Thrush Porn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.