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.

Bad Photos of Good Birds

Well, I've fallen overwhelmingly far behind blogging about my birding adventures. The insanity of finishing school before break plus scouting for Christmas Bird Counts (CBCs) left me very little spare time. I'll give you some pictorial highlights of the CBCs.



This is the third year I've participated in the Inland CBC. Each year, I've helped with the Peters Canyon/Lemon Heights section of the count. Lemon Heights has always intrigued me. A lush, hilly neighborhood boasting numerous old trees, the place nearly always turns up something interesting. I spent the week prior to the count biking as much of the area as possible. By far the most interesting bird I found was this one: an Olive-sided Flycatcher. Though common during migration in the county, it is extremely rare in southern California in the winter, and for a good reason: at this time of year, they're supposed to be in South America! Unfortunately, the one day I drove instead of biking was the day I found this bird, which I still need for my Bigby list.



A species I was hoping to bump into while scouting in Lemon Heights was Rose-breasted Grosbeak. Rare in the county, but annual. So, I was pleasantly surprised when I found this hatch-year male Rose-breasted Grosbeak at Arroyo Elementary School last Sunday. Bigby bird #273.



Unfortunately, Arroyo Elementary School (actually the lush estate across the road) has a history of having rare birds disappear and never be seen again. This was exactly what happened with the Rose-breasted Grosbeak. We couldn't find it on the CBC a week after I originally found it. HOWEVER...on count day, I ran into a different Rose-breasted Grosbeak a couple miles away, this one a female! Talk about luck!



Golden-crowned Kinglets are annual in small numbers in the winter in Orange County. They can be tricky to pin down for CBCs, however. I turned up a total of eight in Lemon Heights, though only two stuck around for count day. Only ones for the count circle!



Lemon Heights is known for its numbers of wintering Western Tanagers, a tough bird in the winter in the county. So, when I heard a tanager-like rattle while birding along Brier Lane, I assumed that was what I had. When the bird popped up, however, it was a female Summer Tanager!



All empids are notoriously rare in the county in the winter--any empid would be a great bird for a CBC. So, I was surprised to find TWO Pacific-slope Flycatchers while scouting Lemon Heights. I could find only one of them on count day, though.



Possibly the most surprising bird I found on count day was this Rock Wren. While not unheard of in the Peters Canyon section of the circle (I had one on a rocky hill in Tustin on Friday, and others saw one in the park itself), I was not expecting a Rock Wren sitting in a driveway in Lemon Heights, at least a couple miles from suitable habitat!

In addition to the unusual birds discussed above, I found two Hermit Warblers, two Red-breasted Nuthathes, two White-breasted Nuthatches, fifteen Western Tanagers, one Costa's Hummingbird, and several Mountain Chickadees in Lemon Heights.



The only unusual bird I saw on the South County CBC on Saturday was this Red-necked Grebe in Dana Point Harbor. Tom Benson, John Fallan, and I covered the harbor and pelagic areas within the circle on John's boat, and the grebe was one of our targets. Sure enough, we found it puttering around the channel.



This last bird isn't within any CBC circle, but it's still a decent bird. Gray Flycatcher is a annual wintering bird in Orange County in small numbers, and prior to today I needed it for my Bigby list. Unfortunately, I knew of none within reasonable biking distance of my house. Happily, Doug Willick saved the day by finding one along the Santa Ana River in Yorba Linda. After sleeping in horrendously late (until 8:30 a.m.!), I headed out in the late morning and arrived at the spot in the around midday.



After an hour of searching the perimeter of the small citrus grove the bird had been frequenting, I finally located the small, gray, tail-wagging empid. Though hardly a pretty bird, I find myself strangely attracted to them. It was a new Bigby bird--#274.

That, in a nutshell, is the last week of my birding life. Now that I'm on Christmas break (woohoo!), I'm going to bird as much as possible, and look for as many new Bigby birds as possible. Two eighty or bust!

Wonderful Wetness

Cameras and water don't really mix, I thought as I glanced out the window on Thursday morning and saw rain dribbling out of the leaden skies. It would be pure folly to take a camera that cost a few arms and legs out in weather like that, so I left my trusty companion on the dining room table, grabbed my binoculars, and set off to look for a certain bird.

That certain bird is a bird I've keep a sharp eye out for all fall, but I missed it for my Bigby list. Plumbeous Vireos are rare but regular migrants in Orange County - not exactly a vagrant, since they occur too regularly, and not a migrant either. I suppose they could be considered "magrants". Anyways, I read online about one that Jim Pike and Doug Willick found in Lemon Heights earlier in the week, so I decided it would be worthwhile to spend my Thanksgiving morning biking through the rain in search of a new Bigby bird. Lemon Heights is only a few miles away from where I live, though it isn't called Lemon Heights for nothing: some decent-sized hills lie between my house and the place, Arroyo Elementary School.

Thankfully, the rain held off for a bit, but water and mud still managed to get flung up in my eyes from the wet pavement. I managed to find Arroyo Elementary School without a problem. The place was desolate and deserted; the trees across the street, however, were not. I could hear lots of birds chipping in the tall lush trees - Yellow-rumped and Townsend's Warblers, a Mountain Chickadee, and others. A few boisterous Red-lored Parrots seemed to be having a shouting match in the trees as well. I strode over, expecting to easily find the vireo. I experimentally threw out a vigorous phrase of pishes - lots of birds flew in to investigate, but no vireo. I walked around a bit, still searching for the vireo, when I began feeling raindrops on my bare head. The rain began lashing down furiously, so I scurried over to the closest cover available - a clump of dense bushes. From the relative dryness, I watched with detached interest as a swirling torrent of water swept down the street. I waited... and waited... and waited.

The rain finally tapered off, and I damply emerged from my lair. I meandered around more, half-heartedly pishing at the trees that were filled with Yellow-rumped Warblers and little else. I did find several Western Tanagers and a Bullock's Oriole, both uncommon species in the winter. I decided to give up, figuring the bird must have moved on. After all, I had carefully searched the area for nearly two hours with no luck. I called my mom to have her pick me up, since I didn't feel like riding the several uphill miles home in the drizzle. As I was trudging back to my bike, a grayish bird landed in a tree nearby. Somehow I knew it was the Plumbeous Vireo before I even raised my binoculars. I enjoyed nice looks at it at close range as it sluggishly foraged in the dripping tree tops. I called my mom again to tell her not to bother coming to pick me up... Plumbeous Vireo was a new Bigby bird, so I forced myself to face the wet uphill miles.

The ride home was actually easier than the arduous journey I had been conjuring up in my mind. The Plumbeous Vireo was a new Bigby bird (#227) for me, and a bonus one at that. I doubt that very many other people spent their Thanksgiving morning biking through the mud puddles in search of one little gray bird, but what else is there to do on Thanksgiving other than eating turkey?