You Can Go Home Again

Eew, gros!

The academic year ended at UF, and now I'm back in California for a brief working vacation before another round at the Gator Nation!

I figured things would be different when I got back: I can't vote here anymore, and when I found myself roped into giving another tour of the San Joaquin marsh on Saturday, I was dismayed to find that the tour started in a different building and followed a different path than before. But some changes were for the better: The docents' restroom in the Audubon House is no longer stuffed to the rafters with taxidermied birds (which required anyone using it to move a stuffed and mounted Great Blue Heron), and the number of summer Bat Walks has been increased from five to seven.

And the fundamentals of California life remain unchanged. I got back just in time for a 4.7 earthquake, the annual collapse of the state government, and a standard-issue off-year election full of ballot measures nobody understands.

Best of all, West Coast birds remain the same. I haven't had much time to bird since coming home—but when I finally got out this weekend, it was like meeting old friends again.

We spent both Saturday and Sunday at Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary in Modjeska Canyon. It's a tiny little place, but we almost always find birds there we don't normally see in the flatlands of Costa Mesa and Newport Beach. And this time was no exception. We saw several Lark Sparrows, a bird I haven't seen in ages:

Black-headed Grosbeaks have been lurking about everywhere as of late, but at Tucker, the generously stocked sunflower feeders brought them closer than I'd ever seen them, which allowed for great photos.

I also heard strangely familiar calls and scolds that reminded me of Florida—in particular, they reminded me of the crowd swarming around my front-yard feeder at sunset. Titmice! But of course, not the eastern Tufted Titmice, but Oak Titmice—which are just as feisty and sound almost the same:


Florida Scrub-Jays are rare and treasured; their western cousins are joyfully abundant at Tucker. Western Scrub-Jays are bold and noisy, but not as much so as their Florida counterparts:

We had such a good time watching the birds at Tucker on Saturday that we went back again on Sunday. And we were treated to good looks at Phainopeplas and a brief glimpse of a juvenile Lazuli Bunting.

More on that later!

My Friends Are Drips

An Oak Titmouse at Caspers Regional Park.

Our birding by ear class wrapped up two weeks ago, and it made me realize that I'm actually one of those students I totally hate: I always waited until the last possible minute to do my homework, did a half-assed job of it, and spent a dangerous portion of the class itself wondering about the American Idol results show I was missing.

My only consolation was that I wasn't the only one. During one of of last sessions, our fearless leader Sylvia Gallagher played a recording made at Caspers Regional Park a few years earlier, and asked us to write down all the birds we heard. Then she called on us, one by one, to guess at one of the birds.

"California Thrasher?"

"No, no Thrasher."

"American Robin?"

"No."

"Bushtit?"

"No Bushtit."

"Yellow-rumped Warbler?"

"Are any of you even listening to the same tape as me?"

And this was my introduction to Caspers Regional Park, which we visited for ourselves for the first time last Saturday.

At first, it looked as though our birding foray would be about as successful as that class exercise. We found a pretty trail framed by oaks and wild cucumber, and heard endless Spotted Towhee and Oak Titmouse calls—but had a tough time actually seeing anything.

"We should have asked Sylvia where the good bird spots are here," Glenn said as we headed back towards the trailhead. "I wish we knew someone who could show us around."

As we descended the trail, the parking lot came into view and so did a figure wearing binoculars. He waved at us, and I realized it was another bird photographer we knew. And, he told us proudly, he was a regular visitor to Caspers and knew all the birds. Sometimes, wishes do come true!

We followed him around for the remainder of the afternoon, as he showed us his favorite spots—"drips" (slowly dripping spigots set up over makeshift birdbaths) set up around the park for the birds. Near one of them, we saw a pair of California Thrashers in a feeding ritual: the male feeding the female as part of their mating program:



At another, we parked our cars and conducted a stationary stakeout, with both Glenn and our friend perching their camera lenses on half-rolled-down windows. There, we saw our first Black-headed Grosbeak of the year:

We also saw flocks of active Acorn Woodpeckers, bright Orange-crowned Warblers (whose crowns were actually orange for a change), a pair of Bullock's Orioles, and singing Oak Titmice and House Wrens. We also saw a mysterious sludge-colored bird with matted feathers, which our friend IDed as a molting Phainopepla (the red eyes should have been a giveaway), and he also got a brief glimpse of what he thought might be a Lazuli Bunting. Alas, I didn't catch this one.

We headed out as the sun started to set, and followed our friend's car back to the park entrance. It then occurred to me that since all we had done all day was follow unthinkingly after him, we had no idea where we had just come from, or how to find those places again.

And the thrill of the day was something that would be tough to explain to anyone but another birder: how sitting in a car by a dripping spigot for four hours could be so much freaking fun.