On the proliferation of Eurasian Collared-Doves in Orange County

A Eurasian Collared-Dove in Anaheim on Sunday

Orange County is different every time I visit. New housing developments encroach ever deeper into the hills. Trees are "trimmed" (read: mutilated) further and further into oblivion. And there are always more Eurasian Collared-Doves. 

This is going to make me sound old, but here goes. I remember when things were different. There was a time when Eurasian Collared-Doves were not common in Orange County. When I moved here in 2007, they were downright difficult to find. Over the last few years, they've become commonplace. In fact, I saw one the other day a mere mile from my house. I predict that I will soon add this species to my almost legendary Hood List. 

This expansion is hardly surprising, given hemispheric trends for this species. Want a good laugh? Check out the dove's map in the original Sibley. It is rapidly expanding west, east, north, south. "Collared-Dove," I told Joel as we crossed the Michigan-Indiana state line in early January, "Will probably be the first new species we see." Sure enough, dozens greeted us at a rest stop in central Illinois. Their coos serenaded us at every piss stop across the country--Missouri, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, California. Then we flew to Mexico--and there, too, the streets echoed with their calls. And they were verminous in the Dominican Republic. I just can't get away from them.

Let us consider their conquest of Orange County. First, courtesy of eBird, here is an overview of their North American range.

This next map shows Eurasian Collared-Dove records in southern California up to the year 2005.Very sparse in Orange County, with greater numbers up north towards Los Angeles.

Fast forward to 2011. Things are filling in slowly in Orange County, though the species seems to be increasing rapidly up north in Los Angeles County and in western Riverside County.

And finally, all records up to the present (red pins indicate records from the past month.) Explosion. Blietzkrieg. The Collared-Dove has conquered Orange County. 

Using eBird to track the expansion of this species may be deceptive, since the dove's invasion of Orange County coincided (or slightly preceded) the widespread adoption of eBird by birders. Fortunately, Christmas Bird Count data for Orange County is readily available online (thanks, Sea and Sage Audubon). The data support my general impressions that (1) Eurasian Collared-Doves first began appearing in Orange County in roughly 2005, and (2) that the population has rapidly increased since then--particularly since about 2010.

In past decades, a different dove reigned in Orange County--the Spotted Dove. They were abundant through the 90's (the 1990 Coastal CBC recorded upwards of 250), but their population crashed. The last surviving Spotted Doves overlapped with the pioneering Collared-Doves in the early 2000's. It is fun to speculate about the rise and fall of two nonnative doves in Orange County--did the Collars drive out the Spots? At least in the context of Orange County, I find this hard to believe--by the time the Collared-Doves showed up, the Spotted Doves had already been gone for years. But, who knows? 

And will the Eurasian Collared-Dove share the Spotted Dove's fate in Orange County? I doubt it--I foresee the dove expanding further, saturating the county--nay, the country-- interminably.

Five years the wiser

Why am I here?

          
This is no ordinary delve into existentialism; I am wondering why, specifically, I am at Brier Lane.

          
I am exiting the car at my Christmas Bird Count turf in Lemon Heights. Ah, CBC season! Those hectic weeks centered on the holidays drain birders. We neglect sleep and personal hygiene to prowl our territories, wringing every bird out of the shrubbery. Once the rush is over, we sigh, slumber, and don’t return to our territory until the next December.

Yet here I am, walking up steep-as-hell Brier Lane on January 12. Count season is long over. I didn’t make it home for the count this year, so I just want to see what’s around…what I would have seen.

Audubon’s Warblers and House Finches skip through the knackered eucalyptus trees lining the road. “Damn butchers!” I mutter, bemoaning the excessive tree trimming that compromises the potential of my territory. Cresting the hill, I peer down to see if I can find the customary scrub-jay or mockingbird in the cactus patch. Nope! I can’t—but that’s because the whole patch is GONE, leaving a swathe of dirt that eagerly awaits the next rainfall so it can slide down and befoul the neighbor’s pool.

Good habitat is ephemeral in these neighborhoods. Shaggy yards eventually attract the ire of neighbors, to the misfortune of overwintering birds.

Why are you here? Again I ponder my motives as I watch Yellow-rumped Warblers silhouetted against the picture windows of rich people. Meanwhile, my cynicism and optimism duel. No way. It’s dead. There is NO way it is back. “Shuttup, will you? I can always hope.”

It, in this case, refers to the “Western” Flycatcher I first pished out a thicket in 2009. It subsequently returned in 2010…and 2011…and 2012…

I had started believing it would winter indefinitely. It, ten grams of fluff, would pace my annual return. You idiot, it’s just a bird. Your life expectancy is probably forty times longer. At some point, it needs to die. “But come on, not yet!”

I stop before the appointed yard and spray the jungle with an aggressive pish sequence. Within two seconds, a wide-eyed olive bird squeaks and flits to a twig six feet in front of my face. “Hah. It’s back.” Cynicism doesn’t respond.

When the bird darts back into cover, I turn and plod downhill. While I walk, I  try to imagine where it nests. Breeding Pacific-slope Flycatchers have infiltrated old developments such as this one; it is possible that it never leaves. Or, if it is a Cordilleran, it might come from a Ponderosa Pine forest in Colorado. Or, even it is a Pacific-slope, maybe it travels to this unkempt backyard from a rainforest in British Columbia.

I reach the car, pause. “Good-bye…until next year.”  

Under the Weather

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.

#60

The urge to start a new Bigby list got the better of me on Friday. Nothing audacious; I tallied my first ten or so species while lying half-asleep in bed, listening to birds through the open window. When I finally roused myself at the horrendously late hour of seven a.m., I quickly left and spent a few hours poking around the Villa Park Flood Control Basin on my mountain bike. It was for fun, more than anything else; the basin isn't too great for birding this time of year, so I wasn't terribly surprised to come up with only fifty-some species.

I spent the next couple days doing Christmas Bird Counts (Lake Elsinore on Saturday and Mile Square Park on Sunday), so nothing new for the Bigby list those days. Hopefully I'll get a post up about Mile Square sometime soon; as usual, I had fun and saw a few interesting birds (oh, and Irene's breakfast did not disappoint.) This afternoon I added Chipping Sparrow while out for my run in the neighborhood, and then this evening I stepped outside onto the driveway to add number sixty, a hooting Great Horned Owl.

As you've probably surmised by now, my Bigbying has been very low-key thus far. Sure... I could have a hundred and sixty species by now without too much effort, but what's the point? I'll get them eventually.

Christmas Pocket Count

What has it got in its pocketses? --Gollum, The Hobbit

Now that Christmas Bird Count (CBC) season is nearly over, I thought I'd begin a new count circle--my jacket pockets. This important habitat area is sadly under-appreciated by birders, so I decided that starting a new counting tradition would help raise awareness of this threatened habitat type.

My jacket has three basic functions: (1) to carry various items that I might need on a daily basis, (2) to act as a trash can when no real trash can is around, and... oh yeah, (3) to keep me warm.

This morning, December 28th, 2009, from 10:30-10:45 a.m., I conducted the first Christmas Pocket Count (CPC) under cloudy skies, calm conditions, and temperatures in the upper fifties. I found mostly just the usual residents, though a few vagrants found their way into my pockets. Here is my list for the effort.

(3) Sandwich Bags--all containing crumbs of bread and traces of Jiffy Chunky Peanut Butter.
(1) Chapstick--before you begin lecturing me about how unmanly Chapstick is, try doing two consecutive CBCs in hot, dry, windy weather. Then tell me how your lips feel. This particular species has a close affinity to mankind.
(1) ABA Checklist--a hatch-year containing the latest changes in taxonomy.
(1) Lens Cloth--very worn individual (dark smudges covering most of its body) very far from its usual haunts in the camera case.
(1) Empty Pretzel Bag--the one-hundred calorie Synder's pack, which makes bad eating. It tasted like a Coot.
(1) Crumpled-up Paper Bag--another very worn individual that formerly contained doughnuts.
(1) Kleenex--basic plumage (very wrinkled and covered with a very viscous yellowish liquid.)
(1) Wad of Foil--closely related the the previously mentioned Sandwich Bags. Currently considered separate species; possibly just a subspecies.
(1) Plastic Water Bottle Cap--very far from its normal range...the recycling bin.
(1) iPod Earbuds--ah, that's where those went! The first record for my jacket pockets.
(4) AAA batteries--very young individuals (i.e., they have not yet fledged.)
(17) Clementine Peels--all very worn. Some individuals seemed to be suffering from a white and green skin parasite.
(1) Digital Voice Recorder--I was wondering where this one went. I had it staked out on my desk shelf; apparently it wanders.
(7) Granola Bar Wrappers--three different subspecies were represented: (2) Quaker Chewy Chocolate Chip, (2) Nature Valley Oats & Honey, and (3) Nature Valley Maple Brown Sugar.
(1) Uneaten Granola Bar--of the Quaker Chewy Chocolate Chip subspecies.
(3) Quarters--very rare and endangered species. Always at risk of being sacrificed to vending machines; this species should be immediately protected before it goes extinct.
(1) Nickel--surprisingly scarce.
(2) Pennies--one hatch-year of the Log Cabin subspecies, and a very worn, dark-morph TFY (thirty-fourth year) of the Lincoln Memorial subspecies.
(2) Gum Wrappers--two different subspecies represented: Stride Winter Blue and Orbit Wintermint.
(1) Raisin--oddly, a single individual. This species is normal found in large, dense flocks in cardboard nests.
(1) Twist-tie--a nearly annual vagrant to jacket pockets; normal range is restricted to the kitchen.
(4) Receipts--the taxonomy of this species is hotly debated. Some think it should be split into dozens of species. Two were of the Subway subspecies, one of the Carl's Jr. subspecies, and one of the Albertson's subspecies. I aged all as after hatch-year by the extensive wrinkling on all individuals.
(1) Scantron--a much-hated invasive species that is most frequently spotted during finals.
(1) Pen--sadly, this species is declining precipitously. Its last few strongholds are several dark drawers somewhere.
(5) Maps--formerly rare in the region, this species has invaded the region from a place called The Google.
(1) CBC Tally Sheet--This species is generally only found in the region during CBC season (i.e., December 15th-January 5th)
(1) Slip of Paper--plumage variant...this individual had the email address of a birder interested in several CBC rarities written on it.
(~800) Granola Bar Crumbs--a very harmful and dangerous species. The only way to combat it is with a strange creature known as a vacuum cleaner.

I wish you luck in your CBCs and CPCs. Until next year!