One of the great things about birding is that it gets me outside, with sort of an objective in mind. I know I'll see some birds, probably the usual suspects, but you never know. And if my spirits need a boost, a solitary walk in the woods, or on the bay, with binocs is guaranteed to do me good. If no exciting birds are seen, it's a reminder that it's the journey that counts. Birders have to think that way or we get very tense....
Many birders have what are called jinx birds. A jinx bird is usually local, a bird that the birder just hasn't seen, despite many trips. Always in the wrong place at the right time. "You should have been with us, he just perched there for minutes..." you hear from your erstwhile birding friends.
For a long time, one of my jinx birds was a wrentit. This little bird inhabits only the far west coast, up to the Columbia River. No wrentits have ever been seen on the Washington side, and the assumption is that they will not risk crossing the wide river. I guess they have all they need on the Oregon side, so why push?
This is a secretive, lurky little bird. (I use that as an excuse for missing them for so long, although I've seen other lurky birds.) They are chickadee size, buffy-grey, and the northern wrentits (Oregon ones) have a reddish blush to their breasts. And they have lovely yellow eyes. I know their song and have heard it many times while walking at Ft. Stevens State Park, west of Astoria: wrentit heaven, I had been told.
Having experienced the loss of my father after a long, unhappy year of watching his decline, I decided one day I needed to get out and walk. I chose to follow along the path at Coffenberry Lake, even though it was raining. This is in Fort Stevens, aka wrentit heaven. My mind really wasn't on finding a life bird, but I never, ever go out without my binocs. Too many times I've regretted it.
The path was damp, and therefore quiet under my boots. I was moving along feeling the lift in my heart from just smelling the Doug firs and the damp sea air. The lake trail takes a few abrupt turns along the shore, and just as I rounded a turn, there perched a very surprised wrentit. If there had been a cartoon bubble above his head it would have said "Yikes!!" I didn't even need my binocs. He was perched on some salal about five feet ahead and to the side. In full view. Wow. He froze just long enough for me to really see him, then he was gone, deep into the underbrush. I peered under the salal and spent another ten minutes trying to re-find him, but he was so gone. I'm sure he was deep in the underbrush, watching me!
It's great to find a new life bird, but there's also a little sadness about finding a jinx bird too. Checked off the list. Lucky there are approximately 9,979 more birds in the world to see.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Weathery Day
The Great Backyard Bird Count (GBBC) (www.birdsource.org/gbbc/whycount.html) is a yearly event sponsored by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. It happens in February every year and runs for four days. The Lab asks that folks count birds for as little or as long as they want during the four days, then report the highest number of birds of each species seen. You can do it in your backyard, that's the beauty of it.
The Friends of Willapa National Wildlife Refuge held their GBBC on Saturday, February 18, in our wonderful big backyard, the Refuge.
That day was what my grandmother would have called a 'weathery' day. And then some!
If you remember, it didn't just rain. It came down thick and sideways in a strong, gusty wind, sometimes accompanied by hail. Sort of like being in a car wash without the car.
That didn't stop the intrepid Refuge folks, nor the Shoalwater Birder group. We were colorfully arrayed in all manner of waterproof gear, from camo to pink nylon - as long as it kept out the water.
The group met at the Tarlett Slough unit, off 95th by the PUD. Introductions made, we started on our way to the bay.
We followed a beautiful hidden track at the end of the road that meanders out to the foot of the bay. The track is a lovely, unhurried way to get to the water, over small hills, around quiet bends, making us always wonder what we might surprise just around the next corner. We passed a steep muddy grade where the elk herd half walks, half slides, to get down to the track and on to the water.
A red-tailed hawk flushed from an overhanging alder when we rounded a bend. We heard his keening call as he was caught and carried by the gusting wind.
Further out, an immature bald eagle was chattering as he played in the wind, tilting like a kite, too heavy to be really bothered by the gusts.
The small birds, however, were staying down. They were likely hunkered up in the firs and alders on the lee side of the hill, staying as dry and warm as possible.
A western grebe dove and surfaced in the shallows, staying out of the current of the strong incoming tide.
The rain and wind were pushing us, the feathery mist was almost down to the water's surface. It was weathery. I looked around at the group, and there were rosy cheeks and smiles all around.
There is something wonderful about being out like that. As long as you're dry, it's quite special. We were participating in a valued activity, having a good time with like souls, and getting hosed.
I guess you had to be there. I felt embraced by the wind, the trees whistling in the gusts, the mist swirling on the water, the spirit of the place.
And afterward, the cup of hot coffee in the warm car was the best treat imaginable.
Julie Tennis and Nancy Holman, the Refuge angels, will summarize and submit our findings to Cornell Lab. I know that I will return to that track again and walk the trail to the bay, savoring the wildness that is so close to home.
The Friends of Willapa National Wildlife Refuge held their GBBC on Saturday, February 18, in our wonderful big backyard, the Refuge.
That day was what my grandmother would have called a 'weathery' day. And then some!
If you remember, it didn't just rain. It came down thick and sideways in a strong, gusty wind, sometimes accompanied by hail. Sort of like being in a car wash without the car.
That didn't stop the intrepid Refuge folks, nor the Shoalwater Birder group. We were colorfully arrayed in all manner of waterproof gear, from camo to pink nylon - as long as it kept out the water.
The group met at the Tarlett Slough unit, off 95th by the PUD. Introductions made, we started on our way to the bay.
We followed a beautiful hidden track at the end of the road that meanders out to the foot of the bay. The track is a lovely, unhurried way to get to the water, over small hills, around quiet bends, making us always wonder what we might surprise just around the next corner. We passed a steep muddy grade where the elk herd half walks, half slides, to get down to the track and on to the water.
A red-tailed hawk flushed from an overhanging alder when we rounded a bend. We heard his keening call as he was caught and carried by the gusting wind.
Further out, an immature bald eagle was chattering as he played in the wind, tilting like a kite, too heavy to be really bothered by the gusts.
The small birds, however, were staying down. They were likely hunkered up in the firs and alders on the lee side of the hill, staying as dry and warm as possible.
A western grebe dove and surfaced in the shallows, staying out of the current of the strong incoming tide.
The rain and wind were pushing us, the feathery mist was almost down to the water's surface. It was weathery. I looked around at the group, and there were rosy cheeks and smiles all around.
There is something wonderful about being out like that. As long as you're dry, it's quite special. We were participating in a valued activity, having a good time with like souls, and getting hosed.
I guess you had to be there. I felt embraced by the wind, the trees whistling in the gusts, the mist swirling on the water, the spirit of the place.
And afterward, the cup of hot coffee in the warm car was the best treat imaginable.
Julie Tennis and Nancy Holman, the Refuge angels, will summarize and submit our findings to Cornell Lab. I know that I will return to that track again and walk the trail to the bay, savoring the wildness that is so close to home.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Gift of a Storm
Well, so much for the wonderful sunny break we had from weather reality. The rain is back, the wind is gusting and the ducks are huddled in the spare shelter of the shore grass, heads into the wind. The storms at sea have been significant, as seen in the stormy waves booming up closer and heavier on the beach.
It's a good day to go down to the mouth of the Columbia and see what's cooking. Strong onshore winds force in birds that would normally not come near shore. Storm-petrels are robin-size birds that live at sea most of their lives. They are tough little guys. I always think of big, burly birds, maybe albatrosses, being sea-worthy. But when you think of the power of the vast and trackless sea, what does a few pounds matter? There are several small pelagic (sea-going) birds that do just fine on the towering twenty-foot swells.
I was lucky enough to see one of the most beautiful storm-petrels last year. I had climbed up the viewing platform at the well-known Parking Lot C in Ft. Stevens State Park, in the far NW corner of Oregon. The platform is made of heavy,sturdy wood, but when there's a storm, the entire structure shudders when a wave hits the jetty, a mere 30 feet away. It is awesome, in the truest sense of the word. As you reach the top of the platform, the wind will give you a good shove back, just to make sure you're on your toes. Rain mixes with water blown off of the tops of the waves to provide a good soaking. What a great place!
If you can keep your optics clear of water, there can be a lot to see in the corner water between the beach and the jetty. This day I was so lucky. I saw what looked like a very light-colored bird walking on top of the smooth water between the waves. I pulled out my ID book to find that it was a fork-tailed storm petrel. A new one for me.
The wonderful thing about storm petrels is that they feed by hovering just above the water, so that their feet just touch the waves. It looks like they're dancing. This little bird adeptly dodged the big swells, flying up and over, effortlessly coming down to tiptoe on the water again.
For the bird, this is food gathering behavior; nothing more. But for a drenched, wind-driven human, it was pure magic to watch the delicate ballet of a tiny bit of vibrant life, making his way in the harsh north Pacific.
It's a good day to go down to the mouth of the Columbia and see what's cooking. Strong onshore winds force in birds that would normally not come near shore. Storm-petrels are robin-size birds that live at sea most of their lives. They are tough little guys. I always think of big, burly birds, maybe albatrosses, being sea-worthy. But when you think of the power of the vast and trackless sea, what does a few pounds matter? There are several small pelagic (sea-going) birds that do just fine on the towering twenty-foot swells.
I was lucky enough to see one of the most beautiful storm-petrels last year. I had climbed up the viewing platform at the well-known Parking Lot C in Ft. Stevens State Park, in the far NW corner of Oregon. The platform is made of heavy,sturdy wood, but when there's a storm, the entire structure shudders when a wave hits the jetty, a mere 30 feet away. It is awesome, in the truest sense of the word. As you reach the top of the platform, the wind will give you a good shove back, just to make sure you're on your toes. Rain mixes with water blown off of the tops of the waves to provide a good soaking. What a great place!
If you can keep your optics clear of water, there can be a lot to see in the corner water between the beach and the jetty. This day I was so lucky. I saw what looked like a very light-colored bird walking on top of the smooth water between the waves. I pulled out my ID book to find that it was a fork-tailed storm petrel. A new one for me.
The wonderful thing about storm petrels is that they feed by hovering just above the water, so that their feet just touch the waves. It looks like they're dancing. This little bird adeptly dodged the big swells, flying up and over, effortlessly coming down to tiptoe on the water again.
For the bird, this is food gathering behavior; nothing more. But for a drenched, wind-driven human, it was pure magic to watch the delicate ballet of a tiny bit of vibrant life, making his way in the harsh north Pacific.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
This Sun-filled Day
It's one of those peerless days here. Early February and the sky is pure, cool blue, the sun shining. It warms the heart even if it is a little chilly outside. The wind is blowing, but not too hard, freshening us, making us know that true spring will come again. The water riffles softly under the moving air, pushing the mallard hens gently toward shore. They dip their heads, taste the water, and rainbow drops fall along their necks. They speak quietly, a murmurration of ducks. The tufts of golden grass along the lake shore dance just a little.
Under the feeder the brilliant fox sparrow cautiously moves from cover into the sun. His deep umber arrowhead breast markings are brilliant. The song sparrow perches on the highest snag near the feeder, giving his familiar call. The juncos, looking like small hooded monks, hop in the grass, chase each other, jet around the big shore pine, then return to feed. The towhee, brilliant in spotted spring dress already, peers from deep cover, always cautious.
The Spanish name for towhee is El Raskador. This is a perfect name for towhees. When they search for food, they grasp the loose, dead leaves and duff in their large clawed feet and hop backwards. This reveals open ground and whatever morsels, such as grubs or insects, were buried. This movement in dry duff makes a rasping sound. Therefore, raskador - the maker of rasking noises.
A small flock of gulls circles above the water, one of them blindingly, lovely white against the sky.
The Anna's hummingbird is just now at the feeder, alternately sipping and scanning for the other hummingbird. He owns this feeder and is quite clear about it. His face and throat just flashed brilliant red-purple in the winter sun.
More rain and hard wind will come, maybe ice and snow again. But this heavenly respite, this deep breath of sun-warmed air will carry us through.
Under the feeder the brilliant fox sparrow cautiously moves from cover into the sun. His deep umber arrowhead breast markings are brilliant. The song sparrow perches on the highest snag near the feeder, giving his familiar call. The juncos, looking like small hooded monks, hop in the grass, chase each other, jet around the big shore pine, then return to feed. The towhee, brilliant in spotted spring dress already, peers from deep cover, always cautious.
The Spanish name for towhee is El Raskador. This is a perfect name for towhees. When they search for food, they grasp the loose, dead leaves and duff in their large clawed feet and hop backwards. This reveals open ground and whatever morsels, such as grubs or insects, were buried. This movement in dry duff makes a rasping sound. Therefore, raskador - the maker of rasking noises.
A small flock of gulls circles above the water, one of them blindingly, lovely white against the sky.
The Anna's hummingbird is just now at the feeder, alternately sipping and scanning for the other hummingbird. He owns this feeder and is quite clear about it. His face and throat just flashed brilliant red-purple in the winter sun.
More rain and hard wind will come, maybe ice and snow again. But this heavenly respite, this deep breath of sun-warmed air will carry us through.
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