More Birding in Northern Spain

The next day we drove to Ordesa National Park, a few hours northeast of Jaca.  This Park adjoins the French National Park on the French side of the Pyrenees.  Cars are not allowed inside the Park, and the number of visitors allowed in at one time is limited as well.  Although we visited during one of the busiest months, we had no trouble entering as soon as we arrived.  There is an excellent paved car park and comfortable, modern buses that carry visitors the short distance into the Park proper.  The Pyrenees surround us, vast and dreaming the the cloudless sky.

 The Rio Soaso runs the length of the Park and well-marked trails follow on both sides to the falls, which roar down a series of rocky steps.  Beech forest prevails, interspersed with linden and Spanish pine.  Marsh tit, coal tit and firecrest (looking a lot like our golden-crowned kinglets) are common birds in the cafe hub area.  Tits are small birds in Europe that act a lot like chickadees and titmice in the U. S.
It's possible to climb to the top of the nearby peaks, although the trail is a rough, arduous series of switchbacks.  The climb takes roughly four to five hours one way.  At the top, the view makes it all worthwhile.   The Soaso River is a tiny silver thread coursing through the valley.  The rocky buttresses continue to climb above for several thousand meters.  In the meadow where we stopped, our party found water pipit, dunnock, European robin, black redstart, rufous-tailed rockthrush, common blackbird, crested tit, Eurasian treecreeper and many more birds.  Egyptian vultures and griffon vultures were coursing on the warm air carried up from the canyon.  They were below us, giving us rare looks of these birds from above.
It was after eight in the evening when we arrived back at the hub area.  The buses run until ten in order to accommodate late-returning hikers.  It would be easy to spend several days birding the many side road and back-country areas in this beautiful place.

We all voted for a later start the next day.  There are excellent birding sites in Jaca, so we opted to spend the day on local searches.  La Cuidadela, an ancient five-sided brick citadel in the heart of Jaca, is an excellent place to find rock sparrows, common swifts and linnet.  A herd of deer lives in the sunken grassy moat of the fort.  They spend their days following the shade under the ancient walls.  After finding the fort birds, we took a short walk to the Pilgrims' Bridge, another venerable structure which carried pilgrims on their walk centuries ago over the Rio Aragon. 

In August, by noon or later, the temperature in the valleys climbs to the high eighties.  Businesses close down for siesta at about one and re-open around four-thirty or five.  We were reluctant to lose this midday time for exploring the city, but found that the Spanish are right:  it's too hot.  We found some shade and enjoyed the view.  As we sat on our shady patio in the middle of Jaca, a red kite coursed low over the hotel grounds, scattering the rock doves.  Later in the afternoon, we went on a hunt for the black woodpecker.  The monasteries of San Juan de la Pena are a short drive southeast of Jaca and this bird is often seen there.  The oldest monastery, built in the tenth century, is built right into the buff-colored cliffs.  Crude lookout windows are visible in the old rock above the monastery.  We had no luck on the woodpecker, but came back with a deep sense of mystery and awe imparted by the aged rock.

Back in Jaca, two of our party took an after dinner walk to te Paseo, or city park, hoping for Eurasian scops owl.  They can often be seen there in the light from the street lamps.  This night the owls could be heard calling softly but stayed hidden in the trees lining the manicured paths.

The Search Goes On...

Back to wallcreeper country.  There was so much ravine, so many rocky escarpments to search for this small gray and red bird.  The rough cliffs disappeared into the clouds on every side.  We spread out again on each end of the tunnel.  Suddenly an urgent, echoing holler came from the other side of the tunnel.  Wallcreeper!  Hurry!  Three of us ran full speed, scopes tilting and bins bouncing, careless of tunnel traffic.  We couldn't miss this elusive rarity.

He was surprisingly easy to see, feeding along a rocky face across the ravine.  Although related to the nuthatch, this is a bigger bird: 14 to 17 cm from slightly decurved bill to white banded tail.  He was creeping along the rock face, gleaning insects from crevices and alpine plants.  He looked rather drab until he spread his wings to move to an adjacent area: lovely "broad, round wings, gaudily marked with red, black and white above" as described in our damp copy of Birds of Europe.  At one point he flew to the rocks just above us, giving an excellent view of his black throat and breast.  We were all grinning like fools in a twenty-mile-an-hour wind and horizontal rain. Lammergeier and wallcreeper - and it was still early afternoon!

We started back down the valley and stopped near the small town of Siresa, a bit north of Hecho.  A grassy abandoned field surrounded by overgrown bramble looked promising.   (When you're a birder, the oddest kind of places can look grand.)  While we wandered around, stretching our legs and admiring the ancient walled town across the valley, we had good looks at red kites, black kites and griffon vultures above. Two red-backed shrikes, an adult male and a juvenile, were perched on the far fence, flying off occasionally to hawk insects.  We also saw a cirl bunting, a spotless starling (a rather plain, black bird) and a Eurasian wryneck in the hedges.  Ravens, a common kestrel and a  beautiful dark-phase booted eagle drifted on the thermals above us.  It was a day for raptors.

Once or twice we had heard the odd purring call of European bee eaters, a very lovely, very colorful little bird.  On our way back to Jaca, near Berdun, we stopped to check a sunny open field dotted with shrubby growth.  We were lucky. Six European bee eaters were perched on the bare limbs of a snag, looking like polished, multi-colored ornaments.  One by one they flew out to hawk insects and return to the snag.  The rich gold-yellow on their throats was easily seen and their cinnamon crowns glowed.  Black mask, golden chin and azure blue breast are so very lovely it's hard to find words. We were able to glimpse the long tail projections flashing in the low sunlight. Magical.

Finally, back to Jaca for a late dinner (dinner is not served until 9:30 at the earliest, so snacks on the way help prevent cranky birders).  Dining in northern Spain is a treat.  The excellent wines of the nearby Rioja area are plentiful and reasonable.  Salads feature local specialties such as white asparagus and sweet red pepper.  Beef and lamb are cooked to perfection on an asador (grate) over an open fire.

We went to bed very late but extremely happy with the day's remarkable birds.

Stay tuned for more Spanish birding adventures.

Birding in the Spanish Pyrenees

"Lammergier!" John shouted - we all spun around.  There he was, a majestic vulture close to four feet long with a wingspan of almost eight feet, slowly pumping those enormous wings to gain altitude. The bird had been on the ground perhaps 100 feet from us, hidden by a small hillock.  As he beat away,  we had long looks at this tawny-dark giant with the long, wedge-shaped tail.  The silvery peaks of the Spanish Pyrenees surrounded us, the sky was deep blue, and alpine lilies grew at our feet.  Life was good.

Friends in England had invited us to spend part of August birding with them in northern Spain.  In early August we flew into Barcelona via Vienna.  We spent a leisurely day and a half driving to Jaca, a resort town in the foothills of the Pyrenees.  Jaca was our home base for the following week.

The Pyrenees form the mountainous boundary between France to the north and Spain to the south.  The tallest peak, Aneto, rises 3,404 meters (10,212 feet).  Most of the twenty-six major peaks rise between 1500 and 3000 meters.  Birds are plentiful.  Alpine, Mediterranean and northern European species can be found in the Pyrenees and the nearby dry valleys and foothills at various times of the years.  Although August is the quietest month for birds, we were not disappointed.

Up early our first day, the five of us agreed to go on a search for a very elusive, small grey bird called a  wallcreeper.  A narrow, dark, dripping tunnel appropriately named Boca del Infierno, or Hell's Mouth, carries a small mountain road through a rocky gorge in the mountains.  The gorge on either side of the tunnel has been a good place to find wallcreepers, as they glean insects from the crevices in the rocks and walls. This area in the northern Hecho Valley, about 50 km northwest of Jaca, is one of the lowest and most accessible places in the Pyrenees where wallcreepers can be found.  

On our way to the Valley, we made a stop on a stone bridge over the Rio Aragon.  Crag martins coursed the wide, shallow river as it chattered over rocks.  A bit farther north, the Hecho Valley is broad and open: perfect country for raptors.  We got our first of many red kites, Egyptian vultures, (Eurasian) griffon vultures, a booted eagle, a spotted flycatcher and the lammergier.

We had stopped along the quiet two-lane road to scope the booted eagle when John had glimpsed the lammergier from the corner of his eye.  Our grins were a mile wide.  As we celebrated the raptor with cookies and coffee, an elderly Basque gentleman stopped to chat.  We were at least 10 km from any town or settlement and he was out briskly walking, black beret cocked over one eye.  With his few English words, our basic Spanish and many smiles and gestures we learned about the grey herons that fish in the nearby river and the vultures that feed on carcasses in the fields.  He wished us well and continued on his long walk to somewhere. 

As we made our way north through the Hecho Valley, passing through the town of Hecho, we left open, sunny country behind.  Grey rock ravines dropped to an icy mountain stream that followed along the road.  The rock was dotted with a curious alpine saxifrage that looks just like a pale green sea anemone.  By now the wind had picked up and a fine cold rain was sweeping down the narrow valley in soaking gusts.  When we reached the dripping tunnel, the Boca del Infierno, we spaced ourselves along the ravine on each side and began a search for wallcreepers.  This is popular country for camping and hill walking.  Many people passed us in cars, on bicycles and on foot, always polite and sometimes curious about why we persistently scanned the high rock face across the road.  Most of the hikers carried walking sticks and some of the men sang what sounded like arias in clear voices as they walked.   The songs, combined with the soft 'clonk-bonk' of the large bells worn by the sheep in the area, were a hauntingly pleasant sound.

We spent forty wet, cold minutes looking for the elusive bird.  Our binocular lenses were wet and the fine, drifting rain settled on our clothes.  A lunch break was in order.  We found a camp ground along a shallow mountain stream where we sat sheltered on some rocks among alpine Queen Ann's lace, delicate pale blue campanula, tiny pinks nodding in the wind and mauve wild geranium.  The campers seemed unfazed by the rain as they picnicked outside, walked and sang.  Their good-natured cheerfulness was an antidote. 

Stay tuned for more birding in Spain.

Crow Lessons

I've written before about the life lessons that birds provide us, if we can perceive them.  I got another one this morning, and I'm glad to say I was awake enough to eventually accept it as a lesson.

I have a seed feeder, hung high in one of our shore pines to prevent the bears having dinner every night on our shelled sunflower seed (and wrecking the feeder in the process).  It takes a step stool to access it, but it keeps temptation beyond paw's reach for the furry guys.  So - I thought I had it nailed.  All that yummy seed was safe for the nuthatches, chickadees, juncos and other visitors.  The spill was picked up by towhees, more juncos and sparrows.  So really, no waste.  Perfect.  Ha.

I looked out this morning and a small gang of crows was having a ball raiding the feeder.  Probably a small crew of juveniiles that spends the winter in the neighborhood.  They come each morning and eat corn with the ducks, but there are so many ducks that it's a toss up.  Plus those mallard hens can be pretty clear about whose corn it is.  I've seen more than one crow jump straight up as his tail is firmly yanked by an indignant mallard hen.

Today the crows really had their game on. One crow would hang from the platform of the feeder and beat his wings.  This made the feeder swing wildly.  Since the platform is relatively flat, seed rained down from all sides on the other crows waiting below.  It was ingenious.  Dang!  So I went out to the side of the house and yelled, swung my arms and sure enough, they all flew quickly away.  But not very far did they fly.  About fifteen minutes later I heard the leader of the pack give his call, and back they cautiously came.  So I went out again and waved my arms.  But I realized that I probably wasn't going to win this battle.  Because I had made it a battle when maybe it didn't have to be.  They were just being crows, after all.

Zen teachers are fond of saying that the teacher appears when the student is ready.  I take this to mean that we can repeat the same mistakes and heartaches in life, over and over, until one day, maybe we see things through a different lens.  Through a 'student' lens. 

If I want to sit in my lawn chair all day, jealously guarding the seed feeder, I'll keep away the crows.  But I'll also keep away all the other birds, since I'm an equal opportunity scare-crow.  I wave my arms and everyone heads for the thickets.  Or, I can think it through and maybe come up with a flexible solution.  Do the dance, so to speak.

There will always be crows in our lives.  Clever dark beings who jam up our perfect systems, hopes and dreams just when we think we have them all fool-proofed.  Native people have known and respected Crow for ages: trickster and villain - smart villain though, and one with an appreciation for a good joke.

Not to say that this is an easy thing, but seeing lessons rather than battles has to be at least a good thing. 

With the crows, I'm going to try a compromise.  I have a feeder with a screen-barrier that only lets in song-bird size birds.  Others are too big to squeeze through to access the goodies.  I'm going to hang that next to the platform feeder which will still have seed, but much less.  I still want to feed the crow gang.  I respect their smarts and I love to watch them play. 

Each day gives us chances to learn - I surely miss countless lessons, but the birds and all of nature continue to offer to teach us in gentle, humbling and often humorous ways.

Hunting Harrier

It was one of those days in the Northwest:  curtains of fine rain made a foggy shroud right down to the ground.  Gusting wind carried waves of fine rain in every direction.  I had been out at Fort Stevens State Park, checking out Parking Lot C for birds that might have been blown in by the recent series of storms.  It was so windy and wet that even the hardiest of birds had taken cover.  The sturdy wood viewing platform shuddered in the wind gusts and the jetty and sand below trembled with the force of the incoming waves.  I couldn't even scare up a sparrow in the field adjacent to the dike.

As I made the long, straight drive back to the main park I began to pass by Trestle Bay.  There is a beautiful, open grassy field that becomes a marsh,  and in the bay an old wooden trestle that's often good for seeing hunting peregrines.  Not today, though.  I decided it would be more productive to look for birds in the protected, treed portion of the park.

Then, as if out of nowhere, a northern harrier was keeping pace with my car in the grassy field next to Trestle Bay.  It was a female, warm brown feathering with the characteristic wide, white band just where the tail begins.  She was focused on the ground a few feet below her,  head turned down, eyes and ears completely tuned to any mouse activity in the tall, wet grasses.  Her wings tilted and adjusted to the wind, giving her the characteristic  butterfly flight.  Tail fanned and tipped, making aerodynamic adjustments to her chosen path.  A flick of tail and wing could change her course in an instant if a mouse was spotted below.

Harriers have owl-like faces with feathers that form a pattern that carries sound to their ears.  The males are a lovely gray and females  are brown.  Since they must protect the nest, brown feathering, as with many female birds, is necessary.

They're also known as marsh hawks, as this was their name until the American Ornithological Union made the decision to rename them.   If you watch a northern harrier as she very thoroughly and patiently  combs a field, tilting and turning only a few feet above the ground, fierce face always turned down to see and hear,  the name fits.

I used to see  a lot more harriers on the Peninsula.  The grassy dunes are perfect for hunting the voles and mice they need to survive.  As houses have pushed out to and beyond the primary dune, harriers, along with other bird life, have diminished.  They require these open fields to do their work and bring home the food. 

But on this windy, wet day, this bird was at work by the Bay.  For wild things, bad weather is just a factor to work with.  Food must still be found.  As she worked the field, still patiently and thoroughly hunting the soggy tussocks, I wished her well from my dry, warm shelter in the car.  And a small part of me, maybe a tiny, ancient remnant of an older life, wished for myself her keenness  and wild beauty.

One More Guyana Memory

One of the early days at Timberhead Camp our guide took us on a walk along a forest trail to a wide stream.  There was barely a bird in the canopy; Guyana had had a drought the year we were there and maybe that's why there weren't as many birds as usual.  The stream was just at the edge of the jungle where grass savannah took over.  We saw birds, but nothing new.  The black nunbird was still a treat. After a few hours of rather unproductive birding, we were expecting the motor boat to come and ferry us back to camp.  There was no cell service to call and check on arrangements, of course.  After waiting well over an hour past the time the boat was due, the guide and two birders decided to retrace footsteps through the forest and send the boat back for us.  It was restful and relatively cool near the stream, plus there was a white-fronted emerald hummingbird hawking insects over the water.  I decided to stay with the other two birders in our group.

Verna, one of the women workers at Timberhead, finally appeared around the bend, but she was paddling a wooden boat called the Ermentrude.  There was no motor.  Evidently that's why the boat hadn't appeared earlier.  And there was only one set of thin, long oars that Verna was using.  The three of us stepped carefully into the boat and sat.  We had, literally, three inches of freeboard.  Didn't seem like much in a wide, deep tidal stream, but at this point, we were committed.
Verna gamely paddled us against the outgoing tide but we weren't making very much progress.  Oh, for another set of oars!  We came to the main stream which was much wider and flowing much faster.  Verna was struggling at this point, and I was worried that we could capsize.  I'm a good swimmer but I really didn't want to get my binoculars wet, and I wasn't sure how well the two older guys could do in the water.  And there are the leaches...  Up ahead I could see a small clearing.  I asked Verna if she would let me off there, take the guys back then come back for me.  She agreed.  She said that the landing was called The Point and that she would return.
We did almost capsize getting into shore close enough for me to jump.  The stream here did not gradually deepen - it just dropped off.  I jumped, the boat tottered dangerously, taking on a few inches of water, but Verna was able to steady it and proceed into the wide and outgoing tide.   I just hoped I'd see someone again - it was very, very quiet after the boat disappeared around the bend.  Just the wind playing through the long grass that grew in a long, unbroken field up to the edge of the jungle.

I sat on a wooden slat balanced on two wood stumps and looked for birds, animals, anything.  This seemed like one deserted place.   But after ten or so minutes, I heard rustling in the grass behind me.  I wasn't really frightened (I tried not the think of the howler monkeys) but I truly did want to know what was making the noise.  Finally, five small, giggling brown faces popped out of the grass.  Children from who knows where had somehow discovered me.  They were incredibly shy and wouldn't come closer than about five feet.  I asked about birds - pajaros, pajaritos, aves - in Spanish, but they couldn't make out what I was saying or why this white senora was sitting all alone on the dock.   One brave, smiling girl handed me a bouquet of pastel wild flowers and grasses that she had hurriedly gathered.  

Time was passing and it was hot.  There was no shade on this exposed, muddy edge of the stream and I  began to wonder if they could actually forget me.  But of course not - the other birders would remind them.  Wouldn't they?  Just about then, Wendy, another worker from Timberhead, came putting around the bend in a boat with a working engine.   She had a rapid conversation with the kids and helped me into the boat.  I asked her to say thank you for the flowers and that I liked talking with them.  Wendy smiled and spoke again to the kids.  They all waved and called to us as we made our diesel-fumed way back up the stream.  Wendy said that there is a small, primitive village just inside the jungle's edge where the children lived.  The only access to the village is from this tidal stream, then a walk through the tall, swaying grass.

We returned to Timberhead boat dock in the late afternoon.  Shadows were long. I made my way straight to the drinks cupboard in the main lodge and fixed a stiff rum and coke with lots of ice.  I sat in the hammock on the deck with the soft wind blowing away the mosquitoes, reflected at leisure on the day's adventure and admired the bouquet that I had put in water.

From Shanklands back to Georgetown

When it was time to leave Shanklands for our trip back to Georgetown, Guyana, we were greeted by Bernard, another quiet, smiling bush boatman.  Bernard piloted the Big Ben, an long, thin, open metal boat powered by a massive outboard engine.  Bernard was quite proud of his ability to hang incredibly tight turns to bring us back for a bird sighting.  I know I was looking straight down into the river on some of those turns.  We were rewarded with very worthwhile sightings.  The best was the sun bittern.  This is a shore bird about the size of a small egret.  Mottled brown is the dominant color until - until-- The sun bittern has earned its name by the beautiful and surprising display that is the result of the bittern opening wide his wings.  Seen from behind, the bittern looks like a gigantic moth with huge dark eye markings on each wing - simply stunning.
Our guide saw a sun bittern on the muddy shore and signalled a quick turnaround.  The sun bittern saw us but didn't seen alarmed.  He turned toward the bush, hopped up onto a fallen log and bingo- flashed those wings.   And people wonder why we chase birds.

Lewie, our East Indian driver from Georgetown, was waiting at the boat dock with our van.  We said goodbye to the impressive Essequibo River and turned toward the bush.  A long, rutted drive back to Georgetown to our hotel to drop off luggage and pick up lunch, and we were off on a forty-mile trip to the Mahocainy River.  We were met by another bush boatman, this one piloting a formidable looking, heavy metal boat which took up half the river.  There was an enormous exposed engine just behind the pilot that made for possibly the noisiest boat ride in history.  A thin, frazzled looking rope guarded the engine area, where gears ground and wheels turned.  Not a place for the unbalanced!  We moved to the roof of the boat in order to be able to hear and also to get a better view of the birds.  Again, it was so hot, especially on top of the metal roof, that I'm sure we sweated out the last week's water intake.  We kept skin covered and used an old black umbrella to guard from the sun as much as possible.

 Numerous flocks of hoatzins lined the bank.  Like ungainly chickens, they teetered and clung to the foliage just over the water.  It wasn't  unusual to see one or more fall in, and it didn't seem to faze the birds.  They would thrash and oar with outspread wings until they could cling onto overhanging foliage.  At the 'wrist' joint of their wings they have a tiny claw-like appendage that they use to regain their foothold.  The appendages look eerily like single fingers.  With a row of mohawk-like feathers on bald blue heads, they truly look prehistoric.  They squawked and fussed like hens in the bush as we chugged by.

Farther on, a troop of howler monkeys sat in the highest branches overhanging the river.  They watched us silently as we passed below them.  Hunched on the limbs, tails curved softly over their golden backs, they were very wild and beautiful.

We returned that evening to our hotel behind massive walls covered with every possible exotic flower and vine.  Outside the walls,  Georgetown at this time was very rough and dirty.  Trash and stagnant water were everywhere.  Snail kites perched on power lines over slimy drainage ditches, where egrets stepped daintily around discarded bottles and rotten fruit.  Lotuses bloomed in muck.  The streets were packed with cars, vans, bicycles, pedestrians, wary dogs and sleepy cattle.  The stinks were as awesome as the colors of the flowers.

The Trip to Shanklands

I seem to be on a  Guyana kick, so I'll try to remember more of that incredible trip.

After spending a week at Timberhead, we were off to Shanklands, a resort of sorts on the banks of the mighty Essequibo River.
We left Timberhead early in the morning after the usual night of rain.  The six of us piled into an African Queen-like boat called the Elizabeth II.  No one knew the reason for this name-  it didn't seem to matter.  Our first leg was a quiet, putting journey along the creek, guided by Junior, our shy, smiling boat driver.  He was adept at quick stops and turns when Mike, our bird guide would hold up his hand, signalling a sighting.  I learned to sit solidly, feet planted firmly for these unexpected stops.  Birds large and small swept across the water before us- vines, bamboo and small trees looped and leaned into the water.  Long, narrow wood canoes holding one or two people pulled alongside, watching the big, white strangers in the silver boat.
We rounded a bend and suddenly we were in big water:  the Demarara River, silvery, wide and flat.  A sudden violent storm blew up from  behind us, causing both shores to disappear completely behind curtains of blowing rain.  Several inches of water quickly gathered on the floor of the partially open boat, and much of Junior's gear floated near our feet.  Junior was soaked but smiling, drinking Sprite and looking like he hadn't a care in the world.  As  the Elizabeth II tootled gamely along, the shores finally began to reappear, dim and far away.  Junior pulled us closer to river right and suddenly out of nowhere, an opening in the dense jungle appeared.  Two or three old army trucks, looking WWII vintage, rusted in the rain forest clearing.
After securing us to the steep, muddy bank, Junior produced a wonderful lunch of fried egg sandwiches, plantain rolls (fried in butter!) and pineapple.  As we were finishing, two very muddy Toyota trucks pulled up driven by two smiling brown men.  All of us piled into the tarp -covered back of one truck and we rode, military style,  thumping and banging over twenty-six miles of very rutted sand road to Shanklands.  It was the bumpiest ride I'd ever experienced.  The two elder birders from New York chuckled quietly and Al said, "You think this is bad, you should have been in Madagascar!"

Shanklands was a welcome sight.  Rolling green grass dotted with brilliant flowers and enormous trees, and white lattice-laced cottages dotted the sides of the lawn, shaded by trees.  The Essiquibo River extended the length of our view, flat and endless.  The far shore shimmered and danced in the distance.

Shanklands - some memories:  sitting under the kitchen awning out of the sun; listening to the torrents of rain falling on our cottage roof and splashing in pools in the grass; smelling the delicate white grapefruit blossoms from the tree outside our window at night;  steep, rickety stairs to the river and the long, narrow boat dock;  turquoise-colored tanagers sharing the pepper tree with the family of barbets;  screeching, clamorous parrot flyovers;  salt and pepper in dishes at the table;  free liquor setups under the awning; homemade hot sauce that was deliciously, indescribably hot.  Breathlessly humid forest walks where we heard much more than we saw; walk-in white tile showers; plumbeous kites soaring; the shy, white kitchen cat; the smelly peccary who lurked near the buildings; the loud macaw; and always,  always the unending silver ribbon of river,  moving away from us,  away.

In the Rainforest of Guyana ~ Another Adventure II

We returned to camp for  a lunch of roasted chicken and corn salad, tired but jubilant.  I have never been so hot.  Insect repellent mixed with sweat causes my fingers to stick to the binocular casing.  Our clothes are wet from the inside, glued to us in the stunning humidity.  As we shower in the tepid water heated by the sun, crested oropendolas gargle and whistle in the trees above the camp.  Their yellow and chestnut feathers flash as they swing upside down from the branches.  Their relatives, the yellow-rumped caciques, hop from tree to tree, endlessly repeating their mournful, wheedling call.

An afternoon siesta is in order.  A blue-gray tanager hunts insects in the palm thatch above our bed, rattling and scratching softly.  He occasionally peers down through the loose weave of the false ceiling to be sure the humans below are staying put.

Before dusk we walk to Pokerero Creek to watch the tiny fork-tailed palm swifts swoop and sail above the tea-colored water.  The dry tan fronds rattle in the evening breeze as the swifts dart up into the protection of the dead leaves to their roosts.  Long-legged wattled jacanas flash their yellow underwings and tiptoe daintily in the shallow of the stream.  A female white-chested emerald, a tiny hummingbird, perches on a limb over the water.  She hawks insects, sips nectar from the orange asclepias flowers, and chases butterflies from her territory.  The low sun flashes green jewel tones on her back as she pirouettes over the water and returns to her perch.  So her days passes. 

We walk back to the camp in full darkness.  The Captain, a wizened Arawak gentleman of more than seventy years, carries a lamp to light the torches lining the path.  He nods and shows brown teeth as he smiles.  We can see the dim light of the lamps he has lit and carried to each of the guest huts.
The night sky pulsates with stars and planets that burn in pale blues, reds and greens.  The Southern Cross leans halfway up the sky, pointing out north and south for wanderers in the southern hemisphere.  Meteors trace brief, fiery paths across the blackness.  The buzz and screech of the insects frogs and owls is turned to full volume.  Tiny fireflies wink on and off ahead of us on the trail.  We find our sleepy way to our hut, pull the mosquito netting around us, and fall asleep under the palm thatch and the turning stars.

In the RainForest of Guyana ~ Another Adventure

Although we spent less than two weeks in Guyana, it made a very deep and lasting impression.  I would like to share my impressions of this wild and only partially tamed place.  It is the true third world, with all its wonders and trials.  The utter beauty of its wildness, the colors, smells, sights and sounds were gifts that I will never forget nor fail to appreciate in our easier, tamer world. 



The absolute black of the rainforest night begins to fade to day.  The screeches and grunts of insects and frogs give way to the softer, fuller songs of the birds.  The tropical screech-owl cries once more, lifts heavy wings and flies deep into the forest.  A small yellow tongue of flame still gutters in the glass of the kerosene lamp that was hung in our hut last evening.  Dawn and dusk near the equator do not linger.  Night becomes day within minutes.
The noise of dawn suddenly increases through the camp as a flock of little chachalacas courses through the camp.  The turkey-like birds flap and jump from treetop to treetop, making an unearthly squawking ruckus.  They move away toward Pokerero Creek and other birds songs emerge.  Mel's old windup alarm clock, two cabins away, gives the official clanking notice of day.  Early morning is fresh and cool.  Last night's rain shines on our open porch.  Mist rises from Pokerero Creek, just visible, shimmering in the dawn light at the bottom of the sand incline below Timberhead Rainforest Resort.  Orange-winged parrots fly over, two by two, heading for their day's work of finding and eating fruits in the top of the green canopy.  Their metallic screeches ricochet through camp.  The captive scarlet macaw, crippled years ago by a bullet in his wing, bobs his head and screeches back from the kitchen porch where he eats sliced pineapple and mango.
This is the first week of a birding trip deep into the rainforest of Guyana.  Our small group of birders assembled at JFK Airport in New York City following months of planning and anticipation.  After arriving in Georgetown, the capitol of Guyana, we  traveled by van and then by boat down the Demerera River, then up one of its many tributaries.  As the purple-throated fruit crow flies, we are about twenty miles from Georgetown.  It couldn't feel more remote.
Our raised wood huts comprise a camp built and run by the Arawak Indians who live in a small village a few miles down the creek.  Palm-thatched roofs shield us from the tropical sun and the brief heavy rains that often come in the afternoon.  The huts are roomy and airy, with big windows on all sides that have shutters but no screens.  (A lesson quickly learned in the tropics is that at night it is wise to close the shutters before turning up the lamp.  Light attracts many flying insects, including commonly named flying cockroaches and tiger moths, which appear larger than hummingbirds in the shadowy light.  The only effective way to remove them is to wait until they land and then grab them in your fist and toss them out the window.)
A large bed with soft linens sits in the center of each room, generously swathed in mosquito netting.  Bathrooms are modern with sinks, toilets, and spacious walk-in showers.  As I open the door to the bathroom this particular morning, the  flock of resident tiny beige-furred bats is just settling on the wooden roof beams above me after their night's flight.  A delicate slate-colored frog sporting ruffled toes flutters away from his perch behind the toilet paper roll.
The sky is pure, pale blue, covered intermittently with towering purple-gray clouds and wavy flat clouds that look like lavender pen strokes above the rainforest.  Metallic green, dull green, acid green, rich northern forest green are all tossed together in a wild mix around us.  Tall, lanky cecropia trees, palms of every size, and fig trees with ambling, twisted limbs share the camp with us.  White sand is under our feet, punctuated with bright eruptions of pink and green caladiums, a leafy tropical plant.    Blue-gray tanagers, the color of the sky at dawn, are a common camp bird.  Silver-beaked tanagers, red-black as smoldering coal with beaks that look like silver neon, fuss and argue in the fig above the kitchen.  Great kiskadees, with their bright yellow breasts and masked faces, occupy every post perch and proclaim kis-kil-dee throughout the day.
After a generous breakfast of boiled eggs, ham roll-ups, fish salad (very salty but good), local buns, watermelon and good, strong coffee,  we take the trail through the rainforest toward the Arawak village.  We walk along the edge of the forest where the land begins to slope to the creek.  Wild, white lilies nod in the slight breeze.  They look like snowdrifts in another land.  Across the creek, a tan-green grass savannah stretches for two miles until the rainforest again absorbs it.  A yellow-headed vulture, much like our turkey vulture, but with a bald head the color of egg yolk, tilts and circles above the savannah.  Our guide points out a black-collared hawk perched on a snag next to the creek.  Heat waves, magnified by our binoculars, cause the hawk to dance gently in our lenses.  We can just make out his lovely rufous breast, whitish head and broad black collar.
Rainforest walking can  become hypnotic:  a brown-shirted back bobbing ahead of me on the trail, the heat, the buzz of bugs, the remote screech of birds in the high canopy, the rhythmic bump of binoculars and pack.  A muted beep comes from Mel's backpack.  It's probably some of his camera equipment.  He doesn't hear it, or perhaps doesn't mind it.
Mike stops suddenly and raises his hand.  I march into John's back and we all look up.  Red howler monkeys, he whispers, pointing to the rainforest beyond the savannah.  A faint but deep pulsating, booming roar floats to us on the humid air.  We gaze across the heat-hazed savannah to the treetops on the other side, and imagine the big, bearded russet monkeys gathered there.  We  strain to hear them.  Of all the forest cries heard so far, this is the sound of wildness that makes the others seem less important.  It makes hackles rise.  It goes directly to some primitive place in the brain that used to hear sounds like this in the forest.  The cries fade as the faint wind changes direction, then intensifies - are they coming this way?  They're far on the other side of the savannah and are shy of humans, but they still cause a frisson of fear in some forgotten spot.  We are reminded that here in the rainforest, we, too, are just vulnerable mammals.

Stay tuned for the next chapter ~ soon to follow
This article was originally published in Bird Watcher's Digest, July-August 2000.

At the Prince Phillip Hotel

                                                

                                                               Part II

The following day, we stumbled out of the early afternoon heat into the cool damp air of the hotel.  We had spent the morning not far from Georgetown on a jungle trail that led to the banks of the Demarara River.  The heat and humidity had been numbing, but we had seen a black nunbird.  This small black bird with a very large red bill burrows nests in the ground and, if luck is with the birders, can be found near rivers in Guyana.  We were lucky that day.

            Mike had advised the group to skip the hotel elevator unless we wanted to risk spending some very hot and airless time in it, since the power generator functioned rather intermittently.  We slowly climbed seven flights of stairs to our rooms.  Showers and beers from the room fridges refreshed us.

            The only place to rest inside and still enjoy a cool breeze was the lobby.  The large marble-floored area was cool even in the heat of the afternoon.  As we descended the seven flights of stairs, we heard the crunching grind of the generator shutting down.  We exchanged looks but were too tired to comment on our good  luck.  The lobby was dim and quiet.  It was shaped like a cross with wide, marble floored hallways lined with small shops and offices.  The central portion held the massive wood main desk and entries to the restaurant and two bars.  Small shops lined the lobby.  We could hear John’s laugh coming from the nearest bar where the rather ingratiating Indian bartender regaled him with well-polished stories of unusual travelers.  Along the quiet hallways, potted reddish-green banana plants with four-foot leaves reached to the skylights. Flame-like red and pink ginger blooms nodded in the breeze from the open walkways leading to the garden.  We settled in rattan chairs near a trickling indoor fountain, where tiny brown birds flitted down, drank and disappeared into the surrounding ferns.

            “Hello, would you like to see a bird nest?”   The soft, familiar voice came from behind us.   Verna stood in the doorway of a small bookshop. 

            “Verna, hello,” I said.  “Come join us.”

            “I would like to show you a bird nest.”  Her soft accent made “bird” sound like “buhd”.  “My brother is a gardener here.  He showed me.  It’s just outside.”

            We  followed her down the cool hallway into the heavy brightness and damp heat of the tropical afternoon. She walked easily ahead, stepping from stone to stone.  We followed the cobbled pathway through the manicured lawn and tame roses into the back garden where the overgrown greenery looked like jungle transplanted inside the hotel walls.

            “Here, this way.  Follow me exactly now,” Verna said.  She turned to wait then directed us carefully off the path into soft, moist soil.  She pushed tree fern leaves out of her way and slowed to let us catch up.  Barb tried to detour around an especially large and wet looking heliconia but Verna caught her arm.  “No, this way.  Step here.”  She  obeyed.

            As we  pushed through a dense growth of scrubby, twisted figs, a hummingbird jetted by.  I felt the turbulence from her tiny wings as she flew past. “Damn - I think that’s a female blue-tailed emerald - wow,”  Barb said reverently as she turned to follow the tiny bird’s flight.  A blue-tailed emerald is a kind of hummingbird that we had been hoping to see.  The green feathers glow like emeralds in the sun, and the tail is iridescent blue.  The female is a duller version, but still wonderful.

            “That is she.  We are close to her home now.  Look,” Verna said.  She gently lifted the side of a three-foot wide gunnera leaf to reveal a brown and gray nest suspended like a tiny hammock from the underside of the leaf.  “No eggs yet, but my brother said that last year she had two babies here.  She will again.”

            The nest could fit into a child’s hand, yet it was sturdy and tight.  Ingeniously built under a leathery, thorned leaf, the nestlings would be protected from rain, heat and many predators. 

            Verna smiled.  “Isn’t it lovely?” she said softly.

            “Verna, this is a gift.  We would never see something like this on our own,” Barb said as she stooped to examine the nest.

            “It is my gift.  But we should go before mother becomes anxious about us discovering her home.”

            Following Verna, we carefully retraced our steps back to the stone pathway and from there to the cool depths of the hotel bar to celebrate our find.  John was no longer there, so we shared our excitement with the bartender who seemed a little surprised that a tiny green bird could cause the North Americans to be so happy.  Oh well, tourists are an odd lot, his look seemed to say.

            Later that evening the group gathered in the restaurant for our last dinner at the Prince Phillip Hotel.  A celebration was planned because of the outstanding number and variety of species we had seen during our short stay.

            “No John tonight?” asked Mel.  They sat at their usual table in the dining room, cocktails in hand.  Lunch was hours ago and we all were ready to order dinner.

            “He won’t be joining us,” Mike said.  “Got himself into a bit of a fix this afternoon.”

            We all made appropriate murmurs of concern while burning to know if he finally ran afoul of the local community.  There was plenty of trouble for an over-confident northerner to find in Georgetown.

            Mike’s face looked sober, but his eyes held an amused look he couldn’t quite hide.  “He heard a rumor about an occupied blue-tailed emerald nest somewhere on the grounds in the back garden and tried to find it on his own.  Son of a gun stepped into a nest of biting ants and they really played hell with him.”

            Verna stood quietly behind them with her order book in hand.  She smiled and asked softly “Will you be having wine tonight?”

           
              I bumped Barb's foot under the table but neither of us said a word.       

                                                               *





b

At the Prince Phillip Hotel

This is a short story  I wrote following a birding trip to Guyana.  Guyana is beautiful and primitive, but any mention of Jim Jones or that fatal experience, brings blank looks and comments of "...long time ago.  Far away from here."
  Guyana is beginning to be known as a birding hot spot and it is indeed an incredible place to bird. Anyone who travels there must be able to be flexible,  ready for the unusual and comfortable with occasional discomfort.  I haven't traveled anywhere quite like it nor have I met more polite, soft spoken people.

                                                          

                                                The Prince Phillip Hotel

            “Well, speak up, please. Do you know this wine or not?  Is there someone else whom I can speak to about this wine?”  Holding the parchment wine list, John twisted in his chair to look up at the silent, smiling black woman.  Like most of the hotel staff, she was from one of the Amerindian villages near Georgetown.  Not more than nineteen, tall and statuesque, she had luminous eyes and black hair pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head.  The waitress continued to smile silently as she backed away from the table.  The rest of the group around the table had either buried their heads in their menus or were staring at John in pained amazement.

            “Really, John, you’re in the third world.  You can’t expect a native woman just in from the bush to discuss a Chateau Neuf du Pape with you.  Give her a break.”  This came from Mel, one of the older men in the birding group.

            “If they have a Chateau Neuf on the wine list, then they’d damn well better have someone who can tell me if it’s still good.  Oh, what the hell.”  John turned again in his chair and motioned impatiently to the woman who waited, order book in hand, a few feet away.

            “This one, please” he said, enunciated the ‘please’.  “We will have this wine.”  With exaggerated movements he pointed out a wine on the list.  She nodded silently, eyes down, as she wrote in her order book.   Near the main restaurant door, the hostess, an older Asian woman, watched with narrowed eyes as the waitress retreated.  She shook her head slightly, unsmiling. 

 When the wine arrived, the group waited tensely as the waitress skillfully removed the cork and poured a taste for John.  Fortunately, the wine was acceptable and the rest of the meal passed without incident.

            This was the second leg of a two-week birding trip in Guyana.  Our  group had returned to Georgetown from Santa Mission, an Amerindian post deep in the bush.  We  had planned a three-day rest before embarking on a boat trip down the Demarara River, then cross-country by jeep to Shanklands, a resort on the shore of the Esiquibo River.  While in Georgetown  we  planned to tour a ginger plantation, then take a boat ride down the Mahocany River to find howler monkeys and hoatzins.  The picture in A Guide to the Birds of Venezuela, the book most of the birders were using as a reference, describes the hoatzin (pronounced what-zin) as a chicken-like bird with striking spiky  feathers growing out of the blue-skinned head, in the style of a Mohawk haircut.

            Georgetown, the capitol of Guyana, is a rough, rowdy city where tourists are strongly encouraged not to wander unescorted.  Masked with a lush, thick garden, fortress-like walls surround the Hotel.  Just outside the city the jungle is an impenetrable mass of green.  Most travel in the bush is by river; the few roads are deeply rutted and muddy.

            The surrounding Amerindian villages provide staff for the big hotels and government agencies in the city.  The people are dark, soft-spoken and extremely polite. Those who have been educated in the local schools speak with a delightful slurred British accent.  Their habit, when embarrassed by the behavior of others, is to smile politely and not say a word.

            Our group was up with the sun the following morning.   Breakfast was served in the elegant dining room where, outside the generous window, a dainty jacana, a long-legged wading bird, stepped delicately from one lotus leaf to another in the pond.  He flashed brilliant yellow under-wings as he darted after small fish.  Blue-gray tanagers flitted through the shrubbery and a flock of raucous, screeching orange-winged parrots flew over on their way to a day of foraging in the nearby jungle.  It was seven in the morning and the temperature was already seventy-five degrees.

            The professional guide, Mike, was a veteran tropical birder.  He could name most of the birds  by hearing their songs.  My  travel partner Barb and I  were moderately experienced birders from the Northwest.  We loved finding birds in remote countries whenever we could afford a trip.   Bill and Mel, seventy-eight-year old native New Yorkers and lifelong friends, had birded together since grade school.  They were made of shoe leather: tough, flexible and so far, inexhaustible. They told wonderful, opinionated tales about each other.  John, who’d been rude to the waitress, was a New Englander who let it be known that he was a Princeton grad with a law practice in New York City.  He had left his wife behind so that he could enjoy ‘roughing it’ for a few weeks.  He looked pristine that morning, as usual.  A crisp seersucker shirt was tucked into creased khakis and a clean baseball cap covered his sparse light brown hair.  No matter how hot and dirty the bird walks were, John seemed to stay clean and cool.

* * *

            Mike had downplayed the safety aspect, but the group had overheard the East Indian bartender at the hotel’s main bar talking about a British man who had wandered alone  into one of the rougher parts of town and was “chopped” for his wallet.  This was the local description of a machete attack.  So, rather than wander outside the walls in search of a restaurant, the group gathered again that evening at the hotel to eat and go over the day’s bird list.

            The same tall young black woman was our waitress.  The name tag on her maroon uniform read “Verna”.

            “What will you have for dinner tonight, please?” she said, starting at the end of the table farthest from John.  We all ordered, then enjoyed reliving the discovery of a silver-beaked tanager earlier in the day.  Intense red-black with an over-size blue-silver beak, the tanager flitted low in a cecropia tree, allowing what birders call “soul-satisfying”, long looks through scopes and binoculars.

            When dinner arrived, Verna and another waiter served the table.  John’s voice rose above the general noise of conversation in the restaurant.  “Excuse me, this is not what I ordered.  I ordered the baked chicken and yam soufflé.  This is beef.” He motioned imperiously across the table at Verna, who was still serving.

            She hesitated and pulled the order book from her pocket.  “Sir, I have written down what you indicated on the menu,  roast beef and potato.”  She started to walk toward him with the open order book.

            “I don’t care what you wrote down, this is wrong.  I don’t eat beef.”

             Verna was still for a moment.  “Yes, sir.  I will bring the chicken.”  Verna removed the plate and with lowered eyes, moved quickly to the kitchen doors.

            Barb  leaned over and said quietly to me  “I’ll bet he ordered the beef.  He’s such an ass, he probably just changed his mind.” 

            “ You know that ‘chopping’ thing the bartender was talking about?  He should watch it,” I said from behind my napkin.

            Again the hostess had watched the entire scene; her mouth formed into a tight line.  She followed Verna into the kitchen and her raised voice carried through the swinging doors.

            “Great,” Mike said.  “You got her in trouble.  She’s just a kid.”

“Oh, they all holler at each other all the time.  Maybe it’ll make her pay more attention next time,” John said, sipping his drink.

            Verna brought the chicken dish and quietly placed it in front of John.  He didn’t say thank you.

            The group broke up early.  We were all exhausted from the heat and humidity, both consistently in the mid-nineties.  We were heading for the stairs when I had an idea. I pulled Barb aside.  “Wait a minute.  Come on,” I said as I walked toward a small open office near the main restaurant door.  The hostess sat inside, running down a list of figures, her fingers flying over an abacus.

            “Excuse us, please,” I  said politely.  I waited for the hostess to raise her eyes and acknowledge us.  “Yes?” she put down the abacus and smiled.

            “We,” I pulled Barb up next to me, “want to let you know how much we enjoy the food here.  It’s wonderful.”  Barb nodded emphatically in agreement.

            “Oh, thank you so much,” the hostess said.  “We are happy to give you a good experience and good food.”  She preened a little and fiddled with the ivory chopsticks in her pulled-back hair.

            “Yes, and also, we are so taken with Verna.  She is an excellent server.  So attentive to our needs.”

            “Oh, yes?  Do you think so?  She is very young and I worry about her around for- uh, visitors from other countries.”

            “She is so polite and thoughtful.  Yes, I think she’s the best waitress we’ve had this trip.  Tell her that we are very pleased. And we plan to leave her a big tip tomorrow.  It’s our last day.”  Mike had told the group that the tips were shared among staff.

            “So nice to hear!”  She positively glowed and relaxed in her chair.  “I will tell Verna.  She will be so happy.”

            “It’s our pleasure.  We know how hard it can be to get good help.”  At this point Barb pulled me gently out the door.  She whispered  “Too much of a good thing, girl…”
            We  giggled all the way to our rooms.

                                                                             *

 Stay tuned for the last pages of the story.  John meets with an unusual adversary.  

A Royal Fly-By

Royalty seem to be in the news a lot these days, with the Olympics and all.  We had a visit right here in our yard.  Just like many royals, this one jetted in and did not stay long.   This royal also generated many oohs and aahs and excitement from those visited.

As I sat quietly watching the water, not really paying attention, a very agitated and panicked collared dove came zigging and zagging from the south, about two feet above the water.  He  dashed side to side, trying to evade and yet make maximum speed at the same time. He was silent, all effort focused on survival.

 Then, effortlessly, fiercely,  the peregrine falcon appeared.  Just as near to the water, the dark blue-gray jet closed in easily on his prey.  Peregrines have a characteristic wing beat:  powerful, purposeful, full of confidence.  The dark helmet markings on his face flashed in the light, and the big, dark eye was focused only on the dove. 

As if he had just decided to put on the gas, the falcon accelerated his wing beats, moved his feet forward in a 'grab' position, and snagged the hapless dove with one strong foot. At least the end is quick in such powerful talons.  And peregrines don't hunt for sport, they hunt to eat and live.

Peregrines engender the word 'royalty' in the bird world.  Long a choice with falconers, they have in inherent dignity and presence that everyone encountering the bird will quickly notice. Their quiet authority and physical power are beautiful to behold.

The peregrine population was almost wiped out due to  DDT, but since it was banned in the US, they have made a great comeback.  Now they can be found even in the cities, nesting on narrow window ledges near parks.  One more example of wildlife doing their best to live among us.  Their prey is primarily birds, and city pigeons and starlings are prime targets.   Because the looming shadow of a peregrine on the hunt will panic and disperse whole flocks of birds, vineyard managers have begun to use falconers and falcons to keep pesty birds from eating their entire grape crop.  And airports now use them to patrol and keep hazardous flocks of birds off the runways.   What great examples of working with a wild creature to the benefit of both.

But here in the quiet marshes and dusky woods, peregrines perch quietly  at the marsh's edge, watching and waiting.   When prey is spotted, they launch effortlessly into their powerful flight: a royal on the wing.

Where the Wild Things Really Are

They are here all around us.  We are so lucky.   Just this morning, in the quiet of a soft, cloudy dawn, I heard the kuk-kakuk-kakuk of a Virginia Rail.  This Rail is a marsh bird - a very skulky, secretive bird who is hard to find and see, even for birders.  Rails are rather gawky waders, and in bird references, can be found under the heading "Chicken-like Wading Birds".  They do resemble chickens with shortened, variegated brown feathers.  This Rail has  a beautiful dense gray cheek-patch surrounding a fierce red eye.  The bill is long and reddish-orange, quite unchicken-like.  Actually, they're quite the dapper bird.
 Rails usually live in  remote marshlands, away from houses, traffic and human noise.   Our lake outlet is near houses, traffic and human noise, yet there is still enough marshland, enough water and cover to make this Rail happy.  He has been here, calling, for at least three seasons.

Many folks would argue the value of a bird that is rarely seen.  What do they contribute?
There is wildlife all around us, and most of it is rarely seen, due to well-placed caution on the critters' end of things.  We do see bears here in the yard, and yes, they can be a nuisance.  But think of what they're doing.  Think of how many pounds of berries it takes to fill a bear's stomach.  Who was here first?  Is it the bear's fault that what used to be a place to forage is now a house with a green lawn?

Development is a given. What I  believe is that we cannot allow ourselves to lose the wild things.  There is untold value in wildness.  To know that there are places in the world where wild things never, ever see a human during their lifespan.  To know that there are creatures that make their way through life completely out of human control.  To hear the distant, haunting call of a  bird or critter and not know what it is.  The mystery of that is  ancient and human.  The earth is not only ours.  "In wildness is the preservation of  the world" ~ a quote by Henry David Thoreau, says it all.

And here, where we live, we have birds and mammals all around, trying to make an honest living just like us.  We can all be here.  With forethought, flexibility and respect we can live beside them and enjoy their wild calls, hoots and honks. We are all connected on this planet and the diminishment of one species touches us all.

So enough with the preaching.  Please - step outside and listen.  You may not hear a rare or unusual bird, but even the crows in your yard are wild things.  If you really see them, something is there to be learned.
Crows may be the only connection with wildness that some folks have.  We are luckier here. There is deep value in it, no matter where.  We must cultivate that value and not let it disappear, along with the wild things.

We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where
the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe;
to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground....
We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life 
pasturing freely where we never wander.  ~ Walden

Summer Visitor

Early this morning as I was watching the various duck families  sort themselves out on the lawn, I noticed a bird moving deep in the alder at the water's edge.  The color of the bird, the little I could see, was different than the usual suspects: chickadees, blackbirds, goldfinches.  This was a rich, soft, smooth brown fading to a warm, golden belly.  His head suddenly popped out of the greenery and I was looking at my first cedar waxwing of the summer. 

These little guys are beautiful.  Their faces sport a black mask softly outlined in white, topped by cinnamon head feathers that are long and form a kind of duck tail hairdo in back.  Their bodies are cinnamon, bellies golden, tails grey.  Lots of color going on.  And then, the best part.  The reason they're called waxwings.  Each wing is tipped with small scarlet spots - scarlet that looks like wax from a distance.  And the end of their tails are tipped in brilliant yellow.  Quite the flashy bird. 
Waxwings love berries and that's where to find them.  Any fruiting shrub or tree can be their host.  They are social and move in flocks, talking as they go in a sweet, high-pitched whistle.  Acrobats, they will hang upside down to get to the very best berries.

Waxwings live inland all year round and some move out to the coast in the summer.  They used to be considered "very rare visitors" to the coast, according to my Birds of Oregon  reference.   I think that has changed and they're a bit more common here these days.

My favorite way to find these birds is on a clear winter day -  hearing their singing trilling call,  then seeing a busy flock moving through a bare tree, plucking and savoring the red berries in the cold winter sun.

Three new sizes available...

There's a certain time in late May, when suddenly, there are ducklings everywhere.  The hens seems to choose the quiet evening time for their debut.  The water is mirror still, shadows long, the air quiet as if waiting for these new little sparks of life to make their appearance.  Almost casually, a mother hen appears from behind a tuft of marsh grass and behind her is her brown and golden brood. 
This year we have three families visiting, and each brood was hatched at a different time, given their current size and number.   The oldest brood is down to two banty-hen size ducklings.  Almost as big as their mother, but still staying close to her and cheeping like a newly-hatched duckling if danger is perceived.  The hen, like all mothers, is vigilant.  She leads them up onto the grass where the humans have thoughtfully thrown cracked corn.  They feast on this new, rich taste as she watches, alert, turning her head in all directions to sense any early threat.  If the ducklings spot the human, they're off in a waddling panic to the water.  The hen, cautious, but used to us, is willing to stay to see if more corn is forthcoming.  But those babies won't be convinced.  She opts to go with them and return for more food later.
The ducklings have lost their baby markings and are mostly a velvety mid-brown.  Their bodies are lengthening and their faces have more adult features than soft baby features.  Sadly, there are only two.  I'm willing to bet that she started out with ten or twelve little ones.  It must be very hard to watch the number dwindle due to predation from otters, cats, rats, eagles.  So many dangers in this world.  Raising two healthy young is a great  accomplishment,  as we all know.
The next family shows up, climbing the short incline from water to shore and four little ones follow the hen.  These guys look about two to three weeks old. Still very duckling-like. Mother stays much closer, and the family stays close to shore for a quick escape, if needed.  They still have their fuzz and rounded features, and they check with the hen often to be sure she is near.  Her head moves rhythmically as she continuously counts and recounts her four.  Since they're constantly moving in the grass, it's a good idea.
The final group approach more cautiously yet.  Mother hovers at the land's edge for probably twenty minutes before deciding it's safe enough for her squad.  She heaves up the incline and eight tiny, fuzzy little ones follow.  They don't focus so much on the corn as on this new environment.  And the hen has her hands full.  If I listen closely through the open window, I can hear her quiet muttered instructions.  If one duckling roams too far, she raises her head and her voice becomes more insistent.  They spend just a short time on shore, just enough time for the hen to stock up on some good corn.  Then mutter, mutter, back she goes down the slope with eight obedient babies behind.  They're so tiny on the water, only the ripples from their little paddling feet can be seen.

It's dusk now.  The water is still with the reflection of pinkish lavender clouds. An occasional leaf eddies down from the alder to cause a ripple which is sometimes struck by a curious fish.  The duck broods are tucked away in the marsh, the smaller ducklings under the hen, the larger huddled close.   Mother hen will sleep with one eye open, as there are dangers to her brood at night as well.  As the moon rises and the screech owl calls her soft toot, even duck eyes fall closed until another day.

The Neighbors

Some of my favorite neighbors hang out under the flower-filled wheel barrow in our front yard.  A mallard couple, attentive male and non-breeding (?) hen.  I question non-breeding because it seems like she would have peeled off by now and found a secluded place to build a nest for the coming eggs.  Mallards nest in reeds and other grasses on lake and pond edges.  But this  hen is staying with her man.  Mallards are what is called serially monogamous:  they stay with the same mate through the year, but switch to a different mate each year.  I wonder.  Because this couple has been neighbors for going on four years.  Maybe she has the wiles to keep the same male by her side even if she isn't interested in nesting.  Early in the morning I can see them comfortably roosting just under the lip of the barrow.  When the garage door opens, signalling the human with the can of corn, they rise and the male begins a soft, muttering conversation.  They watch cautiously - as if after all this time I'm going to make a run at them - then hurry in to enjoy the corn before the crows arrive.  The male keeps a weather eye on the surroundings, guarding the hen from any danger.

The Canada goose couple still lives across the pond, and again, the female shows no interest in beginning nesting activities.  The male guards her jealously, arching his neck and hissing at any perceived intruders.  She hangs back, grazing and enjoying the sun.  They move up to the big lake for the night, into bigger, safer water.  Their leave-takings and arrivals back are heralded by lots of loud and joyous honking.  They return about 430 in the morning, and I usually awake to hear them.  The riffles from their landing are reflected in the moonlight on the water. 

More productive neighbors are the violet-green swallows.  We have six nest boxes up, just on the shore.  It's hard to tell how many are occupied because the swallows are very wily and fast in their comings and goings.  Swooping and diving over the water, hawking insects to carry back to their broods, they make  wide, graceful circles and at the last minute, make perfect dives into the small nest box hole.  I make the holes oblong and small, that way foiling house sparrows and starlings that would love to nest there.  It's fun to watch a frustrated sparrow try to squeeze his rotund body into the small hole.  Determination isn't enough: it's too narrow and they finally give up.  The sleek, silky swallows have no trouble entering. 

At dusk, the water is still, reflecting a perfect blue sky.  The geese rest quietly opposite, bodies touching,  and the ducks are again bedding down in the soft grass under the barrow.  The wheeling, chittering swallows, purple-green backs flashing in the low sun, make a last food run for their hungry young and disappear into the safety of the nest boxes.   It's so lovely: it will all start again tomorrow.

Geese are on the move

Yesterday was a crystal blue day.  I was lucky to be visiting friends on the bay side, and as we talked, I watched threads of dark geese moving on the distant water.  Thin lines would lift and float, break up and return to the water in smaller groups.  Some would fly higher, black pencil sketches against the blue water and far green shore.  Ragged groups would fly, dip, fly.  Restless, readying for the flight  back north to breed.  These are Brant, dapper little sea geese that are rarely found inland.  They feed on aquatic plants found in the near-inland waters and avoid the shore.
They seem sensitive to disturbance on land and rest in huge floating rafts out in the bay.  In May, the last of the migrants will leave us for their breeding ground, as far north as the islands off Alaska.
But for the time being,  they are a beautiful sight and sound on the water for us land bound beings to enjoy.
Farther south, other geese are moving.  At Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, in far southeastern Oregon and a Disneyland for birding, the Ross's geese and Snow geese are massing.  In the flat distance, they look like snow fields, vast white, undulating masses of them.  But you know they're full of life when you open your car window and hear them.  There is no way to describe the beauty of their undulating, yelping call that's carried on the chill breeze off Steen's Mountain.  Thousands of them, all talking at once, and below this call,  a soft vibration comes to the ear.  A humming from the flock that is mesmerizing.  And if you're lucky and a huge flock decides to move while you're watching, it's  heart stopping.  The call increases in intensity and seems to go up in pitch, and is definitely louder and louder, as they begin to move about, stretch wings, and then up they go, rising in a white, shimmering mass, calling and winging into the sky. An exultatation of geese.  There's just nothing like it.  In fact, a Finnish composer of classical music, after witnessing such a movement, wrote a symphony, including this bird song.  If you play that music and witness a fly-off, well it's just over the top.
It's fun to search the flocks of Ross's and Snow geese for what are called 'blue-morphs'.  These are rare to unusual individuals that are dark blue to grey in color, commonly called blue geese.   You'd think they would stick out in the crowd, but they can be pretty hard to spot.
Looking out my window at home, I see the Canada goose pair across the water.  The male, now quite hormonal and guarding the female very closely, and the female, mostly just loafing around and grazing.  I wonder if she will nest this year.
 In some parts of the country Canada geese are considered pests.  Like starlings.  I appreciate the damage they can do, but watching these two, representative of the family Branta, I have to wish them well.

A Mallard Emergency

I should have noticed sooner. All afternoon, a sunny break in the rainy weather, I had worked in the side yard.  I have a native plant garden that stretches from near the house to very near the pond.  Because it's damp and shady, lots of northwest natives like it there.  I have a huckleberry, several kinds of ferns, and just last week, one of two trilliums that I successfully transplanted showed two luminous white blooms.  Trilliums like deep shade, and this one is happy under the alder, where the white faces of the flowers seem to float in the cool dark.  By the way, I bought the trilliums from a native plant nursery - it's not nice to steal from Mother Nature. So anyway, working away, I was happily oblivious to the drama unfolding not fifty feet away.

I had noticed a mallard drake swimming close to shore, but if I drifted near, he would paddle away, watching me over his shoulder.  Something should have clued me, as he kept returning, and he was alone.  Right now, we have two consistent pairs of mallards in the yard.  The males keep a baleful eye on each other, lowering their heads and chasing if one trespasses some unseen boundary, too close to the other hen.  If one does catch the other, solid bites to the tail bring home the no-trespassing message.
Our pond/stream edge was bounded by a previous owner in cedar poles.  They're sunk in the shoreline so that only about eight to ten inches remain above water.  They're like a gap-tooth smile, with lots of spaces and crooks where the ducks can climb onshore.  But some of the crooks form a kind of half circle, and in one of these, a mallard hen had been trapped.
I finally saw her when I walked to the water's edge, just to enjoy the day.  Early bees were humming and the violet-green swallows were swooping and chittering above, catching bugs and checking out the nest boxes on the shoreline.  The hen was terrified.  She had stayed quiet in order to not be discovered by the human and now that I saw her, panic ensued.  She struggled mightily to get loose, but she had evidently flown into this small space, and now she couldn't open her wings to fly free.  Her eyes were huge and she was panting.  She was convinced the end was near.  I don't think there's anything more terrifying to wild things than being trapped and approached.
I spoke quietly to her, which didn't seem to impress her one bit.  From handling birds and critters in wildlife rehab, I knew that gentle and smooth was going to work best.  Minimize the trauma.  I stooped and gathered her, holding her wings to her body, and pulled her up from her trap.  Ducks really can't hurt you.  The toe claws can give a good scrape, so they're good to avoid.  And most wild things will poop when picked up, just out of panic.  So it's good to hold them away from your jeans and shoes.
I couldn't resist admiring her.  Mallard hens look pretty drab from a distance, but up close, those browns, beiges and duns are just beautiful.  Every feather perfectly crafted and finished with delicate stippling, dots and stripes. 
But she was panting and wild-eyed.  So after checking her for any skin breaks or bad scrapes, I turned her toward the water and gave her a gentle toss.  She flew, quacking loudly, to the middle of the pond where her anxious mate met her.  He circled her, head lowered, speaking softly.   She spent a good fifteen minutes carefully grooming away any trace of her entrapment, then the couple drifted downstream to spend a quiet afternoon in the sun.
I put a big rock in the area where she was trapped so that it wouldn't happen again.  If I hadn't seen her, she could have starved there.
Back to trimming and cleaning the garden, listening to the assorted calls and songs of the ducks, redwings, goldfinches and swallows.  Nothing can beat it.

An Interesting Morning in a Costa Rican Rain Forest

It was probably the hottest day I had ever experienced.  We were deep in the jungle in Costa Rica, halfway up the side of a steep hill.  The temperature was at least 90 and the humidity was at least 95%.  Hot.  Under the jungle canopy doesn't always mean shade, it can mean airless.  It IS shadier, but somehow, the wet air doesn't feel cooler.  It was probably about ten-thirty in the morning, so it was only going to get hotter.  I thought of the novel Green Mansions.  Huge, blue morpho butterflies drifted and floated across the trail, the color of the summer sky at dusk.
We were on a birding tour to Costa Rica with a wonderful guide, Olga, who hailed from Los Angles Audubon Society.  Olga had been to Costa Rica at least twenty times and she knew the birds and where they'd be. 
 There were twelve of us and we ran the usual gamut from almost rank beginner to very serious lister.  I was somewhere in the middle, a committed birder but new to birding in this environment.  We were staying at a beautiful Rancho, tucked into a valley at the base of a rain-forested mountain,  where we rested in comfort and coolness after a busy day birding.  The rooms were spacious and cool, the food local and delicious. Norte Americanos feel very at home there.  There were, however, some basic lessons to learn. On the first night, I had to ask the proprietor to kindly remove the giant flying insects that had entered my room via screenless window.  That was the last time I forgot the rule:  close windows, then turn on lights.....

Each day we would take a trip to a different birding area.  We weren't too far from the sea, so one day we spent shore-birding.  One day at the sewage treatment plant, one on the open plain, and so on. 
This was day two and we were looking for birds in the forest canopy. If you've never been in a tropical rain forest, it's a delight.  The forest floor is soft and damp, and you're on a trail surrounded by shoulder high shrubs, forty-foot-plus tall trees and vines looping and twining everywhere.  There are a zillion birds calling, but wow, they're  hard to see in all that green cover.  You may have heard of  'warbler neck'.  It's the stiff and sore neck that results after a day of looking almost directly overhead, holding a pair of binoculars to your eyes.  There's really no other way to see these little flitty guys, as they move quite quickly gleaning insects from the air and from stems and flowers.  But when you DO see one, it's all worth it.  Brilliant reds, yellows and intense blues are the norm in the tropics.

Anyway- I was hot, had drunk all my water, worn too many clothes, was tired and lagging.  I was to the point of being silly.  The group was well ahead of us, but the trail was well-marked.   One of the major, major rules of birding in a group is to keep quiet.  Keep quiet and don't wave your arms around.  Scares off the birds.  I knew the rules. Acting stupid you should just know not to do - no matter if you're in a hot rain forest.
As my husband and I pulled up to the rear of our group, I could hear Olga saying that she had spotted a Scarlet-Thighed Dacnis in the dense cover ahead of us. Everyone was very focused on finding this beautiful bird.  However, the name seemed incredibly funny to me, so I leaned over to the elderly woman next to me and asked "Are you sure it isn't a Scarlet-Ankled Dacnis?"  Yikes- the look I got: cool, head to toe and back up, and then,  "No, dear, it's a Scarlet-Thighed Dacnis."  With this, she looked like she smelled something bad and turned away.  My husband was acting like he didn't know me, edging ever-so-slightly away.
So.  I had picked one of the serious listers to share my hilarious observation with.  I knew the correct name of the bird, as I was quite looking forward to seeing it.  This particular dacnis is songbird size, and is a combination of inky black and dense, rich turquoise, except for the feathering on the tibia, which is the area between body and what you might call the 'knee'.  These feathers are fluffy and lipstick red.  Amazingly beautiful.  What the lady dacnises must think!
I did get a good, long look at the Dacnis and made a special effort to be super-serious for the rest of the morning.  That's the only Scarlet-Thighed Dacnis I've ever seen, but I'll never forget him.  He was above us on a branch, peering down, the sun glinting on his turquoise back, showing off those red feathers.
People ask me why I bird.   Why ever not?