Kathy and the Woodpeckers

My wife Kathy’s passion for birds did not match my own – though I thought it did when we were courting.

Courting, as some of you may recall, was a quaint and elaborate pre-marital ritual of testing and pleasing your prospective partner to determine whether you were more than temporarily compatible or deluded. (It’s since been superceded by immediate co-habitation.)

When I was writing my PhD thesis, I signed up for a ten week, non-credit “course” in birdwatching to allow me one sane day per week. The course met at dawn on ten consecutive Spring Saturday mornings. Kathy showed up every Saturday at dawn.

I thought I had hooked up with a perfect mate: a beautiful, smart, sensible, sensitive woman. BONUS: she too loves birds. It turns out she was my ideal mate for near forty years; but she loved a certain birder (me) more than she loved the birds.

That’s not to say that she didn’t like birds. She did. But they had to be special: i.e., big, colorful, stationary, and close. The little flitty ones she didn’t have much patience for, no matter how rare, delicately beautiful or sonorous.

Birds were just one of many things she was interested in: her family, skydiving, camping, traveling, Star Wars paraphernalia, garage sales, gardening, photography, water-colors, wretched soap operas, lighthouses, hot air ballooning, animals of all kinds, a good mystery, the internet – and especially the frail, difficult, and rejected kids that she tended as a school psychologist. The list of enthusiasms is long.

When she saw Pileated Woodpeckers this past summer, she was delighted. Here was her perfect North American bird. Although I’d seen them often, even in our own yard, she had whiffed on them repeatedly for over forty years.

We were on a small, hilly island in the middle of Lake Temogami in northern Ontario. Our hosts suggested that there was a spectacular vista on the other side of the island. Although Kathy could barely walk and was in excruciating pain (from what we thought was sciatica but turned out to be bone cancer of her sacrum and femurs), she couldn’t resist an opportunity for a mini-adventure or the possibility of a good photograph.

Even in her pain, Kathy somehow got ahead of the rest of us. When we caught up at the top of the island, Kathy was beaming. She showed us what she’d just shot on her digital camera. “My new favorite bird!”

There was not just one but three spectacular Pileated Woodpeckers, just as she had wanted them: big, colorful, stationary and close. The photograph of them above is the last nature photograph she ever took.

Rest in peace, my “Lifer” Kathryn Manix Walz
October 16, 1945 — January 20, 2011

Something Big Lives Behind my Stove

There are few good reasons to pull a stove away from the wall in anyone’s house. Maybe there’s a portal to a secret dimension where you never grow older or there’s a treasure vault hidden by a bootlegger in decades past. I was simply looking for the stove model # and what I found was horrifying.

Typically the items discovered behind any large appliance include Chinese takeout menus, diamond-grade pasta noodles, the fridge magnet letters X or J and maybe a pet hamster that has long since been eulogized and buried. But what I saw sent me reeling. I wouldn’t even dare take, let alone post a picture. Cast about on the tile behind the stove was a ring of spider appendages that looked like a skeleton poking up through the sand in the desert. Each of the eight, L-shaped, stiff-haired legs measured nearly two inches. Absent were any other body parts. Something big ate this spider. Something big lives behind my stove.

Shouldn’t I be content that the hideous creature that entered my house uninvited has been unceremoniously dispatched? It’s bad enough knowing the spider was inside these walls but something captured, killed and devoured this beast.

Days later I noticed a conspicuous pile of scat on the floor. It looked like a tiny tootsie roll left in the sun to long. I cleaned it up. The next day there was another. I cleaned that too and like a kid waiting for financial compensation from a tooth fairy, I came out the next morning to see if something had been left behind again. And it had. Not particularly magical.

My dad was visiting that day and I asked if he knew what it was. “That’s skink poop” he said with absolute certainty. It should be noted that not only have I cleaned up his quote for this post, but he is also an expert on the matter.

Days later I spotted the brilliant turquoise tail of a juvenile Five-lined Skink (Plestiodon inexpectatus) zip under the fridge and suddenly it all made sense. I made a deal with the skink – you eat the spiders, I’ll clean up your poop.

Termite Surprise

One by one they left the branches and surrounded me. The fact that I was there was incidental. Termites were swarming……..and the blue- gray gnatcatchers were gobbling them up. The click, click, click sounds of snapping beaks surrounded me as I realized that a small mixed flock, pine warblers among them had joined in. I stood still and just witnessed the birds hovering and snapping around and through the swarm. If I wanted to and my reflexes were fast enough I’m sure I could of nabbed a bird or two. But I just wanted to soak it up. At first the insects were hard to see but the filtered light coming down through the branches highlighted the tiny wings and made it easy for me to catch. For the termites that thought they had escaped the beaks of those small birds destiny called. They were soon gobbled up by the army of swallows just above, another resource partitioning event right before my eyes.
How did I luck out to witness such a food fest? These small song birds normally glean their prey off branches and buds, keeping themselves camouflaged from larger predators. The swarm was coming from the saw palmettos that were under scrub oaks edged by wax myrtle, rusty lyonia and beauty berry shrubs. They left the comfort of the leaf cover to grab their prey and then fly back to their perch. I was walking on a path that ran right through the saw palmettos so, essentially, I was in the right place at the right time. I walk that path often, so the birds may have been used to my presence. Or, they may just have been hungry enough to navigate around me. I think this is a key to any good nature observation. Know your local seasons and the ebb and flow of the food web. I pay attention to the larvae in the shrubs and trees as well as the mosquitoes and deer flies that emerge when it gets a little drier and hotter. But I had forgotten about the termites…bonus!

Carp: Worth Carping About?

We walk along the water’s edge at a lake near Boulder, Colorado. With each laborious step, my boot presses into a slick sheen of monochrome muck. As I lift my foot for the next stride, a glistening glob of gray goop clings to the sole. It smells of sewage.

Just ahead, my companion has spotted a pod of fish. Trout can’t survive in the murky, heated water of this urban reservoir, but it’s ideal habitat for carp. In fact, they’re at least partially responsible for its muddy character. Carp feed by rooting around on the bottom. The action of their snouts and the wallowing of their bodies stir up dirt and debris, clouding the water and covering rocks and plants. Silt stirred by carp can smother the eggs of other fish and contaminate habitat for a host of aquatic insects.

Transported to the United States in the mid 19th century, carp are native to Asia. They grow quickly and tolerate high water temperatures. Female carp in their prime may produce as many as two million eggs. It’s little wonder they often crowd out native minnows and other species of fish. Considered a delicacy in parts of Europe, carp were released in American waters in hopes they would become a commercially valuable resource. But few people like to eat them.

My guide has hooked a carp with his fly. The brute runs toward the middle of the lake, its stout, strong body bending his rod in a severe arc. He smiles widely. Though a master hunter of trout, he’s a carp dude, one of a small cadre of anglers who, despite their academic disdain for this interloping transplant, relish the challenge of fooling a crafty carp with a fly and bringing its bulk to hand.

Like many non-native species with a deleterious impact on native life, carp are here to stay. The decision to scatter them, willy-nilly across North America waters, can’t be undone. They can be managed, but not eradicated, cussed but not conquered. Carp all you want, but we’re stuck with carp.

Sanctuary

At my Sunday sanctuary the sermons are long and loud and the choir numbers in the thousands. Each Sunday we visit nearby Whitewater Draw Wildlife Area, winter home to over 20,000 Sandhill Cranes, to watch the cranes and answer the public’s questions about them. The cranes leave the shallow playa lake at first light each morning and fly fifteen to twenty miles to the valley’s corn fields. The corn has been long since harvested but the mechanical harvesters leave plenty behind for the cranes and they spend the morning gleaning the farmer’s fields, fertilizing as they go. I must admit, I am rarely there for the morning flight, but I know that by noon the cranes will have filled their crops and begin winging back to the playa lake. And I will be there waiting for the mid-day flight.

From the observation platforms at the wildlife area we scan the skies for what looks like distant puffs of smoke on the northern horizon. Gradually these dark clouds resolve into dots recognizable as flock after flock of returning cranes. Eventually we hear the distinctive bugling call ringing through the cold winter air and soon the air is full of cranes as these graceful four foot tall birds begin to wheel and drop to the edge of the shallow water. They drop their long legs and raise their heads to slow their airspeed until they reach stall speed and begin to slowly parachute to the ground.

Within the flocks of thousands it is easy to discern the fundamental unit of crane society, the family. Little groups of two to four cranes, the adults and last year’s young, fly together. Sometimes we can hear the high cheeping of the youngsters that haven’t yet grown the long trombone-shaped syrinx required to make the bugle. The cranes spend the rest of the day relaxing, digesting their corn and just loafing.

Next month the cranes will begin to head north. Several years ago we were lucky enough to spot a crane wearing satellite transmitter. We noted the number on the transmitter and, with a little detective work, we were soon in touch with the researcher who had tagged the bird. He sent us a map that showed our bird’s travels and we were delighted to see that the bird we had spotted was one of the approximately 10% of the Lesser Sandhill Cranes that travel across the Bering Strait to Siberia to nest, a flight of over four thousand miles. The departing of the Sandhill Cranes is bittersweet. I miss our Sundays together but if the cranes are headed north, can the arriving Swainson’s Hawks, warblers and hummingbirds be far behind?

Spyhoppers and Egg Wars: California’s Farallon Islands

Often just visible from the beaches and cliffs of the Bay Area as they rise above a thick marine fog, the Farallon Islands lie roughly 30 miles west of the Golden Gate Bridge, and are therefore at least as distant from the consciousness of most of the region’s 7 million residents. Since moving to the city of San Francisco about a year and a half ago, I had often squinted into that distance, imagining a remote paradise obscured by the gray, and scheming about how I might get there.

The incredible biological diversity now found on the Farallons belies a history of exploitation; 19th century fur traders all but extirpated populations of the northern fur seal, and as San Francisco’s urban population grew, egg collectors decimated colonies of seabirds that nest on the islands’ steep, rocky outcroppings. Given that the Farallon Islands are home to the United States’ largest seabird breeding colonies south of Alaska, the economic potential for egg collectors in the 1860s was so compelling to certain Bay Area entrepreneurs that an epic rivalry between the Pacific Egg Company and some rogue collectors developed. The most vicious episode in the Farallon Egg Wars (as they are now known) resulted in the death of at least two men!

Since the Farallons were designated a National Wildlife Refuge in 1909, I wasn’t so concerned with renegade egg poachers packing pistols as with run-of-the-mill seasickness when I boarded a small boat owned by the San Francisco Bay Whale Watching Company last July. The swell and chop around the islands are legendary, but the relatively calm seas that morning were only the beginning of our good luck. After passing under the bridge and out of the bay, we paused momentarily to watch sea lions and harbor seals in repose below the Point Bonita lighthouse, and headed for open water.

As we approached the islands, one creature after another surfaced nearby, appearing with the transient splendor of fireworks. Nobody knew where to look first as blue, gray, and humpback whales spouted, breached, and spyhopped so close that the mist of whale breath was overwhelming, and inspired me to coin a new term—whalitosis. Closer to the rocky, guano-stained shores we began to see common murres, pigeon guillemots, several species of cormorants, and the species I was most excited about all day—tufted puffins!

A pair of these seldom-seen stunners in their summer plumage landed in the water just in
front of the boat and puttered about briefly before taking off toward the smaller offshore islands. A group of five or six Risso’s dolphins, marbled gray and white, rode noiselessly beside us as we moved toward several spouts in the distance, hoping for another whale sighting. We turned off the engine to observe several humpbacks a few hundred yards away, and held our collective breath as they swam closer and closer, under the boat and back again. The marine biologists on board speculated that these two were beginning some kind of mating ritual as they somersaulted and dove in unison, winding their enormous bodies around one another for over an hour as we watched, voyeur-like. As the whales slowly drifted away toward some other pursuit, we reluctantly made our way back under the bridge, glowing international orange through the fog.

Though I would have loved nothing more than to go ashore and see the Farallons from another perspective, I understand why I can’t. This is absolutely a place that belongs to the whales, dolphins, gulls, and guillemots, who claim their wild domain with raucous cries and the pungent smell of centuries of inhabitance, occasionally gracing us with a glimpse of their everyday, though it always seems extraordinary.

Check out the California Academy of Science’s live Farallons webcam: http://www.calacademy.org/webcams/farallones/

Upon Further Review–The Scaup?

As my friend and I approached the wetland, we could see activity near the water, mostly obscured by a perimeter of tall cattails. As we ascended an artificial rocky berm that formed the bounds of this human made wetland we could see an armada of floating ducks and we both responded with an excited “scaups!” and then danced around as if we had just scored a touchdown.

Shouting while birding is not recommended but neither of us had seen a Lesser Scaup (Aythya affinis), so it was hard to contain our excitement. There were around 400 of the birds paddling the small 20-acre wetland.

For those of us that maintain a “Life List” of bird species we have seen, checking one off is a big deal. For some it’s enough to simply see a bird fly over head but I like to watch and observe them, photograph them as much as possible. In doing so I notice different behaviors, color patterns and habitats and I have a record of when I took the picture. I often forget from season to season.

We left the marsh and the raft of birds, pleased that we had spotted not only a new species for the life list but an abundance of them.

When I returned to the car something didn’t seem right. Scaups are found in Broward County, Florida from December through February. Males are black and white with a blue beak – check. Size of a Mallard – Check. I looked at the photos on the Audubon Guides Bird app. Uh-oh. Scaups are white and gray across the back. Time out. I scrolled down to similar species. We need a booth review. I began pouring over the dozens of pictures I had taken of the “scaups” and noticed these had a white ring on the bill and when the neck is outstretched has a burgundy ring around the neck.

Upon further review – the call is over turned – We have a Ring-necked Duck (Aythya collaris)! A new species for my life list. Score!

The Sounds of Birding

Whenever Winnipeg winters got too much for me or my job got me down, I would fantasize about ditching everything to become a bird guide in some warm, sunny place. Costa Rica, for instance, or Ecuador, or Australia. Warm climates, lots of birds. Ah!

For an avid birder, could there possibly be a better job?

But bird guiding isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It can be delightful sharing your knowledge of birds and helping novices identify beautiful winged creatures and discover the joys of birding. It can also be taxing.

In 2006 big-time novelist Jonathan Franzen (Freedom) wrote an article for New Yorker magazine called “My Bird Problem.” It so inspired a literary friend of mine that he asked me to help him become a birder. I soon realized that it would be easier for me to become quarterback for the Baltimore Ravens than it would for him to become a birder. He just couldn’t see birds lined up full-frame in a fieldscope; he couldn’t hear birds two feet away from him. That bird guiding experience didn’t last long.

He was an extreme example of those wannabee birders that I call the Whazzats. These are earnest people who can hear birds but can’t locate or identify them. There’s usually one on each bird outing. Every time they hear even the slightest sound, they ask: “Whazzat?!” In fact, it’s usually a command. This can drive even the most patient bird guide batty. Well, it can drive me batty!

I used to consider myself a pretty expert identifier of birds and birdsong. My confidence was shaken one time when a group of us heard a very quiet “seep” sound. Somebody identified it as a robin. Several of us were dismissive. But it turned out to be a robin.

That little bit of insecurity has grown as I have traveled to other places in May and June, prime bird sound season. Without constant reinforcement, I seem to have lost my ear for calls and songs. With so many similar and near similar birdsongs from other lands now jammed in my brain, cognitive dissonance has set in.

My fantasy of being an exotic bird guide faded until I heard about I-Phone and I-Pod bird apps. It’s the bird sounds of these bird apps that make them so valuable. These little gizmos have restored my faith in someday dropping everything and guiding people in some hot, sunny, birdy locale. Ah!

Pinecones on a Willow Tree?

Have you ever seen pinecones on the end of willow branches? They aren’t really pinecones, they are protective homes for the Pinecone Willow Gall-midge (Rhabdophaga strobiloides), a type of fly that relies on willows for its home.

The adult gall-midge lays its egg on the tip of a willow branch as the terminal buds begin to swell in the early spring. The egg, and larva that hatches, release a chemical that tricks the growing willow leaves into forming a structure that looks superficially like a pinecone made of overlapping leaves.

As the larva feeds the bud ceases to develop, but the plant still directs nutrients to the tissues. Biologists working at the University of Michigan Biological Station at Pellston, Michigan found that somehow the gall-midge manipulates the willow to provide resources from other places in the plant to the gall for them to continue to feed and survive. They found that galled twigs compared with normal twigs had greater growth in twig girth than when no gall is present and twigs with galls grew equally well with or without leaves.

The bud continues to swell as the larva feeds and grows. When winter sets in, encased in the cone structure, the larva is protected from predators, but not from the cold.

The larvae aren’t freeze tolerant. Instead, they rely on extreme supercooling, the process of lowering liquid temperatures to below the freezing point without becoming a solid. How do they do this? Overwintering willow gall larvae can contain as much as fifty percent glycerol, historically used in cars as anti-freeze. Some individuals in Alaska were found to have extreme supercooling that allowed them to survive down to -76 degrees Fahrenheit.

At some point in the spring, the larva will pupate and the adult gall-midge will emerge. They don’t have mouthparts to chew their way out of the gall. Instead, they simply push and squeeze between the overlapping leaves of the gall and fly away.

Winter Wrens. The Other Ones.

Although I’ve seen fewer than half of the world’s species, I’ve never met a wren I didn’t like. Whether skulky or conspicuous, they always seem full of personality.

For instance, nothing brightens up a gloomy Michigan winter day quite like a sassy Carolina Wren. Their rich, chestnut coloration seems especially warm against the leaden landscape. When Walter Barrows wrote about Michigan’s birds in 1912, this was considered the least common wren in the state – at a time when Bewick’s Wrens were still found here. Carolina Wrens have a tough time in our climate, and it’s thought that warmer winter temperatures have facilitated a northward range expansion over the past century. By the 1970s, Carolina Wrens were locally common well into northern Michigan. Still, they are susceptible to population reductions in severe winters.

With the onset of very cold weather, the neighborhood wrens (inevitably a pair, sometimes a whole family) show up at the backyard feeding station. The woodpeckers and nuthatches provide stiff competition for the suet, so I will often put live mealworms on my office windowsill for the wrens. If I’m not prompt in my dispensing of these treats, impatient wrens scold me, bobbing up and down in fussy annoyance on my sill.

One especially harsh winter, a pair of Carolina Wrens, which my husband and I had banded, spent many days at the windowsill diner. The following winter, I wasn’t too surprised to sit down at my desk one morning and find two wrens expectantly peering in the window. What was surprising was that they were not the same birds as the previous year – no bands! It makes me wonder how the Carolina Wren grapevine works.

Out and about in the winter woods, I often encounter Carolina Wrens at squirrel nests, both occupied and abandoned. I think they take shelter in the dense leaves, but I frequently also see them just rummaging around, energetically dismantling the nests, searching for whatever insects have also taken refuge in the wads of vegetation. This activity is usually accompanied by an assortment of babbling calls and mutterings. Best of all, even in the dead of winter, Carolina Wrens will burst into full song. It may be cold, and the sky might be gray, but that loud serenade spreads warmth and brightness through a whole dreary woodlot. Who doesn’t love that?