Two of Everything!

Get a room!

My car is coated with pollen, my normally polite students are grumpy and distracted, and field of boring (non-avian) warblers on American Idol is almost down to the single digits. Which means only one thing:

SPRING IS HERE!

It not only feels like spring, but sounds like spring. On my morning runs (just after sunrise, which is allegedly when all the muggers and kidnappers are back in bed) I hear calls and songs and scolds from seemingly twice as many birds as before, all going at double speed and double volume. The intensity and urgency of their calls makes me want to run faster—but it also tempts me to go home, grab my bins, and walk my route, checking the trees for migrants. Some of the vocalizations are unfamiliar, and I want to know who's making them. Most likely, our year-round residents in a hormone-induced frenzy, but still. Alas, this time-intensive option isn't doable on work days. So I run faster.

At our feeder, we're also seeing signs of spring. Our resident male Northern Cardinal has been feeding his mate, a sign that nesting will soon begin. Two Carolina Wrens have been following each other closely as they explore our peanut feeder and occasional meal worm treats—no doubt a pair. They've been eating heartily in anticipation of —well, whatever it is they're up to! Over the weekend, one of them managed to gobble down two meal worms at once:

I've learned, though, that spring migration doesn't hit Gainesville until relatively late in the season. The summering Northern Parulas are back, and word is out that the first Prothonotory Warblers of the season have been spotted—but we're not expecting a real influx of good stuff for a few more weeks. Meanwhile, our winter birds are still here: the Chipping Sparrows still arrive by the dozen at our feeder every morning, and on Sunday, we got a new bird at our feeder: a wintering American Goldfinch:

Now where was this guy back in December, when I put down major ducats for all that thistle seed nobody touched?

Random Photos and Haiku for a Quiet Weekend

I was really stoked
Whooping Cranes just down the street!
Oh my freaking god!



Over winter break
A Chestnut-backed Chickadee
North of Monterey.



Near New Smyrna Beach
A tiny Piping Plover
Feeding by the waves.



Florida Scrub-Jay
Looks like his western cousins
But vulnerable and rare.



I must buy more seed
Chipping Sparrows ate it all!
Greedy buggers, them.



The Cardinals are back
Singing and feeding outside
Spring is coming soon.

A Moving Experience

Fresh Start: A juvenile Northern Cardinal checks out our new place.

I hate boxes.

I hate stepping around them. I hate taping them together. I hate filling them with stuff, then lugging them down multiple flights of stairs and wondering how I'll fit them into my car.

I hate finding them in odd corners, opening them and finding my life's belongings wrapped up in 10-year-old pages from defunct alternative newspapers, which reminds me how pathetic and old I'm getting. I hate wondering where they are, and once finding them, trying to figure out where to put them next.

And this is all I've done all summer. Moving SUCKS. Glenn has finally moved out to Gainesville to join me, but this meant (1) moving out of our place in California, where 10 years of random crap had prodigiously, yet stealthily, accumulated, (2) simultaneously moving out of my tiny pied-a-terre in Gainesville, which was too small for all this stuff, and (3) moving INTO a bigger place in Gainesville. Orthogonally related to all this was (4) sorting through and discarding tons of stuff from my high school and college years still at my parents' place, in preparation for their possible (but not imminent) move. My heart nearly broke as I shredded dozens of absolutely hilarious letters from my sophomore roommate and my freshman-boyfriend-who-turned-out-to-be-gay. The idea of paying for and dealing with yet another moving box was just too awful.

All this misery came to a head last weekend, when both Glenn and the movers arrived at our new place. Between packing and unpacking stuff, watching poor Glenn do battle with both jet lag and an uncooperative wireless router, and trying to figure out WHY our Florida renters' insurance policy costs four times more than our old policy in California ("This is Florida", was the best answer my insurance agent could come up with), I haven't had much time for birding or blogging. Yup, it sucks to be me.

But the payoff for all this stress is significant: Among the charms of our new place are much-improved backyard birding opportunities. The feeder at my old place attracted a fair number of birds, but was in a thoroughly dismal location:

Here's the same feeder now: near real live trees!

We already have a number of Tufted Titmice and Carolina Chickadees coming by regularly:

A family of Northern Cardinals (an adult male and female and two juveniles) comes by several times a day as well—at my old place, it took about three months for the birds to warm up to my feeder.

There are also a lot of Carolina Wrens, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, and Blue Jays in the area that we hope will drop by: we've put up a suet feeder and a hummingbird feeder to make the place more interesting for them.

Meanwhile, fall migration is slowly but surely starting up. We went by Palm Point Park yesterday in search of migrant warblers, and found a Black-and-white Warbler and several Prothonotary Warblers. The Prothonotary was a lifer for Glenn:

At San Felasco Hammock State Park this morning, we saw Yellow-throated Warblers, Northern Parulas, Worm-eating Warblers, American Redstarts, and a Black-and-white Warbler. The park was quite birdy (and buggy); I'm sure there were a lot of good birds in there that we missed.

And back home, there's almost always something flitting about in the back yard. There's nothing like the company of birds to make a random building filled with half-empty boxes feel like home.

Go Team!

Three cheers for the red...

white...

and blue!

Have a burger, re-read the Constitution, and remember, don't poke lit sparklers in people's faces.

Happy Independence Day!

Out of My League

This Prairie Warbler is perched directly in front of some dude's crotch. Insert tasteless joke of your choice.

I've lived in a bunch of different places around the world, and I've noticed that one of the subtle ways places and cultures vary is in how much one is expected to know about something in order to be considered competent. And this correlates with the even more subtle difference in how much personal experimentation people allow themselves.

Back in California, the land of personal re-invention, it was considered not only acceptable, but commendable, to try to learn a discipline in which you have absolutely no talent. I've taken writing classes with people who were baffled by basic punctuation and vocabulary, and cooking classes with people who could barely tell a knife and spoon apart. And despite having huge phobias of complex machinery and being underwater, I somehow managed to get my scuba certification. (The other students in my scuba class were a former competitive swimmer and an ex-Navy SEAL. It was humbling. Well, actually, humiliating.)

But it hasn't been like this in other places I've lived. I signed up for a just-for-fun food writing course when I lived in Canada, and was surprised to discover that almost all my classmates were professional food writers in some capacity or another. Ditto for a kayaking class I took there as a lark—just about everyone there owned a kayak and had been paddling around in it for a couple of years before deciding they were ready to commit to a basic course. And I'd never sat in a kayak in my life.

People in Canada don't do stuff unless they have evidence that they have some aptitude for it. And as it turns out, neither do Floridians.

A local birding couple invited me to spend Friday evening and Saturday with them at the Chinsegut Birding and Wildlife Festival, held at Chinsegut Nature Center, near Brooksville. Our plan was to drive there Friday afternoon, stop for dinner along the way, and arrive in time for the evening bat/bird/bug walk before checking into a cabin at a nearby conference center.

Despite arriving late, we followed the glint of distant flashlights into the woods and caught up with the bug walk. Then I realized that some of the little glimmers I thought were distant street lights or flashlights were actually nearby fireflies. I've always wanted to see fireflies, and now I can finally say I have. They were magical to watch. Then we heard faint screeching in the distance, which my friends identified as the call of a Chuck-Will's-Widow. A life bird for me, so also very cool.

The other surprise was the demographics of the group: about three-fourths of the crowd consisted of a squealing Girl Scout troupe (most of whom found the fireflies terrifying); the other quarter consisted of professional biologists and naturalists engaged in heated debates over land-use policy and the exact genus and species of that tiny mayfly stuck on someone's headlamp.

And then there was me.

Where were the other People Like Me? By this, I mean where were the semi-serious amateur naturalists out to learn a bit more about natural world in a non-competitive way? People like, say, 90% of the participants at the evening Owl Prowls and bat walks I participated in or helped lead back in California?

Then I remembered Canada and I realized what was going on: People here don't go to these things unless they really know what they're doing. Or unless they're children brought in to complete some required module of their third-grade science curriculum. Birders here probably learn to bird in infancy, and are Sibley-level masters by the time they're my age.

I was out of my league.

I didn't have anything to say to the Girl Scouts (and people don't like strangers coming up to their kids in the dark and talking to them in any case), so I tried to make small talk with all the bug people (as the entomologists proudly called themselves). They were all very friendly and passionate about their bugs—but I realized I was WAY out of my league.

The next day was more of the same. We were back at the festival site by 6:30 the next morning for the first event on the schedule, bird banding. My friends (also both biologists) helped set up mist nets along the trails to catch the birds, then spent the first part of the morning monitoring the nets, gently untangling the birds that flew into them, then bringing them in to be banded. I made myself semi-useful by writing down band numbers and bird info as the banding took place.

It was a productive morning: we got a female Northern Cardinal almost as soon as we arrived, followed by Prairie Warblers, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, a Grey Catbird, an Eastern Towhee, and a couple of Tufted Titmice (one of whom ended up in the net only half an hour after we banded him).

The Cardinal was by far the most aggressive bird we banded. The guy doing the banding said that seed-eaters were more aggressive biters in general than insect-eaters, and our female Cardinal lived up to this reputation. As soon as he picked her up, she took a stab at him:

He calmed her down by putting a thick stick in her mouth, which distracted her until the band was on. Then he opened his hand to release her. But instead of taking off immediately, as did the other birds, she spun around and bit him one last time. Hard.

("You know how you associate certain words with birds sometimes?" a birder pal said this morning when I told her about this. "I never thought I'd think of Northern Cardinals and 'vindictive'.")

After getting sick of my asking for the four-letter codes for each bird we banded (not to mention the special codes for "identified for sex by plumage" and "identified by age by beak color" ), the head bander said I could do something else if I wanted. OK, I got the message. Then I headed off for the bird walk that was to start shortly.

And this turned out to be a brief jaunt around the parking lot, as we looked for Ruby-crowned Kinglets and Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, so we'd all be able to see how to tell them apart. I'm really glad they were doing this, as one of the first things a new birder should learn as that little grey birds are actually fun to watch and can be easy to distinguish— but I was bored. And frustrated.

Not good enough to play with the big kids. And too big to play with the little kids—at least while keeping my dignity intact.

Spring migration has finally hit north Florida, and I was hoping to get my fill of warblers. But instead, I got sucked into multiple bug walks (one on butterflies, one on bugs in general). What the hell—critters are fun, and the only thing to do was go with the flow.

The Bug Walk yielded some surprisingly pretty beetles. This was one of several dung beetles that the trip leader had caught in traps baited with—guess what. Kids squealed with excitement as he plucked the bugs from the traps and placed them in their outstretched hands.

(And shortly after releasing said beetles, the kids would dig their hands into big bags of chips and cookies they carried with them, which led some of us grownups to shake our heads in despair.)

The Butterfly Walk didn't yield that many butterflies, but the trip leader showed off various indigenous plants that local butterflies and their caterpillars like to feed on. One of these was the Passionflower. Back in California, I grew to love these, and was saddened to learn that they were harmful invasives. But out here, they are natives, and my enjoyment is totally guilt free:

In the afternoon, there was a presentation on bats, which included several rehabilitated bats. One was this Yellow Bat, which the Bat Lady (the woman who gave the presentation) wore as a living pendant while it took a nap:

I know next to nothing about bugs, butterflies, and bats, so it was easier to set aside my pride and regain what Buddhists call the "beginning mind": learning without preconceptions. And once I did that (and got my serious caffeine hit at lunch, since I didn't get any coffee at breakfast), I was happy. And I learned a lot about bugs and bats.

And on the way home, my friends stopped off at a private Audubon-owned property nearby, and I got to see Indigo Buntings in alternate plumage for the first time. So I got my best bird only after the "bird festival" ended.

My plan for next weekend: All warblers. All the time.

(Nearly) 100 Birds

Winter is on its way out.

I'm still not used to the rhythm of the seasons out here. Back in California, winter (what there was of it) ceded its way gradually to spring: days and nights got gradually warmer, the hills would shift from pale green to the bright yellow and purple and pink of wildflowers. And of course, the White-crowned Sparrows would gradually drift off to their breeding grounds, and Western Tanagers, Bullock's and Hooded Orioles, and Hermit Warblers would take their place in the hearts and minds of local birders.

And here? For the past few weeks, it seemed as if spring and winter had been duking it out in some cosmic battle for control. When I leave the house in the morning, temperatures are in the 30s or low 40s. When I get back in the afternoon, they're in the 80s. Today, I met with an out-of-town consultant in my office, and he said that when he arrived in Gainesville yesterday, he wondered why everyone was wandering around in short sleeves while lugging around heavy winter coats. After spending a night here, he figured out why.

I'm not sure what the migration rhythm of the local birds is supposed to be like out here, either. Someone told me that spring tends to start early in Florida, but I haven't seen any interesting migrant birds yet. Still, I've been hearing a lot more singing--probably year-round residents whose songs I haven't figured out yet—and there are definitely signs of nesting activity. On a nearly bird-less walk on Sunday, I found this nest hole: from the freshness of the leaves, it must have been settled fairly recently:

In the meantime, there have been reports that the local wintering birds are starting to take off. Most of the Sandhill Cranes have left Paynes Prairie, but some still remain in the field across the street from my place. Local birders have also reported that the number of wintering Chipping Sparrows at their feeders is starting to decline. I suspect that this is because they are now all at MY feeder!

For the past few weeks, I've had a noticeable uptick in birds in my little courtyard. Usually, I need to refill the feeder about once every 10 days or so. Last month, this interval dropped to once every week. And on Monday I left the house with the feeder three-fourths full, and came home to find it almost completely empty!

At first, I was angry; I figured one of my neighbors or some maintenance person took umbrage at the idea of the thing and emptied it out of spite. But only minutes after I refilled it, about a dozen chippers lunged at it, followed by a pair of Northern Cardinals, dive-bombing Carolina Wrens, and scolding Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice.

For the last few days, I've been coming home to an empty feeder, which would be swarmed as soon as I refilled it and stepped out of the courtyard. Yesterday afternoon, a pair of Carolina Chickadees were perched in a tree just above me, scolding me loudly as I refilled the feeder: "Hurry up, we're hungry here!" they seemed to be saying.

In many Chinese homes (including my parents' place) hangs a large painting or embroidery featuring dozens of stylized birds--there are supposed to be 100 of them. Having 100 birds at your house, according to tradition, is supposed to be a sign of good luck.

I already feel lucky to have the little guys around. But I do hope that they'll bring me more; they're eating me out of house and home!

Fall Colors

Common but cool: A Northern Cardinal at Palm Point.

I got a lot of great fall warblers this weekend, but as my last post shows, my attempts to photograph them have been pretty pathetic. Most of the time, I decided not to even try: they are so delightful to watch, and here for such a short time, I didn't want to take my binoculars off them for a second.

But some of the other local birds were a bit more cooperative, and did allow some nice (or at least, semi-respectable) shots. None them are rare birds here, but they're still novelties for me, and a treat to see.

Back in California, Glenn and I would go down to the San Diego River mouth, just by Sea World, to find and try to photograph the Little Blue Herons, which are rare to nonexistent anywhere else in the state. We always found them, but they were always a way off. Today at Powers Park, I found one standing by the boat ramp, utterly unconcerned by my presence:


A heron we never saw in California was the Tricolored Heron: here, they are apparently common, but until this weekend, I've never gotten a really close look at one. This guy is a bit obscured by foliage, but it's the best shot I have so far. This was taken at Palm Point:


On Saturday, I birded Powers Park and Palm Point with another local birder (yup, I hit the same places on both Saturday and Sunday), and got a number of new butterflies: This one is (I think) a Sleepy Orange:


Neither Florida nor California are known for the standard leaves-turning-red-in-the-fall thing (there are not that many deciduous trees in SoCal, and I was told that there is a bit of color change here, but it doesn't happen until December). But the birds make fall a really colorful season here, for those who care to look for it. And the guys I managed to photograph here aren't even half of it.

Bad Shots of Good Birds

The best thing about photographing mushrooms? They can't fly.

I've been having endless amounts of fun looking for new Florida birds. The birders here are great, and have been really generous about teaching me the calls and field marks of all local specialties.

I've been having less fun, however, trying to get decent shots of these birds. Since it's the midst of fall migration, all the really interesting birds are tiny, active little things, and the foliage here is denser and darker than the coastal sage scrub and mountain oaks and sycamores back in California. And it's hard to focus on a shot of these little guys while simultaneously keeping one's eyes open for spiders/snakes/mosquitos/passing cars/cyclists/gators/Gator fans and other local hazards.

Still, even lame shots of new birds are a nice souvenir of a day in the field. One of my favorite new birds is the Prothonotory Warbler, and here's a bad shot of one. (He was SO close, but hopped away before I could get any other shots.)



One of my goals coming out here was to get some good shots of Northern Cardinals, which are abundant, pretty, and relatively slow moving. Mission (not quite) accomplished:



One bird that was surprisingly cooperative and allowed a not-sucky shot was this White-eyed Vireo, who I saw at Loblolly Woods Nature Park this morning:



And to give everyone's eyes a break, here's a shot of the appropriately named beautyberry, a local native popular with birds. This very cooperative plant was also at Loblolly:

The Mysterious East

There are birds in there, somewhere.!

On my first morning in Gainesville, I was awakened by unfamiliar squawks and chirps outside my window. Despite fatigue, jet lag, and the overall stress and misery of moving across the country via multiple connecting flights (a pox on US Airways..), one word jumped into my travel-weary little brain...

LIFERS!

I stumbled across the room, fished out my binoculars, and threw open the sliding door leading from my room to a spacious second-story balcony. (Some friends of my sister generously allowed me to crash at their house until my apartment was ready.) Outside was a thick canopy of moss-covered trees, all noisy with birds and buzzing insects--none of which I could locate.

And I couldn't even guess at half the birds I heard. There was something that sounded like a chattering monkey (maybe some kind of oriole?); something that, honest to God, sounded like a tree-dwelling American Wigeon; a weird squeal that I later discovered was a Blue Jay (Florida Lifer #1), and the familiar song of a Northern Cardinal (Florida Lifer #2--since my Talbert Nature Reserve Cardinal was an escapee, he didn't count--but knowing his song definitely helped!)

I knew things would be different out here. The birds are only half of it.

A few random observations, and a few factoids shared by my hosts:

—It is surprisingly easy to find good bread and cheese in Gainesville.
—One is legally required to register one's car in Florida within ten days of moving here. However, the soonest appointment I could get with the DMV to do this is 11 days from now. WTF??
—There is a conspicuous preponderance of okra in all the supermarkets.
—Florida is a major grower and exporter of eggplant.
—Gainesville, according to my hairdresser back in Costa Mesa, is a major center for punk rock.
—It is also has a huge hippie subculture, thus lots of natural food stores with nice vegetables.
—However, the areas outside city limits are distinctly poor and rural, with a heavy Klan presence.
—Therefore, smart-ass "foreign" girls from the university, such as yours truly, are advised not to wander around the back roads outside city limits alone.
—Guess where all the good birding spots are around here?

This is pissing me off because there are tons of birds out here. Fall migration is in full swing here, and even as I write this, the woods on the edges of town are swarming with warblers and other goodies. I e-mailed the local Audubon society and told them I was new to town and looking for birding buddies (who might offer me a degree of protection as well as help with East Coast bird ID). I haven't heard back yet--maybe they don't like us fancy-pants outsiders either?

Oh, and just in time for my arrival in Florida comes the first tropical storm to hit Gainesville in four years. Fay is supposed to hit Gainesville tonight. I've been told (1) not to worry, and (2) to stock up on bottled water and matches. Oh goody.


Florida summer refreshment!

So my move here will not be, as I predicted, a trial by fire, but by wind and water.