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.

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

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.

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.

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!