Picture This

As always, I had some excellent adventures over the weekend. But I have not a picture to show for it. If you will, try to imagine why.

Picture this: It's 6:20 a.m. on Sunday morning, and I have just pulled into the parking lot of Gainesville's Target: this is the meeting place for Alachua Audubon's trip to Cedar Key. When I had gotten up an hour earlier, I checked online to find there was a 60% chance of rain and thunderstorms that would last throughout the day. Any sensible person would have gone back to bed. But I'm not a sensible person.

6:35 a.m: I return from the restroom at a nearby gas station to find that I am one of the drivers for the trip (the reason for the rendezvous at Target was for us to consolidate into carpools and arrange rides). I load my passengers, who I already know—a fellow UF faculty member and another local birder—into my embarrassingly dirty car and we take off, just as the rain starts.

7:00 a.m.: Our first stop is supposed to be at the Scrub Jay reserve just outside Cedar Key. But the rest of the caravan is nowhere in sight—I had gotten stuck behind a traffic light on the way out and the others are now WAY in front of me. Probably looking at Florida Scrub Jays. But my car is old and weak, and the road between Gainesville and Cedar Key is a bit of a speed trap, so I drove conservatively. My UF colleague, in the catbird seat, assures me that the guy in front of us drives like a maniac, so losing him was kind of predictable.

7:45—We pull into the Scrub Jay reserve just as the others are returning to their cars. They didn't see any Scrub Jays. Thank goodness. Otherwise, I would have felt awful. Even more awful than I already felt about fulfilling everyone's worst stereotypes about slow Asian drivers.

8:00—We're at the side of the road off the first bridge leading into Cedar Key, looking at a bold, brightly colored, and perversely cooperative Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrow (or whatever this bird is officially called now...). All of us who had brought cameras are hitting ourselves upside the head. Why? It was raining cats and dogs, so we had all left our gear in our cars. Meanwhile, that sparrow—whose buffy head and breast shone orange in the tiny bit of sunlight peeking through the rain clouds—just sat there, as if daring us to bring our cameras out into the rain. Bastard.

8:20—The 10 or so field trip participants are huddled under a picnic shelter by the beach, resigned to our Big Day being more like a rainy Big Sit—or more accurately, a Big Soak. "Okay, did anyone bring a deck of cards?" our trip leader said only half jokingly. Still, we manage to rack up about 20 species.

8:45—We caravan to Cedar Key's tiny airport, where a Scissor-tailed Flycatcher had been lingering a few weeks before. It's still raining buckets. As soon as we arrive, our trip leader debarks from his car and tells each of the other drivers that we're going to Shell Mound—with luck, the rain will have stopped by time we get there.

9:00—It's still raining torrents at Shell Mound. Our trip leader reluctantly scotches the whole trip. Everyone gets back in their cars and heads eastward back to Gainesville.

9:15—My UF colleague in the front seat is clearly unhappy, and growing unhappier by the moment as Cedar Key receded into our rear-view mirror. I ask him if he wants to go back to Cedar Key and wait until the rain let up. He wanted to go back to Shell Mound instead, which we did. We passed several other field trip participants heading home as we reversed course. They must have thought we were crazy.

9:30—Miraculously, there was a break in the storm and we were in business. At Shell Mound, we lingered on the boardwalk overlooking a sandbar and reed-filled area, and found a number of birds everyone else had missed: White Pelicans, Clapper Rails, Marsh Wrens, Marbled Godwits, and a Wilson's Plover. There were also yet more Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrows and several Bald Eagles out in the distance. But the clouds lingered ominously overhead, and we left our cameras in the car.

11:00—The clouds darkened again, and we got into the car just as the rain started to fall again. On the way back, my passengers insisted that I stop for gas, even though I had 3/4 of a tank left; they paid for the fill.

12:00—Back at Target, the skies are clearing and the sun is starting to shine though the clouds. My friend in the front seat declares that he is going to Hague Dairy, since the skies to the north of us look clear. The poor birder in the back seat, who has said scarcely a word over the course of the whole trip, is no doubt relieved to be free of us.

1:30—A particularly intelligent squirrel has figured out how to feed off my "squirrel-proof" bird feeder. It's now stopped raining, and I have my camera out to catch him (or her) in the act. But the squirrel has had its fill and doesn't return.

But it was still pretty cool when it was there. And when that sparrow was there at Cedar Key. And those Clapper Rails. You just have to trust me on this.

By The Sea

Greed is good: A fledgling Least Tern at the Least Tern Reserve at Huntington State Beach.

My summer trip home is drawing to a close; I return to Florida next week (just in time for hurricane season! Whoopee!). The good news is that Glenn will be coming with me. The bad news is that means the end of 10 years in our nearly-seaside aerie in Costa Mesa. We'll be back in Los Angeles fairly frequently to visit my family, but no longer will we have our own little space just minutes from beach.

So we've been doing a farewell tour of all our favorite beach spots. Our first beach stop was the Least Tern Reserve at Huntington State Beach, which we visited on Thursday morning. The reserve itself is a fenced-off area on a pretty beach justifiably popular with surfers.

We volunteered there as docents two summers ago; it was great fun watching mating and nesting behavior of the terns, and seeing how much the chicks grew every week. (Less fun were the occasional run-ins with belligerent people who couldn't understand WHY tossing frisbees at nesting birds is not a good thing.)

This year's crop of babies is now in fledgling stage: most of them can (sort of) fly, but are still depending on their parents for handouts.

Just up the mouth of the Santa Ana River was a pair of Red-breasted Mergansers. Both looked rather scruffy. A friend who was with us thought one of them might have been oiled. (This photo is a bit backlit and washed-out, but it will do for documentary purposes.)

In Talbert Marsh, just inland from the reserve, we heard what we thought were Nuttall's Woodpeckers, Hooded Orioles, Bullock's Orioles, and European Starlings calling and drumming loudly from somewhere nearby. It turned out to be a very vocal Northern Mockingbird in full-on mimic mode.

(In Florida, the Mockingbirds near my place imitate Carolina Chickadees, Northern Cardinals, and even Sandhill Cranes. At first they sounded like completely different birds to me. Then I realized that Mockingbird songs, like wines, are very much dependent their terroir for their flavor.)

On the way out of the reserve, we saw a mysterious—and sad—sight: a dead (but still fresh) Clapper Rail on the bike path leading from the parking lot to the beach:

It hadn't been there when we arrived, so it must have died within the last three hours—how, we have no clue. I have a huge soft spot for Clapper Rails and was hoping to see one before I left—but not like this. It's always a tragedy to know that an endangered bird has died. We reported it to the local birding gurus, and it is now headed for an educational taxidermy collection. It will now spend the rest of eternity being ogled at by busloads of schoolchildren on field trips. I suppose eternity could be a lot worse. (It could be a lot better, too.)

It was a perfect day at the beach, with postcard-blue skies and huge cobalt waves curling over the heads of surfers too busy and happy to mess with the terns. But I couldn't help feeling depressed about that poor Clapper Rail. I just hope it met its end quickly and painlessly, and enjoyed its preceding years foraging with its companions in the nearby marshes, with the sound of the waves crashing in the distance.

The Third Rail

Rail #1: Sora

After last week's fire ant attack, I was tempted to skip birding this weekend. I've practically scratched my left leg off, it's freezing out, and I've got a ton of work to do before the semester ends—not to mention tons of prep for my classes next semester. By Friday, I'd more or less decided to stay indoors and away from biting insects until my leg healed and my to-do list shrunk to manageable proportions.

Then I came to my senses and went out anyways. If stayed in, I'd spend more time wondering what I was missing than working.

So on Sunday, I headed to Cedar Key with the Alachua Audubon field trip group. Our leader warned us that the birding could either be wonderful or non-existent: on one hand, the tide was going to be up when we were scheduled to arrive, meaning little shorebird activity. On the hand, the cold front could well drive in some interesting birds. And there was only one way to find out which way it would be...

Our first stop was on the edge of town, where we pulled off to the side of the road to look for shorebirds. The tide was lower than we expected, and huge flocks of Dunlins, Western Sandpipers, American Oystercatchers, and other usual suspects were feeding off in the distance. We also had a large group of American Avocets—a common bird back in Orange County, but a good sighting here.

In the reeds not far from us, someone spotted a Sora. I heard, but didn't see, a Clapper Rail: Someone played its call, but there was no response.

These were good birds, but we were now on the lookout for sparrows: the swampy area across the street was a known hangout for Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrows. And it wasn't long before we found one:

Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrow

This was a lifer for me, and I was happy. Then several more came into view, along with several Marsh Wrens. I love Marsh Wrens and haven't seen any since leaving California, so it was a pleasure to see and hear them again. For some reason, seeing them again reminded me that it won't be long until I get to go home for Christmas. Yay!

Soon after, another Sora popped into view, followed by a bold Virginia Rail, who moved in and out of the reeds, occasionally pecking at a dead sand crab nearby:

Rail #2: Virginia Rail

Someone started playing a Seaside Sparrow song on his iPod, but with no response. "Can you play a Clapper Rail?" on of the others asked, "There was one on the other side, but I missed it--and I've never seen one."

The iPod's owner was happy to oblige—and so was one of the local Clappers:


Rail #3: Clapper Rail

"Whoa. How about a Black Rail?" someone else asked. We tried that, and were met with only stillness. We had been lucky, and now we were greedy.

And this was just the first half hour of our trip. Our other major findings were a Bronzed Cowbird (another lifer for me), several Bald Eagles, and the discovery that birding near the runway of Cedar Key's tiny airport is not a good idea. (The police officer who informed us of this suggested that we go to the cemetery instead to look for Ospreys.)

By time we finished up at the cemetery (one skinny juvenile Osprey and a couple of strangely pale, nearly leucistic Red-trailed Hawks), it was almost 1:30 (we had assembled in Gainesville at 6:30), and I was hungry to the point of distraction. My carpool mate was as well, so we stopped at a local seafood place for lunch, where I made my second-to-last useful discovery of the day: Datil pepper sauce is really good on fried seafood. And most other things too, most likely.

My final discovery? On some lucky days, you don't have to work to be productive. And three rails in a day is enough.

Photo School

Western Kingbirds at Talbert Nature Reserve.

My car has been shipped off to Florida, so on the days when Glenn goes up to LA for work, I'm without wheels. Monday was one such day, and I decided to do something I should have done a long time ago: figure out how to use my camera!

And being a total Luddite, it did indeed take me almost half the day to work my way through the manuals for both the lens and the camera body, and the rest of the day to read through Glenn's old copy of Arthur Morris's "Art of Bird Photography" while figuring out how his instructions for balancing film and shutter speed and aperture settings (all calibrated to different colors and sizes of birds in different environments) could be applied to my digital camera.

This was a productive use of a day at home. Now I finally know what all those buttons and dials on my camera are for, and if another photographer at Bolsa Chica or San Joaquin asks me what ISO I'm shooting at, I can tell him. I think.

Yesterday, I decided to go out early, do some heavy birding and practice applying my new knowledge. The good news is that I saw some great birds. The bad news is that my photos still suck.

I decided to stay close to home, and spend the morning at Talbert Nature Reserve, with a detour down to the Santa Ana River Mouth and up to Canyon Park. Upon entering Talbert, I got two good birds almost immediately: an Ash-throated Flycatcher, and a Wilson's Warbler, the first I've seen since spring. Unfortunately, both moved too quickly for me to photograph.

I got to the bike path along the Santa Ana River at low tide, and flocks of Semipalmated and Black-bellied Plovers were feeding on the mudflats. I don't think I've ever seen so many Semipalmated Plovers together in one place before:

Further down the river were a group of hunting Double-crested Cormorants. I managed to get a mid-flight shot of one that was actually in focus:

My best bird (and worst photo subject) of the day was a Clapper Rail preening itself in by the reeds in the Banning Ranch marsh. The bird was pretty far away, and because of its preening, was taking on some decidedly non-photogenic poses. Pathetically enough, this was my best shot:

Get the clap at Banning Ranch!

Back at Talbert, I spotted the two juvenile Cooper's Hawks who had been hanging around the front of the reserve all summer. A couple of young Cooper's Hawks frequented the area last summer as well; I'm pretty sure they nest there. A Red-tailed Hawk drifted by, gliding slowly overhead with the sun shining through its wings. I thought this would make a nice shot, so I tried to remember everything all the manuals said: Get the autofocus at the right setting, then set the focus on something about the same distance away as the moving object you're shooting at, then get said object in your viewfinder and shoot. And voila!

Who says nature blogs have to be uplifting and inspirational?

An Unstinting Quest

This is not a Red-necked Stint.

My penultimate weekend in California was a long-planned visit to San Diego, where we planned to spend some time with my sister, brother-in-law, and cute little baby nephew—as well as with some southerly bird specialties that never quite make it up to Orange County.

We visit my San Diego sister often, and our weekend ritual generally goes like this: (1) Get up at 5:30 on Saturday morning, throw our stuff in the car, and head out for some morning birding, (2) Bird frenetically from about 8 a.m. to about 2 or 3, (3) Stop for fish tacos before heading to my sister's place, (4) Enjoy an afternoon and long night of gossip, food, wine, movies on DVD, and playtime with a two-year-old with a foot fetish and the world's longest eyelashes.

This week's trip was no different, except for three things: First, it would be my last visit in a long time; and second, there was the possibility of finding the Red-necked Stint that had been lingering off Coronado Island for most of last week. And third, the stress of my imminent move had turned me into a panicked, sleep-deprived wreck in desperate need of respite. I wanted to see that Stint, doggone it, and I was determined to have fun—FUN!-even if it killed me.

We had a few target birds in mind besides the Staint—the Yellow-crowned Night-Herons in Imperial Valley, and the Little Blue Herons in the San Diego River. So we decided to start with the Night-Herons—at the most southerly of our target spots—and work our way north back to my sister's place. Following Neil Gilbert's recent communique, we set out for Imperial Valley Sports Park, where the Yellow-crowned Night-Herons have been nesting as of late. We were pleased to find that it was directly adjacent to one of our favorite San Diego birding spots, the Tijuana River National Estuarine Research Reserve. We had seen the Night-Herons nesting in trees in a nearby apartment complex a couple of years ago, so it wasn't too surprising to see them here.

In the park, we saw a Cooper's Hawk trying to chase off a group of crows, and the gregarious groundskeeper pointed out the tree where the Night-Herons had been nesting. Only seconds later, one flew into the tree and posed for us for a couple of minutes before flying off towards the reserve.

At the reserve, we found yet another Yellow-crowned Night-Heron—this one, a younger bird with less developed plumage than the first—feeding in the estuary waters:

We've always found the reserve to be a reliable place to find Clapper Rails, and this time was no exception: we heard dozens clicking away in the reeds, and saw several others poking around by the waterline:

Apart from these birds and a few of the other usual suspects, the reserve was uncharacteristically quiet. So we were off to find the Stint, armed with this map, courtesy of CalBirds.

We found the spot easily, but also found it depressingly devoid of people with spotting scopes and binoculars. The tide was up, and only a few water birds—such as about a half dozen Surf Scoters, which surprised me—were in evidence.

This was a bummer, but there were still other places to check out for fun stuff. So we headed to La Jolla Cove, where Glenn got his first-ever view of an American Oystercatcher last year.

Going to a scenic beach for birds at noon on a summer weekend is a bad idea. It was wall-to-wall people, and any bird that might have chosen to be there had sensibly fled for quieter digs. All we saw were a few Rock Pigeons and European Starlings.

Things were beginning to suck. My last birding weekend in San Diego, and I could count the number of species I've seen on my fingers.

"Do you want to head back to your sister's place?" Glenn asked.

"NO!" I practically screamed. Much as I love hanging with my sister, the idea of spending my second-to-last-ever Saturday afternoon in California sitting indoors watching the Food Network (the usual afternoon activity at her place) just seemed too depressing. I needed to be outside, and I needed more birds.

So we headed on to our other favorite spot—the mouth of the San Diego River, just across from Sea World—where we have always had good luck finding Little Blue Herons. We found them, as usual, but they sadistically decided to stay on the opposite side of the river from us, alternately dozing and standing around lethargically:


Almost no other birds were in evidence. A Northern Mockingbird. A stray Mallard. A single Pied-billed Grebe. We had gotten most of our specialties, but apart from that, it was a conspicuously birdless day.

By then, it was almost 2:30 and we decided to call it quits. We had our customary fish tacos (yum!) and spent the afternoon playing with our little nephew and watching (and making fun of) the Food Network. Then, we feasted on huge hamburgers grilled up by my brother-in-law, then ate s'mores made from homemade marshmallows and graham crackers (which I made and brought along) while watching "Into the Wild" on DVD. The film reminded me that nature is beautiful, but does not always give up her secrets easily, or benevolently.

And I was finally happy. I didn't get all of the birds I wanted, nor as many as I wanted. But it beat the heck out of my weekday activities of playing phone-tag with the company shipping my car and the leasing office at that apartment in Gainesville that I will be moving into sight unseen. And I got to spend quality time with my sister, very cool BIL, and the cutest toddler in the world. And see a few unusual birds.

It would be greedy to want anything more than that.

A Day at the Beach

A Forster's Tern enjoying a little snack.

Spring migration gave me a serious case of bird greed. I was desperate to catch every warbler and flycatcher I could before the summer lull set in. Thus, I've been spending nearly every waking weekend hour for the past six weeks or so out in the field with my bins and high hopes...

Until the weekend before last, when I didn't get to bird at all: instead, I was stuck indoors at a conference my department was sponsoring. Yes, it was a prestigious international conference, and the talks were all original and interesting...but there really ought to be a law against scheduling these things during spring migration.

Then a few days later, the report from Orange County Rare Bird Alerts officially declared the summer doldrums in session. And I had spent the last precious moments of migration season eating cold bagels and sitting through PowerPoint presentations.

So on Saturday, we decided to check out the Least Terns at the reserve at Huntington State Beach instead of looking for (now-non-existent) migrants. They were there in large numbers, and had already started nesting and incubating their eggs.


We also birded the Talbert Marsh and Banning Ranch areas just up the Santa Ana River. In the palm trees in the industrial complex just inland from Talbert Marsh, we found a colony of nesting Great Blue Herons: there were about half a dozen nesting pairs setting up house in the treetops.


Beautiful as they are, these master hunters can definitely cause some trouble for the nearby nesting Least Terns.

In the marsh itself, we saw several pairs of Elegant Terns mating (a process that seems to go on forever—the male Elegant Tern is the Ron Jeremy of birds). On the other side of the river, in the Banning Ranch area, we got a brief glimpse of a Clapper Rail. In the river was a late-lingering male Bufflehead: we found out the next day that it had been captured and taken to the Wetlands and Wildlife Care Center. I suspect that this was because he had ended up on the beach, and not just because he was too dim to migrate. Poor little dude!

We ended up spending the entire day at the beach: we got there about 9, and left about 6. And even then, we only left because it was starting to get seriously cold.

Spring might be over, but summer is off to a good start.

The Long March

Spring flowers at Fairview Park

We dedicated our first official spring outing to my favorite walk—one that combines my fondness for both endurance sports and birds: a six-mile, moderately hilly, and very birdy stroll from Fairview Park in Costa Mesa, down through neighboring Talbert Nature Reserve, south down the Santa Ana River to Huntington State Beach, then back up the river trail and inland to Canyon Park in Costa Mesa's westside--then back up the river, through Talbert to Fairview, where my car was parked.

It was a gorgeous day for a hike—wildflowers were blooming like crazy, and the birds were vocal and active for the almost the whole time we were out. In Talbert, a very noisy and aggressive House Wren darted about in the trees only a few feet away from us, and at one point, dive-bombed Glenn and momentarily landed on his foot!

A little ankle-biter ready to attack.

As of late, we've encountered a variety of random small creatures with an interest in stepping on Glenn's feet: our almost-2-year-old nephew, our brother-in-law's cat, and now this...

In the reserve, we also saw and heard White-Crowned and Song Sparrows, American and Lesser Goldfinches, tons of Yellow-rumped Warblers and Common Yellowthroats. We also got short glimpses of what may have been a Yellow Warbler--it looked to me to be too bright and too long and skinny to be an Orange-crowned, and it didn't have an eye ring or any other kind of markings on its face.

We also got both California and Blue-grey Gnatcatchers: the male California Gnatcatchers were in their black-capped breeding plumage, and vocalizing quite loudly.



Down on the river and in the marshy areas of Banning Ranch, Buffleheads, Lesser Scaups, and other winter ducks were still chilling out, not quite ready to leave for points north. Last year, we had spotted a Clapper Rail in the area, and lusting for another good photo opportunity, wondered if any were still in the area. Not really expecting anything to happen, Glenn busted out his iPod and played a Clapper Rail call--and only a few seconds into it, we heard a loud, ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK from the bushes only a few feet away from us!

They were there!

We skulked about by the bushes along the bike trail, listening and watching for their movements. Glenn got a look at one of them peeking out of a bush, but was unable to get any photos. We played the call a few more times, and got a lot of agonizingly close ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK calls from the still-invisible birds, then decided it would be best to stop pestering them.

Towards the beach, we spotted more Lesser Scaups and Buffleheads, as well as a number of Red-breasted Mergansers. We walked back up the river, stopping at Canyon Park, which was filled with flowers—I'd never seen it this pretty. We watched Yellow-rumped Warblers and Bushtits flit about as we ate a thoroughly unremarkable picnic lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and carrot sticks.

On the way back, we spotted another male California Gnatcatcher flitting about in the bushes in Talbert Nature Reserve.

We had clearly hit the birding sweet spot: all the cool winter birds were still around, the neat spring migrants were starting the show up, and all the regulars were in their more-active-than -normal breeding season mode.

Thank goodness this all corresponds with spring break and a temporary break from my teaching—I'll definitely be out for more!

What I Should Have Said

              Me and my big mouth...

"So, tell me about birding—I really don't know anything about it."

We were at my sister's place in San Diego yesterday, after a thoroughly unrewarding day of poking around the Tijuana Estuary. Apart from a few Clapper Rails, an Osprey, a Northern Harrier, a Cooper's Hawk, several Brown Pelicans, Killdeer, and Forster's Terns, the day's birding had been a wash. Nothing new for our life lists, and not even any sightings of any local birds that don't usually make it all the way up to Orange County (such as the Gull-Billed Terns or Little Blue Herons.) And now we were sipping wine in the kitchen with one of their neighbors, who was asking very nicely exactly what birding entailed, and what its appeal was.

And being sleep-deprived, sunburned, and dizzy from wine drunk on an empty stomach, I gave him a totally incoherent answer. I nattered on about Big Days and life lists, and left the poor dude with the impression that birding is something like paintball for nature lovers with obsessive-compulsive disorders.

Here's what I should have said instead:

I like birding for the same reasons I like Harry Potter novels—both allow an escape into a rich alternate world filled with both great beauty and incredible tension and danger. But birding is even more rewarding than great fantasy fiction: unlike Hogwarts and Diagon Alley, the magical parallel universe opened to birders is real—and all you need is a pair of binoculars and some patience to get in.

During the spring, I spent a lot of time in ordinary suburban parks filled with playground equipment and picnic tables. None of the minivan moms and kids yelling about how bored they were had any idea what was going on right over their heads. Did any of them have any clue that the trees were filled with gorgeous wild creatures with colors and patterns even brighter than those of domestic parrots? And that many of these would only be here a few weeks, before slipping off again to some distant locale?

If I were to tell one of the kids that I was looking for a bright yellow bird with a traffic-cone orange head, or a tiny songbird of blazing metallic aquamarine, most would think I was joking. After all, everybody knows that birds in southern California are all brown or black or grey. But Western Tanagers and Lazuli Buntings are unambiguously real—and with a bit of effort and some luck, I can find them.

And when I do, I know I've slipped into that parallel universe—but even better, I know it's not really a parallel universe, but the same one in which I live, work and fight off freeway traffic, only in exquisite detail. Because I bird, I can see parts of the physical world that most people miss. I can find incredible beauty and dramatic life-or-death struggles in seemingly mundane environments.

The search for different birds can become competitive, and the competition can be fun—it's rewarding to be able to quantify how much of the veiled physical world one has mastered, and to match one's skills against those of other birders. But the real pleasure of birding for me is just being a part of this hidden world: watching raptors pursue their prey, and fledgling terns learning to fly and hunt, is satisfaction enough.

I can see all of this, and most people can't or won't. Strangely, this makes me feel powerful.

And this is a kind of power nobody can take away.