Year: 2016

After five early morning attempts I finally spotted the Wandering Tattler on the Breakwater. I’m not complaining. The sea is flat and the days are warm. The Tattler is a sandpiper, one species in a large family. Like the Wandering Tattler, many have magical names, like characters in a book – Dowitcher, Whimbrel, Willet, Ruff, Greenshanks, Redshanks, Godwit, Stint, Red Knot, Yellowlegs. A children’s book, I think.

Wandering Tattler, Victoria, BC

I like their Latin names too. Calidris and Tringa are my favourites. Members of the Tringa family are lanky, like the Tattler. The Calidris folks tend to be shorter and  stockier, more sandpiper like. Red Knots, for example. Makes me think of stories in classical mythology-Calidris met Tringa in Poseidon’s garden one evening and incurred his wrath – that type of thing.

Red Knots and Friends, Ocean Shores, WA

And they migrate, often thousands of miles. The bird I saw this morning left the mountains of Alaska days ago. It’s just the beginning of the shorebird season and lots of them are showing up. Yesterday, ten Greater Yellowlegs and a Black-bellied Plover plunked down in the little bay near my home and frolicked. And why not?  After the sun set somewhere north of here, they lifted off and flew all night. Time for a morning bath and a bit of fun!  Is it my imagination or is there a bit of ‘do you mind?’ in the glance of this chap?

Greater Yellowlegs, Victoria, BC

The Yellowlegs and Plovers are in the first wave of sandpipers. Soon, I’ll be out in the autumn gales, plashing through marshes in my wellies, looking for more species, and always hoping something rare will drop in. A Siberian sandpiper would be nice.

I used to drive my kids across the continent every summer so they could visit their grandparents in southern Ontario. They’re grown now. For the first time in many years, I’ll be driving cross-country to Ontario, a journey which, for me, will have a slight tinge of melancholy attached to it-a sense of times gone and never to return.

But I like driving. My route takes me  through Pendleton, Oregon,  Laramie, Wyoming, Kearney, Nebraska, Bettendorf, Iowa, and Grand Rapids, Michigan. That’s a lot of miles, not to mention the return journey. And then, of course, there are the road hazards, like this alleged BLT.

Road Hazard, Michigan

The Kirtland’s Warbler is a rare bird I’d like for my list. To see one means a side trip to  Grayling, Michigan-many extra miles and no guarantees. The birds nest in a tiny area of second-growth pine forest in north central Michigan, and that’s pretty well it. Winters are spent in the Bahamas. The Kirtland’s is very unlikely to come to you; you have to go to it, especially if you’re a westerner.

In Grayling, I find my motel and take a break. Grayling is a small town, very small, surrounded by pine forest. I’m going to be here for two nights! Grayling has a nice little independent movie house though so if I get bored on the second night I could take in a show. I check the marquee. The movie is Minions, so maybe not.

Kirtland’s Warbler habitat

The Warblers are supposed to be in a patch of pines just outside of town. I don’t plan on going too far into the nesting area although the season is pretty well over and the new birds fledged. Some Clay-colored Sparrows appear and check me out. However, it’s a very nice day  and I’m enjoying the quiet of the forest with its wide, sandy trails.

Clay-colored Sparrow

I pass a Cowbird trap. Cowbirds are a particular menace because they lay their eggs in warbler nests. The much bigger Cowbird hatchling pushes the warbler chicks out to die, after which tiny warbler parents bust their you-know-whats to feed and raise the monster changeling.

 Cowbird Trap

Now, I’ve checked pictures people have taken of the Kirtland’s. For reason, I think the birds are usually near the tops of the small pines, which I where I look for them. Other than the rather scruffy yellow and gray-blue bird watching me from a patch of brush, waist-high, I’ve seen nothing. Then it dawns on me-the bird looking at me is a Kirtland’s Warbler! This is another case of not reading the whole description. Every bird book tells us that the Kirtland’s Warbler stays low. I have no idea how many I walked past while I was searching the treetops.

Young Kirtland’s Warbler

So…it’s evening, it’s Grayling, Michigan. I’m alone. What to do? Luckily, there’s a small movie house in town…

Minion

This morning I drove 30 miles to a place I didn’t know, got rained on and then dropped my spotting scope, all before breakfast. This is what birding does to people. I’d actually gone to…

Source: Rare Birds 1

This morning I drove 30 miles to a place I didn’t know, got rained on and then dropped my spotting scope, all before breakfast. This is what birding does to people. I’d actually gone to look for a Laughing Gull, a rare bird in my part of the world. Unfortunately, the gull only shows up at low tide and when I arrived at the location, the tide was full in. Now, I could have checked-I live on the ocean after all. As any sensible person mighy expect, I did not see the Laughing Gull, which was, I guess, doing its laughing some place else. Like many birders, I had succumbed to a kind of rare-birditis, a condition that tends to make “sugar plums dance through your head“. I really wanted to see that bird and I thought I might get lucky.

Rare birds fascinate most birders. And why not? The Laughing Gull is most commonly seen far to the south, on Mexican beaches, or the Florida shore. So what’s it doing in British Columbia, several thousand miles away from its natural habitat? Nobody knows for sure. Just like nobody really knows why this Tropical Kingbird would spend a few weeks at a beach in Washington State, where I saw it in October. There is some speculation that the Kingbird brain wiring gets screwed up, confusing their sense of the earth’s magnetic field. They fly north thinking they’re flying south. I just hope that never happens to me.

Tropical Kingbird, Ocean Shores, Washington

What makes a bird rare?  In some cases, a species is so reduced in numbers that seeing one is special. Usually, such birds are almost constantly under scrutiny so finding them is not difficult-so long as you don’t mind going to them-Whooping Cranes, for example. Just over 300 wild Whoopers survive. Since they nest in vast, swampy and northern Wood Buffalo National Park, you’re not likely to see one in summer. Go to their restricted winter range at Aransas near Corpus Christi in Texas, however, and you’ll almost certainly spot several, especially if you take the Whooping Crane boat tour.

The other rare birds are the strays, the birds who get blown off course and show up thousands of miles from home. When they do, an epidemic of rare-birditis breaks out. A rare bird search is a treasure hunt and some birders will cross the country to add the bird in question to their list.

A travelling birder checks the rare bird lists every day, as I did in northern California. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known about the Brown Shrike hanging out near Mendocino which, most of us would agree, is not a bad place to hang out. Shrike, incidentally, hunt like small falcons, catching mice, insects and small birds and impaling them on thorns. This Brown Shrike would normally live in Asia, on the other side of the Pacific.

Brown Shrike, California

I’ve managed to log quite a few rare birds over the past few years. I delight in each and every one. More about them in future posts. Right now, I’ve got to go drive 30 miles to catch low tide and, hopefully, spot that darn Laughing Gull.

I think I’ve said before how much I like swamps and marshes. Bogs too. Incidentally, I can’t say the same about sewage treatment plants, which can be kind of marsh-like. Although these are often good places to find rare birds, one has to weigh the risks. By all means, avoid getting downwind of settling ponds when the breeze freshens (which is is definitely not the right word under the circumstances). By the way, I’ve seen ducks do things in sewage…well, I’d rather not say. I just might not order duck a’lorange anytime soon. But I digress.

Back to swamps. Magical things can happen in swamps. The early morning light can be wonderful. There’s usually wildlife. Normal people generally avoid swamps and bogs, which appeals to the hermit in me.

Today, I’m in a swamp looking for Virginia Rails, which I don’t really expect to see, so ‘looking‘ is a euphemism in this case. People rarely see Rails. Hearing one will be good enough.

Walking along a water-filled ditch, l  keep my ears peeled for kiddick, kiddick, kiddick calls, or swampy grunts, or marshy wheeps, the calls of the Virginia Rail. Nothing. My usual  luck with these guys.

But, really, what have I got to complain about? A clear morning, bird song, bunnies, solitude – compensations for not hearing this darn, secretive ‘skinny as a rail’ bird – again. The fledgling swallows are nice too.

I’ve paused and I’m listening. I’ve been watching birds in the air but I happen to glance down. Incredible. A Virginia Rail is in the long grass, almost at my feet, studying me. I had a similar experience in north-central Michigan with a rare Kirtland’s Warbler once. When this sort of things happens, it’s like winning a prize. In the morning light, the Rail glows chestnut, white, purple and orange –  a really beautiful little bird.

Naturally, when I bring my camera up to take a pic, the Rail vanishes. Fair enough. Then, to my amazement, two minutes later he’s back, after which he appears again, and again. I’m not hidden. I’m just not moving.

The VR darts back and forth across the path. It’s a male. He’s working, carrying worms.  So, a man on a mission. And he’s calling too – kiddick-kiddick, grunt, wheep – softly. I’m now wondering if there’s a nesting female nearby and he’s feeding her. He is! A second VR stands on the verge. Fantastic – two Rails! The second must be the female. She looks both ways and edges back.

And now the really good part. Her partner wheeps from the other side of the path –  a nice little ‘it’s safe and don’t mind that goofy whatever it is standing there with the camera,’ watery sound. She makes a little ‘seep ‘ in response and out they come – the kids, just a few days old.  Four black, golf ball-sized fluff balls with bi-coloured bills, heading for the big water, which is the ditch.

The male appears once more, a quick look up the path. I hear the family move down the ditch and then silence. A couple of Eastern Cottontails show up for second breakfasts, and some California Quail do likewise. Feeding swallows zoom past.

I hear runners in the distance. They’re coming my way, talking loudly, galumphing. The spell is broken and the Rails will not reappear. Time for me to go anyway. I’m seizing up from standing motionless for thirty minutes or more and, I’ve just remembered, I haven’t  had my own breakfast yet.