Christmas in the Canyon

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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