Legs

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Dubious Battle

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.