The Autumn Bird Crew

This mild Indian summer weather has been a gift.  Gold, red and orange leaves still flicker in the trees.   In the morning, deep mushroomy smells come from the woods and afternoons bring a rich, blackberry perfume. 

Even the moody clouds have provided an unusual Fall for us – no rain so far.

 The duck crew still loafs in the water off the yard each morning, waiting for the human to come out and toss corn.  As soon as I round the house where they can see me, a soft muttering conversation begins among them and then one by one, they burst from the water and land in the lower yard.  Some are so wild that the moment they land they take off again, rethinking their brash move.  Eventually they all arrive and dig in.

 I’ve begun to toss a handful of shelled sunflower seed onto our stone patio.   Juncos, hooded like tiny monks, towhees and two bossy Steller’s jays take turns with a very industrious Townsend’s chipmunk.   The chipmunk races over the stones, belly almost on the ground, Hoovering seed as fast as he can.  His cheek pouches look about to burst.   He’ll have an easy winter,  I think.  By the way, if you get a chance to look closely at a Steller’s jay, note the wonderful vertical blue eyebrows on the black face.  Quite stylish. 

The pugnacious Anna’s hummingbirds have relaxed a little since their competitors, the Rufous hummers, have headed south.  The male Anna’s sits on the feeder perch surveying his domain.  If he had a little comment bubble above his head it would say “Mine….all mine.” 

And the Peregrine falcons are back.  Look for sleek, dark hunters with a characteristic helmet band on the face.   We came upon one on the beach  who had just  taken down a crow and was beginning  his feast, hungrily pulling feathers away from skin.  He had neatly removed the crow’s head, which lay nearby.  He won’t leave very much behind, and whatever is left will be eaten by others: insects, other carrion eaters such as ravens, even other crows.  It’s the clean up crew and that‘s a good thing.

I’m taking in the seed feeder every night since the neighborhood bear managed to climb our holly tree, inch out on a branch that was too small and bring the entire thing down, bear and seed feeder included.  He then proceeded to bend the metal feeder into an S shape.  It was high enough that we needed a ladder to refill it.  Now it comes in at night.   When I carry it out in the early morning, chickadees sound their two-note alarm call and retreat farther into the shore pine.  I hang the feeder and as soon as I move away, the family of chestnut-backed chickadees and two red breasted nuthatches head for breakfast.  Nuthatches hunt insects on tree bark head-down, going from high to low, using their sharp bill to pry for food.  When they fly to the tube feeder, they land head-down on the mesh, take one seed and fly away.  Chickadees also take one seed and fly to another branch where they delicately hold the seed between their tiny feet while they eat it.

So even though it’s Fall and things seem quieter, there’s always something going on in the yard.   Just now the varied thrush, looking like an orange-black meadowlark, is skulking just at the edge of the heather.  His low, haunting whistle echoes through the shadowy woods.

It's that wonderful, turning-in time of year when there is a soft mist over the water, all the reeds turn golden and the winter birds are returning.  Those harvest moons, huge and pale gold, are sailing west over the ocean.  Magical.  There is something quite reassuring about the predictable, lovely changes of the seasons.  Life will throw us curve balls, but for me,  if the varied thrush returns and sings deep in the woods, all will be well.

Some Thoughts on the Federal Duck Stamp Program

On misty fall mornings in marshes and lakes across the country, the voices of geese and ducks can be heard calling and echoing as they pass above in ragged vees or from flocks gathered on still, mirrored water.   It’s a Norman Rockwell picture of autumn in America. 

There was a time when these ponds and ducks and geese were in real danger of disappearing.  Their numbers had become dangerously low and the potholes were being filled in to provide more arable land.   This was during the Great Depression and people were killing wildfowl and other animals simply to feed their families.  It was a hardscrabble time. 

Wildfowl conservation seemed like a frivolous thing to talk about in those dark days, but out of those days came the  Federal Duck Stamp Program.   The Duck Stamp Program was nicknamed the “little program that could”, and since its inception in 1934, has generated more than $750 million dollars.  Ninety-eight cents of each of those dollars has been used to help purchase or lease 5.3 million acres of waterfowl habitat in the U. S., much of which is now protected within the National Wildlife Refuge System.

So, what is a duck stamp and where do they come from?  The Program was started by President Roosevelt, and to this day, all hunters must buy a duck stamp every year in order to hunt wildfowl.  In order to make it interesting, the Federal Government provides a juried art event to choose the stamp every year, and it’s a very prestigious win for wildlife artists.  This year there were over 200 entries.  The artists are given a limited choice of wildfowl types to paint.  This year’s winner shows a male and female canvasback.   There is also a Junior Duck Stamp Contest and you see some of the incredible entries now at the Ocean Park Library.

Ducks Unlimited, a hunters’ organization, has been instrumental in supporting the Program. But, you say, hunters kill ducks, right?   Yes, but.   Here is a comparison of ways birds are lost.   

 Annual waterfowl hunts account for 15 million bird kills a year.

 Window crashes, cat kills, high tension wires, cars and communication towers account for over five times that many kills a year!  These stats were compiled by David Allen Sibley in 2003.  Sibley is a birder and conservationist.

Plus, when a piece of land is set aside by the Duck Stamp Program, not only the wildfowl are protected.  Frogs, newts, shorebirds, coyotes, bats, whatever other critters use that area are also protected from habitat loss.  

Hunter numbers across the U. S. are dwindling, and the environmental community has been slow to recognize the value of the Duck Stamp Program.   Birders don’t have to buy a stamp to go out in the field, and some argue that birding is ‘non-extractive’.   We don’t take home a brace of birds, but there is our vehicle impact, trail maintenance and so on.  

I say, buy a stamp if you care about the birds.  If you shoot them or watch them, we’re all in this together.  If we care about habitat and wildlife, the stamp is a good thing.  And a current stamp will get you free admission to any wildlife refuge open to the public.  (When they re-open, that is.)

You can purchase this small piece of art at your local post office, local refuge or online.  There is an excellent small book  about the Duck Stamp Program called  “The Wild Duck Chase”  by Martin J. Smith.  Our library system has it.

So the next time to look up to admire a noisy flock of geese or ducks, know that you can help to support them.

Stormy Autumn Days

I’m writing this on Saturday afternoon and the Peninsula is getting hosed.  We got the bird feeders in just in time~ the seed gets soaked and the feeders usually end up in the ditch across the road in a storm like this.   I wonder where the birds hunker down during a washout like this.   What I read is that land birds get as close to a tree trunk as possible, on the lee side and just wait it out.  Small birds like chickadees will group together for warmth. Water birds find the protected side of the lake or river, face into the wind, and ride the waves.  Healthy birds are waterproof, so by facing into the wind, they keep the water out of their feathers.  Unlike horses and cattle who you usually see tail-ends to the storm.  Not waterproof either way, I guess.

This is an early storm and it’s hitting during the peak of Fall migration.  Not a good thing.   The high, wet winds will be a hindrance to southerly flight and cause birds to use up much more energy than on a dry, windless journey.  They have been stoking up on seed and insects just for this trip, and hopefully will have adequate food stores to get where they need to.  The flocks will make stops along the way to refuel, once they’ve left the storm behind.   A kind request:  if you run your dog on the beach and see a big flock of sandpipers this time of year, they’re doing the refueling thing.  If they are chased off their feeding ground, it causes them to waste valuable energy.  Let your pooch chase a stick this time around and give the birds a break.

Birds are definitely on the move south.  The little cinnamon-green hummers - Rufous, by name, are now few and far between at our feeders.  I have a feeder just outside my office window where the cat and I can watch these little guys duke it out with the pugnacious Anna’s hummers.   Only the Anna’s  are here now, and they will stay the winter.   Our Anna’s perches in the ell of the house, on the lee side out of the rain by the chimney and makes forays to the nearest feeder.  These are greener feathered hummers, and the males'  gorgets, or throat plates, are a vivid maroon when they catch the light.  Stunning. 

As I type, an immature Anna's just briefly checked out the feeder.  His, or her, color is still undefined, lots of gray mixed in with white and brown/green.   So tiny, and their feet- delicate perfect black toes, almost hairlike.  I love the way most birds neatly tuck feet and legs back when flying, then extend them just perfectly when landing.  A small thing, but a gift to observe, I think. 

As the days shorten and the rains continue, I'll watch for the Anna's at the feeder.    I'll look forward to their buzzing-around-my-head demands when I go out in the cold to refresh their feeder.   Even if it's raining, there are wild things to bring joy.

A Grebe Experience

When you see Western Grebes floating serenely in the bays and inlets near us, it’s easy to think, “wow, what a regal and peaceful looking bird.  So beautiful...”   And they are, most of the time.   When captive and in a strange place, not so much!

Western Grebes are stately  black and white water birds that winter along our coast and in protected bays.  You may have seen a photo of their mating dance, where two grebes ‘run’ across the water, side by side.   Looks impossible but they do it.

A very bad winter storm at sea a few years ago brought a bumper crop of Western Grebes to the Wildlife Center.  For some reason, these particular birds were heavily impacted.   When they washed onto our shores, they were wet to the bone, hypothermic, weak and hungry.  And really challenging to capture. 

 Western Grebes have  long, snake-like necks, a small head and a thin, very sharp beak.   In order to protect themselves, they strike out with this beak at whatever – read whoever – is  perceived as a threat.  They are quick and accurate too.   Add to this  that the usually sleek black feathers on the top of their heads stand straight up when they’re antagonized, that their eyes are fiery red and that they can screech like banshees.  Not a bird for a novice bird rehabber to handle!   They’re just trying to protect themselves, and it’s a pretty effective effort.

This storm brought us probably over seventy Western Grebes within a 2-3 day period.  They were everywhere at the Center: in boxes, in wire pens, in big dog crates, anywhere they would fit.   Luckily they’re pretty sociable birds, so more than one could go into a container.  But looking down into a pen full of Grebes was like looking at a bunch of screeching cobras.   You just had to pick one out visually and gently but firmly hold it by the neck near the head – just to immobilize that bill.   Then get your other hand around the bird and lift quickly, keeping it’s rear away from you, as a big squirt was usually the next thing that happened.

We washed, dried and fed nothing but Grebes for days on end.  We waterproofed till we ran out of dish soap.  Hairdryers running on wet birds blended with the unearthly screeching- ear plugs were a must. 

Keeping that much fish thawed was a challenge too.  The Center has freezers full of frozen fish of all kinds, since every sea bird likes a different kind of fish.  And,  some like it diced up, some cut in half, some whole.   This is a sophisticated bird restaurant.   So boxes of the right fish were thawed, cut and placed in communal feeding pans.   Once the Grebes were healthy they made short work of the fish on offer.   A daily swim was in order for each bird, so they were carried  one by one by gloved volunteers to the bathing area and placed with other Grebes for a nice bath.   More screeching, but happier now:  water is their element.

Once the birds were healthy and waterproof,  on a calm day off they would go for release in  the Bay.  Volunteers love this part.  Sassy birds dash for freedom, fluff, dive and resurface, then do it all again.  Pure joy and the same for us, as we helped this happen.

Baby Birds Lessons

The yard is full of  baby bird song now.  Well, it’s actually not song, but begging calls.   You’ve probably seen the young crows  following right behind a parent, squatting and fluffing like a helpless nestling and making a whiny, kid sound.  That’s the only way I can describe it.  “C’mon Mom, feed me, I’m dying here.”   The patient parent pokes some nutritious bug or seed into the gaping mouth, probably hoping for some quiet.

The flock of twenty or so young red-winged blackbirds are feeling their oats, flying and singing across the yard, pretty heedless of any danger.   Yesterday I heard a loud clunk, the sound I’ve come to know means bird-window collision.  Sure enough, below my big window (which is well-marked for bird safety by the way) lay a stunned young red-wing.   Wings and tail open and flush with the ground, head extended and eyes open.  Didn’t look good.  I gently picked him up and met no resistance.  Really stunned, maybe too hurt to make it. But there was tone in his neck- his head didn’t flop down, and both legs quickly pulled back when I touched his feet.

I put him into a dark, well-ventilated box in a quiet corner of the garage and hoped for the best.  When I checked in a half an hour, he was hopping ready to get out of there and back to his pals.  He flew straight and true for the feeder for a catch-up snack. He was lucky.  Window collisions kill millions of birds a year.   It’s easy to prevent too.   I like to hang a long string of colored glass beads in each window.  It gives birds perspective and they then ‘see’ the glass.   Most of them anyway.  Youngsters are a different deal.  You have to be looking where you’re going for it to work.   Kids.

The osprey parents have a new fledgling, and both parents and youngster cheep noisily as they circle the lake.  Such a fierce, majestic bird, and they cheep like a songbird.   The youngster’s new wings haven’t developed all the muscles he will need for migration and he needs flight time.   But again, like most adolescents, he wants to hang out  -- in the nearest tree, watching the parents work for a living.   He perched happily this morning and one of the adults came flying in from behind and bumped him right off the branch.  Fly, baby. 

Hairy woodpeckers live in our area, but they’re heard much more often than seen.  They have a high, descending kind of laughing call, called a ‘whinny’.  The hairy woodpecker couple have a fledgling too, and one parent brings him to our suet feeder early mornings.  Hairys have a beautiful red cap on their head,  complimenting a black and white body.  The youngster hasn’t feathered in with adult feathers and is sort of a graphite gray.   He had a lesson in getting suet from a feeder.  Parent would reach in and peck off a succulent bit, then turn and face the baby, who clearly thought it was his.  But no, parent ate it, looking pointedly at the baby then the suet.   Baby wasn’t happy.  All this time parent had willingly fed him, what’s the deal?  After many, many tries, the youngster reluctantly went for his own suet.   I can imagine a bubble over the parent’s head saying something like “Finally!”

And of course, all of the ducks have grown into beautiful, fully-feathered adults.  The three light colored ducks are still just that: mallard-ish, but with a pale tan undertone instead of brown.  They’re beautiful and I hope to see them back next year.  They’ll be easy to identify.

So life carries on.  This was a good year for the birds,  with many successful broods.  There are so many more I haven’t mentioned. The golden clouds of goldfinches sailing from holly tree to shore pine, singing, singing.  The new spotted towhee learning to hop and feed.   Life is good.   

How to Wash a Dirty Bird

It was the morning after a dark and stormy night.  At the Wildlife Center, a new, bedraggled duck had been brought in for care.  This was a surf scoter, more commonly known as a sea duck.  These are big, burly, heavily feathered ducks that thrive in the open sea, effortlessly riding the huge swells.   They breed and nest on the far northern tundra and winter in our bays. 

They sport a bright orange and white bill that seems to start at the top of the bird’s head, black body and white eye.   Lovely orange feet complete the ensemble.

This guy was found in the Hammond boat basin. He was wet to the skin – never a good thing for a water bird – thin and weak.  It still took some skilled acrobatics from a sea kayak to nab him in a net.

He now sat in a warm, well-ventilated cardboard box, towel wrapped around him.  He looked kind of like an exhausted boxer after a tough bout.  Often we have no idea how a bird becomes ill and compromised- they are simply rescued and brought to the Center.   This one got into some chemicals somewhere in the water that caused his feathers to lose their waterproofing.  That’s all it takes.  Icy water getting through to skin causes hypothermia, which inhibits feeding which leads to weakness and death, unless a rescue happens.

So, how to clean a sea bird.

Gather two plastic pans- think shallow kitty litter boxes.  Fill them both with hot water and add LOTS of Dawn liquid dish soap to one.   The label tells the truth: it’s the best thing to use for de-oiling birds.   Put enough liquid soap in to make the water ‘slimy’ to your fingers.  Find at least one more person to help.  Gently but firmly place the duck in the first pan and  hold him as still as possible.  The helper  then scrub, scrub, scrubs.  Fingers massage feathers down to skin everywhere on the bird.  You can imagine that the duck, at this point, thinks his life is over.  We work as quickly as possible, but we’re not done yet.  Wash and scrub more.   Put the bird gently into the water-only pan and rinse with a strong stream of warm water, getting into all the hidden spots, like way under the wings and tail.  Run the water against the feather grain until the feathers feel squeaky clean.  Then…..do it all again – rinse and fill the first pan with more hot water and Dawn and start over.  More dirt and oil will appear like magic.  Birds can hold a lot of contaminants in their feathers.  Another rinse and you have an exhausted but clean bird.

Gently but quickly dry him with warm towels and place him gently in an enclosure that is dim and quiet.  If the bird is shivering, a hair dryer on low speed can be aimed into the enclosure.   We check on the washed birds but try not to disturb them until they are able to regain their equilibrium.   These are sturdy guys and unless there’s underlying illness or trauma, they’ll be ready for a nice fish dinner in a few hours.   This washing process doesn’t waterproof the bird. The bird does that.  Not just ducks either.  Each feather needs to be ‘zipped’ closed  by careful preening, and oil from an oil gland on the bird’s backside is used as a final finish.  But the feathers must be clean in order for this to be possible.

Our scoter did well and was soon doing his ‘threat’ posturing when we opened his door.  This consists of a lowered, extended head, weaving back and forth and an open bill.   Not too scary but hey, it’s all he’s got, and we like spunk in our birds.

A week or so later we watched with big smiles as he was released into Young’s Bay.  He fluffed his now clean and waterproofed feathers and immediately dove down long and far.  We wished him well and went back to the Center to wash down another bird or two. 

Final Leg of our Nayarit Birding Tour

El Camino Real is an ancient stone road that is still used by local people.  At La Bajada, the road climbs from the town of Las Palmas through the forest to a pass in the Sierra Madre. The road itself is about six feet across and is made of smooth rounded rocks that are about 2-3 inches round.  The local people who were working in the shade grown coffee plantation passed by us quietly, either climbing higher or walking down to the village below.  Old men led gray-white burros  on frayed ropes, laden with water and supplies.  Men and women picked the ripe coffee berries, placing them in baskets as children played among the trees.

  Birding a portion of the forest that pushes in on either side of the road was very productive.   Birds are abundant in the canopy around and above the coffee trees in the shade plantation.  The coffee trees thrive under the canopy and the birds thrive in the trees. It all works, as you know if you've tasted excellent Mexican shade grown coffee.   We located red-billed pigeon; two very territorial Colima pygmy-owls, another Mexican endemic; more good looks at the Berylline hummingbird; elegant trogons, ivory-billed woodcreeper (not woodpecker sadly),  San Blas jay; blue mockingbird; hooded oriole and many, many more.

 As we drove the rutted village road out to the main road, we passed huge open warehouses where the harvested bananas were brought, waiting for pickup. The roadside stands run by local women selling 'pan de platano', banana bread, were open and the aroma of the baking bread was quite wonderful. 

On our last full day of birding we learned that it's not necessary to leave the city limits of San Blas to find excellent birds.  A densely wooded section of road running through the suburbs to the beach yielded a ferruginous pygmy-owl; merlin; gila and lineated woodpeckers; plumbeous vireo and most surprising of all, an orange-billed nightingale-thrush, head back and singing lustily.   This was a first sighting for this location.

The days passed quickly in San Blas, each filled with unforgettable beauty: the birds, the dense forest, the river and its tributaries, the friendly people.  I'll return to San Blas to savor its richness again and again.