This Is the West

I have just returned from a three-week visit back to Southern California, where, like here, it was the midst of the summer birding doldrums.

Two years ago, I would have found my last three weeks of birding thoroughly boring. But since moving away from California, I looked forward to trips back to revisit all the birds I used to take for granted. All those drab, common, little brown or gray things that haunt back yards and parking lots in the Los Angeles area--California Towhees, Bushtits, Wrentits, Black Phoebes--simply do not occur in Florida (ever) and I missed them.

My trip back was mostly filled with family events centered around the arrival of a new nephew (welcome aboard Quinten!), so I didn't get to do as much birding as I would have liked. Still, Glenn and I did manage to get out and revisit a few old haunting grounds.

We met some old birding pals at Bolsa Chica one weekend just to see the sights and catch up with the regular populations of nesting Least and Elegant Terns. But we also got to see the one and only rarity known to be hanging out in Orange County that week: a strangely sedentary Sooty Tern:

Shortly after our visit to Bolsa Chica, we visited the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, which houses a large collection of taxidermied birds. One exhibit stated that Sooty Terns hold the record among birds for the longest period of time they can endure in the air without landing. I don't remember the exact duration (weeks? months?) but it was pretty mind-boggling. This made me wonder what the deal was with the mysterious Sooty loafing on that sandbar at Bolsa Chica: Was this normal behavior? Was he sick?

On the way down the coast to visit one of my sisters in San Diego, we stopped by San Joaquin Wildlife Sanctuary, one of other other old favorite spots. Ducks and shorebirds there are plentiful and easy to see, which makes the sanctuary a popular spot for photographers. We saw, among other things, several young American Avocets, still covered with baby fuzz, as well as Black-bellied Plovers and a number of other goodies:


Now I'm back home. There are no Bushtits or Anna's Hummingbirds or Spotted Towhees anywhere near here. But my yard is filled with Northern Cardinals and Tufted Titmice and scolding Carolina Wrens. I rather missed them when I was gone.

Parting Shots

Today is my last full day in California, and the last day of my week-long birding "staycation". I've been spending every moment not dedicated to relocation-related bureaucracy out in the field, getting my last fix of Western birds. Knowing that I won't be back for a while makes even ordinary birds seem precious—which, of course, they have been all along.

On my last visit to Bolsa Chica, I was greeted by a huge swarm—"flock" doesn't seem like the right word—of peeps. They flew in formation, their collective mass constantly changing shape and density, for about 5 minutes before landing on a mudflat out in the distance. What made them decide to land there? And which of them made that decision for the group, and how?

There were the usual large number of herons, egrets, and cormorants. Here, some Double-crested Cormorants hit some interesting poses:


Monday was my self-designated Day of Decadence: a morning farewell visit to San Joaquin, followed by a huge bowl of spicy beef noodle soup at a Taiwanese hole-in-the-wall, followed by a massage and herbal bath at a spa in Mission Viejo (courtesy of a two-year-old gift certificate I finally got around to redeeming). At San Joaquin, there were shorebirds in abundance in the front ponds. The back areas were not so birdy, but butterflies were everywhere:


I've more or less made peace with the fact of my move, and have been started to look forward to it. But when I called up the Los Angeles Times this morning to cancel my subscription, I felt like crying. As always, I had to remind myself that this move is the right thing to do, professionally and personally, and the right option is rarely ever the easy and comfortable one.

Things I'll miss about So Cal: Bolsa Chica. Jacarandas in the spring. Steve Lopez. Townsend's Warblers in the winter. Real Chinese food. And of course, my family and friends—and most of all, Glenn, who will be staying behind for his job. Hell, I'll even miss Huell Howser.

Things I won't miss about So Cal: Earthquakes. SigAlerts. Overpriced real estate. USC.

And then there are all those Florida birds to look forward to—and I hope to continue writing about them once I get my new job and home under control. It could be fun.

Later, gator.

Little Pleasures

A baby American Avocet at San Joaquin Marsh

Cheapness and sloth have kept my birding outings close to home as of late. For various reasons, I haven't felt much like driving, or taking the $5 gamble of going to one of the OC regional parks only to find it birdless and crammed with partygoers.

And this doesn't seem like the season for finding rarities. Instead, I've been quite content to visit and re-visit my usual haunts, all mere minutes from home, and watching the local landscape shift and change from week to week. After all, if Emily Dickenson could see the universe in a flower (and turn out an admirable body of poetry without ever leaving her house), a reasonably competent birder could certainly stay entertained within a 10-mile radius of Costa Mesa.

So today, it was back to San Joaquin Wildlife Sanctuary. I arrived just after 8, and immediately spotted a female Western Tanager on the path in front of me. Further on, two loud Yellow-breasted Chats were engaged in what sounded like a singing duel.

One of the birds I've been trying to get all season is the Least Bell's Vireo: they've been singing like mad at San Joaquin for the past month of so, but I've never managed to actually see one. (They're not much to look at, but it's the principle of the thing...) Today, I got lucky: I heard them, as usual, singing by the boardwalk. After I crossed the boardwalk, the singing got progressively louder: I followed the singing and finally got one of them in my sights.

And even better, I saw it fly into a nearby tree and snuggle up to another bird. I then realized that it was feeding a fledgling!

Baby Bell: A fledgling Least Bell's Vireo

The adult flew off as soon as it passed a fat little grub on to the baby. But the fledgling stayed on for a few minutes before hopping out of sight. I love watching baby birds, and seeing a baby of a threatened species is always cause for hope.

In the front ponds were a pair of Egyptian Geese, looking weirdly sinister as usual. The baby Avocets look more and more grown up, and feed with the same sideward bill-sweeping motion as their parents.

I went home at noon, just as it started getting seriously hot. It's great knowing that one can find such great little surprises so close to home.

I Hate It When This Happens

One of my grail birds for this season is the MacGillivray's Warbler. It's not the prettiest or rarest of warblers, but I've only seen one once, and I decided to make a point of seeing one again this year.

And time after time, I struck out. I did manage to get just about every other bird any Southern Californian could hope for in the spring—dozens of bright Yellow, Black-throated Gray and Hermit Warblers, stunning Lazuli Buntings, noisy Hooded and Bullock's Orioles—but no MacG. Even worst, every birder I knew and his dog seemed to be finding them under every bush.

Glenn started teasing me about my obsession. If we split up while birding somewhere—which we often do, since he likes to stay in one spot for extended periods to photograph things—he'd tell me when we regrouped that he'd seen several of them. Whenever I came home from work, he'd tell me triumphantly that he'd seen a dozen MacGillivray's Warblers just outside the front door.

I knew that during half the times he claimed to have seen them, he had in fact been indoors gleaning important life lessons from Battlestar Galactica, and the other times, he was just messing with me. There was no way in fracking hell he could have seen one.

Then yesterday, he said it again. We had gone to San Joaquin Marsh, and he had settled with his tripod on the path near the front ponds, trying to get shots of an uncharacteristically bold Yellow Warbler. I wandered off in search of the Bell's Vireos I keep hearing, but never seeing, in the back end of the marsh. When I returned (having heard, but not seen, dozens of the little suckers), I asked him how his shooting went, and if he had seen anything special.

"Nothing much. Just a MacGillivray's Warbler."

Grrr.

We drove home, and Glenn downloaded his photos while I made dinner. Then he called me over. "Hey, do you know what this is?"



Oooh, a pox on that little bastard...

The bird, not my husband.

Love Story

Sometimes, one can learn more from watching one bird in action than from chasing down dozens.

For the past few weeks, I've been lustfully (and successfully) pursuing spring warblers at San Joaquin Marsh: Yellow, Hermit, and Townsend's Warblers seem to be everywhere, along with the resident Orange-crowned Warblers and Common Yellowthroats.

Meanwhile, in the front ponds, the ever-present American Avocets are pairing up. Animal reproductive rites can be fast, crude and, well, animal, but every pair of American Avocets we've seen has carried out a lovely, highly structured ritual that could well be a motif out of a classical Kabuki play.

First, the male fights off potential rivals (in the marsh, there are many). The female puts her neck and head down while he gently walks around her, sprinkling water on her with his beak:

Then, they consummate their relationship—a tricky balancing act that not all pairs pull off successfully:


(We did actually see one unfortunate male fail in his mating attempt: he lost his balance and tumbled into the water as his stunned mate looked on. If Judd Apatow did nature documentaries, he would have loved this.)

At this point, the male of another species might just shuffle off (or roll over or light a cigarette). But the Avocets linger together, the male protectively draping a wing over the female. The two cross their beaks, as if to formalize their bond:


I know it's unwise to anthropomorphize animals: for all I know, these elegant gestures have the same emotional import for American Avocets as blinking and sneezing have for me. But if this is so—isn't it cool that something this starkly utilitarian could be so beautiful?