I would be a lot more confident if I had a copy of Pyle II spread across my lap. Heeey, my birthday is coming up!

Hint, hint.

Don't Stop Believing

2010-08-25T19:51:00.000-07:00

When I moved to California three years ago, I was faced with a grave decision. My backyard is narrow enough to spit a cherry pit across; I could either grit my teeth and keep a yard list for this tiny plot or simply abandon the concept of yard listing to save myself the embarrassment of having such a low list.

I cheated.

Instead of keeping a yard list these three years, I've kept an informal neighborhood list (known strictly to insiders as the "Hood List.") Like nearly all of my lists, it has fallen into disrepair. However, I still know whether or not I've seen a particular species in my neighborhood, and I get a kick out of finding new species.

The day I moved to my new house (ah, I still chuckle at how I went bananas when I discovered I had Allen's Hummingbirds in my new yard), one of explorations took me past a small, cactus-choked canyon immediately adjacent to my neighborhood. It looked like just the spot to find Cactus Wrens, though I didn't find any that hot June afternoon despite much pishing and peering through the fence.

Days passed. Weeks. Months. Years! I bird the Hood whenever I get the chance, and I've been by Cactus Gulch (as I dubbed it) dozens of times. Cactus Wrens remained conspicuously absent, though California Gnatcatcher, Greater Roadrunner, and California Quail all put in appearances.

So, it's entirely understandable that Cactus Wrens weren't even on my mind when one popped up while I was unsuccessfully trying to pish up an Ash-throated Flycatcher at Cactus Gulch.

But it was there. Not only was it there; it was joined by another!

The prophecy has been fulfilled.

Tattle Tale

2010-08-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

Mother always knows best. When she noticed me heading out the door in my swimming trunks, she reminded me not to jump in the ocean with my phone in my pocket.

"I know, Mom!" I called over my shoulder as I slammed the door.

It was going to be a good day. My friend Tim and I had planned a leisurely day of birding, swimming, and getting stuck in traffic jams in Orange County. "Ready to see tattlers?" I asked as we backed out of the driveway. I saw the neighbor's car just in time and slammed on the brakes.

Half an hour later, we pulled up at the Most Reliable Tattler Spot in Orange County (also known as Little Corona City Beach) and headed down to the shore, all the California beach birding essentials in tow: binoculars, camera, swimsuit, and flip-flops. I had the home field advantage, so it was merely seconds before I had the scope on a Wandering Tattler perched on one of the preferred rocks. Our target easily disposed of, we wandered (heh...no pun intended) down to the beach itself. I scoped the waters offshore while Tim sauntered off to photograph a Whimbrel on another patch of rocks.

Several minutes passed. The Whimbrel flew off, but Tim was still intent on someone on those rocks. I decided to investigate, and found him photographing a couple tattlers at obscenely close range. I quickly ditched my scope and splashed into the tidepools to join him.

Then, I remembered something. Feeling very clever, I turned around and deposited my phone, keys, and wallet by my scope on the beach. I waddled back into the tidepool on my knees, cradling my camera and trying to ignore the chilly water that engulfed the lower half of my body. The tattlers, unimpressed by my antics, napped on the rocks.

Eventually, I worked my way close enough (carefully avoiding particularly jagged-looking rocks and sea anemones) to wake up one of the birds.

Tattlers aren't overly fancy, but somehow they manage to endear themselves to most birders. Perhaps it's their comical teetering, or the way they scamper energetically over the rocks, or their own subtle beauty...

Thirty minutes had passed before we had clicked away to our satisfaction. Surprisingly, I remembered to retrieve my affects on the way back to the car. I even remembered to take my phone back out of my pocket when we went swimming later in the afternoon.

My unfortunate wallet, however, remained forgotten in my pocket and went boogey-boarding with me.

Two Seas

2010-08-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

My meager savings account is devoted to exactly two things: textbooks (bleh) and pelagic trips. I hoard the paltry amount of money that I occasionally manage to scrounge up, only to blow most of it on pricey pelagic trips. Worth it? Check out that photo.

I really wanted to squeeze in one more pelagic trip before I move to landlocked Michigan. My comrade Tim Snieder also wanted to venture out on the high seas before he returned to Ontario, so we decided to fulfill our destinies and booked spots on the two-day pelagic out of San Diego last week.

It takes a different breed of birder to do pelagic trips. First, resistance to seasickness is helpful. I score well in this category; I've felt the slightest queasiness on only a couple of trips. Second, the pelagic birder must endure hours of boredom. Huh?

I won't lie. Pelagic trips are boring. Hours can stretch between sightings of interesting birds. On this trip, another of my young birder friends Kenny and I amused ourselves by keeping hourly lists of birds. The lowest number of species we tallied in an hour was three. We thought it was pretty funny that we were entertaining ourselves on a birding trip by birding.

Fortunately, every trip has its moments of excitement. Like when a Skua wings by...

Or when the leaders start bellowing "TROPICBIRD" over the intercom, sparking a mass-awakening of birder-zombies from the legions of camp chairs in the stern (sitting after hours of standing on a pitching deck is highly tempting, but it invariably leads to sleep.)

Birds aren't the only attraction of pelagic trips. Whales, seals, and fish compete with jaegers, shearwaters, and storm-petrels for attention. On this trip, we were treated to thirty-six Baird's Beaked-Whales, two Blue Whales, numerous Mola-Mola, Guadalupe Fur-Seals, and Pacific White-Sided Dolphins. It was a truly unforgettable experience that I will remember for the rest of my life.

(Incidentally, if that previous line sounded exceptionally corny, excellent perception! It's a direct quote from...ehhh, I'd better protect his reputation.)

Even the "boring" pelagic birds (like this gaggle of Pink-footed Shearwaters) are always fun to watch simply because they are only seen when you venture offshore.

Our journey did not end when we disembarked. Tim and I decided to drive east and bird a second sea: the Salton. The only hitch occurred when we couldn't find a grocery store to purchase food and drink to sustain us through the ordeal of birding the Salton. Eventually, we found a little Mexican market and stocked up on orange juice, cheese, and pineapple. We did not leave without filling a bag to the brim with warm Mexican sweetbread, which we mercilessly devoured as we sped eastward.

Actually, there was a second hitch: border patrol. We were the victims of a small amount of crap from a couple border patrol officers simply because they found out Tim is Canadian. 'Nuff said.

These minor mishaps could not prevent us from reaching the sea. I had spent the entire two-hour drive warning Tim of the ferocity of the heat, but he was still shocked by the dense wall of stinky heat that hit us as soon as we were vomited out of the air-conditioned bowels of the loyal Subaru. "They say pelagics are the final frontier of birding," he muttered as he slathered on sunscreen. "But I think THIS is the final frontier."

The Salton Sea would be nowhere near as famous among birders if Yellow-footed Gulls hadn't decided to randomly invade from Mexico and hang out at the sea in the summer. The Salton Sea is the only spot in the country where they occur. Tim easily ticked his first ones while the car was still moving. We celebrated by slaughtering the unfortunate pineapple and gobbling it down in one sitting. For the next hour, my mouth burned and I felt sick to my stomach.

And it wasn't even that good of a pineapple.

We endured the heat (at least, we like to think we did...Tim entered a state of dormancy at several points) and the pineapple's revenge, finding lots of other great birds. Wood Stork, Ruff, Gull-billed Tern, Black Tern, Lucy's Warbler, and Gila Woodpecker, to be precise. Dragonflies were also abundant. I finally saw my lusted-after Roseate Skimmer for the first time, and even photographed it before Tim promptly murdered it in cold blood.

While searching for the phantom Pyrrhuloxia in Brawley, we almost tripped over this beastly-looking dragonfly. It wasn't a clubtail (as I had hoped), but a White-belted Ringtail.

It was with relief that we realized it was getting dark and that we could leave for home. The air was still hotter than a grilled cheese sandwich fresh off the skillet; temperatures remained in the triple digits well after nightfall. After another very long drive, we were back at my house, coated in grease, sweat, and mud, and a bit dehydrated as well.

Heck, I think birding either sea takes a different breed!

Sierras = Serious Fun

2010-08-15T19:37:00.001-07:00

You could say it was love at first sight. My birding experiences in the Sierra Nevada have been very limited, but enough for me to thoroughly fall in love with this range. Sadly, the distance prevents us from establishing a deep relationship.

Now, every August my church holds a weeklong, family-oriented camp just outside Yosemite. It sounded fun (and the prospects of a bit of birding in the Sierras was alluring), so I hitched a ride up with friends (yup, my family wimped out of the camping...so much for family camp.)

The definite highlight was an epic hike to Cathedral Lake and Tresidder Peak. It wasn't a particularly long hike (just over five miles), but it was a 1900 foot climb to the peak and a 2100 foot drop to our end point. Add the fact that most of the hiking was off-trail complete with obstacles such as fallen logs, boulders, and snow banks to negotiate...

Perhaps it was a good thing birds were scarce on this hike; too many avian delights would have caused me to involuntarily lag behind. However, the hike still provided the best bird encounter of the trip. We had paused to catch our breath after a particularly steep segment (the nice thing about hiking at high elevations is you can blame any physical shortcomings on the elevation) when someone remarked, "Hey, look at the little Wild Turkey!"

Hold on a sec, pal. Wild Turkeys don't live in lodgepole pine forest at nine thousand feet. I whirled around and gaped.

Ever been so excited that you feel a tad dizzy? This only rarely happens to me-- so perhaps it was the elevation. This lovely chicken is a displaying male Sooty Grouse. I've searched for them many times with little success. I snagged a brief glimpse when I flushed one after a wild grouse hunt in the Greenhorn Mountains in July. That experience was so un-fulfilling that this second grouse felt like a life bird. Better, even. My friends watched with fascinated horror as I crawled around after the bird with my camera. It took them several minutes to pry me away.

The grouse would have been enough to make the hike entirely worthwhile, but the scenery competed with birds for sheer awe, if that's even possible. Words, photos, and telepathic communication cannot describe the majesty and beauty of these mountains. Do the hike yourself and tell me what you think. You'll be at loss for words for at least a week.

The hikes, as awesome as they were, weren't the only birding opportunities. I found sixty-one species on my daily morning rambles around camp at June Lake. Sixty-one juicy, delicious species like Northern Goshawk, Williamson's Sapsucker, White-headed Woodpecker, Virginia's Warbler, and Townsend's Solitaire.

Not included in the species tally were mammals, butterflies, dragonflies, trees, or Klingons. Golden-mantled Ground-Squirrels were ubiquitous around the campground.

The bird life around June Lake was an interesting mix of breeders and early migrants and dispersing birds from elsewhere. Yellow-rumped Warbler reproduction was evidenced by the abundant streaky juveniles puttering around after their heavily molting parents.

I enjoyed the numerous Brewer's Sparrows, a species I am privileged to see only intermittently. It wasn't unusual to see twenty in an hour of hiking from camp.

Perhaps my most unusual find at June Lake was this Virginia's Warbler. It seemed out of place, and a bit of research revealed that it was. Ephemeral breeding populations occasionally exist in this area, though this bird was more likely a wanderer from elsewhere.

The lake itself was rather dull for birding (but excellent for swimming and canoeing!) Small numbers of California Gulls commuted from Mono Lake to loaf on June Lake, supplementing the poor diversity of waterbirds: Mallard, Spotted Sandpiper, Black-crowned Night-Heron, and the occasional Osprey.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I neglected butterflies, only photographing the occasional one in passing. One of my favorites was this Sierra Sulphur. They were common up on the alpine tundra near Gaylor Lake.

If I neglected butterflies, I almost ignored plants. Ah, well.

I will conclude with a few maxims on camping. Never take showers when icy plunges into natural bodies of water are available. It's like cheating. Heck, it is cheating! Always have an abundant supply of tortillas, peanut butter, and bananas at your disposal. And finally, keep pine needles out of your sleeping bag.

Sagging Spirits

2010-08-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

Orange County's lowly Santa Ana Mountains are generally ignored by birders in favor of the bigger, more exciting mountain ranges like the San Bernardinos or San Jacintos. For a legitimate reason, too: the Santa Anas do not rise high enough to host specialties like White-headed Woodpeckers, Dusky Flycatchers, or Cassin's Finches. In comparison with their taller neighbors, the Santa Anas are downright boring.

But!

Upper Silverado Canyon, only a twenty-minute drive from my house, offers a nice serving of mountain birding within Orange County. It seems that I stumble upon something exciting every time I head up there--Green-tailed Towhee, Painted Redstart, breeding Olive-sided Flycatchers, Lewis's Woodpecker...

But...

I haven't learned my lesson. I kept intending to visit the canyon all summer, but I kept putting it off, figuring there was nothing new to see. Boy, was I wrong.

It was shaping up to be pretty average morning. Sure, a few highlights: Canyon and Rock Wrens, a whole mess of Western Screech-Owls before dawn, and several Olive-sided Flycatchers. All neat birds, and some of them extremely local in Orange County in the summer. Still...this is a tad disappointing, I thought as I gazed out over the canyon to the fog-shrouded lowlands below.

Tik, tik. Whaaaaat...?

The bird was invisible, so I blast it with my most irresistible pish mix.

Pssshhh psh pssshhhhhhhpshhhpshhh PSSSHHH PSSHHHHHHHHHHH

My opponent hesitated for a moment, and then popped up and launched itself at me. It landed in a bush about fifteen feet away. It was a sparrow, it was a....

HOLY SMOKES, A SAGE SPARROW!

I've lived in Orange County for three years without seeing one. Legends of their continued existence deep in impenetrable tracks of the Santa Anas constantly circulate, but finding one borders on impossible. A most excellent way to save the morning, no?

Thomas Jefferson looked upon my success with stern approval.

I built a stone cairn to mark the spot in case other birders wished to search for this phantom sparrow. Tommy did his part.

A side effect of my pishing assault was an infestation of spunky Blue-gray Gnatcathcers. This bright-eyed little gnome landed at arm's length.

By late morning it was hot, dusty, and I was more than ready for lunch, so returned to my (err, my mom's) extremely rugged Subaru and coasted down the mountain. Driving this battered dirt road is fun--you just have to watch out for steep drop-offs, random boulders in the road, and suicidal Mountain Quails.

I wasn't hungry enough to skip a brief search for butterflies lower in the canyon. The paucity of butterflies this late in the summer is yet another reason why I should have visited the canyon earlier. Ah well, you learn from your mistakes...right?

California Dogface

California Sister

The Beginning of the Beginning

2010-08-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

I took a deep breath, shoved open the heavy door, and practically swam out into the muggy Michigan evening. Almost instantly, a House Sparrow fluttered by my face, its chirping a triumphant cackle to my ear.

Darn. I had been hoping for a somewhat more audacious beginning to my campus list.

Ah well. At least things were only going to get better. And they did! First, a robin, then a Downy Woodpecker...

College orientation. Supposedly, a time to meet people and learn about the transition into college. For me, it meant getting a head start on my campus list for Calvin College. What else is there to do other than bird when you arrive on campus a couple hours before orientation even begins?

I jaywalked across the East Beltline for the first time ever and plunged into Calvin's ecosystem preserve. Chipping cardinals and cackling catbirds greeted me as I entered the brushy fringe of the preserve. As I ventured deeper into the forest, I added new species to my campus list right and left: Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Red-eyed Vireo, Ruby-throated Hummingbird...

It would have been paradise except for the plentiful mosquitoes and deerflies. I swatted at them (I do not subscribe to the view that simply letting them suck alleviates the itching) as I strolled down the wood chip path, enjoying the evening serenade of wood-pewees and recognizing the familiar leaves of elms, beeches, and hickories. I was almost in a trance; it felt like those three years in California didn't exist and I had always resided in Michigan.

Whoops, eight forty-five! I was already late for the first orientation event. It's a good thing this is a birding blog--writing about orientation would take up way too much time!

The official campus list stands at thirty-five. Watch for updates beginning on August 30th!

Condor Quest

2010-07-17T17:18:00.000-07:00

I didn't know what I was getting myself into. When I called my buddy Tim a couple days prior to our already spontaneous roadtrip, I was expecting that we'd just maraud around the southern Sierra Nevada as we did last time. Tim, however, had other ideas.

"Wanna go see condors?" he asked.

"Big Sur? Sure!" I replied, only vaguely aware that Big Sur is a five-hour drive from Weldon (which, in turn, is over three hours from my house.)

We did not, however, limit ourselves to condors. Instead, we roamed and rampaged central California, finding lots of other interesting creatures: Sooty Grouse, Flammulated Owl, Sea Otters, Spotted Owl, Humpback Whale, Burrowing Owl, Purple Martin, Elephant Seal, Snowy Plover, Black Swift...

You get the idea. It was a fabulous trip. The condors, however, were the pinnacle of the expedition (well, except maybe for that pizza.)

The road through Big Sur is treacherous. In addition to the numerous bikers, backpackers, and the occasional Segway you have to avoid, the highway is more twisted and bent than a yoga extraordinaire. Around one rather ordinary-looking curve we swung, and WHAM--a California Condor was circling a mere hundred feet over the road. My brain was too flabbergasted to fully analyze the situation, so I simply began bellowing to attract Tim's attention. I hastily (and perhaps just a wee bit recklessly) swerved off the road to a dirt pulloff, and we scuttled from the car faster than mice being pelted with hats.

Whooping with delight, we watched the gargantuan bird lazily soared just overhead. Those long wings, the splayed primaries, the pathetically short tail, the gray head (it was an immature)...we soaked in every detail. Eventually, the beast began drifting south, so we hopped into the Subaru (our starship of choice) and pursued it along the coastline.

This time it was Tim who started shouting. "MORE!" he screamed, wildly gesturing at a fog-shrouded hillside. The condor had been joined by four more. They spiraled in a captivating wheel, shimmering in and out of the fog until they were mere specters.

Tim described it as the best moment of his life. I'm not sure I agree...but it was pretty darn awesome.

Summer: Sewage, Shorebirds...

2010-07-14T22:11:00.001-07:00

Pumping my legs furiously, I crest the hill. Underpasses are short but steep; my quads tingle as I crank into higher gear and lazily peddle onward. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I lean back and stop peddling, allowing momentum to carry the bike forward. I lift up my jersey to feel the cool breeze on my bare chest. Ahhhh—it’s a perfect summer morning: warm, but not uncomfortably so, the sun already high in a completely clear sky.

It would be beautiful, except for the setting.

I glance to my right and behold the mighty San Diego Creek. Creek is a misnomer; it is a large concrete ditch with a trickle of trash (and maybe a bit of water) fermenting in the bottom. Plastic bottles, shopping carts, and algae mats top the menu. The only sign of life is a band of ragged Mallards sifting through the goo. Two dead ones fester in a puddle nearby. I pause and stare at the puddle. I can’t decide whether it’s green or black.

Not only is it an eyesore; this lovely stew smells exactly the way you would imagine it to.

I’ve become accustomed to the sight, smell, and taste of the creek. In fact, I’ve embraced it as a worthy birding spot. Hooded Mergansers often winter in this particular puddle, and migrant shorebirds sometimes stop on the radioactive heaps of slime.

Shorebirds! It’s July, a supposedly boring time of year to go birding. The breeders have been around long enough to become wearisome, and nothing is migrating. Well…not actually. Shorebirds begin sneaking south by mid-June, and by early July the beaches and mudflats swarm with them. They’re not pristine juveniles; the worn adults dominate the scene until mid-August. Still, I enjoy sorting through the battered adults. Each one is unique. This Willet has replaced most of the feathers on the breast, and that one has retained extensive barring…

My ponderings are broken when a tiny sandpiper bursts from a pool of sludge. Breeep? It asks as it careens down the creek. Least Sandpiper! As I watch it disappear down the channel, I try to imagine it on the tundra. Boasting crisp alternate plumage, perhaps it strutted beside an ice-choked pond in hopes of attracting the perfect female. Perhaps it frantically scolded and fluttered by its nest, attemping to distract a lumbering caribou, or polar bear, or shorebird researcher…

But now it’s puttering around a pathetic ditch in the heart of Orange County.

It’s summer. It’s shorebird season.

Colorado Is for the Chickens

2010-07-06T20:23:00.000-07:00

I never warned you.

Colorado. A wonderful place. For nearly three weeks I ravaged the state, destroying target birds right and left. The first ten days I stayed with Marcel Such and his family in Lyons (thanks, guys, for putting up with me for that long!) and the last seven days were devoted to Camp Colorado (thanks, Sea and Sage Audubon and American Birding Association for the scholarships!)

Naturally, all this birding and marauding created heaps of stories.

Ask me to tell you one next time I see you, because I don't have time right now!

That's because I'm embarking on another road trip with my friend Tim tomorrow. The day after I return, I begin volunteering at nature day camps for kids for the next two weeks. After that, I have a week-long college orientation trip...

You get the idea. I'll probably never get around to writing a full report for the trip. Oh well. In the meantime, enjoy these two miniature stories. The first is about the ptarmigan (photo at top.) These dapper little chickens are legendary among birders. They're tough to find--supposedly. Marcel, his brother Joel, and I had no trouble finding several of these quizzical chickens quarreling on the tundra up by Trail Ridge Road in Rocky National Park. The birds ignored us as they chased each other around, and at one point one of them almost landed on my boot.

Perhaps even more miraculous was our run-in with this Dusky Grouse. They're possible just about anywhere--and supposedly, you'll encounter one if you hike around enough in their habitat. Well, we hiked for a week in the mountains with no luck--until we came across this gorgeous displaying male. Joel and I plunged into the dark, mosquito-infested forest and stalked it as it displayed in the shadows. It largely ignored us. Have you ever had a Dusky Grouse stroll within two feet of you as you kneel amid sweet pine needles?

It's one of those things that you just have to experience for yourself. If you have, great. If you haven't? Too bad.

(Hehe.)

More later. So long, and thanks for the orange juice.

Roadtrip Photos

2010-06-13T18:54:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that my previous post about my road trip last week lacked bird photos. Well, here they are! Enjoy!

Whoops, that's not a bird--but it's still a really cool find! It's a San Emigdio Blue, which has a very restricted range. Tim had a secret cluster of the staked out near the local grape juice place.

"Thick-billed" Fox Sparrow

Red-breasted Nuthatch--these guys were delightfully common in the mountains!

Hermit Warbler

Another butterfly, one of my favorites: California Sister

Though it was allegedly a birding trip, we spent a lot of time hunting down insects as well. Several stops along the Kern River produced massive numbers of puddling butterflies, some of which Tim got very friendly with.

Pileated Woodpecker. We saw several of these, including one in the Greenhorn Mountains, which is the southernmost location where this species occurs in the West.

Red-breasted Sapsucker

Lark Sparrow

Sage Sparrow

White-headed Woodpecker--always a crowd-pleaser!

Our first night of owling only produced a single screech-owl, but our second night netted us a gorgeous Northern Saw-whet Owl. It completely compensated for the two a.m. wake up time!

Williamson's Sapsucker was one of Tim's top target birds for the trip. After spending an entire afternoon failing to find one, we were overjoyed to find several drumming males as well as this female the next morning.

Garter snake.

Just like the old times. Only better.

2010-06-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I've been lucky to bird with numerous other young birders. Back when I lived in Michigan, several other young birders and I formed a supergroup of the Great Lake's elite young birders. We called ourselves the Peeps, and for a few years we wreaked havoc around the Great Lakes, finding more birds than is legally possible. However, it was not to last. Following Rome's example, the Peeps' domain quickly crumbled as its members moved and slowly lost contact.

Since I moved to California, I've met other young birders all around the country. The rest of the Peeps, however, faded into obscurity as they tussled with college life. So, when I found out that my friend and ex-Peep Tim Snieder was working in Kern County this summer, I was overjoyed. This last weekend Tim and I made a whirlwind road trip through the southern Sierra Nevada, leaving a wide swathe of destruction and slain birds. I'll cover the birds in a different post; this one will focus on some of the memories.

The Deer. We saw only one deer the whole trip. And we nearly hit it.

It was the scariest moment of the trip. The highway--one of those treacherous twisty ones--was deserted, and for a good reason: few people have reason to drive through the mountains at three in the morning. We had one reason: OWLS. We weren't finding any. Zipping around a bend, we suddenly came upon a deer standing within feet of the road. Tim and I uttered expletives of surprise and apprehension as we zoomed past. Adrenaline! Thankfully, the deer stood motionless instead of darting in front of the car.

The Prodigal Tent Bag. Where was it? I rummaged through the heaps of debris in the back of the car, searching for the tent bag. Suddenly, the idea flashed into my head--I must have thrown it in the tent last night. "It's in there," I said, pointing to the partially folded-up tent. Tim groaned. I thrashed around in the collapsed tent, but couldn't find it.

Huh.

Well, I must have just missed it in the car. I spent a few more minutes searching in the car, but to no avail. "Wait," pondered Tim, "Did you pick it up at the Pinyon Jay spot yesterday?"

At that moment, we knew it was gone. It had fallen out of the car when we stopped to look at the jays--it had even blown against my legs, but I was too busy with my camera to pick it up. Oops.

Well, we happened to be driving back past the spot the next day. As I pulled the car off the road, Tim remained enthusiastic, sure that we would find the errant bag. I was cynical. It wasn't along the side of the road. It hadn't blown into the brush by the roadside. Suddenly, Tim plunged over a small hill and down a ditch, emerging momentarily with the missing bag.

This legend will forever circulate among the young birder community.

Daft Punk. Tim and I both like Neil Young. But that's just about the only place where our musical tastes overlap. Tim forced me to listen to Daft Punk, which I hated. Yet somehow, the song "Robot Rock" got stuck in both of our heads, and we sang it almost constantly as we flew down mountain highways and desert roads.

Pineapple Tradition. Our diet for the trip consisted of various combinations of bread, cheese, and peanut butter. However, at one grocery stop, Tim came walking out of the store with a watermelon and a pineapple. The watermelon was ruthlessly slaughtered and eaten in one sitting. The pineapple, however, started a tradition.

I wanted to eat the pineapple. Its cool juiciness was just what we needed on the hot, dusty afternoon. "No," Tim said, "Let's save it for the next lifer." So we did. After finding Tim's first Pinyon Jay, we ceremoniously sliced the pineapple and feasted, the juice covering our hands and faces. We saved the rest of the pineapple, repeating the process when we finally caught up with Tim's life Williamson's Sapsucker.

I'm still picking the pineapple fibers out of my teeth.

Swimming. No showers, but plenty of heat. Not good. We did, however, have an abundance of creeks and rivers at our disposal. We made a point of taking at least one plunge a day. The water was always cold--sometimes incredibly so. There were usually sharp rocks on the bottom, squishy mud along the edges, and wet boxers to be worn afterwards. That aside, it was awesome--far better than any swimming pool.

Tim's Mountain Quail Imitation. 'Nuff said.

The Rope Swing. Birding isn't just about finding birds. It's also about having fun. So, when you come across a rope hanging from a tree in the middle of the forest, it's important to put the birding on hold for a few minutes and experiment with primitive methods of locomotion.

It's, um, cute

2010-06-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

Ch'rr....ch'rrr....ch'rrr... I paused. What was that? The night is home to hosts of unfamiliar noises. More often than not, the source of these strange sounds is an insect, a frog, or a drunken hobo...

This, however, sounded bird-like. I abandoned my search for the tenaciously calling Poorwill and headed in the direction of the mysterious call, shining the wimpy beam of my headlamp into the bushes and trees by the road. Within seconds, I found the culprit--a fledgling Western Screech-Owl. Or, more accurately, three of them.

In addition to being incredibly cute, they were very cooperative for photography, sitting on dead branches below eye level.

Tragically, however, my camera was resting sedately on my chair at home.

Hmmmm. Too good of an opportunity to pass up. Irvine Regional Park is only a couple miles from my house, so I called my mom to see if she'd be willing to chauffeur my camera over. Thankfully, she was, so within a few minutes I was happily photographing the baby owls.

Cute, no?

Welcome to the Hotel....Pennsylvania?!

2010-05-30T17:03:00.000-07:00

Henslow’s Sparrow, Mourning Warbler, Pileated Woodpecker, White-eyed Vireo. Do I have your attention yet? I saw all these birds and many more on my trip back east last week. Where, exactly? Some famous hotspot, surely.

Well, not exactly--the Holiday Inn Express in Grove City, Pennsylvania. Huh?

I always manage to transform "nonbirding" trips into birding trips. It has become tradition to strike out on foot from the hotel and see what birds are around. I’ve marauded around hotel parking lots in New Mexico, Illinois, Ohio, Tennessee, California, and just about everywhere else in the United States. None of my previous hotel experiences, however, can compare to the Holiday Inn Express in Grove City.

My eldest brother’s graduation and subsequent wedding were the reasons for the trip. I was too insignificant to matter much in the wedding preparations, so I found myself with loads of free time on my hands. My options were either to watch television in the room or go birding around the hotel.

What kind of choice is that?

In the few days my family was in Grove City, I put in over twenty-five miles of walking from the hotel. The schedule went something like this: roll out of bed at five-thirty. Grab backpack. Lace boots. Scramble down the stairs, swipe an oatmeal muffin and a slab of jelly toast from the breakfast bar, and head out the door. Then, for the next few hours, stroll down quiet country lanes (with only the occasional Amish buggy or oversized tractor threatening to squash me) looking for birds.

Oh, Highway 208 isn’t really a quiet country lane, but once I got off the main road I was plunged into almost complete solitude.

The quality of the birding was astonishing thanks to the broad suite of habitats within a few miles of the hotel. Many of the highlights of eastern birding came flooding back to me as I explored those back roads-—the snore of a Blue-winged Warbler, a male Blackburnian Warbler flashing through an oak overhead, the melodious jumbled song of a Bobolink sailing over a green pasture…

Instead of rambling on with a dry trip report, I'll let the photos do the narrating.

Blackburnian Warbler

American Redstart

Warbling Vireo

Tree Swallow

Prothonotary Warbler--all right, I'll admit it: this actually wasn't from Grove City. I made a brief stop at Crane Creek in Ohio mid-week. The birding was mediocre, but I enjoyed stellar looks at this male Prothonotary Warbler hopping within feet of the boardwalk.

Gray Catbird--the area around the hotel was crawling with catbirds. Brushy areas abounded, and there seemed to be a catbird every fifty feet or so.

Northern Parula

Scarlet Tanager

Red-eyed Vireo

Green Heron

Bobolink

Baltimore Oriole

American Robins--surely one of the most common and familiar species in North America. Sadly, they aren't as common in California as they are in Pennsylvania. I would see hundreds in a few miles of walking.

Spotted Sandpiper nest--I was tromping around in a grassy area near a small lake when I flushed an adult sitting on the nest.

Texas Photos

2010-05-08T12:45:00.001-07:00

Yup, my previous posts about my Texas trip have been photo-free for a reason--I'm saving them up until the end! Here is a Red-headed Woodpecker from the Jasper Fish Hatchery.

My long-overdue lifer American Snout (Libytheana carinenta), a common butterfly in the South that I'd somehow never seen before.

One of the most iconic birds of Texas, the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher. They were common, but always managed to stay pretty far away...

A Prothonotary Warbler on territory at Martin Dies Jr. State Park. One of the better warblers out there.

Indigo Buntings were one of the most common migrants. We saw a few flocks of over twenty!

Birding the Texas coast isn't just about passerine migration--the marshes and beaches are full of all sorts of waterbirds. One of the biggest attractions at Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge is the abundance of very visible King Rails.

This Summer Tanager at High Island was too exhausted to move out of the trail. It seemed sick, and was missing an eye. It probably died, even though some birders were tossing it mulberries to eat.

Yes, alligators were common, though I never got the chance to wrestle with one. This particular bruiser was patrolling the waters below the wader rookery at Smith Oaks, hoping for a baby egret would fall out of a nest...

And here's the rookery itself. It was a bustling place, with hundreds of Roseate Spoonbills, Great and Snowy Egrets, Little Blue and Tricolored Herons, and Neotropic Cormorants flying around and stuff.

Eastern Kingbirds were common breeders near my old house in Michigan, so I was delighted to see them in abundance once again.

One of the last birds of the trip--a Painted Bunting! While stopped at a gas station on the way to Houston, someone noticed a male Painted Bunting lying on the sidewalk below the gas station window. It had obviously flown into the window and was stunned. After photographing it extensively, we caught it and transferred it under some nearby bushes so the many grackles wandering around the place wouldn't kill it.

Nifty Nighthawks

2010-05-05T12:20:00.001-07:00

One of my favorite things to do during the summer is to ride the several miles over to the far eastern end of Irvine Regional Park at dusk and watch the Lesser Nighthawks swooping against the delicate pink and blue sky as the songbirds give their last chips and songs of the day. Seeing nighthawks during the day, however, is a much more difficult task.

Irvine Park has a lot more than nighthawks to offer--which is why I was there for several hours this morning. As I was crossing the wash, however, I flushed two large, long-winged birds from under the scrub. I was momentarily baffled until I saw the flashing white bars at the ends of their wings. Nighthawks! During the day! One of the birds disappeared up the wash on its bounding wingbeats, but the other settled about fifteen feet away. Seeing one on the ground during the day was a treat! I've never had such good looks at this species.

The nighthawks were a relief from an otherwise average morning. My all-too brief foray to Texas really spoiled migration back at home. California migration is really put to shame when compared with High Island. A Hermit Warbler, two Warbling Vireos, four Wilson's Warblers, and several Western Tanagers were the only migrants I could turn up in several hours of birding.

Of course, the resident species are always fun to see, too. Acorn Woodpeckers always make me laugh! A morning of birding beats a morning of school any day!

The Big Day (Part II of II)

2010-05-02T21:33:00.001-07:00

Birding Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge. From left to right: Spencer Hardy, Neil Gilbert, Charles Hesse, Harold Eyster, Andy Johnson, Marcel Such. Photo by Chip Clouse.

1500 hours

Afternoons are generally less productive than mornings for birds, yet we are still racking up the birds. We did not pass the one hundred mark until past noon, but in slightly less than three hours of afternoon birding we have found over sixty new species!

Bolivar.

Most of the morning was spent either tracking down breeding passerines in the Piney Woods or sitting in the car scanning for raptors and trying not to fall asleep. Dozens of new species awaited us on the Bolivar Peninsula. The first few minutes at Rollover Pass were exciting, indeed—terns! plovers! gulls! herons!

Now, however, we are cleaning up. Standing on the edge of Frenchtown Road, we scan the shorebird-laden ponds for uncommon species. “TEXAS TRUCK!” someone yells. We hurriedly shuffle farther off the road as the oversized pickup roars by. Returning my eye to the scope, I pick through the ranks of dowitchers and Dunlin, hoping for a…

“Hey, can I borrow the scope for a sec? I think I see a Baird’s,” I quickly surrender the scope to Andy, who zeroes in on a sandpiper the rest of us had passed over. “Yup—Baird’s!” We cluster around the scope, each peeking through for a second before moving aside so the next teammate can see it.

“Baird’s—good!” our British mentor Charley Hesse exclaims. “We need to be getting to High Island…”

1800 hours

High Island. If you are a birder, you’ve probably heard of it. It’s famous.

We are finding out exactly why as we frantically chase new birds as the daylight fades. At times, we barely move at all, too busy picking through the dozens of warblers filtering through the trees to keep walking down the trail. Other times, we sprint down the trail in a ragged pack after that alleged Canada Warbler, or Bay-breasted Warbler, or…

A brilliant male Scarlet Tanager flashes through the mulberry tree just overhead, yet I ignore it. We’ve already seen dozens. Big Days are no time to appreciate birds; the last hour of daylight is particularly hectic. A clump of leaves quivers in a nearby oak—I nail it with my binoculars and am quickly greeted by the flaming orange throat of a male Blackburnian Warbler. I ignore it, too. On any other day, I could spend an hour watching a single Blackburnian Warbler. But today is a Big Day.

Tennessee Warbler…Black-and-white Warbler…Golden-winged Warbler…Baltimore Oriole…Red-eyed Vireo…Magnolia Warbler…Swainson’s Thrush…Blue-headed Vireo…with every new migrant, our list creeps closer to two hundred.

I whip my binoculars to my eyes for perhaps the five hundredth time in the last half-hour. A new face pops out from behind a leaf. “CHESTNUT-SIDED!” I yell. My teammates hustle into position and quickly find the bird. Yet another species added to the list of birds we can ignore for the next six hours.

2100 hours

“Who-who who who, who-who who-WHOOO?” My Barred Owl imitation is so pathetic that we can’t help but laugh. In reality, it’s not that funny—but when you’ve been awake for nineteen hours, almost anything seems funny. Even tripping over a pebble…

I try to whoop again. And once again, it sounds like a gagged tomcat.

My crude imitation is enough to fool (or seriously tick off) the local Barred Owl. Only a couple of us are looking up when it flashes over—a big, blocky bird, the white spots in its wings glowing in the moonlight. It apparently isn’t very impressed, since it remains silent and never reappears.

But it was enough. Two people are enough for it to count.

0000 hours

It’s over. Actually, it ended fifteen minutes ago when we filed up the steps into the Tropical Birding house (our base of operations) at High Island. I lie on the thin, lumpy mattress, joking with my teammates and not even trying to sleep. I’ve been birding nonstop for twenty-two hours, but I do not feel tired. Yet.

I blame those two bowls of ice cream.

It’s over.

The Big Day (Part I of II)

2010-05-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

The 2010 Great Texas Birding Classic Tropicbirds Team. From left to right...bottom: Spencer Hardy, Chip Clouse (team mentor/driver/cook), Andy Johnson. Middle: Neil Gilbert, Harold Eyster. Top: Marcel Such. Oh yeah, and that's Furious George in the front.

0300 hours

We’ve been awake for an hour, but our bird list stands at only one: a Northern Mockingbird singing across the street from the Tropical Birding house where we were staying at High Island. A fierce wind rips through the treetops at Smith Oaks, where we are listening for owls.

I can’t blame the owls for remaining silent on such a windy night.

We trudge back to the car, our minds still dull with sleep. Somehow, every speck of dust and crumbled leaf manages to blow into my eyes and get wedged between my contacts and eyeballs.

0600 hours

All is silent save for the whispering breeze in the pines and a few distant Chuck-will’s-widows chanting the night away. We had already heard Chucks; Eastern Screech-Owl is our real quarry here in the Piney Woods well over a hundred miles northeast of High Island. Raising my chin, I whistle through a large glob of saliva on the back of my tongue, making a trembling whistle that sounds vaguely like a screech-owl.

Nothing.

I continue whistling for a minute, and then—“There!” Spencer, one of my teammates, whispers and gestures off to the woods to our left. No one else heard it, but fortunately it continues calling so the rest of us can hear its muffled whistle. Another joins it, and then another.

0900 hours

I lean over the backseat of our fifteen-passenger van (dubbed the “Smelly Sanderling”) and rummage through the large cardboard box of food in the trunk. “Don’t run into anything!” I shout over my shoulder to Chip, who is behind the wheel. Apples—no, dried apricots—no, JERKY—yes!

“Gotcha!” I hiss as I snag three bags from the jumbled box. “Wild Chicken Barbecue, A1 Beef Strips, or Tender Beef Nuggets,” I announce.

“Let’s try the A1,” Spencer decides.

After a brief tussle, I manage to rip open the bag. The sharp scent of A1 sauce invades the interior of the van, adding to the mixed aromas of dirty socks, mud, and dried mango slices. Stuffing a couple slabs into my mouth, I pass the bag to the waiting hands a couple rows up in the van. The jerky tastes like leather soaked in A1 sauce—which is basically what it is.

Suddenly, someone shouts “HAWK!” through a mouthful of the jerky. Chip reacts instantly, whipping the van to the shoulder with alarming speed. Doors fly open, feet crunch on the gravel, binoculars rake the sky. There it is—a small, slim bueto with pale crescents at the end of its wings. “Red-shouldered,” I shout, directing my teammates to the bird. “Got it?”

“Yup,”
“Yep,”
“Yup,”
“Uh-huh!”

“Let’s go. GET IN THE CAR!” I yell, following my teammates as they plunge back into the depths of the Smelly Sanderling. We were stopped for less than twenty seconds.

“We’re out of jerky,” Marcel announces as we speed away from the scene.

1200 hours

Large portions of many big days are spent driving. It’s only noon, but we have already been awake for ten hours, and the two and a half hour drive from the Piney Woods to Winnie is taking its toll. I glance over and notice my teammate Harold is sleeping, his head slumped against the window as he gently snores.

Sleeping is a cardinal sin on big days.

I jab him mercilessly until he wakes up.

Tearing It up in Texas

2010-04-26T21:04:00.000-07:00

Well, it's over. Yesterday afternoon I got back from birding the Upper Texas Coast for the Great Texas Birding Classic on the ABA Tropicbirds team. I'll try to write up a few more detailed posts, but for now I'll post some statistics of the trip

207--species of birds on the Big Day
2--boxes of Poptarts consumed
12--hours of sleep (spread out over three nights)
1--adult male Painted Bunting found stunned under a gas station window
26--species of warblers
1--armadillo
8--life birds
1--Yellow Rail
1--Jalapeno/cheese/bacon burger from Whataburger
6--bags of jerky consumed
1--Fork-tailed Flycatcher missed by a matter of hours
1--expedition through poison oak, chiggers, and underbrush to see Bachman's Sparrow
3--Purple Gallinules
1--tree backed into

It's pretty easy to tell that I had a lot of fun. Not only was the birding spectacular, but the company of four other enthusiastic young birders (Andy Johnson, Harold Eyster, Marcel Such, and Spencer Hardy) and two excellent leaders (Chip Clouse and Charles Hesse) was unparalleled.

Missed your chance to support the American Birding Association's youth education program? It's not too late to support the Tropicbirds! Another team will be competing in the World Series of Birding on May 15th. If you're interested in making a pledge, please visit http://www.aba.org/yb/tropicbirds/pledge.html

It's Official

2010-04-18T21:32:00.001-07:00

Yes, it's official--I've finally gotten around to deciding about college! I'll be entering Calvin College as a freshman at the end of August. Calvin is located in Grand Rapids, Michigan--only a couple hours from my old house outside Detroit. Needless to say, I'm super excited, especially since I already know so many people in Michigan!

For the geographically-challenged westerners who are probably reading this, Grand Rapids is on the west side of the Lower Peninsula, near Lake Michigan. Still clueless? Here's a map.

My mobility will be limited--I won't have a car or even a bike--though I'll do my best to mooch rides off other birders. However, the campus is very green (and there's a nice ecosystem reserve just across the street), so I should manage well on foot. Here's a satellite image of campus.

I'm going to enjoy my last few months of birding in California over the summer. My workload promises to be excruciatingly heavy, so I'll do less birding than I'd likely, but I'll get out--someway, somehow.

Canyonland Musings

2010-04-17T20:23:00.000-07:00

Note: My incredibly busy schedule of late has forced me to do something I loathe to do--recycle essays! I wrote this piece for my AP English class. It's not specifically about birds, though it's awfully tough for me to write anything without mentioning birds...

I yawn. The car’s clock claims it is four-thirty. Early, very early. The headlights illuminate a couple dozen feet of the rough, steep road in sickly yellowish light. Otherwise, all is dark. The engine of my mom’s old Ford Windstar complains about the steepness of the grade. Swinging around a sharp curve, I swerve to the right to avoid scraping the encroaching chaparral. If you watch the news, you’ve seen chaparral. It’s the low, dense brush that cloaks California’s hills and mountains—and it catches fire very easily. The hood noses up sharply over a small rise, then down again. Stream crossing. I slow and savor the sound of the tires slicing through the shallow stream. Farther up, a large animal darts into the road just beyond the realm of the headlights. I hit the brights—a Bobcat! It quickly melts into the brush.

Orange County, best known for its beaches, bikinis, and surfboards, is a jungle of jammed freeways, high-rise office buildings, and sprawling housing developments. Precious few wild areas remain. One of these is Upper Silverado Canyon in the Santa Ana Mountains.

Dawn emerges slowly. Silverado Canyon seldom enjoys dramatic sunrises thanks to its steep slopes and frequent fog. Several Bigcone Douglas-firs—tall, shaggy conifers with dark, deeply furrowed bark—loom out of the gray mist. The Santa Ana Mountains are too low to harbor extensive conifer woodlands like some of California’s other mountain ranges—but nestled in the deep, moist canyons are a few stands of Douglas-firs and Coulter Pines. I coax the grudging minivan farther up the road, wincing as the car rumbles over washboards and jolts over loose rocks. Bigcone Springs is my destination.

Bigcone Springs lies three thousand feet above sea level, miles from the nearest town. Towering Douglas-firs shade the lithe young Bigleaf Maple saplings and Coast Live Oaks. Even on the driest, hottest July afternoons, water from the spring trickles down through the road, etching a labyrinth of dark paths through the dust. I pull the car to the side of the road and eagerly step out from the driver’s seat. The air is chilly and calm. I take a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant, clean aroma of pine needles and dust. The dust does not have the chokingly hot, dry smell of most dust. It smells cool and sweet, like a pantry.

The tall, sinister trees bustle with life. A cacophony of bird songs fills my ears—the spiraling whistle of a Purple Finch, the clownish laughing of a family of Acorn Woodpeckers, the muffled yelp of a Mountain Quail deep in the canyon. Grunting with approval, I fish the Cougar Stick out of the van’s backseat. A sturdy, six-foot wooden staff, the Cougar Stick gives me security when I hike in lonely places. The lucky adventurer may run into a Mountain Lion anywhere in Orange County’s foothills and mountains, though these great cats are notoriously elusive. When I encounter one for the first time, however, I don’t want to be unarmed.

My trusty Cougar Stick in hand, I boldly stride down a nearby path. It is not a long hike; only one or two minutes of walking bring me to a dead end. From here you can look down into the steep canyon or beyond to the flat, developed lowlands. On a smog-free day, the mighty San Gabriel Mountains jut up many miles to the north. There is no smog, so the angular blue ridges of the San Gabriels tower out of the low, dense layer of clouds that envelops the lowlands. Ironically, though the distant mountains are visible, the canyon itself is difficult to discern. Thick fog banks roll by, one moment allowing a glimpse of the chaparral-clad hillside opposite and the next concealing everything more than thirty feet distant.

Returning to the road, I opt to hike rather than drive farther up the canyon. The sun finally crawls over the dominating ridge that has been keeping the canyon in shadow for so long. A few stubborn fog banks persist, but as the sun climbs higher, they melt away as quickly as ice cubes placed on a sidewalk on a summer afternoon. I break free from the lush shade of Bigcone Springs to the hot, monotonous chaparral. No more tall trees, but the dusty road is lined with an abundant variety of wildflowers, much to the delight of the Anna’s Hummingbirds. They zip across the road in fierce chattering fights, squabbling over rights to the blooms.

Another mile or two of hiking brings me to a large stand of Coulter Pines. Big, muscular pines with husky trunks, broad limbs, and massive cones weighing up to eight pounds, Coulter Pines are truly spectacular. Sadly, many of the trees died in a recent fire. Only charred skeletons and the occasional clump of toasted needles remain of their former glory. In the wilderness, however, fire is rarely a bad thing. Several Hairy Woodpeckers gleefully tap the dead wood, occasionally giving sharp peak calls that echo through the canyon. A male Lazuli Bunting delivers his beautiful slurred song from a black snag, his brilliant blue, orange, and white feathers shining from the grim grove of pines. The ground beneath is carpeted with verdant young wildflowers and shrubs.

With a start I realize that I am too warm in my hooded sweatshirt. It is only eight-thirty—still early by most people’s standards—yet life in the canyon is winding down for the day. Fewer birds are singing. Even the air seems different—stiflingly dry, no longer possessing the dawn’s cool dampness. Wilderness runs on a different schedule from man. I turn and begin plodding back down the road to the car.

The car is in sight when I finally encounter another person. A mountain biker. His face red, his calves bulging from the strain, his bike inching up the steep dirt road—I can’t help but respect him. “You are a better man than I,” I exclaim, throwing him a salute. He grins and wheezes out a greeting. Back at Bigcone Springs, it is cooler, the dust still smells good, and a few birds are still singing. But it is not the same. My solitude has been shattered.

Support the Tropicbirds!

2010-04-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

Do you care about the future of birding? I imagine it's safe to say that you do. The future of birding rests on the interest and participation of young people in the birding community. One could argue that many birders discover the joys of birding in adulthood, but it's no coincidence that many of North America's top birders--Jon Dunn, Kenn Kaufman, David Sibley, and Pete Dunne, to name a few--began birding as children.

Alright, we've established that young birders are crucial to the future of birding. Allow me to introduce the American Birding Association's (ABA) youth education program.

The ABA provides fantastic opportunities for young birders. I've benefited from many of them. Three main opportunities exist: the Young Birder of the Year Contest (YBY), camps geared for young birders, and publications about birding. The YBY encourages young birders to hone their skills in note-taking, photography, writing, and illustration. Its participants invariably come out as better birders. In addition to allowing young birders to travel and see new birds, the ABA's camps give young birders the chance to meet like-minded young people, often creating life-long friendships. Lastly, the ABA's publications--including Birding, Winging It, and North American Birds--allow young birders to learn more about birds and to connect with the birding community.

Well, that's great, but how can you help? It's simple. The ABA can't run these programs without financial support. Donating to the ABA's youth education program will enrich the lives of young people and help the future of birding.

That's where I come in. I've been selected to participate in the Great Texas Birding Classic on the ABA's Tropicbirds team. For the uninitiated, the Great Texas Birding Classic is a competitive birding event in which teams try to find as many species as possible in a day. The Tropicbirds, a team of five enthusiastic young birders, have the goal to raise funds for the ABA's youth education program.

If you have any interest in supporting the Tropicbirds, please visit the pledge page on the ABA's website for more details: http://www.aba.org/yb/tropicbirds/pledge.html. You can pledge an amount per species we find on our Big Day, or just play it safe and donate a lump sum. Donating online is probably the easiest option. If you have any questions or do not wish to pledge online, feel free to email me at prairiemerlin AT gmail.com.

Thanks!

Back by Popular Demand...PHOTOS

2010-04-03T21:16:00.001-07:00

I've received so many half-serious complaints about my recent photo-free posts that I'm relenting and posting a few bird photos. The one above shows an Eared Grebe (at an awkward stage between basic and alternate plumage) at Mason Regional Park.

This is the main reason I biked to Mason Regional Park last week. Yeah, I know I just wrote a post awhile back bashing twitching, but the opportunity to add Eastern Phoebe to my Bigby list was just too alluring. At least I got to spend an hour with this delightful bird (it's been far too long since I've seen one!) and see some other neat birds at the park.

Ruddy Ducks definitely qualify as neat birds. I never tire of seeing the spunky males with their chestnut bodies and sky-blue bills. I don't mean to put the females down, either--I smile whenever I see one of those badger-faced female Ruddies.

Ruddy Duck--going down.

Hiking--I adore it, yet don't do it nearly often enough. On Wednesday, I set off up into the hills above Santiago Oaks Regional Park with my binoculars, camera, and walking stick. I ended up hiking eight miles that morning. One bird that usually requires a decent hike to see is the Rufous-crowned Sparrow. I heard at least a dozen of them, though only one cooperated for photography.

Another seldom-seen sparrow is the secretive Grasshopper Sparrow. In addition to being very shy, these beautiful sparrows are very local in Orange County. They require extensive grasslands--and extensive grasslands are very local in Orange County! I saw this individual in the fields above Irvine Regional Park. It was a treat to get such good looks (and even photograph it!) Usually, I just hear them off in the distance--and their song, a weak little buzz, is not impressive at all. Up close, however, it is a truly beautiful bird.

If you've spent any amount of time birding, you should recognize this snappy-looking bird--it's a Common Yellowthroat. Yes, they're abundant just about everywhere, but they rank among some of my very favorite birds. I love that bright yellow throat, that black mask, that perky song, that skulky yet curious attitude...

This. Is. Crazy.

2010-04-03T19:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, April 2nd, I ran a big day (an attempt to see as many bird species as possible in a day) on my bike in Orange County. It was overwhelmingly a success; I shattered my old big bike day by over twenty species.

Evening sunlight streamed into the idyllic meadow, illuminating the lush green grass with a golden glow. A gentle breeze kissed my face as I watched a mixed flock of Blackburnian Warblers, Sandhill Cranes, and Ivory Gulls dining on a nearby bird feeder. Suddenly, one of the gulls turned toward me, opened its bill, and began beeping.

I was so surprised that I opened my eyes. Darkness...I could still hear the Ivory Gull beeping, except that it sounded exactly like my alarm clock. That's because it was my alarm clock. Disentangling myself from the warm wool blanket, my eye fell to my watch glowing in the darkness. Four-thirty.

This. Is. Crazy.

Six hours of sleep really isn't enough for anyone, particularly a teenager. I had a reasonable excuse for waking up so early, however--a big day by bike. As I groggily climbed out of my bed, however, it didn't seem like such a reasonable plan. Slipping back under the enticing cover was much more reasonable...

Any successful big day needs strategy. You can't simply go out to the nearest park and go birding all day; you need to list all the species within striking distance and then plan a route that hits as many of those species as possible. My strategy was fairly simple: begin at the beach at dawn, hit Upper Newport Bay and San Joaquin Wildlife Sanctuary in the morning, and then ride back in the direction of home and spend the afternoon birding several spots in the foothills--Santiago Oaks Regional Park, the Villa Park Flood Control Basin, and Irvine Regional Park.

Beginning at the beach at dawn. Simple enough, except for the little detail about dawn. The beach is twenty-one miles away--that's twenty-one miles of riding in the dark. This didn't seem like such a big deal until I was speeding down Jamboree Road in the dark at five in the morning, the cold night air blasting any remaining sleepiness out of my face.

This. Is. Crazy.

My first bird was neither the hoped-for Great Horned Owl nor the expected Northern Mockingbird. It was a Song Sparrow. As I sped along dark roads and bike trails, other birds started tuning up out of the darkness. Common Yellowthroat...Black Phoebe...Northern Mockingbird...

At this point, I must admit that I simply hate writing plain narratives of birding days. So, I'll spare you the gory details: that I saw a Brant at Little Corona City Beach, Greater Scaups at Upper Newport Bay, Hooded Mergansers in the San Diego Creek, and...

The morning had gone remarkably well, but...Red Knot! Ruddy Turnstone! Loggerhead Shrike! Bonaparte's Gull! Missed, all of them--and too many others as well. Misses plague every big day. No big day, no matter how innocent, can escape the scourge of missed birds. Nothing is guaranteed. I mulled over the missed birds as I began climbing the hills.

Hills, darn them! My detour through Lemon Heights took me over extra hills. I slowed to a crawl. Cranking my bike into lower and lower gear, I inched up the hill, my bike creaking, my thighs screaming. All this extra pain for a Western Tanager and a Rufous Hummingbird.

This. Is. Crazy.

Eventually, I victoriously gained the top of the hill. For a precious few moments I gleefully coasted downhill...until another uphill loomed...and another.

I wearily pulled into my garage at 2:20 p.m. "That's a pretty short big day," you might say. No, I wasn't finished yet--not nearly. After gobbling up a bowl of Wheaties topped with granola, banana slices, and dried cherries (by far the most delicious cereal combination I've ever encountered), I traded my biking shoes for hiking boots and embarked on my mountain bike.

Acorn Woodpecker...Oak Titmouse...Black-chinned Hummingbird...California Thrasher...within minutes of arriving at Santiago Oaks, I added at least half a dozen new species for the day. My momentum quickly petered out, as I ended up wandering the park for half an hour without finding any more new birds. The low point of the day (except perhaps for being awoken by my alarm clock) came when I had backtrack for a couple miles because of a flooded trail. As I made the bothersome detour, I couldn't help but think...

This. Is. Crazy.

As I continued on in the Villa Park Flood Control Basin, specialties like Rock Wren, Rufous-crowned Sparrow, and Canyon Wren surrendered themselves to my notebook. My favorite part of the day came, however, when I missed Ring-necked Duck.

Huh?

Well, the Villa Park Flood Control Basin is a sure-fire spot for this species, or so I thought. I gazed in disbelief at the gently rippling lake at the base of the dam, its surface disturbed only by the occasional coot or shoveler. Only two days before I had seen a dozen Ring-necked Ducks at this very spot.

But they were gone.

Fine, they probably moved to a different part of the basin. Half an hour of poking around, however, failed to produce any. I was running out of time--I needed to get to Irvine Regional Park. I remembered that Peters Canyon Regional Park is another reliable spot for this species; however, it is also a couple of miles from Irvine Regional Park, and I did not have time to go gallivanting all over the place. So, I resignedly pedaled to Irvine Park, my bike caked with mud and my spirits down. One of the first spots I checked was the lake. It's a reliable spot for Wood Ducks.

Sure enough, a dozen or so Wood Ducks graced the ugly man-made abomination. And there, peacefully snoozing on the far side of the lake, was a perfect male Ring-necked Duck shining in the late afternoon sun. A gift, indeed.

The day was finally over. Fifteen hours after that first Song Sparrow sang, I was listening to nestling Barn Owls rasping inside a hollow sycamore. I finally reached home for good, ran upstairs to my room, and began checking off birds on a checklist. Neat black x's festooned the boxes next to bird names, though they grew progressively more sloppy toward the end of the checklist. The boxes next to some bird names remained tortuously empty. I cursed Northern Flickers, Hutton's Vireos, and California Quails as I breathlessly tallied up the numbers. The number seemed high, so I double-checked, but I got the same number:

One sixty-three.

This. Is. Crazy.

Get in the Zone

2010-03-26T21:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was good
Why? I saw a Zone-tailed Hawk
Circling o'er the hills

It's amazing what you can see if you climb a hill with a telescope--raptors coursing over distant hills, pelicans circling miles away, people innocently going about their business in their homes...

In reality, I dragged my scope over to Holy Sepulcher Cemetery just up the road from my house purely for the former reason. The back side of the cemetery offers panoramic views of the adjacent Villa Park Flood Control Basin as well as the lower foothills. My foremost target bird was Swainson's Hawk; small numbers of these elegant raptors pass through the county in the spring, though a heavy dosage of luck is needed to score a sighting.

Yet again, I came up empty.

I'm not complaining, though, since I saw a bird on par with Swainson's, if not better: Zone-tailed Hawk. A few of these wide-ranging hawks have been wintering in the county's foothills this year. Infuriatingly, one has been spotted several times a mere half-mile away from my house at Irvine Regional Park. I was lucky enough to see one several miles away near Orchard Hills (possibly the same bird--if it is, he patrols a very large territory!), but missing a bird so close to home is like losing a home game.

I've kept my eyes skyward, checking every Turkey Vulture, but every Turkey Vulture turned out to be a Turkey Vulture. So, my heart accelerated when I noticed a big, blackish raptor that didn't look quite like a vulture, circling over the hills just north of Irvine Regional Park...

Groping for the zoom ring, I cranked up the magnification on my scope and peered at the circling bird. Big...and black...like a Turkey Vulture. It just didn't feel right...

For one thing, its bill looked yellow. Vultures have pale bills, but they look whitish from a distance. Also, I couldn't see its red head. True, it was distant, but I could make out the naked heads of vultures at similar distances. Zone-tailed Hawks have a bright yellow cere...

Then in banked. It still looked like a vulture--though I caught a flash of its yellow legs. Vultures have dull grayish-flesh legs; Zone-tailed Hawks have yellow legs...

My pulse began to race for real. Carefully scrutinizing the lazily gliding and circling bird, other characteristics began adding up: slimmer wings, more square tail, but something else, too, something that I can't explain. It must be that I've looked at so many Turkey Vultures that my brain was subconsciously detecting minor differences in flight behavior and structure, because I knew with certainty that this was no Turkey Vulture. It was a charlatan, it was a...

Zone-tailed Hawk!

Poking around Peters

2010-03-22T19:17:00.001-07:00

One of the primary reasons my family moved to this particular corner of Orange was its proximity to three large parks: Santiago Oaks, Irvine, and Peters Canyon Regional Parks. All are within two miles of my house, so it's easy for me to ride my bike to any of them for a couple hours before or after school. They're decent birding spots--they don't attract the number of rarities coastal places like Huntington Central Park do, but there's always something interesting to see. The first few weeks after I moved were exciting, to say the least...Wrentits! California Thrashers! Spotted Towhees! California Gnatcatchers!

Though these parks have lost their initial mysteriousness and wonder, I still enjoy birding them. Sadly, I've been neglecting the trio this winter, particularly Peters Canyon. Early Friday, I woke well before sunrise for a long-overdue hike at Peters Canyon.

If you have the choice, start your hikes before sunrise. The moments when it is not quite light--sparkling dew clinging to the grass, gray mist rolling through the valleys, the sky glowing pink and yellow--are magical.

Wildflowers offered another incentive to pry myself out of bed early Friday morning. With the warmer temperatures we've been having the last couple weeks, wildflowers are going crazy! (Note to local readers: if you get the chance, drive down the 261 toll road. The number of lupines are phenomenal!)

Sticky Monkeyflower (Mimulus aurantiacus)

California Goldfields (Lasthenia california)

Cleveland's Cryptantha (Cryptantha clevelandii)

California Encelia (Encelia californica)

Parry's Phacelia (Phacelia parryi)

Oh yeah, birds! Mid-March is a fun time of year to bird Southern California. Some of the wintering birds (e.g., ducks) are thinning out, though an interesting mix of winter species remain and early migrants are coming through. I saw relatively few land bird migrants--some Bullock's and Hooded Orioles, three Wilson's Warblers, and swallows, though the latter have been coming through since January. And, of course, the local residents are around, most of them singing. Everywhere you look, you see courtship displays, nest building, even a few adult birds carrying food. Cassin's Kingbirds are always around (the seasonal movements of this species are interesting, since it isn't sedentary--at least some of the wintering birds are different from the local breeders), but always fun to see.

Audubon's Warblers are ubiquitous winter residents in Orange County, to the point that a hike with none detected is almost a pleasure. I like them, though. If you're bored in the winter, there will ALWAYS be a butterbutt to look at. Many of the males--experiencing prealternate molt--are looking spiffy. Apparently their hormones are beginning to really kick in, too, since they've suddenly started singing in the last week or so.

From a purely technical standpoint, it was a boring hike--no Yellow-billed Loons, Bar-tailed Godwits, or Painted Redstarts. In fact, the most unusual bird was a Western Gull--the first I've had at the park. Good thing I'm not looking at it from a technical standpoint. I love hearing the Common Yellowthroat's whitchity-whichity-whichity-which, seeing my first migrant Wilson's Warblers of the year, and watching a male House Finch singing his heart out and courtship-feeding a female. It's part of the magic of birding.

More Wildflowers

2010-03-15T19:42:00.000-07:00

This spring, I've set the informal goal of learning one or two new wildflowers every time I get out in the field. I'm learning--slowly, one plant at a time. For someone who never (well, practically never) finds new life birds close to home, it's been great fun. It's not hard to find new flowers, either. The big, showy ones--lupines, poppies, sunflowers--are noticed by even the least nature-oriented people. Once you open your eyes, however, you start seeing different species everywhere. In addition to a couple books I've borrowed from the library, I've been using CalFlora to identify some of the plants I've come across. If you've got a few spare minutes, I can highly recommend toggling around on there for a few minutes!

Amsinckia menziesii--Common Fiddleneck. Irvine Regional Park, Orange, 3/8/10.

Marah macrocarpus--Wild Cucumber. Irvine Regional Park, Orange, 3/8/10.

Claytonia perfoliata--Miner's Lettuce. Irvine Regional Park, Orange, 3/8/10.

Eucrypta chrysanthemifolia--Spotted Hideseed. Irvine Regional Park, Orange, 3/8/10.

Camissonia cheiranthifolia--Beach Evening-Primrose. Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve, Huntington Beach, 3/12/10.

Abronia umbellata--Beach Sand-Verbena. Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve, Huntington Beach, 3/12/10.

To Twitch...Or Not?

2010-03-13T13:06:00.000-08:00

If you call yourself a birder, sooner or later you will be driven to twitch a rare bird.

twitching-n.-The act of chasing rare birds found by others, mostly for listing purposes.

Nowadays it is easy (too easy?) for birders to twitch birds. Most serious birders are connected to rare bird alerts and birding listservs. Word of a rarity often gets out within minutes of discovery via phone calls, texts, and Facebook. All the birder has to do is to grab his binoculars (even this step isn't completely necessary, since plenty of other birders will be there to mooch off of), jump in the car, and drive to the place. More often than not, the birder finds the bird, loses interest after a minute or two, and then begins chatting with other birders until someone's phone buzzes with a text about another rare bird fifty miles away. The process is repeated.

I don't know about you, but I don't see the point of twitching. Sure, you get to add a species to your life list, but who cares? I've drifted away from listing. I know my life list is somewhere above six hundred, but beyond that I have no idea. I've allowed nearly all of my lists to fall into disrepair.

Hard-core listing barely counts as birding. The birds become mere objects, worthless once they've been ticked off. For this reason, many die-hard listers aren't even decent birders. I know plenty of birders with impressive life lists but very little knowledge of the birds to go along with the names.

Now that I've spent sufficient time bashing those filthy twitchers, I have something to confess. I sometimes fall prey to the evil temptation. My latest lapse came on Wednesday.

It actually started on Tuesday. As I made one of my routine checks of LACounty Birds, I noticed a few posts with "Yellow-billed Loon" in the headlines. I continued on, seeing a post about a Baltimore Oriole, and nothing much else...

Wait. WHAT?! Yellow-billed Loon?!

I've never seen a Yellow-billed Loon. I've always wanted to. To make matters worse, several friends of mine saw one in Michigan a couple months ago. Of course, they rubbed it in my face...

That's why I dragged myself out of bed at five on Wednesday morning. That's why I battled through beastly traffic jams on the 1-210 near Pasadena. That's why I shelled out eleven bucks into the waiting hand of the grumpy, sleep-deprived attendant at the entrance booth at Castaic Lagoon. That's why I tumbled out of the driver's seat, stretched, extricated my scope from the trunk, and walked to the lake's edge...

I huddled in my jacket from the dawn chill. Sweeping the lake with my scope, I quickly spotted the loon out in the distance. It was darker than I expected. Then the bird turned--and I could see it was a Common Loon.

Shoot.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Then, a huge, tan loon with a pale horn-yellow bill popped out of the water a short distance off. No mistake this time--this was the Yellow-billed Loon!

I made a point of enjoying the bird. When I do break down and chase rare birds, I like to hang around for awhile and photograph, sketch, and simply watch them. I ended up spending nearly three hours with the loon. By the end of my visit, I felt like I had gotten to know the bird. Not only that, I had seen some other nifty birds--Swainson's Hawk, Lawrence's Goldfinch, Rock Wren, and Common Merganser. Around midday, I loaded my trappings back into the car and headed home. As I pulled onto the freeway, driving with a knee while munching on a sandwich, I happily reflected on the loon.

I felt only slightly guilty.

The Crap I Get from Nonbirders

2010-03-07T20:21:00.001-08:00

If you’re a birder, and if you’ve spent any amount of time out in the field (read: parking lots, sewage lagoons, and dumps) birding, you’ve surely received incredulous stares and dumb questions (i.e., crap) from nonbirders. They mean well, but it becomes wearisome after the fiftieth time. Nonbirders seem to delight in pestering me with trite questions.

Others simply gawk as they hurry by, clutching their small children closer…

THE SCHOOL PROJECT FALLACY

I don’t know his name—all I know is that he lives over on the next street. I’ll call him Bob. Average height, pudgy, balding, an overweight black lab waddling at his side—Bob is an entirely forgettable character. I, however, find Bob entirely unforgettable, since he’s given me the exact same question at least four times.

Bob had it coming. The final straw came one day while I was innocently studying a male Western Bluebird in my neighborhood. The scuffing of heavy footsteps on the sidewalk behind me caught my attention. “Hey—how’s it going?” Not recognizing Bob’s booming voice, I turned, finding him squinting at my binoculars slung across my chest. Without waiting for an answer, he immediately continued, “I see you birdwatching all the time! Is it for a school project or something?”

The following day, thousands of people cracked open the morning paper and marveled over a mysterious murder case: an apparently innocent man had been strangled to death with binocular straps.

Call it an overreaction, but my nerves fray after hearing the same query hundreds of times. People ask me this question nearly every time I’m out birding. “School project…school…project…” rings in my ears. Nope, not a school project…I do it just for fun. I sigh a breath of relief as yet another nonbirder walks off.

Until the next one comes along, asking whether…

THIS IS A SPOTTING SCOPE

It was a good day for seawatching—early on a cool summer morning, the sky clear, the smog minimal. Jamming my eye socket into the waiting eyepiece of my scope, I probed the distant swells for seabirds. A Sooty Shearwater glided by, followed by another…and then a Pink-footed. A good day for seawatching, indeed. Then, I heard those dreaded muffled footsteps. I kept my eye in my scope, ignoring them, hoping to avoid another awkward encounter with nonbirders. Soft voices approached.

“Good morning,” intoned a clear tenor voice. Turning, and returning the greeting, I quickly sized up my opponents. A young couple. The girl was a stereotypical Californian: blonde, slim, and good-looking. The guy was garbed in casual clothes, which, by the looks of them, probably had been purchased at Abercrombie and Fitch the previous day. Yuppies, I couldn't help but sneer silently. As they passed, the girl asked, “Getting any good pictures?”

“Sure,” I lied at their retreating backs.

This is a spotting scope. It doesn’t take pictures. Got it?

Occasionally, my scope is mistaken for a gun, or even a missile launcher. I can’t help but enjoy acting the part of a terrorist in such situations. It makes for a nice break from the scope vs. camera misidentifications.

Hire Me!

2010-03-02T18:21:00.000-08:00

College looms. Before I move out in August, I need to come up with some spending money for textbooks and other incidentals for my freshman year. Solution? A job. As much as I need the money, I'd rather not spend my summer bagging groceries or clearing tables. So, I've decided to work as a private birding guide in Southern California March-August 2010.

Please visit my new website dedicated to this business for more details.

What, exactly, is private bird guiding? Basically, you hire me to take you birding for the day. Having become familiar with California and its bird life, I can help you find interesting birds you've always wanted to see. For the visiting birder, this translates to easily finding your target birds. California Gnatcatcher, Wrentit, Le Conte's Thrasher, Yellow-footed Gull... are you drooling yet?

Of course, my services aren't limited to the out-of-towner. If you're a birder from southern California and want to go birding with an experienced birder for a day or two to learn from a knowledgeable birder, I can help you too.

That's not all. You'll be helping a kid go to college. Not a bad deal, huh?