You can guess this is going to be about a small bird. But the kind of bird might be a surprise. House sparrows, or English sparrows, are often seen as a pest bird, much like starlings. Both species were brought over from England to provide a reminder of home to some transplanted English folks. It took several tries for the starlings to be successful, but I think I recall reading that the English sparrows took to us right away. They are everywhere, they are aggressive, they are survivors.
This story is about one tiny, newly-hatched sparrow and the human that adopted him. I hesitate to use the word 'adopted' as it was a very egalitarian relationship.
This sparrow appeared in the flowerbed of a house in southeast Portland, looking like a little pink scrotum or words to that effect. And that's how newly hatched birds look- not very appealing, except to the parent bird, I hope. This one had fallen from a nest very high in a tree where it was impossible to replace him. The man who lived in the house was early middle-age and knew absolutely nothing about birds. Nor did he care, really. He was an electronics technician, not working in the natural sciences. But he just couldn't leave this tiny, struggling bit of life to its probable grisly fate in his yard.
What follows is the story of a deep and loving (yes - read the book) relationship between bird and man. There is humor, jealousy, sadness and wonder written in the pages. "B", as he named the sparrow, had daily rites and routines, and woe be to the human if anything were to interfere, as Chris, the human, was very much a part of the activities. Chris was devoted to this opinionated and passionate bit of life, and B was devoted to him. He waited anxiously for Chris's return from work every evening, whence B would land on Chris's shoulder, inch up toward his neck, and snuggle there most contentedly. Some would call this imprinting, when newly-hatched birds identify the first individual with a pulse as 'mother' and follow them faithfully. But this relationship deepened as B matured into a full grown sparrow.
He liked to play, stealing bookmarks and hiding objects, then watching with excitement as Chris tried to find them. He had his own room: no cage for this little guy. 'War bird' was the first game of the day, which involved much furious flying in a very specific manner, interacting with Chris, ending with B triumphant on Chris's fingers, panting and bowing. Wow. A sparrow.
Life was divided for Chris into "before B" and "after B". Reading about his death was hard. Living it for Chris and his partner Rebecca, was infinitely harder. After many happy years, B developed an overwhelming infection from who knows what, and died quite quickly. By this time, he had inspired them to obtain more birds: more sparrows and some finches. They were hooked. But there was no replacement for B. Their sorrow was deep.
But look what that little bird did. Chris wrote a book, The Providence of a Sparrow, which was the Literary Arts winner at the Oregon Book Awards in 2002. Through that book, B has touched so many lives. And how very deeply he touched Chris. There is a photo at the opening of the book which shows Chris (who looks a bit like Gregory Peck) cuddling B to his cheek. Chris's eyes are closed and B sits deeply and happily in the palm of his hand. Pure, pure love.
So the next time you see a family of sparrows, or even just one, think of B and the gift that this seemingly anonymous little creature gave.
Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow.
--William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Little gleaners around us
I've talked a lot about birds (and other critters) just trying to make a living like all of us. We see behaviors that might disgust or repel, such as vultures and crows eating road kill, and it's easy just to be repelled and not think any further. Consider that they're the world's clean-up crew, which is a pretty valuable niche, job-wise.
My favorite clean-up bird can be found in every busy parking lot. They're at Fred Meyer, Costco, Safeway. They're small, dapper, and very adept at dodging shopping carts and cars. Brewer's blackbird males are black with a lovely lemon-colored eye, the females are graphite gray. They have a characteristic walk, kind of a little strut, as they zip between cars, over the bark-dusted barriers, looking for any morsel that has found its way to the ground. They keep a weather eye on humans, especially the skate-boarding kind.
To me, they show endurance and optimism. Every time I see them, which is often, I have to smile.
Brewer's Blackbirds
"Everything for the birds around your yard"
reads the strip mall sign. Saturday rain puddles
glint on black tarmac.
A gang of blackbirds, the local contingent,
patrols between cars, under
shrubs, near the gutter.
Like perfect black wind-ups
they step smartly around
shopping carts, loose dogs, skateboards.
Dove gray females and inky
lemon-eyed males
goose step for the smallest morsel.
Behind the store window,
I browse
past ornate fountains, high-priced feeders
toward squat buckets filled with seed in jewel colors:
oynx sunflower, golden corn,
ruddy ground peanuts - just the ticket
on a wet Oregon day.
Never a thief, I
pocket a handful of gold
stroll out the door,
and like chicks they come running
when they see the grain fly.
They race to each bit not stopping to savor
for who knows when luck will favor them again?
They peck and discuss their good fortune
and fill the morning
with shining black optimism.
ss
My favorite clean-up bird can be found in every busy parking lot. They're at Fred Meyer, Costco, Safeway. They're small, dapper, and very adept at dodging shopping carts and cars. Brewer's blackbird males are black with a lovely lemon-colored eye, the females are graphite gray. They have a characteristic walk, kind of a little strut, as they zip between cars, over the bark-dusted barriers, looking for any morsel that has found its way to the ground. They keep a weather eye on humans, especially the skate-boarding kind.
To me, they show endurance and optimism. Every time I see them, which is often, I have to smile.
Brewer's Blackbirds
"Everything for the birds around your yard"
reads the strip mall sign. Saturday rain puddles
glint on black tarmac.
A gang of blackbirds, the local contingent,
patrols between cars, under
shrubs, near the gutter.
Like perfect black wind-ups
they step smartly around
shopping carts, loose dogs, skateboards.
Dove gray females and inky
lemon-eyed males
goose step for the smallest morsel.
Behind the store window,
I browse
past ornate fountains, high-priced feeders
toward squat buckets filled with seed in jewel colors:
oynx sunflower, golden corn,
ruddy ground peanuts - just the ticket
on a wet Oregon day.
Never a thief, I
pocket a handful of gold
stroll out the door,
and like chicks they come running
when they see the grain fly.
They race to each bit not stopping to savor
for who knows when luck will favor them again?
They peck and discuss their good fortune
and fill the morning
with shining black optimism.
ss
Sunday, December 11, 2011
King Eider ~ Another Vagrant
This is the winter for wonderful, unusual birds. There are snowy owls virtually everywhere in Oregon and Washington. The online chat groups are buzzing. The owls in Albany, Oregon, and Vancouver, Tacoma and Edmonds, Washington are getting the most attention. Since these are major population centers, many interested folks are able to see birds that they normally never would see. Mixed blessing for the owls, as in some cases, they are being loved too much, to the point of harassment. When a bird can't feed and rest undisturbed, it causes stress. Many people want to get as close as possible, which causes the owls to fly away. If this happens over and over, stress results. Most birds will eventually end up in a less populated area where they can hunt and rest. But think of this when you see flocks of shorebirds on the beach. Repeated chasing by people and dogs can be exhausting, stressful, and prevent the birds from getting a decent meal. Enough on that.
There are two other great birds to check out this fall.
An emperor goose is spending the winter on a golf course just north of here and a king eider duck (yep, like the eider down in very good comforters) is also just north, about mid-Washington state on the coast. Even though this is a female king eider, she is only jokingly referred to as a 'queen eider'. To be correct, she's a female king, which sounds funny but is accurate.
Anyway, these are also birds of the very far north. These heavy-duty ducks spend the winter in an area humans consider very inhospitable. This bird probably originated in eastern Siberia, or far north Alaska or Canada, according a birding friend in England, where they are a bit less unusual. She would normally spend the winter in the Bering Sea area. Quite a climate difference from off-shore Washington state!
As more and more people become interested and aware of birds, more and more reports of 'unusual' sightings occur. Probably birds have moved around, out of the territories that we have defined for them, for ages. Literally. I think about the vast areas of eastern Oregon and Washington. Miles and miles of open country with a few scattered ranches. I'll bet there have been what we call rarities occuring there forever. It's wicked cold and windy over there, perfect for the occasional gyrfalcon and snowy owl that we humans see and rejoice over.
We are what has changed, not the birds.
I'm glad these rarities are here. They're getting write-ups in the local papers like visiting celebrities. As more people pay attention and become interested, maybe more care and attention will be paid when birds are threatened by human incursion.
This is a year when northern birds are having a tough time making a living and they've moved to new digs for the season. Please get to know your new neighbors and make them welcome and safe.
There are two other great birds to check out this fall.
An emperor goose is spending the winter on a golf course just north of here and a king eider duck (yep, like the eider down in very good comforters) is also just north, about mid-Washington state on the coast. Even though this is a female king eider, she is only jokingly referred to as a 'queen eider'. To be correct, she's a female king, which sounds funny but is accurate.
Anyway, these are also birds of the very far north. These heavy-duty ducks spend the winter in an area humans consider very inhospitable. This bird probably originated in eastern Siberia, or far north Alaska or Canada, according a birding friend in England, where they are a bit less unusual. She would normally spend the winter in the Bering Sea area. Quite a climate difference from off-shore Washington state!
As more and more people become interested and aware of birds, more and more reports of 'unusual' sightings occur. Probably birds have moved around, out of the territories that we have defined for them, for ages. Literally. I think about the vast areas of eastern Oregon and Washington. Miles and miles of open country with a few scattered ranches. I'll bet there have been what we call rarities occuring there forever. It's wicked cold and windy over there, perfect for the occasional gyrfalcon and snowy owl that we humans see and rejoice over.
We are what has changed, not the birds.
I'm glad these rarities are here. They're getting write-ups in the local papers like visiting celebrities. As more people pay attention and become interested, maybe more care and attention will be paid when birds are threatened by human incursion.
This is a year when northern birds are having a tough time making a living and they've moved to new digs for the season. Please get to know your new neighbors and make them welcome and safe.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Snowy Owls are here!
Every few years we're lucky in the northwestern states, and snowy owls move down to spend the winter. There's been lots of discussion on the why of this ~ they truly are a bird of the far north. A move south is called an 'irruption' and it usually comprises young, darker birds. These birds probably don't have established territory up north which makes them more likely to be vagrants, and a crash in the lemming population (their favorite food) will force them to more favorable hunting grounds.
In early November of this year, word was out that snowy owls were being sighted on the north Washington coast. It wasn't long before reports were coming in from southern Washington, and now there are snowy owls being seen all along the Oregon coast and inland. One year a young snowy spent the winter at the Salem airport.
They seek open, grassy fields in order to hunt mice. What you'll see is a short, squat shape on the edge of an open field. If it is a young bird, they'll be mottled brownish, but still mainly white. If they're adults, they're the purist white imaginable. They sit motionless for hours, watching for movement in the field, then in utter silence, they swoop out and down, taking their prey in powerful dark talons.
One year not too long ago, there were several snowy owls at Fort Stevens State Park, on the very northwest tip of Oregon. They were easily visible from the viewpoint parking lot. Made me nervous~ they're great targets: big, white and immobile. I don't think any owls were shot. But this year, one very adventurous and off-the-track snowy owl made it to Hawaii, only to be shot there. My god, what are people thinking.
Anyway, at Fort Stevens the day I was there, there was also a huge flock of shorebirds- sandpipers-resting in a sandy swale really close to a perched snowy owl. Didn't they know? They seemed quite relaxed about the whole thing until the owl swooped from his snag perch and almost casually flew among the now-panicked sandpipers. They flew up and circled desperately, but the owl just extended one powerful foot, and there was dinner. Again, hard to watch, but that how nature does it. The owl is trying to earn a living, like the rest of us.
The online birders' email group is reporting a snowy owl very near here. Wish me luck, I'm going to try for it.
In early November of this year, word was out that snowy owls were being sighted on the north Washington coast. It wasn't long before reports were coming in from southern Washington, and now there are snowy owls being seen all along the Oregon coast and inland. One year a young snowy spent the winter at the Salem airport.
They seek open, grassy fields in order to hunt mice. What you'll see is a short, squat shape on the edge of an open field. If it is a young bird, they'll be mottled brownish, but still mainly white. If they're adults, they're the purist white imaginable. They sit motionless for hours, watching for movement in the field, then in utter silence, they swoop out and down, taking their prey in powerful dark talons.
One year not too long ago, there were several snowy owls at Fort Stevens State Park, on the very northwest tip of Oregon. They were easily visible from the viewpoint parking lot. Made me nervous~ they're great targets: big, white and immobile. I don't think any owls were shot. But this year, one very adventurous and off-the-track snowy owl made it to Hawaii, only to be shot there. My god, what are people thinking.
Anyway, at Fort Stevens the day I was there, there was also a huge flock of shorebirds- sandpipers-resting in a sandy swale really close to a perched snowy owl. Didn't they know? They seemed quite relaxed about the whole thing until the owl swooped from his snag perch and almost casually flew among the now-panicked sandpipers. They flew up and circled desperately, but the owl just extended one powerful foot, and there was dinner. Again, hard to watch, but that how nature does it. The owl is trying to earn a living, like the rest of us.
The online birders' email group is reporting a snowy owl very near here. Wish me luck, I'm going to try for it.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Being Grateful
It's a very stormy Thanksgiving Day where I live. The wind is gusting at 30-40 miles per hour. I hear that there could be minor tidal flooding due to an onshore wind and high tide gauged to be at about 12 feet. Wow ~ winter is here. And I'm grateful for it. I could not be the person who lives in the sunny south, each day bringing 80 degree temps and full sun. Call me crazy. The seasons are to savor.
The Anna's hummingbird is swooping in for a drink during wind lulls. Actually I've seen two at the feeder, a beautiful flashy male and a more quietly colored female, or maybe it's an immature. I can see the tiny, perfect black feet clinging to the feeder perch from where I sit, warm and dry behind the window. I'm so lucky to be able to just look up and see those incredible little guys, about three feet away. Indie, my sleek indoor kitty, sits next to me and watches in fascination (and lust) as the hummers come and go.
The ducks are in the yard, doing a final hoovering for any corn that may have been missed earlier when they were fed. Brilliant orange feet, glowing even in this low light. A few crows intermingle, all friends in the search for a meal. Later we'll throw more corn; it's Thanksgiving after all.
The lake outlet that runs by our house is running like a river today, no more quiet mirror pond. The marsh grass looks like a lion's mane, rough and golden in the wind. The river birch has lost all its leaves, revealing a gorgeous, mottled red-brown trunk with papery, peeling bark. What's not to love?
These things are etched on my heart. My love of nature is deep and abiding and again, I'm so grateful. I have found that it nurtures me and carries me through rough times. A very good friend shared her favorite Rumi, which kind of fits here. We are all on the path to the truth. Happy Thanksgiving.
Though we seem to be sleeping
there is an inner wakefulness
that directs the dream
and that will eventually startle us back
to the truth of who we are.
Rumi
The Anna's hummingbird is swooping in for a drink during wind lulls. Actually I've seen two at the feeder, a beautiful flashy male and a more quietly colored female, or maybe it's an immature. I can see the tiny, perfect black feet clinging to the feeder perch from where I sit, warm and dry behind the window. I'm so lucky to be able to just look up and see those incredible little guys, about three feet away. Indie, my sleek indoor kitty, sits next to me and watches in fascination (and lust) as the hummers come and go.
The ducks are in the yard, doing a final hoovering for any corn that may have been missed earlier when they were fed. Brilliant orange feet, glowing even in this low light. A few crows intermingle, all friends in the search for a meal. Later we'll throw more corn; it's Thanksgiving after all.
The lake outlet that runs by our house is running like a river today, no more quiet mirror pond. The marsh grass looks like a lion's mane, rough and golden in the wind. The river birch has lost all its leaves, revealing a gorgeous, mottled red-brown trunk with papery, peeling bark. What's not to love?
These things are etched on my heart. My love of nature is deep and abiding and again, I'm so grateful. I have found that it nurtures me and carries me through rough times. A very good friend shared her favorite Rumi, which kind of fits here. We are all on the path to the truth. Happy Thanksgiving.
Though we seem to be sleeping
there is an inner wakefulness
that directs the dream
and that will eventually startle us back
to the truth of who we are.
Rumi
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Herding Ducks - A Lesson
Yesterday morning was beautiful and pretty and cold. It was 30, which for here, at the temperate beach, is a little unusual. It's great though, because everything has a covering of coarse frost, and the hummingbird feeder has big loose ice crystals in it. The ducks are very ready for their corn: as soon as they detect movement behind the windows, they all begin to talk quietly and to move up into the sideyard. The grass is so cold that some of them will take a few steps, crouch down to warm their feet in their soft belly feathers, then walk again. This is repeated till they get to the area where I throw the grain, then they sit and wait.
I love throwing the grain these mornings especially, because they're so appreciative. There's always a comfort zone between me and the ducks, about 12-15 feet. If I get into that zone as I throw the grain, they will move away or fly. On very cold days, they relax the zone a bit, allowing me to get within maybe 8 feet - the brave ones do, that is. There's always a mix in the flock, some ducks who are more used to humans, and some who fly nervously as soon as I appear.
Anyway, the herding part- the lesson for me. I threw the corn and then spread some hulled sunflower seed under the songbird feeders - this is for the ground feeders. This area is across the driveway and probably 50 feet from where I feed the ducks. I sat down quietly near the garage to enjoy the ground feeders and lo and behold, here came the ducks over the driveway to sample the sunflower seed. How could they? They're supposed to stay on the other side and eat their food! So I got up, walked toward them and waved my arms a bit, saying something like "you guys are supposed to be over there! Go on now!" They looked at me quizzically and either turned or flew when I broached the comfort zone. But then, just as I sat, back they came. And then the crows came to eat the duck food! Total chaos in the feeding department.
Hm. Whose chaos is this? Could this just be my need to keep everything happily in its place - when everything is blissfully ignorant of my 'rules'? These birds are food opportunists - the crows eat literally anything - corn is a blissful feast. It's totally unrealistic to think they would pass it up. And anyway, why not feed them. They have a rough time making a living in the winter too. I profess my love of crows, then fuss about what they eat --?
And the ducks, well, hulled sunflower is really fatty and rich. Why ever not?? And why is this usually generous and calm human waving and making a fuss?
In my head, the answer was clear - let it go! Standing there,watching everyone eating everything, I wanted to gently sort them all out again and fix it. So I did the only thing that I could: I walked away, into the house.
This is a really tiny thing in the huge frame of life, but it made me think. I guess it's a small lesson about bigger stuff. There's a wonderful book called The Not So Big Life by Sarah Susanka. It's full of great life lessons. One that I have adopted, because I really need this specific direction is "when you believe that something upsetting in your life is about someone (or something) else and not you, stop. It is about you and it's happening so that you can learn more about you."
I guess one of my lessons from this is that even the small stuff is valuable. Try to learn from even the little things in life, because as I know, the little things can become big things.
So this morning, the ducks are again all over the yard, savoring the sunflower seed together with the juncos and the fox sparrows. The crows are feasting with some of the ducks on the cracked corn and everyone, me included, is having a good time.
I love throwing the grain these mornings especially, because they're so appreciative. There's always a comfort zone between me and the ducks, about 12-15 feet. If I get into that zone as I throw the grain, they will move away or fly. On very cold days, they relax the zone a bit, allowing me to get within maybe 8 feet - the brave ones do, that is. There's always a mix in the flock, some ducks who are more used to humans, and some who fly nervously as soon as I appear.
Anyway, the herding part- the lesson for me. I threw the corn and then spread some hulled sunflower seed under the songbird feeders - this is for the ground feeders. This area is across the driveway and probably 50 feet from where I feed the ducks. I sat down quietly near the garage to enjoy the ground feeders and lo and behold, here came the ducks over the driveway to sample the sunflower seed. How could they? They're supposed to stay on the other side and eat their food! So I got up, walked toward them and waved my arms a bit, saying something like "you guys are supposed to be over there! Go on now!" They looked at me quizzically and either turned or flew when I broached the comfort zone. But then, just as I sat, back they came. And then the crows came to eat the duck food! Total chaos in the feeding department.
Hm. Whose chaos is this? Could this just be my need to keep everything happily in its place - when everything is blissfully ignorant of my 'rules'? These birds are food opportunists - the crows eat literally anything - corn is a blissful feast. It's totally unrealistic to think they would pass it up. And anyway, why not feed them. They have a rough time making a living in the winter too. I profess my love of crows, then fuss about what they eat --?
And the ducks, well, hulled sunflower is really fatty and rich. Why ever not?? And why is this usually generous and calm human waving and making a fuss?
In my head, the answer was clear - let it go! Standing there,watching everyone eating everything, I wanted to gently sort them all out again and fix it. So I did the only thing that I could: I walked away, into the house.
This is a really tiny thing in the huge frame of life, but it made me think. I guess it's a small lesson about bigger stuff. There's a wonderful book called The Not So Big Life by Sarah Susanka. It's full of great life lessons. One that I have adopted, because I really need this specific direction is "when you believe that something upsetting in your life is about someone (or something) else and not you, stop. It is about you and it's happening so that you can learn more about you."
I guess one of my lessons from this is that even the small stuff is valuable. Try to learn from even the little things in life, because as I know, the little things can become big things.
So this morning, the ducks are again all over the yard, savoring the sunflower seed together with the juncos and the fox sparrows. The crows are feasting with some of the ducks on the cracked corn and everyone, me included, is having a good time.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Ringnecks are back!
I opened the curtains to a busy pond this morning. The mallard flock were muttering and loafing up near the shore, waiting for the rattle of corn in a can to come ashore. Farther downstream, away from the house, I saw wilder ducks. Two pairs of ring-necked ducks were bathing, fishing and generally having a good time. They seemed to be taking turns making shallow dives, sort of like a bathing dive, but then coming right back to the surface. The four ducks were facing each other, roiling the water and switching places quickly. It could have been courtship behavior, or could be they were playing. Birds do play, I've seen behavior numerous times that just doesn't have any other explanation. Ravens tumbling and diving over and over on a windy day, swallows dropping and chasing a feather, red-headed tanagers in remote Mexico running in to each other in a grassy field, tumbling, then doing it all again. Maybe there is some other serious, esoteric explanation, but it sure looks like play to me.
Anyway, these handsome ducks are wild - they avoid human contact. You won't find them lumbering up onto the grass to join the mallards for morning corn. Even going outside for a closer look causes them to move farther upstream. But wow, are they pretty.
Which brings me to their name. If you were looking for a ring-necked duck, you would look for a duck with an obvious ring of some contrasting color around the neck, yes? Well, this duck has a neck ring, but it's a lovely dark cinnamon against a black neck, and you can only see it on the male if he extends his neck a bit, as in lifting his bill. It's subtle. In poor light, forget it. These birds do have a significant field mark, and that's the bright gray and white bill sported by the males in breeding season. I think it looks like a very dressy shoe. Whoever named this duck decided that the neck ring was more valuable as a field mark than the bill, though, so there you go.
These pairs may spend the winter on the big lake to the south of us, or they may be moving through, migrating farther south for the winter. They breed in summer to the far north, extending down the Cascade Range and east a bit to about northern California.
The wind is gusting to about twenty mph just now, sending wind riffles across our shallow pond, causing the river birch to bow gracefully. The mallards have retreated to the far, leeward side where they're huddled, heads tucked, in the golden marsh grass. The Anna's hummingbird is buzzing the feeder, seemingly oblivious to the wind and rain. He's cautious, as the human is sitting at the computer, uncomfortably close to his food source. He doesn't count the window between us as a safety factor. As the day darkens, he will retreat to his dry corner in the big fuchsia in the ell of the house, away from wind and most of the weather. He won't tuck his long bill into neck feathers, but will delicately tilt up his head, pull in his neck a bit, close his eyes and sleep.
Anyway, these handsome ducks are wild - they avoid human contact. You won't find them lumbering up onto the grass to join the mallards for morning corn. Even going outside for a closer look causes them to move farther upstream. But wow, are they pretty.
Which brings me to their name. If you were looking for a ring-necked duck, you would look for a duck with an obvious ring of some contrasting color around the neck, yes? Well, this duck has a neck ring, but it's a lovely dark cinnamon against a black neck, and you can only see it on the male if he extends his neck a bit, as in lifting his bill. It's subtle. In poor light, forget it. These birds do have a significant field mark, and that's the bright gray and white bill sported by the males in breeding season. I think it looks like a very dressy shoe. Whoever named this duck decided that the neck ring was more valuable as a field mark than the bill, though, so there you go.
These pairs may spend the winter on the big lake to the south of us, or they may be moving through, migrating farther south for the winter. They breed in summer to the far north, extending down the Cascade Range and east a bit to about northern California.
The wind is gusting to about twenty mph just now, sending wind riffles across our shallow pond, causing the river birch to bow gracefully. The mallards have retreated to the far, leeward side where they're huddled, heads tucked, in the golden marsh grass. The Anna's hummingbird is buzzing the feeder, seemingly oblivious to the wind and rain. He's cautious, as the human is sitting at the computer, uncomfortably close to his food source. He doesn't count the window between us as a safety factor. As the day darkens, he will retreat to his dry corner in the big fuchsia in the ell of the house, away from wind and most of the weather. He won't tuck his long bill into neck feathers, but will delicately tilt up his head, pull in his neck a bit, close his eyes and sleep.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Ducks and other Thoughts
I thought about what to say about different kinds of ducks we see around in the lakes and ponds. It seemed like that could be kind of dry. So~ in a nutshell, all ducks are built to feed just exactly where they feed. Chalk it up to evolution. Some dive for their food and have legs set far back on their bodies to propel them underwater. When they're on land, they don't look very graceful and have a harder time getting around. They're truly built for the water and for swimming under water. Although not a duck, a loon is a perfect example. Others ducks are dabblers, who tip up and feed off the near bottom. Legs farther forward on body, so when they are on land, they do fairly OK. They still look like they do the bow-legged cowboy walk to me though. Mallards are a good example. There's a drake rambling across my yard right now.
The better part of the story for me is to see drifty, misty rafts of ducks in the bay on a winter day. A close series of black figures, all facing into the wind, bobbing easily on the following seas rolling up the Columbia from the stormy ocean. Nonchalant in currents that would capsize a kayak, they tuck heads warmly into neck feathers, eyes close. This is home to them. Their legs have a great circulatory system that keeps the blood moving and warm.
If it's a clear day, you might see the large, bulbous bills on the surf scoters. These are husky black sea ducks that spend rough winter days in the protection of Young's Bay. Their bills glow in the lemony winter sun. Their legs are bright orange too, but you almost have to be on top of them to see them.
Buffleheads are showing up now too. The males have beautiful white head feathers that erect into a fan that can be seen for miles. What I love about buffleheads is the enthusiastic way they dive for food. They sort of rear up, curve their necks, and dive straight down, barely making a ripple.
The next time you cross the Columbia, or Young's Bay, at first glance it might look empty and forbidding, grey with whitecaps and fog blowing off the water. Look closer. There are birds tucked everywhere. Always a few cormorants, some gulls, surf and white-winged scoters and buffleheads. To them it just another great day on the river. The natural world is not an empty place ~ we just need to look closely and often.
The better part of the story for me is to see drifty, misty rafts of ducks in the bay on a winter day. A close series of black figures, all facing into the wind, bobbing easily on the following seas rolling up the Columbia from the stormy ocean. Nonchalant in currents that would capsize a kayak, they tuck heads warmly into neck feathers, eyes close. This is home to them. Their legs have a great circulatory system that keeps the blood moving and warm.
If it's a clear day, you might see the large, bulbous bills on the surf scoters. These are husky black sea ducks that spend rough winter days in the protection of Young's Bay. Their bills glow in the lemony winter sun. Their legs are bright orange too, but you almost have to be on top of them to see them.
Buffleheads are showing up now too. The males have beautiful white head feathers that erect into a fan that can be seen for miles. What I love about buffleheads is the enthusiastic way they dive for food. They sort of rear up, curve their necks, and dive straight down, barely making a ripple.
The next time you cross the Columbia, or Young's Bay, at first glance it might look empty and forbidding, grey with whitecaps and fog blowing off the water. Look closer. There are birds tucked everywhere. Always a few cormorants, some gulls, surf and white-winged scoters and buffleheads. To them it just another great day on the river. The natural world is not an empty place ~ we just need to look closely and often.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Stinky birding
One of the best places to find birds is at sewage treatment plants. Usually the plants have a series of large ponds where water circulates and matter settles. Of course, if the wind is blowing toward you, you'll get a nose full of digesting sewage. Most birds lack a sense of smell, so it doesn't matter to them one way or another.
Gulls, ducks and shorebirds all love sewage treatment ponds. It's a close-by place to go birding for anyone who lives in a populated area. You just have to find your local treatment plant. A very enterprising Oregonian wrote a book a few years ago. "A Birders Guide to the Sewage Ponds of Oregon, or Creatures from the Brown Lagoons" was written by William Tice. It may be out of print by now so I cherish my beat up soft bound copy.
Why sewage ponds? In the winter on the west side of the Cascades, these ponds provide a good measure of sheltered, nutrient-rich water for the birds. You won't find too many interesting birds in the summer: there are more tempting spots during the warm weather. But once fall migration begins and the temperature falls, head on out to a sewage pond. The Warrenton and Astoria Oregon ponds are reliable for a good mix of ducks and a few shorebirds this time of year. And it's always good to look closely, as many rarities are found at these ponds.
Yesterday, the Warrenton pond was taken over by a huge flock of Northern Shoveler ducks. They are dabblers rather than divers. More about that later. They earned their name by having very large, 'spatulate' bills that are longer than their heads if looked at from the side. 'Spatulate' means kind of flattened and wide at the far end. That doesn't sound pretty, but it is. The males have a lovely green head, white breast and rich rusty sides. They're a big duck, measuring on an average of 19 inches long. An extra bonus at a sewage pond can be the raptors that perch on the sides, watching for a weak or small bird that would be suitable for lunch. Always good to scan the trees when you first get there.
There is some etiquette involving birding at sewage ponds. If it says 'no trespassing', then don't. If there is someone there, ask if it's OK to go beyond fences. We birders want to leave a good impression, so that we can return many times. Sometimes, due to regulations around communicable diseases, they have to say no. A good scope can still help you see most of what's out on a pond anyway.
So, how and where do all those ducks cooperate in a pond and find the particular food that they prefer? Who dabbles and who dives? It's truly an ingenious setup. More on that coming up.
Gulls, ducks and shorebirds all love sewage treatment ponds. It's a close-by place to go birding for anyone who lives in a populated area. You just have to find your local treatment plant. A very enterprising Oregonian wrote a book a few years ago. "A Birders Guide to the Sewage Ponds of Oregon, or Creatures from the Brown Lagoons" was written by William Tice. It may be out of print by now so I cherish my beat up soft bound copy.
Why sewage ponds? In the winter on the west side of the Cascades, these ponds provide a good measure of sheltered, nutrient-rich water for the birds. You won't find too many interesting birds in the summer: there are more tempting spots during the warm weather. But once fall migration begins and the temperature falls, head on out to a sewage pond. The Warrenton and Astoria Oregon ponds are reliable for a good mix of ducks and a few shorebirds this time of year. And it's always good to look closely, as many rarities are found at these ponds.
Yesterday, the Warrenton pond was taken over by a huge flock of Northern Shoveler ducks. They are dabblers rather than divers. More about that later. They earned their name by having very large, 'spatulate' bills that are longer than their heads if looked at from the side. 'Spatulate' means kind of flattened and wide at the far end. That doesn't sound pretty, but it is. The males have a lovely green head, white breast and rich rusty sides. They're a big duck, measuring on an average of 19 inches long. An extra bonus at a sewage pond can be the raptors that perch on the sides, watching for a weak or small bird that would be suitable for lunch. Always good to scan the trees when you first get there.
There is some etiquette involving birding at sewage ponds. If it says 'no trespassing', then don't. If there is someone there, ask if it's OK to go beyond fences. We birders want to leave a good impression, so that we can return many times. Sometimes, due to regulations around communicable diseases, they have to say no. A good scope can still help you see most of what's out on a pond anyway.
So, how and where do all those ducks cooperate in a pond and find the particular food that they prefer? Who dabbles and who dives? It's truly an ingenious setup. More on that coming up.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Thoughts on what we really love
I'm a big fan of the poet Rumi ~ I just read somewhere that he is currently a big favorite all over the U.S. And here I thought I was one of the chosen few reading this ancient mystic! Well, the more the merrier, because his writings can go very deep if you allow him in. One of his many phrases that I've cut out and pasted in my office follows:
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull
of what you really love.
Rumi
In my life, this gathering of words has prodded, nibbled at me, nudged me to take steps to learn more. OK, what do I really love? Well, many things, but what keeps coming to the top? Birds, of course. A caveat- I don't think this is primarily about people - of course I love my husband, my close friends. This is sort of another dimension. At least it is for me.
It was (and still is, in some ways) hard to find time to bird. Work, shopping, it's too dark, it's too early, I want to read this book....but Rumi is there, quietly asking if this is what I really love. And, each and every time I'm out birding, I feel like I'm in just the absolutely right place in my life. I guess that was the 'letting myself be silently drawn' part. The 'silently' is interesting. I take that to mean that this is a discussion with the self, no need to process it over coffee or complain about how there is not enough time in life. There actually is time! This is an ongoing revelation to me. But when I manage to NOT be tied to the clock, things get done anyway - somehow.
There's no question for me about the stronger pull - that's birds. As I sit in my window now, one eye is one the hummer feeder where the over-wintering Anna's hummingbird has been stopping. A few late goldfinches are at the Nyjer seed feeder, and of course, all those great ground feeders come and go. While on my errands today, I'll stop on the bay side at the boat basin and see who the storms have blown in. At the very least, I'll check out the resident flock of turnstones who live among the boats and oyster shell stacks. Their lovely dun and black colors blend so well that if they don't move, they disappear into the oyster shells.
Maybe the message for me, at least, is to make birding (what I really love) part of my everyday life. The away trips are so great, going to a place and seeing new, mysterious species, or re-visiting known birds and learning them better. But - just now, the mallard pair is cautiously pulling up from the pond onto the grass - hoping for a grain handout. He's murmuring quietly to her and looking around thoroughly before declaring it safe to proceed. They are the first of a big flock that will spend the winter with us. They shelter across the pond during high winds, heads tucked, riding it out. During a morning lull, they advance on our side yard, full of talk about the storm.
So this is still, and will be, a work in process. It's part of that Zen thing, a journey. But now when I read Rumi's exhortation, I smile and agree - with joy.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you
don't go back to sleep.
Rumi
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull
of what you really love.
Rumi
In my life, this gathering of words has prodded, nibbled at me, nudged me to take steps to learn more. OK, what do I really love? Well, many things, but what keeps coming to the top? Birds, of course. A caveat- I don't think this is primarily about people - of course I love my husband, my close friends. This is sort of another dimension. At least it is for me.
It was (and still is, in some ways) hard to find time to bird. Work, shopping, it's too dark, it's too early, I want to read this book....but Rumi is there, quietly asking if this is what I really love. And, each and every time I'm out birding, I feel like I'm in just the absolutely right place in my life. I guess that was the 'letting myself be silently drawn' part. The 'silently' is interesting. I take that to mean that this is a discussion with the self, no need to process it over coffee or complain about how there is not enough time in life. There actually is time! This is an ongoing revelation to me. But when I manage to NOT be tied to the clock, things get done anyway - somehow.
There's no question for me about the stronger pull - that's birds. As I sit in my window now, one eye is one the hummer feeder where the over-wintering Anna's hummingbird has been stopping. A few late goldfinches are at the Nyjer seed feeder, and of course, all those great ground feeders come and go. While on my errands today, I'll stop on the bay side at the boat basin and see who the storms have blown in. At the very least, I'll check out the resident flock of turnstones who live among the boats and oyster shell stacks. Their lovely dun and black colors blend so well that if they don't move, they disappear into the oyster shells.
Maybe the message for me, at least, is to make birding (what I really love) part of my everyday life. The away trips are so great, going to a place and seeing new, mysterious species, or re-visiting known birds and learning them better. But - just now, the mallard pair is cautiously pulling up from the pond onto the grass - hoping for a grain handout. He's murmuring quietly to her and looking around thoroughly before declaring it safe to proceed. They are the first of a big flock that will spend the winter with us. They shelter across the pond during high winds, heads tucked, riding it out. During a morning lull, they advance on our side yard, full of talk about the storm.
So this is still, and will be, a work in process. It's part of that Zen thing, a journey. But now when I read Rumi's exhortation, I smile and agree - with joy.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you
don't go back to sleep.
Rumi
Friday, October 14, 2011
First for this Fall
I took my coffee outside this morning and listened. Onshore breeze, so the deep boom of the surf was a background for all the neighborhood sounds. Somehow, even with all of the tsunami scares, the constant presence of the sound of the sea coming and going is reassuring. Something will get all of us, worrying is unproductive. Until the next siren.....
The river birch leaves whispered in the light wind, and the last of the lovely huge dragonflies hummed over the nasturtiums, hunting smaller insects.
A mallard pair had appeared in our pond overnight. Natty male, decked out with green head flashing in the morning light, dun female. She was the one having fun. The male sat, decoy-like, in the center of the pond, while the female swam lazy loops around him, occasionally dipping her head under water for a drink. She would then tip back her head and swallow, rainbow drops falling around her neck. All this time the male quietly spoke to her. A soft version of a quack, nothing comical or silly about it, as he followed her with his eyes.
Then the best thing. A low, soft, almost nasal whistle that sounds like it's coming from deep in the forest. Varied thrush! A gorgeous bird that we see in the lowlands in fall and winter. In the spring they relocate to higher elevations to breed and spend the summer. They are sort of an altitudinal migrator. They go from high to low elevations. And they have a lovely, haunting call. Think of a referee whistle, but in the low range, without urgency, and in the depth of the forest. Well, it's really hard to describe. And they're the perfect colors for fall, deep orangey-red and black. They're dressed for the season. If you squint your eyes, you'll think you're seeing a robin, and that's because they are close relatives - both in the thrush family.
I could barely pick out this one's call over the other bird song and neighborhood sounds. I know I'll see him or another one occasionally under our shore pine, gleaning fallen seed from the feeders.
It's that wonderful, turning-in time of year when there is a soft mist over the water, all the reeds turn golden and the winter birds return. And those harvest moons, huge and pale gold, setting in the west over the ocean early in the mornings. Magical. There is something quite reassuring about the predictable, lovely changes of the seasons. Life will throw us curve balls - but for me, if the varied thrush returns and sings deep in the trees, I know I'll be OK.
The river birch leaves whispered in the light wind, and the last of the lovely huge dragonflies hummed over the nasturtiums, hunting smaller insects.
A mallard pair had appeared in our pond overnight. Natty male, decked out with green head flashing in the morning light, dun female. She was the one having fun. The male sat, decoy-like, in the center of the pond, while the female swam lazy loops around him, occasionally dipping her head under water for a drink. She would then tip back her head and swallow, rainbow drops falling around her neck. All this time the male quietly spoke to her. A soft version of a quack, nothing comical or silly about it, as he followed her with his eyes.
Then the best thing. A low, soft, almost nasal whistle that sounds like it's coming from deep in the forest. Varied thrush! A gorgeous bird that we see in the lowlands in fall and winter. In the spring they relocate to higher elevations to breed and spend the summer. They are sort of an altitudinal migrator. They go from high to low elevations. And they have a lovely, haunting call. Think of a referee whistle, but in the low range, without urgency, and in the depth of the forest. Well, it's really hard to describe. And they're the perfect colors for fall, deep orangey-red and black. They're dressed for the season. If you squint your eyes, you'll think you're seeing a robin, and that's because they are close relatives - both in the thrush family.
I could barely pick out this one's call over the other bird song and neighborhood sounds. I know I'll see him or another one occasionally under our shore pine, gleaning fallen seed from the feeders.
It's that wonderful, turning-in time of year when there is a soft mist over the water, all the reeds turn golden and the winter birds return. And those harvest moons, huge and pale gold, setting in the west over the ocean early in the mornings. Magical. There is something quite reassuring about the predictable, lovely changes of the seasons. Life will throw us curve balls - but for me, if the varied thrush returns and sings deep in the trees, I know I'll be OK.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
More on that new lifer..
If I look at shorebirds for too long, they all start to look the same. Actually, if you don't look closely, they all DO look the same. For instance, Least, Semi-palmated and Western Sandpipers require close looks at feet and legs to determine differences, at least to my amateur eye. Lesser and Greater Yellowlegs do have a size difference, and some subtle differences in head and bill shape. But if you're only looking at one, well, truthfully, my eyes can glaze over a bit, especially if the wind is howling, making the spotting scope dance in the wind.
Just at this point in the day, one of our friends spotted more shorebirds scattered in the wetland we had been scoping. They were intermediate size, the usual combo of delicate browns, tans and buff. But the overall look wasn't a familiar pattern. The soft breast feathers ended in a neat line across the breast, leaving the belly snowy white.
Out came the field guides, up went the heart rates. Maybe a new bird?? None of us had seen a new bird on this trip, which isn't a big deal, but seeing one.... oh yeah.
One birder had a fair idea of what the bird was, although it was new to her too - she paged to Pectoral Sandpiper in her Sibley's Guide, and there it was.
One of the first things to do when ID'ing a new bird is to check the distribution, to see if it is in its usual territory. Birds can and do wander, but like they say, if you hear hoofbeats, think horses first, not zebras. Probably not going to see a Groove-billed Ani here, a closer look will show you a big, hunched-over Raven.
Anyway, all the field marks checked out, and these birds are unusual but DO pass through Malheur on migration. We were lucky to be here to see them. Another point in our favor: other experienced birders had noted seeing Pectorals in this general area a few days before. We all felt confidant and happy in adding them as 'new' to our lists.
White yarn strings of high clouds were bringing coolness to the afternoon, the golden marsh grasses were bending lower in the strengthening wind. High, sweet calls from the mix of shorebirds floated to us over the silvering water. As we headed back, the Pectorals dipped their heads and continued to feed in preparation for the continuation of their long journey south, soon to come.
A note on bird names: they come from some crazy places. A lot of birds are named for the person who first discovers them, or for a friend of theirs - like Baird's Sandpiper. I assumed that the Pectoral Sandpiper was named for the lovely color delineation on the breast. A check in "The Dictionary of American Bird Names" proved me wrong. I quote "...not from the distinct shield of dark breast feathers but from the inflationary sac under this which gives resonance to the male's amatory outpourings." I love it.
Just at this point in the day, one of our friends spotted more shorebirds scattered in the wetland we had been scoping. They were intermediate size, the usual combo of delicate browns, tans and buff. But the overall look wasn't a familiar pattern. The soft breast feathers ended in a neat line across the breast, leaving the belly snowy white.
Out came the field guides, up went the heart rates. Maybe a new bird?? None of us had seen a new bird on this trip, which isn't a big deal, but seeing one.... oh yeah.
One birder had a fair idea of what the bird was, although it was new to her too - she paged to Pectoral Sandpiper in her Sibley's Guide, and there it was.
One of the first things to do when ID'ing a new bird is to check the distribution, to see if it is in its usual territory. Birds can and do wander, but like they say, if you hear hoofbeats, think horses first, not zebras. Probably not going to see a Groove-billed Ani here, a closer look will show you a big, hunched-over Raven.
Anyway, all the field marks checked out, and these birds are unusual but DO pass through Malheur on migration. We were lucky to be here to see them. Another point in our favor: other experienced birders had noted seeing Pectorals in this general area a few days before. We all felt confidant and happy in adding them as 'new' to our lists.
White yarn strings of high clouds were bringing coolness to the afternoon, the golden marsh grasses were bending lower in the strengthening wind. High, sweet calls from the mix of shorebirds floated to us over the silvering water. As we headed back, the Pectorals dipped their heads and continued to feed in preparation for the continuation of their long journey south, soon to come.
A note on bird names: they come from some crazy places. A lot of birds are named for the person who first discovers them, or for a friend of theirs - like Baird's Sandpiper. I assumed that the Pectoral Sandpiper was named for the lovely color delineation on the breast. A check in "The Dictionary of American Bird Names" proved me wrong. I quote "...not from the distinct shield of dark breast feathers but from the inflationary sac under this which gives resonance to the male's amatory outpourings." I love it.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
New lifer
Some friends and I went over to Malheur National Wildlife Refuge for a long weekend. This vast Refuge is located in Harney County in the SE area of Oregon. The area is rich in birds due to water and oasis-like surroundings on the dry rim of the Great Basin. Fall migrants are bountiful and rarities are often seen here. Just as tempting are the multi-colored sunsets, long vistas, endless skies, working ranches and air that is pure and clear as it possibly can be. We birded wetlands, mesas, rock formations, lava spills, dry fields and Steens Mountain all the way to the top. Our list was long, and I had only one 'target bird', a Rosy Finch. These hardy little birds are found at altitude and they pefer cool temps. If it's much above 50, they'll relocate to higher slopes. They are found in flocks, and they're either there or they're not, like many birds. They weren't. But that's where the zen part comes in. It's the journey, not the bird. And the journey to the top of the Steens was mighty fine. The quaking aspens were turning deep gold to rich orange. The leaves, fluttering in the wind, looked like flaming water quivering in a breeze. Pronghorn does with almost-grown youngsters watched us from a safe distance, ready to run. It was the start of mule deer season, but I'm pretty sure the pronghorn knew the meaning of gunshots too. A Prairie Falcon jetted by, on the hunt for lunch, his pale blondish underside flashing in the sun. Horned Larks, with their colorfully marked heads, grazed on seed. Their feathery black 'horns' fluttered in the strong wind. The males have lovely chartreuse bibs outlined in black. A slow walk along the precipitous east rim failed to bring up any Rosy Finches. So we opened the back of the car and had a snack, holding our hats down and savoring good cheese and chocolate. Pipits watched us from the roadside, their bellies a lovely yellow-peach in the sun. Even though we took a miss on the Rosy Finches (again), it was a great day.
And the next day, I did get to list another life bird. More on that tomorrow. The cast on my arm keeps hitting the delete key - maybe it's trying to tell me something!
And the next day, I did get to list another life bird. More on that tomorrow. The cast on my arm keeps hitting the delete key - maybe it's trying to tell me something!
Monday, September 26, 2011
Follow "Island Girl"
Migration is in full swing. It seems to be something that I keep returning to. I just read a post about one of the Peregrine Project birds - Island Girl. In order to learn more about peregrine migration, the Project has attached small, non-invasive solar powered GPS transmitters on the backs of some birds. Island Girl is one. You can follow her third trip south on line. She left Baffin Island last week and is following a path south through Ontario. The last two years she has spent the winter in south-central Chile in an area called Putu Dunes. Some trip!
She actually spent time last year near the major quake site in Chile. As many did, she moved upland to safer territory right after the quake. Not that a bird would be in danger, but move she did.
Peregrines have been called the fastest birds in the world. They hunt from high in the sky (they have incredible vision) and when they spot prey far below, they tuck their wings and head straight down at well over 200 miles per hour. Some researchers have attached tiny cameras to the heads of some birds and followed these dives. Dizzying doesn't even come close to describing the ride!
Anyway, check in on Island Girl. Watch her progress south and cheer her on. Go to www.frg.org then click on Southern Cross Peregrine Project, then go either to the tracking maps or to the blog. If you go to the maps, click on "Island Girl" and scroll down to see her daily movements. The blue dots indicate where she rested last night, the yellow dots indicate where she is at 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. There is also a photo of the lovely girl.
Sometimes I think technology is over the top and is taking over our lives. But then something like this comes along where I can fly with a peregrine, and I love it.
She actually spent time last year near the major quake site in Chile. As many did, she moved upland to safer territory right after the quake. Not that a bird would be in danger, but move she did.
Peregrines have been called the fastest birds in the world. They hunt from high in the sky (they have incredible vision) and when they spot prey far below, they tuck their wings and head straight down at well over 200 miles per hour. Some researchers have attached tiny cameras to the heads of some birds and followed these dives. Dizzying doesn't even come close to describing the ride!
Anyway, check in on Island Girl. Watch her progress south and cheer her on. Go to www.frg.org then click on Southern Cross Peregrine Project, then go either to the tracking maps or to the blog. If you go to the maps, click on "Island Girl" and scroll down to see her daily movements. The blue dots indicate where she rested last night, the yellow dots indicate where she is at 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. There is also a photo of the lovely girl.
Sometimes I think technology is over the top and is taking over our lives. But then something like this comes along where I can fly with a peregrine, and I love it.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Complications
Using my computer has become temporarily most challenging. I have a cast on my left arm due to a break in a small wrist bone. So, postings will be briefer for the next few weeks. This is a real lesson in patience.
TRUCE
Few trees
dot the endless shimmering desert,
mile on mile of blue sage softness
falls away to dry lake beds.
Ancient windmill platform
on the Double O ranch
makes a nest for a Canada goose
where she broods her clutch of eggs.
Gray feathers blend to weathered wood,
serpentine head rests in shadow
as her vigilant eye follows this trespasser
who marks a respectful distance.
Lower on the windmill
a great horned owl crouches,
henlike, on her nest.
Lovely cat face, eartufts erect
she too watches.
Hunter and hunted are now
two cautious mothers.
Need mandates a truce:
bone-deep enmity is set aside.
Two patient hens
warm the next generation.
SS
TRUCE
Few trees
dot the endless shimmering desert,
mile on mile of blue sage softness
falls away to dry lake beds.
Ancient windmill platform
on the Double O ranch
makes a nest for a Canada goose
where she broods her clutch of eggs.
Gray feathers blend to weathered wood,
serpentine head rests in shadow
as her vigilant eye follows this trespasser
who marks a respectful distance.
Lower on the windmill
a great horned owl crouches,
henlike, on her nest.
Lovely cat face, eartufts erect
she too watches.
Hunter and hunted are now
two cautious mothers.
Need mandates a truce:
bone-deep enmity is set aside.
Two patient hens
warm the next generation.
SS
Sunday, September 11, 2011
In Memoriam
Dawn Chorus
What I imagine are
the tiny, darting spirits
all thousands of them
once young or old now
forever unaging.
Spirits flashing seen
and then
unseen
in the early perfect light
of that next dawn.
In the Park, the heart of the City,
the birds
oh, the birds still sang.
Ten thousand songs
rose up that morning
to remind us-
our hold on life is as delicate
as the singing thrush's breath
made visible on the cool morning air.
SS
What I imagine are
the tiny, darting spirits
all thousands of them
once young or old now
forever unaging.
Spirits flashing seen
and then
unseen
in the early perfect light
of that next dawn.
In the Park, the heart of the City,
the birds
oh, the birds still sang.
Ten thousand songs
rose up that morning
to remind us-
our hold on life is as delicate
as the singing thrush's breath
made visible on the cool morning air.
SS
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Zen Birding
I've been thinking about the practice of meditation and how it relates to birding for awhile. I'm a miserable failure (so far) at sitting, legs crossed, mindful, for 20, or even 15 minutes. I'm not disciplined and have felt like kind of a failure about the whole thing. Then this wonderful book came into my life: "Zen Birding" by David M. White and Susan M. Guyette. Birding fits perfectly as a zen activity. As the authors state "...the essence or Zen-ness of birding ...is learning to appreciate birds as cohabitants of this planet and as masters of their environments who have much to teach us about harmonious, everyday ordinary life."
Birding can be anything the birder wants to make of it. At the far end of the spectrum are the listers, or twitchers, whose sole purpose is to find and check off every possible bird they can see. The list is the master. Long, expensive trips are nothing if you can tick off a few more rarities. There are around 9,900 birds to put on a world list now, so that entails a lot of work. There are several folks worldwide who are in the high eight thousands. Maybe higher, I don't keep track. On the other end of the spectrum are the folks who enjoy backyard birds, put out feeders and pretty much know what bird is there in each season. It's what you want to make of it.
Many avid listers also enjoy every bird they see. There's a book written about Phoebe Snetsinger called "Life List". Phoebe was an intrepid woman who got her list to the eight thousand range before she died. Incidentally, she died in a bus wreck in Madagascar, chasing birds. She was in her 70's. She had been told in her 50's that she had terminal cancer and six months to live. So she started doing exactly what she wanted to do with her life, which was birding.
Most birders fall somewhere in between these two ends.
I do have a world list and I'm proud of it. I've seen 1,158 of the birds in the world and every one of them was a treat. I've looked for probably twice that many and have either missed them, or seen them so poorly that I didn't feel I could enter them on my list. That's where the zen comes in. What do I get from birding? If it's a tail end disappearing into the brush, why count that? The experience is the thing.
It's pretty easy for me to be in the present when I'm looking at a bird. I've been taking my cup of coffee out to the side yard early every morning and sitting. No binoculars, which is a real challenge. Look at who comes to the feeders, how they feed, who's bossy, who hangs back. How do the small flocks of chickadees interact? What about the nuthatch with his toy horn-honk noise?
If I understand correctly, being present is the important thing. Not thinking of past or future, just what is in front of me. The more open we are, the more aware, the more we pay attention to all of it, the more we will learn. The songs will become familiar and you will attach a song to a bird. Certain birds will be expected certain times of day and certain seasons. This is the learning they offer to us. There is a zen saying "when the student is ready, the teacher appears." Being open to lessons and beauty, not making assumptions, being patient. Big one for me.
I'm afraid I've provided a clumsy explanation of a very special subject. Rumi says it better:
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the door sill
Where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
Rumi
Birding can be anything the birder wants to make of it. At the far end of the spectrum are the listers, or twitchers, whose sole purpose is to find and check off every possible bird they can see. The list is the master. Long, expensive trips are nothing if you can tick off a few more rarities. There are around 9,900 birds to put on a world list now, so that entails a lot of work. There are several folks worldwide who are in the high eight thousands. Maybe higher, I don't keep track. On the other end of the spectrum are the folks who enjoy backyard birds, put out feeders and pretty much know what bird is there in each season. It's what you want to make of it.
Many avid listers also enjoy every bird they see. There's a book written about Phoebe Snetsinger called "Life List". Phoebe was an intrepid woman who got her list to the eight thousand range before she died. Incidentally, she died in a bus wreck in Madagascar, chasing birds. She was in her 70's. She had been told in her 50's that she had terminal cancer and six months to live. So she started doing exactly what she wanted to do with her life, which was birding.
Most birders fall somewhere in between these two ends.
I do have a world list and I'm proud of it. I've seen 1,158 of the birds in the world and every one of them was a treat. I've looked for probably twice that many and have either missed them, or seen them so poorly that I didn't feel I could enter them on my list. That's where the zen comes in. What do I get from birding? If it's a tail end disappearing into the brush, why count that? The experience is the thing.
It's pretty easy for me to be in the present when I'm looking at a bird. I've been taking my cup of coffee out to the side yard early every morning and sitting. No binoculars, which is a real challenge. Look at who comes to the feeders, how they feed, who's bossy, who hangs back. How do the small flocks of chickadees interact? What about the nuthatch with his toy horn-honk noise?
If I understand correctly, being present is the important thing. Not thinking of past or future, just what is in front of me. The more open we are, the more aware, the more we pay attention to all of it, the more we will learn. The songs will become familiar and you will attach a song to a bird. Certain birds will be expected certain times of day and certain seasons. This is the learning they offer to us. There is a zen saying "when the student is ready, the teacher appears." Being open to lessons and beauty, not making assumptions, being patient. Big one for me.
I'm afraid I've provided a clumsy explanation of a very special subject. Rumi says it better:
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the door sill
Where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
Rumi
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Don't worry about the hummingbirds
Birds are definitely on the move south. The little cinnamon-green hummers - Rufous, by name, are now few and far between in southwest Washington state. I have a feeder just outside my office window where I (and the cat) can watch these little guys mob the four feeding perches. Usually. Not this year, though. For some reason, hummers weren't using feeders to the usual extent this year. I read that this has been a common experience on the state-wide birder email server. And now they appear to have moved south on their annual journey to warmer places.
Our garden is full of hummer-friendly plantings, and the pugnacious little guys were everywhere, competing among themselves and with the Anna's, the other resident hummer. Our escallonia, a flowering shrub/tree, fills with clusters of pink blooms every year. The hummers love this tree. It also has twisty, dense branches that discourage predators. It's food and home all in one. Still, they always used to make the trip around the house for an easy meal at the feeder.
The Anna's on the other hand, spend the full year here. These are greener looking hummers, and the males' gorgets, or throat plates, are a vivid maroon when they catch the light. Stunning. They do spend the winter here, and do well, regardless of the presence of feeders. They've been doing it long before we humans became aware of them.
Earlier in the year, I wrote about the Anna's surviving temperatures of eighteen degrees, with snow. They drop their metabolism and simply roost in a protected place. When the sun comes up, they begin to move slowly, slowly, then shake a bit, ridding themselves of accumulated snow, and off they go. I keep the feeder full and warm just for a treat for them. They survive on insects mainly, found under bark and elsewhere on trees.
As I type, an immature Anna's just briefly checked out the feeder. His, or her, color is still undefined, lots of gray mixed in with white and brown/green. So tiny, and their feet- delicate perfect black toes, almost hairlike. I love the way most birds neatly tuck feet and legs back when flying, then extend them just perfectly when landing. A small thing, but a gift to observe, I think.
As the days shorten and the rains begin, I'll watch for the Anna's at the feeder. I'll watch for them to leave the protected L of the house where the eucalyptus grows and where they shelter, next to the chimney. I'll look forward to their buzzing-around-my-head demands when I go out in the cold to refresh their feeder. Even if it's raining, there is a wild thing or two to bring joy.
Thoughts on another resident bird.
Dee Dee
Tiny masked face in the pine
Bright bead eye
Follows my measured moves
As I fill the feeder.
Our garden is full of hummer-friendly plantings, and the pugnacious little guys were everywhere, competing among themselves and with the Anna's, the other resident hummer. Our escallonia, a flowering shrub/tree, fills with clusters of pink blooms every year. The hummers love this tree. It also has twisty, dense branches that discourage predators. It's food and home all in one. Still, they always used to make the trip around the house for an easy meal at the feeder.
The Anna's on the other hand, spend the full year here. These are greener looking hummers, and the males' gorgets, or throat plates, are a vivid maroon when they catch the light. Stunning. They do spend the winter here, and do well, regardless of the presence of feeders. They've been doing it long before we humans became aware of them.
Earlier in the year, I wrote about the Anna's surviving temperatures of eighteen degrees, with snow. They drop their metabolism and simply roost in a protected place. When the sun comes up, they begin to move slowly, slowly, then shake a bit, ridding themselves of accumulated snow, and off they go. I keep the feeder full and warm just for a treat for them. They survive on insects mainly, found under bark and elsewhere on trees.
As I type, an immature Anna's just briefly checked out the feeder. His, or her, color is still undefined, lots of gray mixed in with white and brown/green. So tiny, and their feet- delicate perfect black toes, almost hairlike. I love the way most birds neatly tuck feet and legs back when flying, then extend them just perfectly when landing. A small thing, but a gift to observe, I think.
As the days shorten and the rains begin, I'll watch for the Anna's at the feeder. I'll watch for them to leave the protected L of the house where the eucalyptus grows and where they shelter, next to the chimney. I'll look forward to their buzzing-around-my-head demands when I go out in the cold to refresh their feeder. Even if it's raining, there is a wild thing or two to bring joy.
Thoughts on another resident bird.
Dee Dee
Tiny masked face in the pine
Bright bead eye
Follows my measured moves
As I fill the feeder.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Brown Pelicans on the move.
Another sure sign of fall: the brown pelicans are gathering into groups. I've been seeing them at the north end of the bridge over the Columbia River, gliding on the thermals near the water, ancient silhouettes in the sunset. These brown pelicans spend the winter in Mexico and farther south. I've seen them at the river's mouth, lounging in the boat basin in San Blas, Nayarit, Mexico, in January. They keep company with the frigate birds, enormous black sea-going birds that are only seen on land during breeding season. They look like folded black umbrellas, roosting in the palms in the hot sun.
Whether you're a believer in climate change or not, something has caused the pelicans to risk spending the past few winters up north. Not so much this past year, but the one prior to that, we had huge numbers of wintering pelicans. They did not do well. It was warm at first, rainy but not cold. Then the weather got serious and the pelicans suffered. They're not built for the cold, and somehow, once migration time is over, the impulse is lost.
At the wildlife center, we started to see pelicans brought in who were starving. The way you can tell a malnourished bird is by the keel bone, or breast bone. Birds should have plump breast muscle on both sides, so that the keel bone is there, but you have to dig a bit to find it. These had protuberant keel bones; they had been hungry for awhile. We had pelicans who had frozen feet. The sickest pelicans developed frost bite on the delicate webbing between their long toes. That webbing helps them to swim, forming efficient paddles of their big feet. On these unlucky birds, we had to wait until the flesh died off completely, then carefully cut off the dead tissue with manicure scissors. Pelicans aren't fond of holding still for such procedures, so it usually took three of us to hold and snip.
Pelicans live with parasitic lice in their mouths. Every bird that came in needed to be treated for feather lice, then for oral lice. One volunteer held the bird, and if possible, held the bill open. If it was a rambunctious bird, another volunteer held the bill open, while a third, using long forceps, carefully picked the black bugs from the mouth and dropped them in water. Each bird doesn't have many, maybe ten or so, but pelican breath isn't the most pleasant, plus those birds are strong! They would watch us with large dark eyes, as we held their heads in gloved hands.
We would let them have free range in the center once they felt OK, so that they could walk around and use their muscles, get used to altered feet. They learned very quickly that humans mean food, so as you would pass by a pelican, you would have to be on the lookout for a solid prod in the backside by one of those huge bills if you didn't have a fish as a peace offering. They put away a lot of fish; if you think of a kitty litter box full of water and ten inch fish, that was one meal of two for each pelican, each day.
Fortunately, once they were together in the outside pen, they became quite wild again, avoiding the humans as much as possible.
As fall comes on, I watch the flocks of pelicans and hope that they will follow their instinct to go south. Long skeins of them, wings fixed, gliding just over the water, moving as a body up and down with the waves, pterodactyl faces, so beautiful.
Whether you're a believer in climate change or not, something has caused the pelicans to risk spending the past few winters up north. Not so much this past year, but the one prior to that, we had huge numbers of wintering pelicans. They did not do well. It was warm at first, rainy but not cold. Then the weather got serious and the pelicans suffered. They're not built for the cold, and somehow, once migration time is over, the impulse is lost.
At the wildlife center, we started to see pelicans brought in who were starving. The way you can tell a malnourished bird is by the keel bone, or breast bone. Birds should have plump breast muscle on both sides, so that the keel bone is there, but you have to dig a bit to find it. These had protuberant keel bones; they had been hungry for awhile. We had pelicans who had frozen feet. The sickest pelicans developed frost bite on the delicate webbing between their long toes. That webbing helps them to swim, forming efficient paddles of their big feet. On these unlucky birds, we had to wait until the flesh died off completely, then carefully cut off the dead tissue with manicure scissors. Pelicans aren't fond of holding still for such procedures, so it usually took three of us to hold and snip.
Pelicans live with parasitic lice in their mouths. Every bird that came in needed to be treated for feather lice, then for oral lice. One volunteer held the bird, and if possible, held the bill open. If it was a rambunctious bird, another volunteer held the bill open, while a third, using long forceps, carefully picked the black bugs from the mouth and dropped them in water. Each bird doesn't have many, maybe ten or so, but pelican breath isn't the most pleasant, plus those birds are strong! They would watch us with large dark eyes, as we held their heads in gloved hands.
We would let them have free range in the center once they felt OK, so that they could walk around and use their muscles, get used to altered feet. They learned very quickly that humans mean food, so as you would pass by a pelican, you would have to be on the lookout for a solid prod in the backside by one of those huge bills if you didn't have a fish as a peace offering. They put away a lot of fish; if you think of a kitty litter box full of water and ten inch fish, that was one meal of two for each pelican, each day.
Fortunately, once they were together in the outside pen, they became quite wild again, avoiding the humans as much as possible.
As fall comes on, I watch the flocks of pelicans and hope that they will follow their instinct to go south. Long skeins of them, wings fixed, gliding just over the water, moving as a body up and down with the waves, pterodactyl faces, so beautiful.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Fawns in the Spring
I meant to write about the deer earlier, when you could still see a mother with delicate spotted babies in the fields. Those babies are getting tall and strong now, readying for the coming winter. But when they're little - oh my!
Again, my best experiences are from the wildlife rehab center. Getting ready for the fawns would begin in March or April. Sometimes we would have a very early little one who might have been exposed to the wind and rain, depending on what happened to its mother. So we needed to be ready.
Getting ready means being sure that the outdoor enclosure is in good repair with no breaks in the wire, no leaks in the overhead shelter. We look for hazards for small hooves and large eyes, such as loose strands of barbed wire, metal buckets, whatever. The feeder stand has to be cleaned and ready. Not sure if I can explain this ingenious setup, but it basically holds baby bottles at just the right height and angle for the fawns to feed. Of course, the correct milk formula has to be purchased, too. I didn't realize how many specialty milk mixes exist.
The circumstances that bring fawns to the wildlife center usually involve the death or disappearance of the mother deer. Usually it's a car versus deer situation. The State Police are wonderful about bringing the little ones in, or one of us my need to go rescue it. The few I've rescued helped me understand why people keep them as pets. Huge mistake, but more about that later. The very young ones have no fear of humans. When picked up, a tiny fawn will snuggle trustingly against you, its firm, intense little body warm and close, racing heartbeat next to your own. Legs go everywhere, and care must be taken not to snap a delicate bone. Silky head tips back in curiosity and bottomless brown eyes study you. Pretty cute stuff.
At the center, the fawns are kept together (they like the company) and fed often. They make a high-pitched squeaking sound, sort of like a squeezy toy. They can smell the milk formula a mile away and at mealtime, there is much prancing, bucking and squeaking until avid little muzzles fasten on the bottle nipples. Hang on tight, because part of the fun for the fawn is to butt the bottle several times during a meal. Eyes half-close in happiness and milk dribbles down chins. Except for lots of slurping sounds, all is very quiet for a few minutes. We have to watch that each fawn gets enough to eat, because usually there are fawns whose ages span a month or so. As with human kids, there can be shy ones, weaker ones, ones to tend to bully and push. Chins are wiped after the meal - I don't know if the mother deer does this function or not. Maybe eating from the real source isn't so messy. With very young fawns, stimulation is needed for their bowels to work efficiently. A damp warm cloth is used to stroke the lower back and around under the tail. We try to mimic what mom would do in the wild. It seems to work just fine.
The very best thing about the fawns is watching them walk on the concrete flooring in the center. They look just like petite, four-year-old girls trying on mom's high heels. Little hooves click as they lift their feet high and place them carefully. They define the word 'prance'. It's lovely.
Once they're big enough and the weather is reliably warm, they are moved outside to the big shelter. This is when the feeder stand is used. It has at least two purposes. Once its loaded - however many bottles needed are inserted - all the fawns can eat at once. And, it keeps the fawns from seeing people as the food source. As soon as they can eat efficiently from the feeder, we're out of the picture. No petting or naming the deer either. In the wild, these deer will need to maintain a healthy respect for humans. Deer hunting is a necessary reality, but I'd hate to have tamed a fawn to the point where it would walk up to an armed hunter. Also, fully grown deer, especially males, can be dangerous. Even if they don't mean to be aggressive, their hooves are extremely sharp and can do damage. It's cute when a tiny fawn puts his feet on someone's shoulders, not so much when it's an adult.
The center sits on well over one hundred acres of wooded land, and so far the deer have been released there, or on neighboring farms.
It's a great feeling to be driving or walking the access road and see shy deer faces gazing from the deep woods.
"...Far off from here the slender
Flocks of the mountain forest
Move among stems like towers
Of the old redwoods to the stream,
No twig crackling; dip shy
Wild muzzles into the mountain water
Among the dark ferns..."
from Night
Robinson Jeffers
Again, my best experiences are from the wildlife rehab center. Getting ready for the fawns would begin in March or April. Sometimes we would have a very early little one who might have been exposed to the wind and rain, depending on what happened to its mother. So we needed to be ready.
Getting ready means being sure that the outdoor enclosure is in good repair with no breaks in the wire, no leaks in the overhead shelter. We look for hazards for small hooves and large eyes, such as loose strands of barbed wire, metal buckets, whatever. The feeder stand has to be cleaned and ready. Not sure if I can explain this ingenious setup, but it basically holds baby bottles at just the right height and angle for the fawns to feed. Of course, the correct milk formula has to be purchased, too. I didn't realize how many specialty milk mixes exist.
The circumstances that bring fawns to the wildlife center usually involve the death or disappearance of the mother deer. Usually it's a car versus deer situation. The State Police are wonderful about bringing the little ones in, or one of us my need to go rescue it. The few I've rescued helped me understand why people keep them as pets. Huge mistake, but more about that later. The very young ones have no fear of humans. When picked up, a tiny fawn will snuggle trustingly against you, its firm, intense little body warm and close, racing heartbeat next to your own. Legs go everywhere, and care must be taken not to snap a delicate bone. Silky head tips back in curiosity and bottomless brown eyes study you. Pretty cute stuff.
At the center, the fawns are kept together (they like the company) and fed often. They make a high-pitched squeaking sound, sort of like a squeezy toy. They can smell the milk formula a mile away and at mealtime, there is much prancing, bucking and squeaking until avid little muzzles fasten on the bottle nipples. Hang on tight, because part of the fun for the fawn is to butt the bottle several times during a meal. Eyes half-close in happiness and milk dribbles down chins. Except for lots of slurping sounds, all is very quiet for a few minutes. We have to watch that each fawn gets enough to eat, because usually there are fawns whose ages span a month or so. As with human kids, there can be shy ones, weaker ones, ones to tend to bully and push. Chins are wiped after the meal - I don't know if the mother deer does this function or not. Maybe eating from the real source isn't so messy. With very young fawns, stimulation is needed for their bowels to work efficiently. A damp warm cloth is used to stroke the lower back and around under the tail. We try to mimic what mom would do in the wild. It seems to work just fine.
The very best thing about the fawns is watching them walk on the concrete flooring in the center. They look just like petite, four-year-old girls trying on mom's high heels. Little hooves click as they lift their feet high and place them carefully. They define the word 'prance'. It's lovely.
Once they're big enough and the weather is reliably warm, they are moved outside to the big shelter. This is when the feeder stand is used. It has at least two purposes. Once its loaded - however many bottles needed are inserted - all the fawns can eat at once. And, it keeps the fawns from seeing people as the food source. As soon as they can eat efficiently from the feeder, we're out of the picture. No petting or naming the deer either. In the wild, these deer will need to maintain a healthy respect for humans. Deer hunting is a necessary reality, but I'd hate to have tamed a fawn to the point where it would walk up to an armed hunter. Also, fully grown deer, especially males, can be dangerous. Even if they don't mean to be aggressive, their hooves are extremely sharp and can do damage. It's cute when a tiny fawn puts his feet on someone's shoulders, not so much when it's an adult.
The center sits on well over one hundred acres of wooded land, and so far the deer have been released there, or on neighboring farms.
It's a great feeling to be driving or walking the access road and see shy deer faces gazing from the deep woods.
"...Far off from here the slender
Flocks of the mountain forest
Move among stems like towers
Of the old redwoods to the stream,
No twig crackling; dip shy
Wild muzzles into the mountain water
Among the dark ferns..."
from Night
Robinson Jeffers
Friday, August 12, 2011
Bear Sightings
There was a photo on Facebook the other day of a young black bear that had been killed on the highway just up the road. By his size he looked like a yearling: smallish, maybe the size of a really big dog. Glossy black fur, rounded ears, he looked very sad and vulnerable lying on the side of the road by the Baptist church.
I absolutely dread hitting a critter. Almost worse than killing them is injuring them and causing pain that I can't fix. It's tempting to carry a pistol just to be able to put some poor thing out of its pain and misery. Deer, elk, bears, raccoons, opossums, the list is endless up here for road casualties.
On the lighter side, bears do come through our yard. We've kept what's called a wildlife corridor down by the water, so that bears, deer and such can move under cover from the wooded wetland north of us to the one south of us. Of course, they have to negotiate the road in front of our house. Few of them are willing to go through the water conduit that passes under the road. It's plenty big, but even mother ducks will risk the road instead. Not sure why. Maybe because it's contained and close.
We've had to move the bird feeders in our yard to high branches of the trees. One night I woke up about three a.m. for some reason and wandered out to the living room. The motion light for the front was on so I looked out to see two bears trying for the bird feeders. One was reaching his ultimate yoga stretch up, the other was trying to climb out on a too-thin limb. First I raced in and woke my husband, scaring him half to death. I didn't want him to miss it. Then I got two pans, opened the front door and banged them together and yelled. That did the job. It made me feel kind of bad - food is hard work for bears up here. But they can become total nuisances if you feed them. They start bringing friends and family to the feast. One retired couple farther north was spending a fortune feeding a bunch of bears, plus all the neighbors were mad at them. They couldn't go out in their yards for fear of encountering one or several. Fish and Wildlife put a stop to it.
My friend was golfing on the course north of here and saw a mother and cubs at a distance on the isolated 8th hole. She left her ball and headed out of there.
I guess if there's a point to this, it's that this really was the bears' territory first. They can be scary nuisances, but they're trying to make a living too. We leave precious little for them sometimes. If you weigh several hundred pounds and eat berries, you're going to need to roam a bit to find enough to get by. My plea is that we don't just immediately decide to kill them. Sometimes that 's the only sad solution, but avoiding creating a problem in the first place can be effective. No garbage, no dog food, no bird seed, it just takes awareness and we can continue to share the earth for awhile longer.
I absolutely dread hitting a critter. Almost worse than killing them is injuring them and causing pain that I can't fix. It's tempting to carry a pistol just to be able to put some poor thing out of its pain and misery. Deer, elk, bears, raccoons, opossums, the list is endless up here for road casualties.
On the lighter side, bears do come through our yard. We've kept what's called a wildlife corridor down by the water, so that bears, deer and such can move under cover from the wooded wetland north of us to the one south of us. Of course, they have to negotiate the road in front of our house. Few of them are willing to go through the water conduit that passes under the road. It's plenty big, but even mother ducks will risk the road instead. Not sure why. Maybe because it's contained and close.
We've had to move the bird feeders in our yard to high branches of the trees. One night I woke up about three a.m. for some reason and wandered out to the living room. The motion light for the front was on so I looked out to see two bears trying for the bird feeders. One was reaching his ultimate yoga stretch up, the other was trying to climb out on a too-thin limb. First I raced in and woke my husband, scaring him half to death. I didn't want him to miss it. Then I got two pans, opened the front door and banged them together and yelled. That did the job. It made me feel kind of bad - food is hard work for bears up here. But they can become total nuisances if you feed them. They start bringing friends and family to the feast. One retired couple farther north was spending a fortune feeding a bunch of bears, plus all the neighbors were mad at them. They couldn't go out in their yards for fear of encountering one or several. Fish and Wildlife put a stop to it.
My friend was golfing on the course north of here and saw a mother and cubs at a distance on the isolated 8th hole. She left her ball and headed out of there.
I guess if there's a point to this, it's that this really was the bears' territory first. They can be scary nuisances, but they're trying to make a living too. We leave precious little for them sometimes. If you weigh several hundred pounds and eat berries, you're going to need to roam a bit to find enough to get by. My plea is that we don't just immediately decide to kill them. Sometimes that 's the only sad solution, but avoiding creating a problem in the first place can be effective. No garbage, no dog food, no bird seed, it just takes awareness and we can continue to share the earth for awhile longer.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Swift Time
Even at this high point of summer, fall is in the air. It seems early, but migration is well under way. If you go to the lighthouse and scope the horizon, literally tens of thousands of sea- and shore birds are on the move. It's reassuring to see all those numbers.
On shore, the Vaux's swifts are beginning to gather into wispy clouds each evening. (Oddly, their name is pronounced "Vox" after William Vaux. Mr. Vaux was a friend of John Townsend who explored the NW and named this little gray-black bird in honor of his friend back East.)
Anyway, these small birds with the scythe-like wings have been spending the summer up here, nesting and raising young. As the days shorten, the urge comes upon them to gather again for the migration south. Swifts disperse during the day but as evening approaches, they begin to mass together. The absolutely best part of this is that they select defunct or non-operating chimneys for their communal roosts, and we can watch the process.
As the sky darkens, wisps and more wisps of these fluttering, flittering little birds gather around the chimney of choice. They use the same place year after year, if possible. Every night there are more. If you live in or near a town in the northwest, there are often "Vaux's Swift" nights where local birding groups hold info sessions and people gather with picnic dinners to enjoy the spectacle.
I volunteered with Portland Audubon at Chapman School in NW Portland for this annual event. There is a great, old-fashioned feeling of summer slowly pouring away, as the swifts pour into that tall chimney. Kid run and play in the park, parents eat or sip wine on the slope facing the school, dogs run circles around it all. We volunteers have a great time showing off little swift specimens and hopefully, partially demystifying this experience with wildlife.
It's usually close to ten by the time the swifts get serious. Before this, small groups sally closer and closer to the mouth of the chimney, some actually dart in then out again. It's really great if there's a moon in the sky: tiny dark bodies flickering over the moon's bright face. Oohs and aahs abound. Once in a while a raptor gets the brilliant idea that here is an easy meal to be had. A Cooper's hawk or sharp-shinned hawk will perch right on the lip of the chimney. Drama!! Again, nature red in tooth and claw. You can root for the swifts or root for the hawk who has to work hard for a living. Nature decides it.
There is a moment that seems like any other, but for the birds, it's bed time. The smoky swirling in the sky over the chimney thickens and thickens. Moving gracefully, beautifully, the swifts are one body, eddying quickly down through the mouth for the night. There are so many that you think it will never end. Thousands and thousands drop down to roost. Finally, a few late-comers zip in and it's over. Silent and dark. Then there's a collective sigh from the crowd. As people begin to gather up to go, everyone is kind of quiet, as if they don't want to wake the birds.
I hope maybe it's reverence and gratitude for having been able to witness this small miracle.
On shore, the Vaux's swifts are beginning to gather into wispy clouds each evening. (Oddly, their name is pronounced "Vox" after William Vaux. Mr. Vaux was a friend of John Townsend who explored the NW and named this little gray-black bird in honor of his friend back East.)
Anyway, these small birds with the scythe-like wings have been spending the summer up here, nesting and raising young. As the days shorten, the urge comes upon them to gather again for the migration south. Swifts disperse during the day but as evening approaches, they begin to mass together. The absolutely best part of this is that they select defunct or non-operating chimneys for their communal roosts, and we can watch the process.
As the sky darkens, wisps and more wisps of these fluttering, flittering little birds gather around the chimney of choice. They use the same place year after year, if possible. Every night there are more. If you live in or near a town in the northwest, there are often "Vaux's Swift" nights where local birding groups hold info sessions and people gather with picnic dinners to enjoy the spectacle.
I volunteered with Portland Audubon at Chapman School in NW Portland for this annual event. There is a great, old-fashioned feeling of summer slowly pouring away, as the swifts pour into that tall chimney. Kid run and play in the park, parents eat or sip wine on the slope facing the school, dogs run circles around it all. We volunteers have a great time showing off little swift specimens and hopefully, partially demystifying this experience with wildlife.
It's usually close to ten by the time the swifts get serious. Before this, small groups sally closer and closer to the mouth of the chimney, some actually dart in then out again. It's really great if there's a moon in the sky: tiny dark bodies flickering over the moon's bright face. Oohs and aahs abound. Once in a while a raptor gets the brilliant idea that here is an easy meal to be had. A Cooper's hawk or sharp-shinned hawk will perch right on the lip of the chimney. Drama!! Again, nature red in tooth and claw. You can root for the swifts or root for the hawk who has to work hard for a living. Nature decides it.
There is a moment that seems like any other, but for the birds, it's bed time. The smoky swirling in the sky over the chimney thickens and thickens. Moving gracefully, beautifully, the swifts are one body, eddying quickly down through the mouth for the night. There are so many that you think it will never end. Thousands and thousands drop down to roost. Finally, a few late-comers zip in and it's over. Silent and dark. Then there's a collective sigh from the crowd. As people begin to gather up to go, everyone is kind of quiet, as if they don't want to wake the birds.
I hope maybe it's reverence and gratitude for having been able to witness this small miracle.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Heartwood
Here's a story I wrote. It provides background into some of the events that shaped this bird lover and writer.
It tells of a treasured part of my childhood.
Heartwood
"It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness."
Once More to the Lake E. B. White
The big Chevy pickup bumped slowly along the uneven Forest Service road. My cousin, Larry, his wife Mary and I were squeezed into the front cab. It was a hot, beautiful early August day in the Highwood Hills.
"You know, Suz, there's no guarantee the cabin's still standing. It could have been torn down or couldn've fallen down by now," Larry said. He glanced at me quickly, taking his eyes from the uneven road. "Florence and George's kids sold off the lease a few years after they died."
Empty MacDonald's sacks, all that remained of lunch, rattled under my feet. Mary held a Pepsi high to keep it from spilling as we rocked along the washboard road. We were thirty miles from Great Falls, Montana, surrounded by wild land. Quaking aspens leaned over the gravel road, their green leaves trembling in the warm wind. Fields of wild flowers nodded in drifts of yellow, purple and blue. A sapsucker hammered a fencepost near the road. Red head flashing, he peered around the post as we rumbled past. Steep hills rose around us in every direction with dark fir groves lining the canyons between. Sparkling creeks ran carelessly over low spots in the road; fords that now looked innocent and inviting.
"We're getting close. There's the old ranger's cabin. Remember how he used to ride by on the big Palomino?" Larry pointed to a tiny rustic cabin tucked into the trees on the left.
I leaned forward in my seat, trying hard to see around the next bend, at the same time reluctant to see what might have changed. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
**
I was nine years old in 1955, the first summer my mother sent me to her sister and brother-in-law in Great Falls. I was a quiet, bookish kid. I had spent little time outdoors at home in Oregon, due in part to a mother whose protective instincts could make a cow moose look careless. And home was not a very happy place. In Montana, things were diffenent. I didn't think much about the difference, I just knew I loved being there.
My cousin, Larry, was seventeen. I thought he looked just like a movie star. He wore white jeans and white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. He drove a convertible, had a girlfriend named Sally (with a ponytail like mine), and they could do the swing. His life seemed full of parties by the river, dances and general hell-raising. "Hey, Suz," he would say, flashing his white smile and giving my hair a gentle tug as he breezed into the cool house after his summer job. He couldn't have been more exotic.
His mother, Edna was my mother's elder sister. She was soft spoken, gentle, witty and had a sweet laugh I could listen to forever. I'm told that I'm a lot like Edna now- I'm happy with that. She did her housework wearing my father's castoff rayon bowling shirts over her old dresses. My mother used to include the shirts in our Christmas boxes, for some reason. I can still see Edna, dust rag in hand, humming around the dining room in a faded yellow shirt, Chet embroidered on the left breast pocket and Schumaker Optical scrolled in green on her back.
My uncle's name was Clifford, but we always called him Uncle Lover. Not even Larry remembers the origin of that nickname. Another family mystery. Cliff was a gentlemanly Welshman who seemed incapable of committing any impropriety. Yet Uncle Lover he was, looking very much like David Niven strolling home down the shaded backyard path after a day's work at Montana Hardware.
Close friends of Edna and Cliff held a ninety-nine year lease on a cabin on Federal forest land in the Highwoods, a ridge of wooded mountains outside of Great Falls. My first visit there was over the July 4th weekend that summer of 1955. The cabin is a little less than an hour's drive from Great Falls, but for me it was a trip into a new and beautiful world. Driving the shady, forested road to Florence and George's cabin that first time: it opened my eyes and heart to the peaceful woods- a place I've held dear ever since.
The cabin is nestled in a small grove of aspens, backed by a steep slope where fir and pine make an orderly march down to the creek that runs along the east side of the property. A fire ring waits out back, complete with a circle of stump seats. When evening fell and the fire came alive, we would step out of the firelight to see the bats circle and hear nighthawks cry as they threaded among the stars. There was pine smell mixed with wood smoke and bacon, mousy scurrying noises that may have been mice but probably were my cousins trying to scare Edna. There was laughing, card playing, fishing, cooking and eating. There was jollity, peace and goodness.
I visited the cabin every summer for a handful of years. I was in my early teens the summer of my last visit and I hadn't been back to Montana since then. But the gift of the peaceful woods was one that I have treasured all of my life.
**
I picked up the phone one day a fewmonths ago, and heard "Hey, Suz". Almost forty years evaporated in the time it took to take a breath. Larry and I spent two hours catching up.
"I want to come and see you." It was out of my mouth before I could think too hard about it.
"We'll take you up to Florence and George's" he said. "I haven't been up there in years."
**
I could see the silhouette of a cabin down the road on the right. Light played through the trees, flickering and dancing.
"This is it, see the sign?" Larry said, pointing to the neatly lettered sign above the cabin door, "Little Flower". "Florence always liked that saint, wasn't it St. Theresa, the Little Flower?" (Ours was a very deeply Irish Catholic family and community.)
I didn't need the sign. I knew this place. The feel and the smell - the peace. I knew the way the roof slope matched the slope of the hill behind, and where the big wood stove sat, how the side door let out onto a small fenced yard scattered with blue bachelor buttons. All these angles and joinings were etched into my heart. It was still neatly kept, newly painted, now with a small deck in front. No one was there and there were no "Keep Out" signs. We got out of the pickup and crawled through the barbed wire fence.
It was good to be on that small piece of earth again. I walked around, taking it in. Pale wild roses still twined along the fence. The bench lodged between two big alders was still in place. The outhouse, a source of much teasing among the boy cousins, stood a bit farther back, the neat half moon carved in the door. Aspens whispered the soft summer wind through their branches, and the stream winked and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A cow bawled at a ranch down the road.
I thought about family and what the word means, and what we value about it. For a long time, I had been leery of anything "family". Just sentiment, I thought. And trouble. I was wrong. This was it. Sweet remembrance of happy times. I sat down on the bench between the alders and I heard Edna's soft laugh and felt her gentle hand on my shoulder. I saw Cliff dealing the cards, pipe clamped in his teeth, teasing and prodding Florence to play. Larry, on one of the bunks reading a comic book, was almost hidden in the down comforter. And I was outside, sitting on the porch with knees pulled up, watching the swallows weave over the creek, the red-streaked clouds to the west marking the sunset.
I heard the laughter.
**
The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanted out below purple-black thunder clouds that had stacked up in the distance. Summer days around Great Falls often bring brief, saturating afternoon storms. The shallow fords in the Highwoods become fast, low-voiced and deep, as heavy rains wash the steep surrounding hills.
Mary joined me by the stream in the aspen grove. Early evening mist was forming and a soft, muzzy greyness filled the deep, fragrant shade. A thrush called, his lilting, ascending call echoing through the trees over the stream.
"Glad you came?" She asked, leaning lightly against me.
I didn't trust my voice. I nodded and put my arm around her shoulders.
Larry tapped the horn in the Chevy. We turned and walked back slowly through the deep green grass to join him.
It tells of a treasured part of my childhood.
Heartwood
"It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness."
Once More to the Lake E. B. White
The big Chevy pickup bumped slowly along the uneven Forest Service road. My cousin, Larry, his wife Mary and I were squeezed into the front cab. It was a hot, beautiful early August day in the Highwood Hills.
"You know, Suz, there's no guarantee the cabin's still standing. It could have been torn down or couldn've fallen down by now," Larry said. He glanced at me quickly, taking his eyes from the uneven road. "Florence and George's kids sold off the lease a few years after they died."
Empty MacDonald's sacks, all that remained of lunch, rattled under my feet. Mary held a Pepsi high to keep it from spilling as we rocked along the washboard road. We were thirty miles from Great Falls, Montana, surrounded by wild land. Quaking aspens leaned over the gravel road, their green leaves trembling in the warm wind. Fields of wild flowers nodded in drifts of yellow, purple and blue. A sapsucker hammered a fencepost near the road. Red head flashing, he peered around the post as we rumbled past. Steep hills rose around us in every direction with dark fir groves lining the canyons between. Sparkling creeks ran carelessly over low spots in the road; fords that now looked innocent and inviting.
"We're getting close. There's the old ranger's cabin. Remember how he used to ride by on the big Palomino?" Larry pointed to a tiny rustic cabin tucked into the trees on the left.
I leaned forward in my seat, trying hard to see around the next bend, at the same time reluctant to see what might have changed. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
**
I was nine years old in 1955, the first summer my mother sent me to her sister and brother-in-law in Great Falls. I was a quiet, bookish kid. I had spent little time outdoors at home in Oregon, due in part to a mother whose protective instincts could make a cow moose look careless. And home was not a very happy place. In Montana, things were diffenent. I didn't think much about the difference, I just knew I loved being there.
My cousin, Larry, was seventeen. I thought he looked just like a movie star. He wore white jeans and white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. He drove a convertible, had a girlfriend named Sally (with a ponytail like mine), and they could do the swing. His life seemed full of parties by the river, dances and general hell-raising. "Hey, Suz," he would say, flashing his white smile and giving my hair a gentle tug as he breezed into the cool house after his summer job. He couldn't have been more exotic.
His mother, Edna was my mother's elder sister. She was soft spoken, gentle, witty and had a sweet laugh I could listen to forever. I'm told that I'm a lot like Edna now- I'm happy with that. She did her housework wearing my father's castoff rayon bowling shirts over her old dresses. My mother used to include the shirts in our Christmas boxes, for some reason. I can still see Edna, dust rag in hand, humming around the dining room in a faded yellow shirt, Chet embroidered on the left breast pocket and Schumaker Optical scrolled in green on her back.
My uncle's name was Clifford, but we always called him Uncle Lover. Not even Larry remembers the origin of that nickname. Another family mystery. Cliff was a gentlemanly Welshman who seemed incapable of committing any impropriety. Yet Uncle Lover he was, looking very much like David Niven strolling home down the shaded backyard path after a day's work at Montana Hardware.
Close friends of Edna and Cliff held a ninety-nine year lease on a cabin on Federal forest land in the Highwoods, a ridge of wooded mountains outside of Great Falls. My first visit there was over the July 4th weekend that summer of 1955. The cabin is a little less than an hour's drive from Great Falls, but for me it was a trip into a new and beautiful world. Driving the shady, forested road to Florence and George's cabin that first time: it opened my eyes and heart to the peaceful woods- a place I've held dear ever since.
The cabin is nestled in a small grove of aspens, backed by a steep slope where fir and pine make an orderly march down to the creek that runs along the east side of the property. A fire ring waits out back, complete with a circle of stump seats. When evening fell and the fire came alive, we would step out of the firelight to see the bats circle and hear nighthawks cry as they threaded among the stars. There was pine smell mixed with wood smoke and bacon, mousy scurrying noises that may have been mice but probably were my cousins trying to scare Edna. There was laughing, card playing, fishing, cooking and eating. There was jollity, peace and goodness.
I visited the cabin every summer for a handful of years. I was in my early teens the summer of my last visit and I hadn't been back to Montana since then. But the gift of the peaceful woods was one that I have treasured all of my life.
**
I picked up the phone one day a fewmonths ago, and heard "Hey, Suz". Almost forty years evaporated in the time it took to take a breath. Larry and I spent two hours catching up.
"I want to come and see you." It was out of my mouth before I could think too hard about it.
"We'll take you up to Florence and George's" he said. "I haven't been up there in years."
**
I could see the silhouette of a cabin down the road on the right. Light played through the trees, flickering and dancing.
"This is it, see the sign?" Larry said, pointing to the neatly lettered sign above the cabin door, "Little Flower". "Florence always liked that saint, wasn't it St. Theresa, the Little Flower?" (Ours was a very deeply Irish Catholic family and community.)
I didn't need the sign. I knew this place. The feel and the smell - the peace. I knew the way the roof slope matched the slope of the hill behind, and where the big wood stove sat, how the side door let out onto a small fenced yard scattered with blue bachelor buttons. All these angles and joinings were etched into my heart. It was still neatly kept, newly painted, now with a small deck in front. No one was there and there were no "Keep Out" signs. We got out of the pickup and crawled through the barbed wire fence.
It was good to be on that small piece of earth again. I walked around, taking it in. Pale wild roses still twined along the fence. The bench lodged between two big alders was still in place. The outhouse, a source of much teasing among the boy cousins, stood a bit farther back, the neat half moon carved in the door. Aspens whispered the soft summer wind through their branches, and the stream winked and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A cow bawled at a ranch down the road.
I thought about family and what the word means, and what we value about it. For a long time, I had been leery of anything "family". Just sentiment, I thought. And trouble. I was wrong. This was it. Sweet remembrance of happy times. I sat down on the bench between the alders and I heard Edna's soft laugh and felt her gentle hand on my shoulder. I saw Cliff dealing the cards, pipe clamped in his teeth, teasing and prodding Florence to play. Larry, on one of the bunks reading a comic book, was almost hidden in the down comforter. And I was outside, sitting on the porch with knees pulled up, watching the swallows weave over the creek, the red-streaked clouds to the west marking the sunset.
I heard the laughter.
**
The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanted out below purple-black thunder clouds that had stacked up in the distance. Summer days around Great Falls often bring brief, saturating afternoon storms. The shallow fords in the Highwoods become fast, low-voiced and deep, as heavy rains wash the steep surrounding hills.
Mary joined me by the stream in the aspen grove. Early evening mist was forming and a soft, muzzy greyness filled the deep, fragrant shade. A thrush called, his lilting, ascending call echoing through the trees over the stream.
"Glad you came?" She asked, leaning lightly against me.
I didn't trust my voice. I nodded and put my arm around her shoulders.
Larry tapped the horn in the Chevy. We turned and walked back slowly through the deep green grass to join him.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Big and Little Ground Feeders
Not very much goes to waste in the natural world. Many folks think buzzards are gross because they eat dead things on the road. So do crows. Eagles eat dead things too, usually on the beach or farther away from people. This is a very efficient way to dispose of carrion. It feeds a lot of birds and does a cleanup job at the same time. One opinion about why buzzards (turkey vultures, really) have no feathers on their heads is because of the need for them to stick their heads into carcasses. Those head feathers would be really smelly after awhile. Who knows if this is the reason? Ravens and crows do the same thing and they manage to clean themselves in some way.
Every day, under the feeders in my yard, I see ground feeders doing a cleanup job. Red and black towhees, juncoes with their dark hoods, sparrows and thrushes can be seen searching through the grass for fallen seed. Towhees have this great way of grasping with their feet then hopping backward to reveal whatever might be under that patch of turf. Hermit thrushes are much more careful, skulking just at the edge of the short grass, ready to quickly disappear into the heathers if a human is spotted, even fifty feet away. They are shy guys. What I usually see is the cinnamon-colored tail just fading into the shadows as I enter the sideyard. Fallen seed attracts bugs and slugs, and they get eaten too, of course. The robins cruise through a few times every day to see what might be crawling around. Sparrows are notorious ground feeders- one lucky day I had five different kind of sparrow feeding under the shore pine. Some birders will 'seed' an area in order to attract sparrows. There's a spot in NW Oregon that is well known where seed is tossed and sparrows watched. I guess you could say that I do that too.
If you feed ground feeding birds, here are some ideas: open areas are a good thing so that the neighborhood kitty can't sneak right up on the birds. Tree cover is good, in order to shelter the birds from airborne predators like Coopers hawks. These hawks are so fast and agile- they'll almost turn right angles at jet speed in pursuit of a panicked sparrow. It should be an area that you aren't overly concerned about from a landscaping point of view. After awhile, especially in a wetter climate, bare spots will appear where the birds have been digging around. We have several mallard hens (more ground feeders!) with almost grown youngsters that pick around under some of the feeders. They actually rest on their bellies and have a nice long dig right in front of them, murmuring softly when the human relents and tosses more cracked corn for them. Two are waddling up from the water as I type.
If you watch songbirds in your yard, you will notice that they 'stage' in a nearby tree or shrub, then fly out to exposed areas for food, then fly back to cover. If you put a water feature in, it's better if it's up off the ground like a pedestal bird bath- more protected from ground predators.
Just now the spotted towhee is scavenging, his brilliant brick red and deepest black feathers soaking up the sun, his ruby eye watching me.
Every day, under the feeders in my yard, I see ground feeders doing a cleanup job. Red and black towhees, juncoes with their dark hoods, sparrows and thrushes can be seen searching through the grass for fallen seed. Towhees have this great way of grasping with their feet then hopping backward to reveal whatever might be under that patch of turf. Hermit thrushes are much more careful, skulking just at the edge of the short grass, ready to quickly disappear into the heathers if a human is spotted, even fifty feet away. They are shy guys. What I usually see is the cinnamon-colored tail just fading into the shadows as I enter the sideyard. Fallen seed attracts bugs and slugs, and they get eaten too, of course. The robins cruise through a few times every day to see what might be crawling around. Sparrows are notorious ground feeders- one lucky day I had five different kind of sparrow feeding under the shore pine. Some birders will 'seed' an area in order to attract sparrows. There's a spot in NW Oregon that is well known where seed is tossed and sparrows watched. I guess you could say that I do that too.
If you feed ground feeding birds, here are some ideas: open areas are a good thing so that the neighborhood kitty can't sneak right up on the birds. Tree cover is good, in order to shelter the birds from airborne predators like Coopers hawks. These hawks are so fast and agile- they'll almost turn right angles at jet speed in pursuit of a panicked sparrow. It should be an area that you aren't overly concerned about from a landscaping point of view. After awhile, especially in a wetter climate, bare spots will appear where the birds have been digging around. We have several mallard hens (more ground feeders!) with almost grown youngsters that pick around under some of the feeders. They actually rest on their bellies and have a nice long dig right in front of them, murmuring softly when the human relents and tosses more cracked corn for them. Two are waddling up from the water as I type.
If you watch songbirds in your yard, you will notice that they 'stage' in a nearby tree or shrub, then fly out to exposed areas for food, then fly back to cover. If you put a water feature in, it's better if it's up off the ground like a pedestal bird bath- more protected from ground predators.
Just now the spotted towhee is scavenging, his brilliant brick red and deepest black feathers soaking up the sun, his ruby eye watching me.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Osprey voice
It's been warm, beautiful weather at the beach and outdoors is the place to be. I was working in the garden this morning, listening to all the birds and watching a group of four fledged red-wing blackbirds frantically begging food from their parent. Fluttering and cheeping like true baby birds, they were perfect targets on our grass for flying predators. Luck is with them so far, they're all flittering around now, trying to learn the basics of aerodynamics over the water. Among all the songs, a clear, loud, high-pitched "cheep-cheep-cheep" began directly above me. It's a wonderfully innocent song produced by a big, powerful raptor: an osprey- a bird my logger/woodsman dad called a fish hawk. These birds are awesome in the true sense of the word: black and white, fierce face, powerful talons, graceful flight. And they chirp. One of those wonders of nature, I guess. Many smaller, non-predatory birds have a much scarier call than the osprey.
This was one of a family of three. They were riding a thermal, circling slowly on the warm air, getting some altitude over the lake. Once ospreys obtain a good altitude, they hunt with their eyes till they see a fish, close to the surface, unaware of the havoc to quickly come into its life. Wings fold, head down, and blam! they hit the water with a tremendous splash. Soon the bird reappears, shaking rainbow beads of water from feathers, oaring with wings on the water, then getting airborne with his lunch in his talons. If the fish is big and still struggling, there can be some interesting re-situating. It seems like it's best to fly with the fish facing forward, not sideways. So, in flight, the fish is efficiently repositioned to suit the osprey. Rarely is a fish lost.
The youngsters watch the adults and it may take many tries before they are as successful as the parents. Not to anthropomorphize, but how frustrating it must be to see that juicy silver fish - right there - and then to dive and miss it. Takes a lot of energy to dive and regain altitude, over and over.
These birds are travelers too. Osprey that have been radio tagged and/or banded in northern North America routinely show up in southern South America for the winter. They loaf around in the sun but return to us to nest and breed. It's a sure sign of spring when their chirping calls are again heard over the lake by the high school. I don't know if many of those kids know how lucky they are to be able to walk out the door at the end of the school day and hear not only osprey calling, but gulls in the boat basin and migrant warblers in the wetland at the base of the hill. I hope at least some of them look up (maybe quickly, so their cool friends don't notice) and grin.
This was one of a family of three. They were riding a thermal, circling slowly on the warm air, getting some altitude over the lake. Once ospreys obtain a good altitude, they hunt with their eyes till they see a fish, close to the surface, unaware of the havoc to quickly come into its life. Wings fold, head down, and blam! they hit the water with a tremendous splash. Soon the bird reappears, shaking rainbow beads of water from feathers, oaring with wings on the water, then getting airborne with his lunch in his talons. If the fish is big and still struggling, there can be some interesting re-situating. It seems like it's best to fly with the fish facing forward, not sideways. So, in flight, the fish is efficiently repositioned to suit the osprey. Rarely is a fish lost.
The youngsters watch the adults and it may take many tries before they are as successful as the parents. Not to anthropomorphize, but how frustrating it must be to see that juicy silver fish - right there - and then to dive and miss it. Takes a lot of energy to dive and regain altitude, over and over.
These birds are travelers too. Osprey that have been radio tagged and/or banded in northern North America routinely show up in southern South America for the winter. They loaf around in the sun but return to us to nest and breed. It's a sure sign of spring when their chirping calls are again heard over the lake by the high school. I don't know if many of those kids know how lucky they are to be able to walk out the door at the end of the school day and hear not only osprey calling, but gulls in the boat basin and migrant warblers in the wetland at the base of the hill. I hope at least some of them look up (maybe quickly, so their cool friends don't notice) and grin.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Baby bird lessons
It's that time of year when baby birds are everywhere, and many of them are not being all that smart. They're still learning how to be safe. Often I have visits from curious young birds when I'm refilling a bird bath or feeder. They flitter up, whisper-like, and light on something quite near. If I become motionless, they'll stay for a bit, and may begin to consider me part of their environment. Much as I love being that close to birds, I don't think it's a good thing for them. I want young birds to have a healthy respect for humans and to learn to keep a safe distance. We're not all wonderful people, after all. So I usually say 'Sorry, little one', and make an abrupt move, not at them, but adequate to cause them to flitter away in alarm.
A very young siskin actually collided with our bedroom window yesterday. The curtains were still closed, so he must have just not been paying attention~ just like a kid. I opened the slider and he was resting on his belly on the wood deck, eyes open, breathing, but clearly stunned. These little ones are SO little and light that often they luck out and do not sustain a permanent injury, such as a broken wing, or worse, broken neck. I picked up this weightless bit of warm life and gently moved each wing. They seemed to be correctly folded, not drooping, no open wounds. I oh-so-gently moved his head and he seemed to have tone in his neck: his head didn't just droop down. The best thing to do with birds like this is to put them in a quiet, safe place for 20 or so minutes. Don't try to feed or water them, they won't need it in the short time they'll be with you and it can be very traumatic for them.
I put a paper towel in a small box, and put the open box in a warm, protected place on the deck where I could eyeball him every few minutes. Birds, like people, can be stunned by a blow to the head. They may just need time. Luckily, this is what happened with this little guy. After about 15 minutes, I moved to lift him out of the box and he quickly hopped to the side and perched. I moved away and he stayed there briefly, then hopped farther out, then he wobbily but successfully flew to a nearby rhododendron. I checked later and he was gone. I hope he made it. Our kitty is an inside cat and I saw no neighborhood predators around. You never know though. I've read that only one in ten nestlings make it to their first birthday. Pretty tough odds. But that's why adult birds breed like crazy, often raising three broods in one compressed season. How exhausting.
Again, I see the siskins chattering away in the holly tree in the front yard and I hope he's in there, telling his buddies of his great escape.
A very young siskin actually collided with our bedroom window yesterday. The curtains were still closed, so he must have just not been paying attention~ just like a kid. I opened the slider and he was resting on his belly on the wood deck, eyes open, breathing, but clearly stunned. These little ones are SO little and light that often they luck out and do not sustain a permanent injury, such as a broken wing, or worse, broken neck. I picked up this weightless bit of warm life and gently moved each wing. They seemed to be correctly folded, not drooping, no open wounds. I oh-so-gently moved his head and he seemed to have tone in his neck: his head didn't just droop down. The best thing to do with birds like this is to put them in a quiet, safe place for 20 or so minutes. Don't try to feed or water them, they won't need it in the short time they'll be with you and it can be very traumatic for them.
I put a paper towel in a small box, and put the open box in a warm, protected place on the deck where I could eyeball him every few minutes. Birds, like people, can be stunned by a blow to the head. They may just need time. Luckily, this is what happened with this little guy. After about 15 minutes, I moved to lift him out of the box and he quickly hopped to the side and perched. I moved away and he stayed there briefly, then hopped farther out, then he wobbily but successfully flew to a nearby rhododendron. I checked later and he was gone. I hope he made it. Our kitty is an inside cat and I saw no neighborhood predators around. You never know though. I've read that only one in ten nestlings make it to their first birthday. Pretty tough odds. But that's why adult birds breed like crazy, often raising three broods in one compressed season. How exhausting.
Again, I see the siskins chattering away in the holly tree in the front yard and I hope he's in there, telling his buddies of his great escape.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Flown the Coop
They're gone. Five little swallows have entered the world. I checked their roosting spot a few days ago and it was quiet and empty. They had been out of the nest proper for a few days, perched in a sweet line where the mother swallow could efficiently feed them. Note the whitish outline on the bill of the immature in the picture to the right. Many nestlings have either a bright outline on the bill, or the gape (mouth) will be bright inside. This provides a great target for a feeder in a hurry. Parent can see the gaping mouths, brightly lit so to speak, from a distance, and feeds accordingly. As the birds mature, the brightness is no longer needed, and it fades.
Anyway, these little ones fledged, probably to a telephone wire nearby. The first few flights aren't stupendous, as they're using brand new, untested equipment. Often they will return to the nesting site for a few nights. I haven't ventured to the post office after dark to see if they're indeed there.
It's a good feeling to look up and see swallows coursing the air for insects and think that maybe those babies are somewhere in the crowd.
Whirlpool of swallows
Eddies slowly overhead
One blue feather falls
Anyway, these little ones fledged, probably to a telephone wire nearby. The first few flights aren't stupendous, as they're using brand new, untested equipment. Often they will return to the nesting site for a few nights. I haven't ventured to the post office after dark to see if they're indeed there.
It's a good feeling to look up and see swallows coursing the air for insects and think that maybe those babies are somewhere in the crowd.
Whirlpool of swallows
Eddies slowly overhead
One blue feather falls
Friday, July 8, 2011
Post Office Swallows
We live in a very small community, and the post office is a place where we will usually see all of our neighbors at some point during the week. There are new residents at the post office and most all the neighbors are interested. An enterprising female barn swallow decided that her nest would be in the sheltered entry-way to the post office. This is the south side, where a glass and wood entry protects postal-goers (and swallows) from the sometimes harsh southwestern winds and rain. She cleverly opted for a protected area about ten feet off the ground, under the roof of the entry. Of course, her mate assisted in the construction.
I'm not sure how many people pass by under that nest every day. Probably close to one hundred. I don't know how many are aware enough to notice a busy mother swallow passing very close over their heads, to and fro, bringing a seemingly endless supply of bugs to feed her five (five!) hungry youngsters.
But let's start at the beginning. You may have noticed a barn swallow in your life, busily carrying mud daubs to a chosen nesting spot on your property. Sometimes, the chosen places are just not meant to be. Over a front door, for instance, where the droppings would surely become a problem. Swallows are persistently optimistic though, and if discouraged from one spot, will quickly opt for another.
This male spent time wooing the female, flying graceful arcs to impress her, then landing close by so that they could rub heads and necks and gently preen each other, all the while making soft, churring sounds of love.
That out of the way, this mother and father swallow brought mud from a nearby pathway, mixed with bits of grass, and constructed a sturdy nest above the entryway. After mating, the female then laid and brooded, in this case, five white eggs with delicate brown spots. She incubated her eggs from 17 to about 23 days. This can be a risky time. Vulnerable mother on eggs, not really out of reach of some who are too curious or wish them harm. A long stick, or a kid hoisted up on a bicycle pedal: it wouldn't be hard to destroy the nest. But the five eggs hatched, then the oblivious, noisy cheeping chicks began to beg. Tiny black heads with large bills outlined in white, leaning over the nest, seeming to implore all who pass below for a hand out. If anyone stops to admire, however, cautious silence ensues. The chicks will stay in the nest for about 20 days before fledging. The chicks are 'altricial', which means that they are helpless little scrotum-like blobs for several days. Think of a chicken chick, which is 'precocial': that chick is up and about from the time he leaves the shell. These are the two major ways birds greet the world.
Anyway. There is nothing quiet about a barn swallow nest. Chicks beg noisily and parents cheep loudly as they leave again and again on forays. As I stand and admire the chicks who now peer curiously over their ledge at all the coming and going, I realize that some folks just don't see them. I point, say "Look, swallow babies!" Some stop to admire, some just side-step around me, heads down. Maybe the weight of worries and stress make it too hard to stop and admire wild things right in our midst. I tend to think that stopping and admiring is the cure.
So far, so good. They probably have another week till they fledge. I'll keep you posted.
I'm not sure how many people pass by under that nest every day. Probably close to one hundred. I don't know how many are aware enough to notice a busy mother swallow passing very close over their heads, to and fro, bringing a seemingly endless supply of bugs to feed her five (five!) hungry youngsters.
But let's start at the beginning. You may have noticed a barn swallow in your life, busily carrying mud daubs to a chosen nesting spot on your property. Sometimes, the chosen places are just not meant to be. Over a front door, for instance, where the droppings would surely become a problem. Swallows are persistently optimistic though, and if discouraged from one spot, will quickly opt for another.
This male spent time wooing the female, flying graceful arcs to impress her, then landing close by so that they could rub heads and necks and gently preen each other, all the while making soft, churring sounds of love.
That out of the way, this mother and father swallow brought mud from a nearby pathway, mixed with bits of grass, and constructed a sturdy nest above the entryway. After mating, the female then laid and brooded, in this case, five white eggs with delicate brown spots. She incubated her eggs from 17 to about 23 days. This can be a risky time. Vulnerable mother on eggs, not really out of reach of some who are too curious or wish them harm. A long stick, or a kid hoisted up on a bicycle pedal: it wouldn't be hard to destroy the nest. But the five eggs hatched, then the oblivious, noisy cheeping chicks began to beg. Tiny black heads with large bills outlined in white, leaning over the nest, seeming to implore all who pass below for a hand out. If anyone stops to admire, however, cautious silence ensues. The chicks will stay in the nest for about 20 days before fledging. The chicks are 'altricial', which means that they are helpless little scrotum-like blobs for several days. Think of a chicken chick, which is 'precocial': that chick is up and about from the time he leaves the shell. These are the two major ways birds greet the world.
Anyway. There is nothing quiet about a barn swallow nest. Chicks beg noisily and parents cheep loudly as they leave again and again on forays. As I stand and admire the chicks who now peer curiously over their ledge at all the coming and going, I realize that some folks just don't see them. I point, say "Look, swallow babies!" Some stop to admire, some just side-step around me, heads down. Maybe the weight of worries and stress make it too hard to stop and admire wild things right in our midst. I tend to think that stopping and admiring is the cure.
So far, so good. They probably have another week till they fledge. I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Barn Owls
This is the time of year that you might be lucky enough to see a barn owl. They're around all year, but feeding their young puts pressure on them to hunt more in the spring and early summer. They're beautiful: ghostlike, with a heart-shaped face, thin body, and feathers that run from glacial white to the warmest bronze, with a few dark dots thrown in for whimsy. Under those feathers, barn owls' bodies are pretty insubstantial, and since their bones are air-filled, pretty lightweight. Birds don't have marrow, as it would weigh them down and require more energy expenditure in flight. It also makes healing those bones, if broken, difficult.
Barn owls are nocturnal and silent when they hunt on the wing. A mouse has very acute hearing, so an owl must be a quiet hunter. The feathers on the leading edge of their wings are constructed in such a way that their flight is totally silent.
The director at the wildlife center where I volunteered told me a wonderful story. When we had an owl to rehab, or any other bird of prey, we would prepare them for freedom by allowing them free range in a big flight cage, or barn. This would help them to regain strength and tone in their flight muscles. A necessary part of this was to release live mice in the "mouse arena" inside the barn, so that the owl could relearn or sharpen hunting skills prior to release. No mice the next morning meant success. (The arena was constructed so that the mice could not escape by climbing or digging.) Sorry, that's the way Nature operates. As Temple Grandin says "Nature is cruel, but humans don't have to be." It would be cruel to release a bird who hunts for a living if the bird couldn't hunt. Starvation is slow and heartless.
We had three adult barn owls in the big barn, readying for release. The director walked up late each evening in order to leave the mice for that night's hunt. One night she entered the barn and didn't turn on the lights. Of course, the owls knew she was there and that she had dinner. The three of them began to fly around her, coursing back and forth, drifting near then disappearing, never touching her. She could feel the soft movement of air as they came near, and in the dim light, could just make out their shapes. All in utter silence. She said it was truly like standing amidst the flight of ghost birds.
Baby barn owls are a completely different story. The center gets in two or three nestfuls every year. Most commonly, the mother owl makes her nest in a barn loft amidst the hay bales. If the bales are moved, the nest falls apart and the babies end up on the barn floor. Baby barn owls are covered in white down and have long, strong legs and feet. And they hiss. Their hiss is actually deafening. After being exposed to five or six irate barn owl babies, I feel like I've been to a Kiss concert. I learned to wear ear plugs. Of course, they're terrified; what happened to the quiet nest in the barn with mother owl bringing mice for dinner? Now there are these huge humans with grasping hands (fully gloved) reaching and pulling them away from their nest mates. We cut up dead mice: guts, hair, bone and all. That's the way they eat them. The volunteer gently grasps a hissing, weaving baby and wraps it in a washcloth, holding it sort of like an ice cream cone. A succulent bit of mouse in forceps is nudged at the bill. They eventually get the idea, then eat hungrily. One thing we do that their mother never did: after each meal we wipe down their bill and breast in order to get the bloody bits off. They hate it.
But we never, never want babies, or any other critters, to become pets at the wildlife center. They must stay wild and keep a healthy respect for people. You can understand why. We don't name any bird or animal that comes to the center, unless they become a resident for education. We have affection for them, of course, but we're there for them, not vice versa.
So when it comes time to release a barn owl, it's time for celebration. The owl is taken in a carrier to the area where the nest was found. At dusk, after a good feeding, the carrier door is opened and the owl flies free. Silent, otherworldly, he floats into the darkening sky.
Barn owls are nocturnal and silent when they hunt on the wing. A mouse has very acute hearing, so an owl must be a quiet hunter. The feathers on the leading edge of their wings are constructed in such a way that their flight is totally silent.
The director at the wildlife center where I volunteered told me a wonderful story. When we had an owl to rehab, or any other bird of prey, we would prepare them for freedom by allowing them free range in a big flight cage, or barn. This would help them to regain strength and tone in their flight muscles. A necessary part of this was to release live mice in the "mouse arena" inside the barn, so that the owl could relearn or sharpen hunting skills prior to release. No mice the next morning meant success. (The arena was constructed so that the mice could not escape by climbing or digging.) Sorry, that's the way Nature operates. As Temple Grandin says "Nature is cruel, but humans don't have to be." It would be cruel to release a bird who hunts for a living if the bird couldn't hunt. Starvation is slow and heartless.
We had three adult barn owls in the big barn, readying for release. The director walked up late each evening in order to leave the mice for that night's hunt. One night she entered the barn and didn't turn on the lights. Of course, the owls knew she was there and that she had dinner. The three of them began to fly around her, coursing back and forth, drifting near then disappearing, never touching her. She could feel the soft movement of air as they came near, and in the dim light, could just make out their shapes. All in utter silence. She said it was truly like standing amidst the flight of ghost birds.
Baby barn owls are a completely different story. The center gets in two or three nestfuls every year. Most commonly, the mother owl makes her nest in a barn loft amidst the hay bales. If the bales are moved, the nest falls apart and the babies end up on the barn floor. Baby barn owls are covered in white down and have long, strong legs and feet. And they hiss. Their hiss is actually deafening. After being exposed to five or six irate barn owl babies, I feel like I've been to a Kiss concert. I learned to wear ear plugs. Of course, they're terrified; what happened to the quiet nest in the barn with mother owl bringing mice for dinner? Now there are these huge humans with grasping hands (fully gloved) reaching and pulling them away from their nest mates. We cut up dead mice: guts, hair, bone and all. That's the way they eat them. The volunteer gently grasps a hissing, weaving baby and wraps it in a washcloth, holding it sort of like an ice cream cone. A succulent bit of mouse in forceps is nudged at the bill. They eventually get the idea, then eat hungrily. One thing we do that their mother never did: after each meal we wipe down their bill and breast in order to get the bloody bits off. They hate it.
But we never, never want babies, or any other critters, to become pets at the wildlife center. They must stay wild and keep a healthy respect for people. You can understand why. We don't name any bird or animal that comes to the center, unless they become a resident for education. We have affection for them, of course, but we're there for them, not vice versa.
So when it comes time to release a barn owl, it's time for celebration. The owl is taken in a carrier to the area where the nest was found. At dusk, after a good feeding, the carrier door is opened and the owl flies free. Silent, otherworldly, he floats into the darkening sky.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Birds in Boxes
Because we live on water, I asked my dad to make up some wood duck boxes. This was 8 or so years ago, before old age prevented him from working with wood, one of the things he loved most. So our wood duck boxes have special meaning. You can easily find patterns for them on the Internet if you want to build some, and most bird stores sell them already constructed. If you put them up near water on a sturdy post, you may get wood ducks, or sometimes, common mergansers to nest near you.
The first year our boxes were up, I hadn't seen any duck activity near them, even though there were wood ducks and mergansers on the water near us. I convinced my husband that we should check the box mounted on the huge alder in our yard. It's half screened with leafy branches, about 15 feet up the massive trunk. My husband is no fan of ladders, so I always agree to stand on the lowest rung in order to steady it when he climbs. On this sunny morning, as he climbed slowly upward, we listened carefully for any scratching or shuffling inside the box. Silence. Another step up. More silence. The front panel of a well-constructed box will pivot up and out when the lower locking nail is removed. This opens the full front of the box, leaving the front panel attached by the upper nail. This allows for a thorough cleaning at the end of the season.
My husband was wiggling loose the lower nail in order to open the box when whoosh! what seemed like a HUGE bird exploded, squawking (and pooping) out the small entry door of the box. There was lots of arm swinging and swaying on the ladder by both of us, but I was elated. We had a family in the box! And it was a common merganser hen, less common than a wood duck.
My husband was, understandably, not so elated. We managed to reset the nail, get down the ladder and pull it away from the tree so that no enterprising raccoons would have easy access to the box. There were no convenient limbs nearby, but they can be pretty clever when it comes to harvesting eggs.
Because of the skilled secrecy of mother merganser, we didn't witness the fledging of the youngsters. A week or so after what would have been their fledge date, we did see a beautiful merganser hen with a clutch of tiny, fluffy brown youngsters in the water. Especially charming is the fact that the babies will ride on the parents' backs, sometimes half-tucked under a wing, in the water.
The other box, nearer to the road, hosted a wood duck hen two years ago. I didn't know she was in the box either, until one day, when I was out working in the side yard, I noticed a very high-pitched calling coming from the water right near the shore. It's built up with sedges and reeds there, so I couldn't see who was calling so urgently. But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny duckling sail out of the entry hole of the box and flutter, kind of like a brown and yellow hankie, to the ground. He was momentarily disoriented after his four-point landing, but he soon picked up on the calling again and headed, without hesitation, to the water where the mother wood duck waited. This repeated four more times, with four tiny ducklings launching themselves fearlessly into the world to follow their mother. I've learned that this fledging occurs on the day when the last chick has hatched. Intrepid little guys. As they were all getting reconnoitered in the water, an interested crow began to circle closer. I couldn't stand it. Interfering or not in what occurs in the natural world can be debated for hours, days, but I couldn't let one of those fuzzy guys who hadn't really had a chance at life lose it so quickly. So I lobbed small rocks at the crow. He finally went away, disgruntled. There were a total of six ducklings by then, and no more came from the box. Mother duck stopped calling and I assumed that she knew how many there were. (A check of the box later in the day showed her to be correct.) We watched that brood grow under the beautiful Cleopatra eye of their mother.
Nesting birds should be disturbed as little as possible, but you can safely check nest boxes and not permanently scare away the parents. I've checked bluebird boxes, swallow boxes and wood duck/merganser boxes. You can even gently remove the nestlings in order to weigh and band them and return them to the box. The parents will fuss and fly around, but if you're quick, gentle and respectful, no harm is done, and you can learn a lot. There are blue bird trails all over America where caring folks are trying to bring back bluebirds to areas where all the trees have been removed. They're cavity nesters and quickly take to boxes. Gathering info from the bluebird boxes tells us how many young are successfully raised, are they healthy, who is using the box? If you have a dead tree on your property, it's great if you can leave it. Drill a few big holes in it~ who knows who you might get: woodpeckers and owls are also cavity nesters, and we are using up all the wooded land for our homes. It's a good feeling to share and provide a bird family with a home too.
The first year our boxes were up, I hadn't seen any duck activity near them, even though there were wood ducks and mergansers on the water near us. I convinced my husband that we should check the box mounted on the huge alder in our yard. It's half screened with leafy branches, about 15 feet up the massive trunk. My husband is no fan of ladders, so I always agree to stand on the lowest rung in order to steady it when he climbs. On this sunny morning, as he climbed slowly upward, we listened carefully for any scratching or shuffling inside the box. Silence. Another step up. More silence. The front panel of a well-constructed box will pivot up and out when the lower locking nail is removed. This opens the full front of the box, leaving the front panel attached by the upper nail. This allows for a thorough cleaning at the end of the season.
My husband was wiggling loose the lower nail in order to open the box when whoosh! what seemed like a HUGE bird exploded, squawking (and pooping) out the small entry door of the box. There was lots of arm swinging and swaying on the ladder by both of us, but I was elated. We had a family in the box! And it was a common merganser hen, less common than a wood duck.
My husband was, understandably, not so elated. We managed to reset the nail, get down the ladder and pull it away from the tree so that no enterprising raccoons would have easy access to the box. There were no convenient limbs nearby, but they can be pretty clever when it comes to harvesting eggs.
Because of the skilled secrecy of mother merganser, we didn't witness the fledging of the youngsters. A week or so after what would have been their fledge date, we did see a beautiful merganser hen with a clutch of tiny, fluffy brown youngsters in the water. Especially charming is the fact that the babies will ride on the parents' backs, sometimes half-tucked under a wing, in the water.
The other box, nearer to the road, hosted a wood duck hen two years ago. I didn't know she was in the box either, until one day, when I was out working in the side yard, I noticed a very high-pitched calling coming from the water right near the shore. It's built up with sedges and reeds there, so I couldn't see who was calling so urgently. But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny duckling sail out of the entry hole of the box and flutter, kind of like a brown and yellow hankie, to the ground. He was momentarily disoriented after his four-point landing, but he soon picked up on the calling again and headed, without hesitation, to the water where the mother wood duck waited. This repeated four more times, with four tiny ducklings launching themselves fearlessly into the world to follow their mother. I've learned that this fledging occurs on the day when the last chick has hatched. Intrepid little guys. As they were all getting reconnoitered in the water, an interested crow began to circle closer. I couldn't stand it. Interfering or not in what occurs in the natural world can be debated for hours, days, but I couldn't let one of those fuzzy guys who hadn't really had a chance at life lose it so quickly. So I lobbed small rocks at the crow. He finally went away, disgruntled. There were a total of six ducklings by then, and no more came from the box. Mother duck stopped calling and I assumed that she knew how many there were. (A check of the box later in the day showed her to be correct.) We watched that brood grow under the beautiful Cleopatra eye of their mother.
Nesting birds should be disturbed as little as possible, but you can safely check nest boxes and not permanently scare away the parents. I've checked bluebird boxes, swallow boxes and wood duck/merganser boxes. You can even gently remove the nestlings in order to weigh and band them and return them to the box. The parents will fuss and fly around, but if you're quick, gentle and respectful, no harm is done, and you can learn a lot. There are blue bird trails all over America where caring folks are trying to bring back bluebirds to areas where all the trees have been removed. They're cavity nesters and quickly take to boxes. Gathering info from the bluebird boxes tells us how many young are successfully raised, are they healthy, who is using the box? If you have a dead tree on your property, it's great if you can leave it. Drill a few big holes in it~ who knows who you might get: woodpeckers and owls are also cavity nesters, and we are using up all the wooded land for our homes. It's a good feeling to share and provide a bird family with a home too.
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