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?
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A March day in the yard
It's snowing. First came the hail, then it gradually feathered down to snow. The big flakes hiss down quietly into the pond, leaving a trace of slush as they fall deep and fast. The goose decoys placed in the water by our neighbor are sporting inch-deep caps on their black heads. These decoys may have played a part in our having a pair of real geese residing in the marsh across from us. I hope they will nest in the deep grass, but no sign of it yet. The gander keeps careful watch as the female grazes and dozes in the sun that has followed the snow. Even the occasional dog wandering through the field avoids his arched neck and warning hiss.
Through the soft, wet flakes I see two cold looking goldfinches at the seed feeder. Every available yellow feather is fluffed, providing insulation from the high-thirties temperature. These are the first goldfinches I've seen here this spring. The seed feeder has a roof of sorts, and they're spending the snowy afternoon chatting quietly, taking an occasional seed, fairly protected from the various downpours.
Three more newcomers have joined the duck flock, seemingly without a fluffed feather. Mixed in with the purely mallard gang are three coots, beady red eyes trained on the human who passes out the cracked corn. They're very wild and fly back to the center of the pond until I've disappeared around the corner. Then they cautiously emerge on gawky long legs, walking more like chickens than water birds. Coots have oversize greenish feet with toes that are almost fused into webs. They're very odd looking feet, but very efficient for paddling quickly away. Sooty black heads actually contrast with shiny black bodies in the weak sun. And of course, there's that wine-colored eye. Who says coots aren't beautiful?
The hellebores are in full bloom, nodding under tiny caps of snow. My favorite, a multiple petaled lavender with frothy white center, had a close examination by one of the mallard hens this morning. Quite delicately, she ran her bill over flowers and petals. Her bill vibrated softly as she checked out several flowers, barely touching them but getting the information she needed.
I held my breath, and exhaled with relief as she waddled away. Evidently my beautiful spring flowers didn't have any food value for her.
A Townsend's warbler has been coming to the hummingbird feeder. I guess this isn't unusual, I've read about others having warbler visitors. He's just gorgeous, vibrant gold, black and yellow stripes and zigzags sported on a tiny body. He perches on top of the flower part of the feeder, bends and pushes his short bill in for sugar water. It must work - he keeps returning, keeping a weather eye on the human behind the window.
The sun has been taken over by a big, billowing dark cloud. Another in a series of very wet and cold storms is moving in. The yard is quiet now, only the chickadees are still out, having a last taste of suet before they too will find shelter. The geese are roosting across the way, bodies touching, heads tucked under wings, awaiting spring.
Through the soft, wet flakes I see two cold looking goldfinches at the seed feeder. Every available yellow feather is fluffed, providing insulation from the high-thirties temperature. These are the first goldfinches I've seen here this spring. The seed feeder has a roof of sorts, and they're spending the snowy afternoon chatting quietly, taking an occasional seed, fairly protected from the various downpours.
Three more newcomers have joined the duck flock, seemingly without a fluffed feather. Mixed in with the purely mallard gang are three coots, beady red eyes trained on the human who passes out the cracked corn. They're very wild and fly back to the center of the pond until I've disappeared around the corner. Then they cautiously emerge on gawky long legs, walking more like chickens than water birds. Coots have oversize greenish feet with toes that are almost fused into webs. They're very odd looking feet, but very efficient for paddling quickly away. Sooty black heads actually contrast with shiny black bodies in the weak sun. And of course, there's that wine-colored eye. Who says coots aren't beautiful?
The hellebores are in full bloom, nodding under tiny caps of snow. My favorite, a multiple petaled lavender with frothy white center, had a close examination by one of the mallard hens this morning. Quite delicately, she ran her bill over flowers and petals. Her bill vibrated softly as she checked out several flowers, barely touching them but getting the information she needed.
I held my breath, and exhaled with relief as she waddled away. Evidently my beautiful spring flowers didn't have any food value for her.
A Townsend's warbler has been coming to the hummingbird feeder. I guess this isn't unusual, I've read about others having warbler visitors. He's just gorgeous, vibrant gold, black and yellow stripes and zigzags sported on a tiny body. He perches on top of the flower part of the feeder, bends and pushes his short bill in for sugar water. It must work - he keeps returning, keeping a weather eye on the human behind the window.
The sun has been taken over by a big, billowing dark cloud. Another in a series of very wet and cold storms is moving in. The yard is quiet now, only the chickadees are still out, having a last taste of suet before they too will find shelter. The geese are roosting across the way, bodies touching, heads tucked under wings, awaiting spring.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Not-so-common murres
Water is everywhere, flying through the air in heavy drops and splashes, the floor is awash, and the walls behind the deep sinks are soaked. It's bath time for the common murres, and they're having a ball.
At the wildlife center, one of the best times of the day for birds and people is when the murres get to bathe.
Murres are small, ocean-going birds who look like miniature penguins. No relation, but they're just as cute. About a foot tall, they stand upright like a penguin, and sport tuxedo-like colors as well. But murres can fly quite efficiently, and penguins cannot. Murres are social birds, happiest when they're in a group of other murres. They talk, preen, huddle and eat as a group.
You can see flocks of murres on the big off-shore rocks along the northwest coast. Because of their small size, they seem to be prone to getting the worst of it when a big storm hits. Murres are probably the commonest seabird found on our beaches after a storm. If birds lose the waterproofing in their feathers, they're just like us: wet, sand-covered and totally miserable. Icy ocean water gets to their skin and chills them, then they can't find food or stay buoyant. Because they're hypothermic, they're minimally functional.
A cold, wet murre is fairly easy to pick up on the beach. They can't process information or move very fast. Lucky for us and for them. If you've ever chased a possibly injured but dry bird, you know how almost impossible it is to catch them. Especially if they rush back into the chilly surf. Both rescuer and bird become quickly exhausted.
A rescued murre gets wrapped in warm toweling and transported as quickly as possible to the center. The bird is then assessed for injuries and given IV fluid by oral tube in order to begin the resuscitation process. He's put with other murres for security, and left alone to acclimate. Later will come a thorough wash to remove contaminants from feathers (yes, we do use Dawn dish soap), then a nice drying with a blow dryer.
Usually they're just wet, hungry and cold - occasionally a broken or sprained wing or foot will complicate matters and require more care. Sicker birds are paired off, since being alone is very stressful. Two murres will huddle together for comfort and security. Healthier birds are kept in bigger groups, and when it's time to swim each day, the fun begins.
As soon as a bird is picked from the group for the walk to the sink, he begins to shriek in alarm, fearing the worst. It's fun to carry them gently but firmly by the body with head pointing forward. They will 'fly' their way to the sink, giving wing muscles needed exercise.
As each newcomer arrives, he is welcomed noisily with splashing, diving and swimming. The more birds, the more noise. Volunteers are smart to wear rubber aprons, as clothing very quickly becomes soaked.
If a freak storm hits at the wrong time of the year, young murres can be found huddled and cold, on the beaches. These little guys have lost their parent birds during the bad weather. In the wild, the male adult cares for the youngsters after they've hatched. In the center, the youngsters will identify the adult males and will try to huddle under the males' wings for protection. If there are five or six young ones trying to push under one male's wings, it can be quite comical. The male is lifted up, then toppled over backwards with all the chicks following.
Happy days come when the weather moderates and the murres ready for release are taken out to be freed. They're carried in pet carriers, several to a carrier, and they talk worriedly among themselves during the drive. A calm spot on the open bay is chosen, and carriers are placed at the edge of the water, doors open. At first, the birds are suspicious, cautious. But gradually, one, two, then a group will waddle out and gracefully dip into the new water. What a joy to see. Diving, calling, whistling, dashing around each other. Freedom!
As the small, dapper birds paddle quickly away, they carry a tiny bit of every volunteer's heart with them.
At the wildlife center, one of the best times of the day for birds and people is when the murres get to bathe.
Murres are small, ocean-going birds who look like miniature penguins. No relation, but they're just as cute. About a foot tall, they stand upright like a penguin, and sport tuxedo-like colors as well. But murres can fly quite efficiently, and penguins cannot. Murres are social birds, happiest when they're in a group of other murres. They talk, preen, huddle and eat as a group.
You can see flocks of murres on the big off-shore rocks along the northwest coast. Because of their small size, they seem to be prone to getting the worst of it when a big storm hits. Murres are probably the commonest seabird found on our beaches after a storm. If birds lose the waterproofing in their feathers, they're just like us: wet, sand-covered and totally miserable. Icy ocean water gets to their skin and chills them, then they can't find food or stay buoyant. Because they're hypothermic, they're minimally functional.
A cold, wet murre is fairly easy to pick up on the beach. They can't process information or move very fast. Lucky for us and for them. If you've ever chased a possibly injured but dry bird, you know how almost impossible it is to catch them. Especially if they rush back into the chilly surf. Both rescuer and bird become quickly exhausted.
A rescued murre gets wrapped in warm toweling and transported as quickly as possible to the center. The bird is then assessed for injuries and given IV fluid by oral tube in order to begin the resuscitation process. He's put with other murres for security, and left alone to acclimate. Later will come a thorough wash to remove contaminants from feathers (yes, we do use Dawn dish soap), then a nice drying with a blow dryer.
Usually they're just wet, hungry and cold - occasionally a broken or sprained wing or foot will complicate matters and require more care. Sicker birds are paired off, since being alone is very stressful. Two murres will huddle together for comfort and security. Healthier birds are kept in bigger groups, and when it's time to swim each day, the fun begins.
As soon as a bird is picked from the group for the walk to the sink, he begins to shriek in alarm, fearing the worst. It's fun to carry them gently but firmly by the body with head pointing forward. They will 'fly' their way to the sink, giving wing muscles needed exercise.
As each newcomer arrives, he is welcomed noisily with splashing, diving and swimming. The more birds, the more noise. Volunteers are smart to wear rubber aprons, as clothing very quickly becomes soaked.
If a freak storm hits at the wrong time of the year, young murres can be found huddled and cold, on the beaches. These little guys have lost their parent birds during the bad weather. In the wild, the male adult cares for the youngsters after they've hatched. In the center, the youngsters will identify the adult males and will try to huddle under the males' wings for protection. If there are five or six young ones trying to push under one male's wings, it can be quite comical. The male is lifted up, then toppled over backwards with all the chicks following.
Happy days come when the weather moderates and the murres ready for release are taken out to be freed. They're carried in pet carriers, several to a carrier, and they talk worriedly among themselves during the drive. A calm spot on the open bay is chosen, and carriers are placed at the edge of the water, doors open. At first, the birds are suspicious, cautious. But gradually, one, two, then a group will waddle out and gracefully dip into the new water. What a joy to see. Diving, calling, whistling, dashing around each other. Freedom!
As the small, dapper birds paddle quickly away, they carry a tiny bit of every volunteer's heart with them.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Fierce, gentle love
The wind sighs through the bare branches and far below, a car passes on the tiny ribbon road, slushing through old snow. The bald eagle parent pays no attention. She (or he, hard to tell) slowly rises to a standing position in the gigantic old nest. She stretches her neck slowly and shifts her weight carefully from one foot to the other. She's been sitting for hours. As she moves, three off-white eggs appear beneath her breast and belly.
It seems early for birds to be nesting - but I think I say that every year. Tiny Anna's hummingbirds are plugged into golf-ball size nests while winter still sends sleet and temps in the high 30s. On the other end of the size spectrum, bald eagles are setting clutches of eggs, sheltering them from the snow in some parts of the country. We humans worry, but that's because we've just recently started paying attention. These birds have been successfully nesting in February for thousands of years.
I have mentioned the many 'cams' set up to observe nesting behavior. The cams are set up before the birds arrive, and the birds aren't even aware of the 'eye' watching them as they go about their daily routines.
Outside Decorah, Iowa, a bald eagle pair have returned to their high nest once again. They successfully raised three eaglets last year. If you're interested, go to "Decorah Eagle Cam" on Google or such, and there you are. An eye into the day-to-day lives of the adult pair as they prepare for three more youngsters.
Right now, as I mentioned, the eagle is standing, stretching stiff muscles. Snow can be seen on the ground far below her. The nest is probably six to seven feet across, added to and repaired each year. In the center is a deep depression, lined with soft grasses and any fur or hair the pair could find. Horse hair is a favorite. I used to leave the mane and tail trimmings from my horses in the field for the birds to use. It would all disappear in the spring.
Her feet are the size of an average woman's hands. They are bone, sinew, muscle and talon. They are strong enough to grab and lift a lamb, strong enough to tear hide. Yet these feet are now softly and carefully placed on each side of her eggs, which are lined up lengthwise under her. She bends, tilts her head to the side and with a beak capable of tearing meat from an elk carcass, oh, so gently turns each egg. Each egg takes three or four soft pushes in order to get it in just the position that satisfies her. She then very slowly and precisely lowers her body and shifts side to side several times until she is firmly set into the nest. Then, with her powerful beak, she tucks grasses and twigs around her body, just as you would tuck a blanket around a child.
Her mate will return soon with a gift of food. They will greet each other with high-pitched rapid calls and then switch places. The egg routine will be repeated by the male while the female stretches, flies and does whatever else adult eagles do for a few hours.
I minimize the eagle cam on my work computer, but leave the sound on low. The wind is a constant; songbirds can be heard in neighboring trees. When I hear the high-pitched 'kuk-kuk-kuk-' of the returning eagle, I'm a voyeur once again.
In our stressful and crazy world, there is something deeply reassuring about this ancient and timeless ritual.
It seems early for birds to be nesting - but I think I say that every year. Tiny Anna's hummingbirds are plugged into golf-ball size nests while winter still sends sleet and temps in the high 30s. On the other end of the size spectrum, bald eagles are setting clutches of eggs, sheltering them from the snow in some parts of the country. We humans worry, but that's because we've just recently started paying attention. These birds have been successfully nesting in February for thousands of years.
I have mentioned the many 'cams' set up to observe nesting behavior. The cams are set up before the birds arrive, and the birds aren't even aware of the 'eye' watching them as they go about their daily routines.
Outside Decorah, Iowa, a bald eagle pair have returned to their high nest once again. They successfully raised three eaglets last year. If you're interested, go to "Decorah Eagle Cam" on Google or such, and there you are. An eye into the day-to-day lives of the adult pair as they prepare for three more youngsters.
Right now, as I mentioned, the eagle is standing, stretching stiff muscles. Snow can be seen on the ground far below her. The nest is probably six to seven feet across, added to and repaired each year. In the center is a deep depression, lined with soft grasses and any fur or hair the pair could find. Horse hair is a favorite. I used to leave the mane and tail trimmings from my horses in the field for the birds to use. It would all disappear in the spring.
Her feet are the size of an average woman's hands. They are bone, sinew, muscle and talon. They are strong enough to grab and lift a lamb, strong enough to tear hide. Yet these feet are now softly and carefully placed on each side of her eggs, which are lined up lengthwise under her. She bends, tilts her head to the side and with a beak capable of tearing meat from an elk carcass, oh, so gently turns each egg. Each egg takes three or four soft pushes in order to get it in just the position that satisfies her. She then very slowly and precisely lowers her body and shifts side to side several times until she is firmly set into the nest. Then, with her powerful beak, she tucks grasses and twigs around her body, just as you would tuck a blanket around a child.
Her mate will return soon with a gift of food. They will greet each other with high-pitched rapid calls and then switch places. The egg routine will be repeated by the male while the female stretches, flies and does whatever else adult eagles do for a few hours.
I minimize the eagle cam on my work computer, but leave the sound on low. The wind is a constant; songbirds can be heard in neighboring trees. When I hear the high-pitched 'kuk-kuk-kuk-' of the returning eagle, I'm a voyeur once again.
In our stressful and crazy world, there is something deeply reassuring about this ancient and timeless ritual.
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