Pigeonholed

With few exceptions, bloggers are writers. One non-birding blog I like, Whiskey River, involves no original writing, just quotes. Very novel, and if done well (which it is), the quote says all that is needed.

But the rest of us express ourselves through a combination of words and images, and, stating the obvious, no two blogs are alike. Similar, yes, but not alike, and that property leads to the singular question, "What are the different types of nature-blog writing and, by extension, the writers? Can we all be pigeonholed?"

It'll take someone with more insight and experience than me to do this. That, and to a degree it's already done. Nature bloggers are very much like travel writers, and Tim Patterson has already defined the six personalities of travel writing. Why not piggy-back on his observations?

While there is little I enjoy more than opining and compartmentalizing others, I won't. Not here, anyway. Check out his article and classify yourself, and feel free to report back and comment on your "writing personality." Hey, it's just between us, so invent a new one if needed.

My self-analysis: personality-wise, I've been called a "Naked Introvert" on more than one occasion. I suspect that carries over to my writing, too.

• Rock Pigeon image © J.M.Garg

Great Backyard Bird Count

It's that time of year again: the Great Backyard Bird Count is just around the corner. It seems obvious as to what it is, counting birds you see in your backyard. When deconstructing the name we find that's almost what it's all about.

• It is "Great," especially talking about the fun you'll have, the importance of the data you're collecting, and the effort that comprises the count (81,003 checklists submitted last year).
• It does not have to be your "Backyard." Count wherever you happen to be: I've submitted checklists from our yard, my parent's yard, local parks, work, and overnight trips to birding hotspots.
• It is all about the "Birds," which you're almost guaranteed to see anywhere you go.
• You do have to "Count" what you identify, and hopefully that will keep you counting on future checklists you keep, improving the value of your observations for science. For your observations to "count" towards the greater good, though, you do have to make sure you follow the protocol and are submitted to the analysts at the Cornell Lab and Audubon.
  

It really is simple. To get started, check out the GBBC website, where you can learn how to participate, get ideas on involving kids, view previous years' stats and maps and what scientific stories they tell, find participant photos, read this years' behind-the-scenes blog, and more.

And while you're at it, chime in on 10,000Birds.com's new promotion: vote on your favorite backyard bird and be eligible to win a copy of Audubon's Backyard Birdwatch by Steve Kress. In a nutshell, this is the must-have guide for the common backyard birds you're likely to encounter - why leaf through all 900+ species that occur in North America when Steve can focus your attention to the most likely candidates? Not sure you want this book? Read more here, at 10,000Birds.com's review of Audubon's Backyard Birdwatch.

The promotion entails, and I quote, "naming the bird that you most enjoy seeing in your backyard. Feel free to briefly state why you favor that bird over all others."

I'm sometimes accused of being too literal, alternately a smart-ass, but here's my answer:

Our favorite backyard bird: this specific
Black-capped Chickadee, named PBlu--RX

Yes, this individual, whom we know as Pink-Blue-Red-Silver, was banded in our yard three years ago and is a regular visitor to our feeders. In addition to being taxonomically assigned to our favorite species (Black-capped Chickadee), we are happy this specific one continues to grace our yard with his (or her) presence. Like all chickadees, not only does he (or she) come across as friendly and happy-go-lucky, their antics are bound to brighten the darkest winter day, their happy "dee-dee-dee"-ing a welcome upbeat chorus in the silence of winter. And, truth be told, in fall and spring they can lead you to amazing mixed species flocks of migrating passerines. And all they want in return: some sunflower seed and maybe a nest box. What more can you ask for?

Finally, keep up with the Birdchaser. He's a coordinator of the event and has lots of great info, reports, and updates on his personal blog. I'll leave you with a few images from a couple of our past Great Backyard Birds Counts. Happy counting to you and yours!

Reina's first GBBC, 2005. I helped count the Wild Turkeys
at our feeder. Come to think of it, I helped identify them, too.

GBBC 2006. Purple Finches are present in our area throughout
the winter, though hit-or-miss on any particular day. That's why
the count lasts for four consecutive days: to get an accurate
representation by counting several times over the count period.

GBBC 2007. If you're having trouble counting
distant birds, bring them closer! Look carefully,
there are two chickadees in this photo.

I Will Survive

We had a backyard "Survival of the Fittest" episode a couple of weeks ago. I was working at home late in the week when there was an urgent shout from the living room, "Hawk's got something! Hawk's got something!"

Reina, my almost-four-year-old daughter, and I barely looked at each other, not interpreting, just knowing we needed to go now. We ran until we reached the living room window, slowed and peered around the curtains. I immediately looked into the trees where the regular-Sharpie and irregular-Cooper's typically perch. I assume that one day a goshawk will perch there, but it hasn't happened yet.

We were looking too far. A Cooper's Hawk was at the base of the feeders, barely 30 feet away, mantling over something we couldn't see but knew was there. "It grabbed something off the ground. Maybe a Mourning Dove?" offered my wife, who had witnessed the attack, and was now watching a wide-eyed Reina. "Umm, so what should we do?" After teachable moment about the circle of life and a raptors-have-to-eat-too explanation of what was happening, I reached for the camera . . . which I had left in the kitchen.

The luckiest Blue Jay in the world?

By the time I got back the Cooper's had disappeared, leaving a screaming Blue Jay on the ground. The attack had lasted about a minute, we had assumed the powerful talons of the Cooper's were puncturing the jay, but after a few minutes the jay half-lurched, half-flew across the yard to a Boxus shrub next to the window where we were watching. The squat, thick, branch-heavy evergreen plant would protect it in case of a follow up attempt, which did come. The Cooper's abruptly appeared, choosing to perch in the expected spot across the yard, not coming near the now-silent jay.

The Cooper's makes a second trip through our yard,
perhaps looking for the prey lost in the earlier attack.

The hawk disappeared, peace descended on our yard, but only for a short while. Then the hawk bombed through again, scattering Dark-eyed Juncos from under the feeder.

We assume the jay survived, at least through the afternoon. Reina and I went out to check on it, perhaps to collect it if it hadn't survived, but it flushed somewhat unsteadily to a brush pile across the yard. We sprinkled sunflower seeds and shelled peanuts around the base of the pile so it wouldn't need to come into the open while the adrenaline subsided. We then saw it fly from the brush pile to a tangle of Multiflora rosa.

Although there were snow impressions of the attack and the path the jay took to the shrub I didn't find any blood, and hardly any feathers. We've been watching for a bedraggled jay at the feeders but we haven't seen any battle-scarred individuals. In fact, we've noticed our jay numbers have decreased since this attack.

The Cooper's is making regular sweeps through our yard. When I started writing this post a couple of days ago it was perched in a backyard tree, seeming to scope the feeders.

This afternoon Reina and I were reading on the couch. Some motion outside the window caught our attention, something was different in the oak tree. It was the Cooper's again, nearly upside down on a relatively thin branch, flapping furiously. It disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, leaving a snowfall of feathers.

"Whoa, didn't miss that time." Reina turned to look at me, nodding. "The hawk needs to eat."

She learned that lesson, but we're still watching the feeders for the surviving Blue Jay.

• Information about all birds in this post can be found at All About Birds | Bird Guide
• Post title credit: I Will Survive (1979), Gloria Gaynor.
• All images © Mike Powers.

I and the Bird #68

Whatever gets you through the night, John Lennon sang. For those who aren't yet aware, Slybird of Biological Ramblings has released the latest I and the Bird, and as always, it's a must read. I identify with Nick as the long, dark of winter around here can be likened to a long, dark (and cold) night (readers from more northerly latitudes, your situation is not only duly noted, I sympathize).

As I continue fight the "winter doldrums" Nick describes, reading collections such as I and the Bird #68 is a must. Enjoy!

Flashback Friday: Right Here, Right Now

Whether it's finding the usual suspects at local hots spots or discovering a vagrant outside its expected range, birding is all about timing. Being at the right place at that right time can be immensely rewarding, leading to a 20-plus warbler day, a dozen gull species at one location, or a singular vagrant, whether it's a one-day wonder or a "continuing" individual. There is one such alignment of time, place, rarity, and me that stands out in my mind more than any other.

Dateline: 02 January 1997, Cape May County, NJ
After spending Christmas and New Years with my family in upstate NY I was on my usual trip to visit a few college friends in D.C. before heading back to grad school in Arkansas. As a full-fledged birder, and being full of vim and vigor (assuming "vim" means a thirst for knowledge and "vigor" means increasing the life list) I took advantage of every traveling moment during these trips to bird somewhere, especially in locations that harbored species that don't regularly occur in Arkansas.

The famous Cape May lighthouse overlooks
one of the many ponds I visited that day.

My stop on this trip was specifically chosen. I needed, er, wanted, a Eurasian Wigeon for my life list. Because my parents, casual birders at best, had seen one, my non-birding sister had seen one, my parent's dog had seen one, I figured I should catch up. And it should be easy, there was a Eurasian Wigeon reliably and easily seen in Cape May, NJ. With a little planning I arrived late morning in Cape May.

My target bird for the trip: the elusive (to me, anyway)
Eurasian Wigeon. You will be mine. Oh, yes, you will be mine.
Image © J.M.Garg

Then the chase began. Turns out, easy, lengthy, and luxurious views of this bird was not going to be as straight forward as I thought. All the birders I encountered had seen it, and I heard a familiar refrain for the next hour. "Oh, we were just looking at it on the other pond, over there." When I got to that pond, "Oh, it just flew with a small flock of American Wigeon, headed that way," the direction I had just come from. And back at the first pond, "Yeah, it just landed over . . . oh, there they all go again . . . . "

The closest I got to the Eurasian was the Yankee
counterpart, the American Wigeon. Close, but no cigar.

Then I caught a lucky break. An hour later I still hadn't found the bird, nor had anyone else. Why, I hear you ask, was that lucky? Because I headed to the Cape May Bird Observatory's headquarters (the old one on Lake Road, not the new one out towards Goshen). The volunteer told me, "Yeah, the wigeon was just here this morning, but I haven't heard anything recently. But I assume you're be interested in the lapwing."

I responded, "Well, that depends. What's a lapwing?"

In this case it turned out to be a Northern Lapwing, a European version of a Killdeer with a pointy mohawk-like hairdo. Typically found in Europe and Asia, one had been found right off of Rte. 47 near the town of Goshen. But I tenaciously stayed my course and kept focused on my target bird for another hour. I never saw it.

A Northern Lapwing, irregular visitor to the
New World, and a very chase-worthy bird.
Image © Marek Szczepanek

My map showed Goshen right on my path heading out of southern Jersey. Since I had some vague idea of where to look, I decided I'd stop and have a look. What the heck, I'd be passing the right place, and apparently I'd come at the right time.

Again, I thought it would be easier (damn those expectations!). I assumed I'd drive along the rural road, scan the fields, and stop when I saw a line of people with scopes exchanging high fives. I never came across a group of birders, so when I thought I was in the right area I pulled on the shoulder and got out to take a brief look for a bird I had now seen once in my National Geographic (2^nd edition) field guide. After walking up and back for maybe 10 minutes, all the while under the careful gaze of some land owners who acted more like they were some militia group and that I was a government representative sent to collect their taxes, I started collapsing my tripod back at the car.

I had just slammed the trunk when another car screeched to a halt 5o yards ahead of me. The door opened, we both stared at each other, then the newcomer flashed his binoculars, signaling a brother in arms. I never got his name, but we headed back down the road together, scanning both sides, while he issued a vitriolic diatribe against whomever had left the bird. "You gotta stay on birds like this! Someone should be watching until it goes to roost, and someone should be back before dawn to follow it when it leaves! Man, I can't believe this."

Two more cars arrived, then a couple more, soon we were an even dozen fanning out. Within minutes, "Got it!"

We all hustled to the east side of the road, eagerly unfolding our tripods, trying to determine the direction of the scope that held the bird. Now it was easy to find, a decent-sized bird continually moving in a pasture of close-cropped grass, that spiked headdress prominently displayed. My interaction didn't last as long as I wished. A few minutes after the re-finding, the bird wandered over a small rise to the back of the pasture, out of view. After a few more minutes I realized how low the light was, and I was supposed to be in D.C. for dinner. Hopefully someone was watching where the bird went to roost and that it would be watched in the morning (according to archived Rare Bird Alerts, it was, at least until January fourth).

Yeah, it's all about the timing. And expecting the unexpected. You'd think I'd learn something about expectations somewhere along the line.

• Information about most birds in this post can be found at All About Birds | Bird Guide
• Post title credit: Right Here, Right Now (1990), Jesus Jones.
• Unless otherwise noted, all images © Mike Powers.

Pretty in Pink

Has your heart ever skipped a beat? More than one? Chest tighten, involuntarily stopped breathing?

I had one of "those" moments this weekend. I'm certain it had nothing to do with the Superbowl, or Molly Ringwald. And I don't think health related. No, this was gull induced.

It started early in the week, when the first teasers crossed the email lists: a Ross's Gull reported at Niagara Falls. Over the next couple of days details and pictures surfaced. My favorite report was a father out with his 10-month-old son. He found and photographed the bird as it loosely affiliated itself with a group of Ring-billed Gulls in a parking lot on Goat Island State Park. Something to think about that next time you're ignoring the Ring-billeds in the mall parking lot, yes? The real kicker in his story was he was only out to give his wife some time to work at home, not to specifically chase the bird.

Click here to view his Flickr gallery

OK, I wanted to post an image, but I have no desire to get sued
over stealing copyrighted work. Any tips on where to find
images that are free to use? Other than, "Take it yourself, doofus!"?

This is a bird that migrates south to get to the Bering Sea, so a "Lower 48" sighting is something remarkable. Accordingly, by Wednesday I shifted my thinking from, "Wish I could go" to "If it's still regularly found, I'll think about it." Thursday I went as far as proposing the idea to my wife, the birding-husband equivalent of, "Can I go out and play?" And I got the hoped for response, "It's may I, and yes, if you've finished your chores."

In spite of the ice and snow that hit the region on Friday, one report came in with a positive sighting. So, Saturday morning, pre-dawn, I was heading down the icy path that used to be our road towards the Interstate, coffee and satellite radio keeping me company. I reached Goat Island by 9:30 and immediately swapped cell phone numbers with the first birder I found -- gotta get on that phone tree - then parked in the now famous parking lot. No gulls there, so I layered up, grabbed the scope, and joined the growing number of birders facing the Niagara River.

Only one bird greeting me upon arriving at the upstream
parking lot, a not-so-friendly exotic (but not Ross's
Gull exotic) goose. And not even a Ross's Goose.

I won't keep you in suspense. I didn't see the bird. In spite of hundreds of eyes concentrated in the area just above the falls, as well as searchers up and downstream, no one did. But for a paralysis-inducing moment I thought I had it.

Goat Island is just over a half mile long and about a thousand feet wide, oriented east-west in the New York side of the river. It was easy to walk from one end to the other, periodically scoping the river from various vantages. This was the area the gull had been seen foraging on previous days. Also, lots of other interesting birds to observe: Little, Glaucous, Lesser Black-backed, and two representatives of the Iceland Gull complex (Kumlien's and Thayer's).

Waterfowl and gulls, that's what Niagara is all
about in the winter. And ice. Lots and lots of ice.

The Friday morning report, the last positive report, was from the west side, so that's where I spent much of my time. The bird had been resting on the "shelf" above the island. Because no one knew what "the shelf" meant, people were looking everywhere, shelf-like or not. Midday I was re-scoping the large floe of ice for anything resembling a small gull. Lots of Herring and Ring-billeds quickly evaluated and ignored, an immature Great Black-backed eating something hidden behind a chunk of ice. I watched, morbidly wondering if it would eventually lift a tern-sized gull carcass. I never did see what it was picking at, I continued panning. Then I saw something different in this field of white, gray, and black: pink. Rosy pink, much like . . . the breast of a Ross's Gull. Right?

There are gulls in them thar hills!
Just not the one I was hoping for.

I locked the scope head, not breathing, the pink was on a gull that was mostly hidden behind yet another chunk of ice. Under my breath, "Holy man*, am I looking at what I think I'm looking at?" After a few moments the gull turned its head. Hmmm, a yellow bill, not dark, but with a black band. Eventually the bird waddled into view, clinching the identification. I had been staring at the pinkish breast of a gull, all right. An adult Ring-billed Gull. Son of a . . . I started to breathe again.

On an adult gull, that ringed bill is a dead give away.
But a Ring-billed with a pink breast? What's up with that?

Yeah. Not common, but not unheard of: Ring-billeds can show a pinkish hue to what is normally pure white plumage. Other gulls (Franklin's, for example) and terns (Elegant, for example) are known to have this affliction. Part of my mind, the part that wasn't blacked out from lack of oxygen, the part that asks the scientific "why" and "how" questioned, "How the in the world* can that happen," and "Why, God, why??"

Answers would wait for later. I still had ice to scope.

To be continued . . . .

• * Not the actual word used.
• Information about all birds in this post can be found at All About Birds | Bird Guide
• Post title credit: Pretty in Pink (1981), The Psychedelic Furs.
• All images © Mike Powers.

Flashback Friday: Sparks

I'm not sure who said it, maybe it comes from The Hobbit, maybe from Winnie the Pooh, but what better place to start than the beginning? Last fall Jeff Gordon asked birders, "what was the single bird that got you hooked?" While watching the entertaining and enlightening video he put together I wondered how I would answer that question.

What was my "Spark Bird"? Was there a particular bird, a particular moment in time, that caused the shift from casual watcher to bird-lister, to bird-chaser? If so, could I identify it? Off the top of my head, no. I have no memory that stands out as the moment where I decided, "Whoa, that's awesome! I have to see more, I need to see more!"

I've been sifting through my memories to assign blame for this addiction, and when and where it happened. If a defining moment exists it's because of a long building period, much like that ACME fuse the Coyote always attached to the TNT-labeled pile of dynamite. My parents, intentionally or not, set the fuse and lit it, I stood dumbly by and watched until I found myself standing awfully close when it finally ignited.

Birds at a feeder are certainly one gateway to
"birder" status. Was a chickadee my spark bird?

Growing up we always had bird feeders in the backyard, and therefore the usual eastern backyard birds were always around. I don't remember anyone tracking the species other than periodically announcing, "woodpecker," "nuthatch," "finch," or other vague descriptors. Was it a Hairy or Downy, maybe Red-bellied Woodpecker? Red- or White-breasted Nuthatch? House, Purple, or one of the other winter finches?

Birds at a feeder are one thing, but in your hand?
That's gotta spew sparks, doesn't it?

Mandatory weekend walks at local parks were often boring, except on Bird Song Trail where the Black-capped Chickadees would come to your hand for sunflower seeds. On two occasions, something out of the ordinary. Once from a Downy Woodpecker, once from a White-breasted Nuthatch, and on these instances they were identified to species.

The ubiquitous, easy to see, and accommodating
"egret." Watching their antics could hook
someone into watching other species.

Annual summer trips to Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge, VA were not about roasting on the beach and trying to look cool, though I made a valiant effort through my teenage years. Every day, on the drive back from the beach, my parents insisted on driving the three-mile wildlife loop to see the birds and other wildlife. Other than "heron," "egret," and "Black Skimmer" we didn't identify much. I didn't grow up listening to anyone debate whether the bird in question was a Long- or Short-billed Dowitcher. It was probably left at "sandpiper" as "shorebird" wasn't in our vocabulary yet. We just watched for the aesthetics.

Great Blue Herons, always known by their
proper name, were always inspiring.

My first distinct memory of a spark came after college when I lived in Boulder, CO. One afternoon I watched a pair of Blue Jays make their way across our lawn. All afternoon. Very slowly, patiently, but also raucously and defensively, and when necessary, offensively - a cat stalked them for a while before giving up. It turned out they were escorting two fuzzy birds, not yet able to fly, to my makeshift pie-plate-nailed-to-a-fence platform feeder, where they set up camp for several days.

When I mentioned this to the owner of the local bird store he got wild eyed and asked if it was all right if people came to see the birds. I shrugged it off, a bit surprised. They were just Blue Jays. Apparently they were still somewhat uncommon in the Front Range of the Rockies.

"Duh" moment crystallized: back east, these birds were nuisance birds at feeders; where they're not expected, they're a target species!

So many "good" birds in my past, from the eastern shore
to upland woodlands to the foothills of the Rockies, but
Blue Jays certainly sparked an interest in
distribution. This one looks guilty!

I started paying more attention, biking down to Pearl Street on Saturday mornings for bird walks. Through volunteering at the Denver Museum of Natural History I participated in a biological inventory of a site in the Sangro de Cristo mountains in southern Colorado, mostly banding birds we caught in mist nets. I have some checklists from that era, but nothing in the way of personal notes, nothing recording my excitement (or lack thereof) for any species. Just dates, locations, species. Somewhat useful for science and "big pictures," but not for my own growth.

Flash forward a few months later to the World Bird Sanctuary outside of St. Louis, MO, where I was an intern. One morning another intern casually pointed out, "Carolina Wren singing" as we delivered prepared mice to the raptors.

Identifying birds like Carolina Wrens without
seeing them? That is pretty awesome.

"What?" I asked, not knowing a Carolina Wren, let alone it's song.

As if on cue, "Tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle."

"There, again."

That morning he started teaching me all of the songs, a lesson that didn't end until I left in May. During that time I learned the owls during the owl prowls, I learned Snow vs. Canada Goose as they migrated overhead in the cover of darkness. This was cool!

That fall I arrived in Arkansas to pursue a Master's degree in biology, torn between community ecology or animal behavior. Birds would probably be my study species. What I didn't realize when I arrived was that I was joining a cohort of the most energetic, tenacious, contemplative, and patient birders I've ever encountered. We went birding constantly, including Big Days, chases to sites hours away, a spring break trip camping through Oklahoma. I tracked what species I observed (heard birds counted, too), dates, locations, and where my life, state, and year lists stood. I participated in my first Christmas Bird Counts, collected data for the first Great Backyard Bird Count, hung feeders up and counted for FeederWatch. I even presented programs about birds to elementary school kids. Humbling thought: maybe I passed along the spark to one of them.

Somewhere in that period between the backyard Blue Jays in Boulder and my chasing birds in Arkansas the earlier experiences sparked. I became a birder. Which bird did it? It seems unfair to credit one and ignore the rest.

I'll leave my answer as, "My spark bird? Well, you know. All of them."

Shorebirds became fun to scrutinize and identify.
From "sandpiper" to "shorebird" to "yellowlegs" to "Greater
Yellowlegs" to "now, where's the Curlew Sandpiper?"
Transition complete.

• Information about all birds in this post can be found at All About Birds | Bird Guide
• Post title credit: Sparks (1969), The Who.
• All images © Mike Powers.