Nora’s 2012 Rich Stallcup PRBO Bird-A-Thon (or, as it turned out, the Red-breasted Nuthatch-A-Thon)

Red-breasted Nuthatch at the Point Reyes Lighthouse observation deck.

 

They were everywhere, and they were plentiful. Oh, little Red-breasted Nuthatch (or Red-Nut, as I affectionately call them), you tricked me every time. Warbler? Nope, it’s another Red-Nut. Wait, something else just flew over there…nope, Red-Nut. Well, you itty-bitty-flitty “yank, yank, yank”-ing Sittidae, I still love you, even though the purpose of my Bird-A-Thon was to see as many species as possible instead of individuals of one species (had I only counted Nuthatches, perhaps it would have increased my final tally!) but you and your brethren had commandeered the Outer Point cypress trees to the point of total domination, letting no other songbird rest their tired wings and fatten up on grubs. I still appreciate your goofy little noises and your awesome stripy head. I’ll look at you any day.

It started in the waning full moon at Five Brooks Pond in Olema. My brother Ben joined me in the surprisingly bright and warm morning that smelled like horse manure, dust, and bay leaves (the smells of our childhood, and, specifically for me, my 5^th birthday party). We wandered around listening to the birds wake up. The first bird of the day was a covey of CALIFORNIA QUAIL exploding out of the bushes near the parking lot. It sounded like a predator was rustling around in the bush, which was exciting. MALLARDS and AMERICAN WIGEON quacked and squeaked from the pond (I love how wigeons sound like squeaky puppy toys). Slowly, the other birds began to wake up. SPOTTED TOWHEEs called from the bushes as horses whinnied from the stables. The persistent simple call of the BLACK PHOEBE stayed with us all day. Ben spotted a BARN OWL swooping towards us in a dark meadow. It perched on a snag, ruffled its feathers, and took off again into the dark.

The dark meadow at Five Brooks, just before the Barn Owl flew up.

The dawn chorus began almost exactly fifteen minutes before sunrise: SONG SPARROWS, HERMIT THRUSHES, PACIFIC WRENS, AMERICAN and LESSER GOLDFINCHES, GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLETS, WRENTITS, and FOX SPARROWS mostly calling rather than singing. A RED-SHOULDERED HAWK called out his repetitive “Kee-ah, kee-ah” and AMERICAN CROWS and COMMON RAVENS began to call as well. STELLER’S JAYS and WESTERN  SCRUB-JAYS called and rattled from the woods and edges. On the pond we found a single AMERICAN COOT and several WOOD DUCKS (what a beautiful and exotic looking bird!).

Wood Duck pair.

I heard a BROWN CREEPER sing from deep in the dark woods and a HUTTON’S VIREO “sneeze”. CHESTNUT-BACKED CHICKADEES and BUSHTITS began to gather in flocks and Ben identified a NORTHERN FLICKER calling. A PILEATED WOODPECKER (aka dinosaur bird) flew to a tree close to us. All these birds before sunrise! As the sun hit the trees we watched YELLOW-RUMPED and TOWNSEND’S WARBLERS foraging for insects with hyper RUBY-CROWNED KINGLETS. A VARIED THRUSH flew into a bay tree not 4 feet from us! We saw a Woodrat balancing on a bramble bush and a Muskrat swimming through the pond with green vegetation in its teeth. We picked up a DOWNY WOODPECKER, a GOLDEN-CROWNED SPARROW, a BEWICK’S WREN, a PACIFIC-SLOPE FLYCATCHER, a CALIFORNIA TOWHEE, a TURKEY VULTURE, DARK-EYED JUNCOS, a NUTTALL’S WOODPECKER, and our first few RED-BREASTED NUTHATCHES of the day before we took off for the Outer Point. On the drive out, we saw AMERICAN ROBINS, EUROPEAN STARLINGS, EURASIAN COLLARED-DOVES, a WHITE-TAILED KITE (while driving by the Olema Marsh), and a DOUBLE-CRESTED CORMORANT (flying over Highway 1). We stopped at a Giacomini Marsh overlook and picked up KILLDEER, GREAT EGRET, and MARSH WREN. We stopped for a breakfast bagel at the Blackbird in Inverness and saw CANADA GEESE, WESTERN GULL, ACORN WOODPECKER, SNOWY EGRET, and BELTED KINGFISHER. On a stop where the road crosses the Drakes Bay Estero we picked up PINE SISKINS and WHITE-CROWNED SPARROWS. At F Ranch (Abandoned Ranch), we watched WESTERN MEADOWLARKS fly frantically back and forth in the short grazed coastal scrub and HOUSE FINCHES perch on the tips of the cypress trees. We picked up BREWER’S BLACKBIRD, MOURNING DOVE, and watched an AMERICAN KESTREL fly into his old nest and then back out to perch abidingly on a snag. Also at F Ranch were a HAIRY WOODPECKER and a COOPER’S HAWK perched on a fencepost.

American Kestrel at F Ranch.

Cooper's Hawk at F Ranch.

We checked out B Ranch to see if the Ovenbird and Connecticut Warbler were still there, but they had flown the coop. We luckily saw the Ovenbird the day before, so Ben got a great look at this awesome bird then. I’ve seen them in the Southeast, but it was amazing to see one strutting around like a mini chicken underneath the mossy cypress trees in Point Reyes. So, no luck with these rarities, but we did see RED-WINGED and TRI-COLORED BLACKBIRDS, HOUSE SPARROWS, SAVANNAH SPARROWS, AMERICAN PIPITS and our first RED-TAILED HAWK of the day at B Ranch. We continued to the Lighthouse, which, of course, was closed. We scoured the cypresses on the road out to no avail. They were filled with our lovely Red-Nuts, but no new warbler species. From the observation deck, we scoped out BROWN PELICANS, WESTERN GREBES, HEERMAN’S GULLS, PELAGIC and BRANDT’S CORMORANTS, COMMON MURRES, and a young Grey Whale hanging out in the south cove! We watched the whale for a while. It had a large patch of barnacles on its face. I wonder if I’ll see it while I’m out on the Farallones and recognize it. It was hot and sunny at the point, which is bizarre, seeing as the rest of my visits there in the last 22 years have been cold, foggy, and wildly windy. I was actually sweating and fanning myself. What?! The heat of the day probably lowered my numbers a bit, as well as the week of good weather that allowed the vagrant warblers and other rarities to continue with their southward migration rather than hunker down and stay awhile.

Grey Whale at the Lighthouse.

The classic Point Reyes National Seashore shot.

We continued on to the Fish Docks, where we saw COMMON and PACIFIC LOONS, HORNED GREBES, SURF SCOTERS, a BLACK OYSTERCATCHER, a ROCK PIGEON, a WESTERN BLUEBIRD, an ANNA’S HUMMINGBIRD, and, best of all, a pair of HARLEQUIN DUCKS that have been hanging out below the pier for the last few days. Elephant seals and their awesome fart-like grunts abounded.

Harlequin Duck at the Fish Docks.

We continued on to Abbott’s Lagoon, where we ticked NORTHERN HARRIER, THAYER’S, HERRING, and RING-BILLED GULLS, GADWALL, OSPREY, RUDDY DUCKS, AMERICAN WHITE PELICAN, NORTHERN SHOVELERS, NORTHERN PINTAIL, and DOWITCHER Sp. As I sat down to tally up the species so far, a large yellow garden-type spider crawled across my shirt. Creepy but cool! The day was slowing down at this point, species-wise and my list still had some serious holes in it. I dropped Ben off at home (he had to go to work) and headed out to Limantour Beach for the last segment of my day: looking for shorebirds as the high-tide dropped. In the marsh by the parking lot I saw my one and only GREAT BLUE HERON of the day, along with five foraging WHIMBRELS. I hiked to Muddy Hollow Pond, hoping to clean up my duck list and completely struck out—it was empty, not a frog in sight. After a full hour without a new species, I headed out on the Limantour Spit trail and was rewarded by a COMMON YELLOWTHROAT that popped up to investigate me from the coyote brush.

Common Yellowthroat at Limantour.

In the Estero, I added SCAUP species to my list (they flew by quickly and I couldn’t ID them down to Lesser or Greater). A mixed flock of SANDERLINGS and WESTERN and LEAST SANDPIPERS swirled around the windy mudflats in flashes of white and grey, while one BLACK-BELLIED PLOVER plucked at the mud calmly. SEMI-PALMATED PLOVERS foraged out of the wind, and while I had them in the scope view, I saw something large and brown trundle out of the current. Otters! Four otters, one large and three slightly smaller, galloped along the shore and then back into the water, swimming upstream, frolicking as otters often do. I watched them charge out of the water and musk the vegetation on the shore and run back into the water, endlessly in motion. When the largest otter noticed another otter falling behind she (I’m guessing) would turn around, lift her head high up out of the water as if she was waiting expectantly and then speed towards the lollygagger and join them as if to offer support to get them to catch up. It was an amazing group to watch. Otters! 

Otters! They made me very happy. A definite highlight of the day.

I walked out farther, trying to pick something else, anything else, out of the constantly moving peep tornado, but as the wind really picked up I decided to turn back and walk along the tideline with waves crashing on my right. I found over twelve WESTERN SNOWY PLOVERS, each huddled behind their own little sand hill (more like a lump) to protect themselves from the sandy wind. I drove away from Limantour as the sun was dropping into the ocean and headed towards home. I stopped at the Inverness Store for my last bird of the evening on a tip from my brother—BLACK-CROWNED NIGHT HERONS roosting in the trees behind the store. 

Snowy Plover hiding in sand.

Sunset from above Limantour. The Point is in the distance, Drakes Bay in between.

One hundred and five species total for the day! That is only 9 species short of my last two years Bird-A-Thon totals combined! I’m very happy with my day. I had a wonderful time with the birds and other critters, and also with my brother who is an amazing naturalist/earthy dude. Being out all day like that—seeing the sun rise and then set again, watching the tide rise and fall—helps us fully realize the cycles of the earth that we are born from, the earth that we owe gratitude, love, and dedicated hard work for allowing our presence here. Doing a Bird-A-Thon is just a small way to give back to the earth, but it is a step towards a better future because I believe in PRBO Conservation Science’s mission to conserve birds, wildlife, and ecosystems. I will continue to support conservation with my life’s work (and play) by spending my days outdoors, investigating the world that I live in and my place in this ecosystem, and sharing my passion with others.

Thanks so all my donors who have made this endeavor so successful! With your support I raised over $650 that will benefit PRBO’s Eastern Sierra Program (which is in dire need of a new 4WD field vehicle). For those of you who are just now learning about my fundraising efforts and want to contribute, you can still donate online by clicking HERE.

Thanks to Renee, for the use of her scope; and to Diana, Jules, Millie, Jeff, Gayanne, Maggi, and Lorri, who graciously offered their scopes to me as well. I couldn’t have done it without one!

And, lastly, thanks to the birds, for lighting up my life.

Simple Silence, the Owl Opened My Soul and Looked In

Great Gray Owl

The meadow breathes

Rippling grasses are dotted with pale petals that are really butterflies

who knew?

Deer nibble in silence, faces disguised by grass masks, flicking their tails

Mosquitoes nip and buzz around like maddening children    

“not touching, can’t get mad. not touching, can’t get mad”

Meadow edge, a presence unlike any other turns his head, hushed

the meadow slips into focus, all senses sharp like obsidian tip

this being humbly commands all hearts to beat in muffled rhythm

a song of awe, of tranquil not-being

Juncos chide him with their metallic “tcht”, bouncing like grasshoppers

No passing noise can shift his serene state, no disturbance pains him       

            acceptance

                  take in, let go, move on

Perched upright on a branch, this regal yet modest zen master sees more

than we see in an entire lifetime

What can we learn from him? 

Great Gray Owl in Yosemite National Park. Photo by Christopher Mccreedy, 2012. I was standing right next to him, jaw-dropped as he clicked away. Thanks Chris!

Tufa Kayak Sunrise Bliss

At 2 AM on July 6th, I tossed and turned in the back of my pickup truck, despite how comfortable my bed back there is. The waning moon shone bright through the windows of my camper shell. I'm not sure why I couldn't sleep, but I felt the imminent time of my beeping watch alarm looming nearer...still not asleep! Just after 5 AM, I crawled out of my warm cocoon into the cool pre-dawn air. I could hear the dense salty water lapping on the shore of Mono Lake. The air smelled fresh; a new day. I pulled on a waterproof jacket and packed my camera into a dry bag. I stashed my water bottle in the back of my borrowed kayak, clipped myself into a yellow PFD, and slung my binoculars over my shoulder. As I launched the kayak into the thick brine-shrimp filled water, everything else in the world melted away and I slipped into the simple bliss that is Mono Lake at sunrise.

After a half hour paddle across open water, I began to weave into the Tufa grove as the sun's rays burst above Paoha Island, glancing of the smattering of clouds, gilding them with peachy gold. The Tufa towers stood tall, silently sillhouetted against the gaudy colors of the morning sky. Tufa is not a word you hear every day. In fact, most of you are probably thinking "Tufa? What the heck is that?" Tufa towers are limestone columns that form under water in Mono Lake. Freshwater underground streams trickle down from the Sierra and bubble up under the lake; on the journey down, they pick up trace amounts of minerals from the earth they traveled through to arrive at Mono; one prevalent mineral is calcium, which reacts with the carbonate-rich lake water and precipitates out to form CaCO3 (Calcium Carbonate), also called limestone. The freshwater is less dense than the twice-as-salty-as-the-ocean lake water, so it rises to the surface of the lake, creating the towering forms of tufa. When the lake drops (like it did drastically after L.A. started diverting water, see "Part 1: "Seagulls" and Politics), the tufa towers are exposed and simply beckon to be photographed.

I truly love the little things in life that remind us that though we may not know exactly why we are here, it is miraculous that we are here at all and that we get to experience the immense beauty the earth has to offer.

Taxidea taxus

During my last point count on Thursday, I had a chance meeting with an elusive and beautiful mammal: an American Badger, Taxidea taxus. I have only ever seen two badgers in real life: once, at dusk, when I was seven or eight, I saw one scuttling away into the tall grass in an open field; and once I had one run across the road in front of my car at night, just on the edge of the headlights. Needless to say, I have really only seen their butts. But this time, it was broad daylight, about 7:30am, and I was hiking to my 6th point of the day in the Jeffrey Pine forest south of Mono Lake. There had been a burn here a while back and I was weaving through bitterbrush and  downed trees that were in the beginning stages of returning to the earth as mulch. I saw movement along a fallen log and stopped to investigate.

It trundled along, low to the ground, it's wide and flat body seeming to rock and glide at the same time. When it saw me and looked up, I realized what it was. My jaw dropped. It stared at me and I stared right back (through my binoculars). I was only 25 meters away, but it stayed calm (calmer than me, I suppose, because I was shocked and thrilled at the beauty of this animal) and eyed me curiously for about a minute before it turned as if to leave, turned back as if it might still be interested, and then trundled off again and into it's burrow beneath a giant decomposing Jeffrey pine.

I stood there for a second and then said out loud, to no one in particular "That was a badger! I just saw a badger! Whoa!". I had never expected to get that great a look at one out here, or ever really! I often forget that badgers exist because they are nocturnal and are rarely seen even though they live in the western two thirds of the U.S. They are no feisty raccoon or bold opossum--badgers tend to be shy though fierce when provoked. The eat small mammals and occasionally reptiles and birds, using their long sharp claws to dig other small burrowing animals out of their dens or hiding places. Badgers are in the Mustelid family, which means they are related to weasels, martens, otters, and wolverines, among others.

I feel very lucky to have encountered this phantom creature in the wild. As a child, I loved the book "Bread and Jam for Frances" by Russel Hoban about a young badger who does not want to eat soft-boiled eggs for breakfast like everyone else; she prefers bread and jam. She sings cute little songs to her eggs or about her bread and jam. I highly recommend the book, or any of the books about Frances the badger and her family.

June is the Busiest Birdiest Month

The month of June in the Mono Basin brings flocks of birds and birders alike. In the first few weeks, vagrants (birds that have strayed from their normal migrating route) popped into the Warbler Thicket and in random copses of aspens and willows around the Basin. On June 2, a prominent Mono Basin birder found a Prothonotary Warbler along the highway. I have only ever seen one individual in a swampy creek in Western North Carolina, and I wished I had been able to find this particular individual but I struck out. There was an Indigo Bunting in the Warbler Thicket (a particularly magnetic stand of aspens, cottonwoods, willows, and wood rose that stuck around for the first week of June. There was also a Hooded Oriole by Tioga Lodge and a Hooded Warbler up a remote creek (lots of Hoods in the east, but not normally in the west!).

Sadly, I did not see a single one of these birds because, as I said, June is the busiest month and I was working almost every morning and most of my days off I used for exciting things like doing a Breeding Bird Survey in the Deep Springs Valley (well, really up Wyman Canyon Rd from Deep Springs Valley to White Mountain Road and the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest), attending a family birthday event in Marin, and leading field trips for the Mono Basin Bird Chautauqua! The days rolled on by, quicker than imaginable.

On June 14 we had a massive fallout event: Birders descended on Lee Vining in a cloud of binoculars, wide-brimmed hats, and quick-dry pants. Birds, not so much. June 15-17 was the Mono Basin Bird Chautauqua, an annual birding festival hosted by the Mono Lake Committee. I have been a trip leader for two years now and it has been wonderful. Birding festivals are a great way to meet other birders, network within the birding community, and have an all out grand time watching birds in a new place or with someone knowledgeable about the area.

The week after the Chautauqua, it was back to work! Unfortunately, it was also really windy, so I didn't get much work in. I also lead a fantastic 2-day private birding trip for some great folks from Santa Barbara who I've known for some years now. Now I am half-way through my last week of bird work for the summer. Speaking of being busy in this busiest month, I've got to run off and finish up some data! I promise a more natural history related post soon.

I also just found out that I will be spending 8 weeks on Southeast Farallon Island (SEFI) starting October 6 as a volunteer intern for PRBO. More about that soon!

A Song From the Nest

One of my favorite local breeding birds is the Warbling Vireo, Vireo gilvus. A lot of people describe these little songbirds as drab because they are all gray and have few distinct markings. I, on the other hand, have had many close looks at Warbling Vireos and feel that they are in no way drab. Their gray body feathers are often highlighted by a yellowish cream-colored belly and sometimes even a hint of jade green. They have a light streak across their face that gives them a bit of personality, and once you hear their spunky nasal "eeayah" call you wont be able to call them drab again. These birds have sass.

This is the only photograph I have of a non-blurry Warbling Vireo, but at least it is artsy!

After conducting an Area Search today (another PRBO project monitoring BLM treatments of Aspen/mixed conifer groves), I spent some time with a pair of vireos who seemed to have a nest nearby. They zipped back and forth between a few small Aspens, vigorously chasing off other birds and gleaning insects from the chalky white bark of the trees. They stuck together mostly and kept in touch by calling. I didn't find their nest, if they made it yet, but I found another Warbling Vireo nest on a different plot. I found that nest when I followed the male's quick, accented song until he stopped singing. I looked up and there he was, singing from the nest. Most birds sing from the tops of nearby trees or shrubs to claim their territory edge. Singing while sitting on the nest seems a little silly and dangerous, but Warbling Vireo males do it often.

Here is a video I took of a Warbling Vireo singing from the nest last year.

A few weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of watching a male build his nest in a tiny Aspen up Bohler Canyon. Usually they build their nests high in trees (most nests that I have found have been over three and a half meters high, or more than twice my height), but this guy was building a mere four feet off the ground in the tiniest of Aspens. I watched him hover a few inches off the ground while he plucked dry sedges from a colorless tuft of vegetation. He flew with long strands of grasses and thin aspen bark back to the nest and artfully tucked them into the structure of his almost complete nest. It was woven together with tent caterpillar web strands twisted together to make strong threads and lined with softer cheat grass and feathers. Their nest building skills amaze me. They build these intricate little woven cups every year, year after year. No one teaches them how, they just know.

The unfinished nest, with fibers still dangling before he tucked them in.

The tent caterpillar webs (or tents) hold it together pretty nicely!

Part 2: Chaos of the Senses

I stink of night sweat and gull shit, of salt and Tempera paint. My hair is matted with wind and crusty gull filth. My feet and hands are stained with peacock colored paint—green, teal, blue, purple—and speckled with blisters, caked with Mono. I am happy. The clouds are surreal. I am listening to the incessant cacophony of gull sex and the illusion of crickets. I just counted California Gull nests all day, everyday for three days. I was shit on, dive-bombed, smacked in the head by angry dads, and screamed at by protective parents. The stimulation of counting nests is monumental. Gulls screaming in our ears, eyes scanning for nests that blend in perfectly with the white and grey rocks, paint caking on our hands as it leaks from the squirt bottle, the strong stench of shit and salt—the smell is sometimes so bad we can taste it. All five senses slammed for a few hours and then—peace. Up on Krakatoa—the field station, home base—the breeze chills us, the rocks warm us, the Violet-green Swallows gracefully swoop around, chirping while they scrabble over floating gull feathers that they then snap up in their tiny bills and fly into a crevice in the jagged jumble of volcanic rocks. By night we are pirates, drinking whiskey and warm beer beneath a tattered skull and crossbones flag. We listen to the moonlit night, still thick with the unending but oddly comforting gull noise. We see no city lights, no artificial sights, only the silhouette of the ever-silent Sierra. When the earth revolves to morning once more, I awake to the ghostly song of the Rock Wren. Lonely, he sings and sings and sings to attract a mate but no return call can be heard. He is on an island, a vacant pile of volcanic rock, in the middle of a salty desert sea. No one will hear him but us.

California Gulls, Larus californicus, some sitting on nests, some standing at attention.

The result of many angry gulls. Hot, sour shit grenades. Very, very smelly.

Female Violet-green Swallow, Tachycineta thassalina, (whose scientific name means swift mover of the sea). Females have a smoky face and less vibrant colors than the males.

Male Violet-green Swallow. Crisp white face and vibrant green and violet, quite fitting.

Close-up of the under-wing.

Two eggs and a...rock? Often we will find rocks in nests, which presumably helps keep the gull balanced while incubating. Males and females share incubation of the nests, in shifts.

The beginning of gull copulation. The male stands on the female's back and wiggles is tail end around while grunting until she becomes receptive and he then maneuvers himself to a position where he can reach beneath her tail and touch his cloaca to her cloaca, a "cloacal kiss". He then hops off (or she starts to walk away while he's still trying) and they stand beside each other a little awkwardly (or she ignores him completely).

Sunrise from my sleeping bag.

Krakatoa, the name of both the islet and the fake volcano atop it.

Krakatoa was built in the early 1950s as a movie set for the 1952 movie A Fair Wind to Java. It is made out of 2x4's, nails, chicken wire, and asbestos-y papier-mâché. The field researchers fixed it up and have used it as a field station since the 80s. It has a kitchen, a livingroom/dining area, multiple sleeping areas, a storage shed (loving nicknamed the "Hanta Hut"), a basement, a "crow's nest", and down in the rocks below the volcano is the "honey pot"--a bucket toilet with the best view you'll ever have sitting on the john.