ABA Blog

Goodbye to the Matriarch of Central Park

 

 By David Wimpfheimer

For the last thirty years, birding in New York’s Central Park often meant going on a walk with Starr Saphir.  This green oasis amongst the concrete sprawl can rival High Island, McGee Marsh or any site in spring and fall; fifteen to twenty warbler species, countless flycatchers, tanagers and grosbeaks seem to drip off the trees.  Starr, however, made even the common birds come alive.

    Since birding gave her so much joy she wanted to inspire others to have the same experience. And she did.  Several times a week Starr could be seen with twenty or more birders following her.  She loved teaching and knew the names and skills of everyone on her walks.

    I met Starr at Jamaica Bay in August 1982.  She had just moved back to New York City and it was obvious to me that she brought with her an energetic California style of birding. By mastering species distribution and occurrence, she could predict what uncommon birds would be in an area. Of course she tried to see every one of them, often traveling by subway for hours.  And her wide geographic expertise meant that no bird would go unidentified.

    That fall we did a Big Day and were pleased to find over a hundred species.  We were even more thrilled to find my life Connecticut Warbler near 101^st Street in Far Rockaway.  The abandoned lot behind razor wire and broken glass was a classic migrant trap as much as any at Point Reyes or Death Valley and we returned to Trap 101 many times.

    When I visited family in New York I birded with Starr.  Of course we tried to find any good birds in the area, but mostly were satisfied with the quest and our enhanced friendship.  She was my mentor, but more importantly a close friend.  There was no aspect of our lives we didn’t share.  This was especially true over the last decade as she tenaciously fought the cancer that ultimately claimed her life on February 5.

     Starr was born in Brooklyn in 1939.  She was only six years old when she began birding.  It was unusual for such a young girl to be a dedicated birder then.  Perhaps less unusual was that she was an avid Brooklyn Dodger fan.  She had a hard time forgiving her team when they moved to Los Angeles in 1958.  Ironically Starr herself moved there, with her daughters, to pursue an acting career in 1975.

     She quickly became active in the Southern California birding scene.  Jon Dunn looked for shorebirds with Starr in the Antelope Valley. “We spent lots of time carefully studying them and she was a very keen student,” he remembers. That keen eye for detail served her well for decades as she taught details of identification and feather molt.

    Long birding trips to Yosemite, Death Valley and other wild areas created a strong bond with her ten-year-old daughter, Lara.  Even the sweltering inferno of the Salton Sea was no problem for them; that’s where the birds were.

     Don Roberson enjoyed traveling with Starr because she was an excellent companion. “Starr didn’t complain about bad roads or primitive camping conditions, and she was interested in snakes and lizards, not just the target birds. Better yet,” Don recalled, “she had lived a full life and told stories about New York, working as an actress and about the lessons to be learned in life.”

     Starr and I led several tours in the West. On our 1995 Alaska tour we detoured to Homer to look for a Black-tailed Gull. After we saw the bird she calmly revealed that it was her 697th life bird. It was impressive that she always knew exactly how many species were on her lists which included half the states and fourteen countries.   By knowing the birds on her lists Starr became aware of species not on her lists.  She then focused her energies on finding them, which increased her expertise.

     I feel fortunate to lead birding walks in wild places like Point Reyes. However, Starr made the remarkable achievement of taking people for a few hours off the busy city streets and enriching their life with her love of birds.  She heard every chip and call, getting people to focus all their senses on the birds around them.  Starr taught them that “Looking at birds takes you out of yourself and into the real world.”

    Although best remembered for her birding walks, Starr expertly taught groups about butterflies and dragonflies as well. The thousands who were enriched by her love of birds included school and youth groups exposed to the natural world for the first time.

     There are many memories of our companionship I’ll cherish including a Montezuma Quail that miraculously appeared on a rock behind her in Madera Canyon.  And I will especially remember the last adventure I shared with her finding a Barnacle Goose in New York City’s Inwood Park

     Whenever I bird in the park I will think of her and see her wearing her trademark blue bandana.  And if by some incredible magic I see a Cerulean Warbler, her favorite bird, I will know her joy and love of birds is still there.

Open Mic: Becoming a Birder While Doing a Big Year

 

At the Mic: Robert Baumander

Robert, of Toronto, Ontario, is a 52 year old obsessive compulsive who has been the video coordinator for the Toronto Blue Jays for 32 years.  He gives equal blame and credit for his extreme birding obsession to Sue Clark for taking him to The Big Year, and Sandy Komito for doing two Big Years and setting him off on this endless quest.  When not birding he likes to pretend he is an Iron Chef.  His two kids, family, and friends think he is crazy, but in a nice way.  His photos and stories can be found at his website, I'm Just Here for the Bird. 

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In 2011 I was not a birder. I wouldn’t have even qualified as a bird watcher. I was a casual observer and photographer of birds. That all changed that November when my spouse Sue Clark and I went to see the movie, The Big Year. Who knew there was a “contest” to see the most birds?  

     I have always liked birds and photographed them but the only bird names I knew were Cardinal, Blue Jay and Oriole, mostly because they are the emblems on baseball uniforms. Otherwise I didn’t really care what the birds’ name was, just whether it was nice to look at or photograph.

    Big Year listing changed all that. Now there was a reason to be a birder. There were lists to be made, records to be broken, other birders to compete against. As the movie played out, my obsession built. The scene in the movie that turned me from a normal, average human being to an overly obsessive compulsive birder was the montage scene on Attu. I wanted to do that. I wanted to be there. The idea that you could go out and make a great, big, long list of birds, seeing and identifying new ones nearly every day for one calendar year, is what sent me over the edge. I knew I had the personality traits of all three of the men depicted in the movie. I knew I would be not just a bird watcher, not just a birder, but an extreme birder, a Lister.

    I read Mark Obmascik’s book about the 1998 Big Year, featuring Al Levantin, Greg Miller, and Sandy Komito, a man after my own obsessive heart. In Komito I found a kindred spirit. Like Sandy, I didn’t just want to see birds, I wanted to see all the birds. Like Sandy, I obsessively go after goals. For example, when I saw a man at a fair balancing rocks in impossible configurations, I obsessively spent two years becoming one of the best rock balancers in the world. 

A little diversion while waiting for a Nutting's Flycatcher

      When I finished the book I was committed - perhaps should have been committed - to experiencing as much of a real Big Year as I could afford. I had no money and a full time job working for The Toronto Blue Jays, but what made this year possible was a number of work related trips to Nevada, Florida, Michigan, and British Columbia. Those trips earned me enough air miles to book trips to Alaska, California, Texas and Arizona.  I also kept my expenses to a minimum by eating lots of fast food and spending a number of nights sleeping in my car, though never did I eat Friskies cat food mixed with cold soup.

    I went on the internet and read everything I could find on birding and Big Years. I found John Vanderpoel’s blog and read about his attempt to break Sandy Komito’s record. I knew that one day I would know enough to try for it myself, but first I had to learn to be a birder and with the help of Sue, Ontbirds, eBird, FLARBA, NARBA and a host of birders I met in the field, I began my journey.

    I set out to do something no one else had ever done: to begin birding with no experience and do a Big Year.  For 366 days I was a bird watcher possessed. There were times when I was standing in the middle of a field on a hot July afternoon in Texas, with sweat snaking down my legs and into my shoes, asking myself what the heck I was doing. I even almost died of heat exhaustion chasing a Fork-tailed Flycatcher outside Orlando. But there were times when I was jubilant with the triumph of finding the one bird I was searching for after hours of scanning the trees or ponds or empty fields. 

    The day I decided to attempt a Big Year, 300 species was my goal, one I could reach just birding in Ontario and wherever I traveled for work. By the end of January I was hooked and knew that this quest had become bigger than I imagined and more important to me than I would have thought possible.  It was the near impossibility of seeing 600 birds that pushed me into going to Alaska, Arizona five times and Texas on four occasions.  To the Florida Keys, the Dry Tortugas, and the rice fields of Louisiana.  To Newfoundland in July and California in January and September. It drove me to take long pelagic boat trips where sea sickness made me question why anyone would put themselves through such agony just to see one more bird.

 

Great Shearwater

    I ended the year with 596 ABA countable birds, plus 5 that those pesky folks at the ABA have deemed not wild enough to list for a total of 601, which had become my goal less than two months into the year. Could I have seen more? Yes. If I knew a year ago what I know now I'd have not made at least a dozen rookie mistakes and would have easily passed 600 ABA species. I made tactical errors that cost me a dozen species at least, but I had no road map to follow and didn't have 30 years of birding experience most birders have when they throw themselves into a Big Year.

    I counted birds in 17 states and 3 provinces, saw 138 of my 595 in Florida,(189 for the state), 110 in Arizona,(167 for the state), 45 in Texas, 20 in Alaska,(I only had time for 5 days there, and 147 at home in Ontario,(235 provence wide). I saw 45 species of wood-warbler and I hadn’t the faintest idea there was even such a bird prior to 2012. I saw 16 species of Owl, and I had never seen one outside a zoo before, (now I want to see all the Owls). I flew and drove untold thousands of miles, walked and biked hundreds of miles, and was seasick on 3 of 5 pelagic trips.

    Of course it was all about the birds, and I loved chasing and finding the Northern Lapwing, Tufted Duck, Barnacle Goose, and especially the Nutting’s Flycatcher and Pink-footed Goose that opened and closed the very movie that got me going. I loved spotting the Sooty Grouse, White-headed Woodpecker, Rufous-backed Robin and Western Spindalis all on my own. I loved all the flycatchers, especially the elusive Fork-tailed and beautiful Vermilion. The hummingbirds were particularly beautiful, including the Plain-capped Starthroat I saw at the Ash Canyon Bed and Breakfast and the Allen’s I saw in Connecticut.

 

Allen's Hummingbird

     But my favorite bird of the year, not just for its rarity and beauty but for the satisfaction of finding it, had to be Elegant Trogon. I looked for it on two occasions up at the Cary Nation Trail in Madera Canyon without success. On my last day in Arizona one was reported in my favorite birding spot in North America, Patagonia Lake State Park. I rushed over there and had about 3 hours to find it before I had to drive back to Tucson to get to catch a flight. I walked the stream bed for nearly the entire three hours when I turned my head at the exact right time to find the bird not 10 feet in front of my nose. Neither of us spooked. The Trogon posed. I took photos. It was one of the more exciting birds of the year.

 

Elegant Trogon

     My final birding trip of the Big Year was to Cape May, New Jersey, to find a Dovekie. On the hour and half ferry ride from Lewes, Delaware, I was treated to an amazing show of gannets and scoters. I enjoyed just watching the birds so much it didn't really matter that, as the sun set on my Big Year, I didn't even see the Dovekie. What mattered was that I never gave up. What mattered was that after 12 months of chasing, of just being there "for the bird," just seeing the birds that were there to see on the ferry and at the beach was satisfaction enough. Sue, and a few others that view "listers" as birding pariahs, would have been proud of me.

   I met the most extraordinary people along the way. Fred in Hamilton, Ontario, was one of the first birders to take me under his wing back in January, but I can't forget Melody Khel, Matt Brown, Eddie Bartley, Hutch Hutchenson, Ken in Alaska, and the professional guides I hired throughout the year. I met the kindest strangers, sometimes the middle of nowhere chasing rare birds posted on NARBA and eBird, like Hemant, whom I ran into in Texas and Arizona, and Edna, Ray, and Sandy from New Jersey.  

    I met John Hargrove, who was doing his own Big Year at the age of 69, on two pelagics on opposite coasts and again on the final days of the Big Year down in Florida. With his wife Beverley, we successfully chased down the Western Spindalis but missed the Thick-billed Vireo. And how can I forget Sandy Komito, who was nice enough to keep in touch via email a few times during the year with advice and inspiration?

     I know that for most of the year I was inaccessible to friends, coworkers, and family who must have thought I was out of my mind to just pick up one day and devote myself to a single minded goal at their expense, (especially Sue who had to put up with this obsession for 366 days herself). In the end, though, I have no regrets, and I've learned and seen so much and accomplished more than I set out to do when this all began.

    Now that the Big Year is over it doesn't mean I will stop chasing. During the first week of January of this year I chased a Townsend’s Solitaire here in Ontario, as I had not photographed the one I had seen in 2012. But I think I'll confine the chasing to inexpensive local trips and birds close to where I am at the timeand birds close to where I am at the time, which included finally getting the LaSagra's Flycatcher in Florida this past week. Then, one day, when I have sufficient time, money and birding knowledge, perhaps when I am closer to 65 than to 55, I will go out  and break Sandy Komito's record.

    For the present, though, I can say that this was my favorite year. I hope my story inspires people to take the leap from just casual birdwatching to birding, and will serve as both a road map and a warning as to what they might be getting themselves into. There is a cost, both in the pocket book and in your personal life that goes along with this kind of quest, but it's worth every dollar spent, every day spent in the field and, in my case, all those nights spent sleeping in my car.

 

Open Mic: A New Field Mark for Differentiating Stints and Peeps

At the Mic: Catherine Hamilton

Artist Catherine Hamilton, of New York, NY, holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts from the Rhode Island School of Design and a Master of Fine Arts from Bennington College, but is currently, as usual, walking a bit off the beaten path. Her drawings and observations can be found at her blog, Birdspot.  

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As an artist and a birder, I can’t seem to get enough suffering from studying gulls and sparrows, so over the past few years I have spent some effort in learning to draw shorebirds. Assessing proportion or pattern in a manner that involves the eye and hand simultaneously can give people who draw a unique perspective on avian identification, whether through field sketches, specimen studies or in using photographic references. Reviewing photographs is a tricky arena - its parameters and pitfalls are outside of this article, but I want to point out that photographic limitations can provoke discovery as well as heated arguments.

    I was once emailed a photo of a lone shorebird, puffed out against the cold, the photograph weirdly exposed and the bird itself in a particularly drab basic plumage. Bill shape and proportions were hard to assess, scale and size were impossible. The bird was a Sanderling - this one should have been easy, no? Not to the beginning birder who posted it, and not even to others, who ranged through various Calidris IDs. I wrote him, explaining why, even though its shape looked all wrong, it was in fact a Sanderling (heart racing and hoping fervently that I wasn’t wrong!). My identification points ended with a simple “Even if all other characteristics look off or muddled, you can always spot a Sanderling in a photo because of its gape notch. Semipalmated and Western Sandpipers really don’t show that.”

     I discovered this Sanderling “gape notch” from drawing them, and wrote about it in a blog post in 2010. I then went on to look at other Calidris sandpipers in the field, in museum specimens, and in thousands of photographs, and what I found startled me. Amongst the small peeps, there are noticeable differences in the feathering around the gape, most notably between the black-legged Old World stints and our black-legged New World peeps.

    I have illustrated the differences here. Little Stint and Red-necked Stint typically show a well-defined gape notch:

Whereas Semipalmated and Western Sandpipers do not:

    In the field, it might be useful to look for this, since the determining field mark of toe semipalmation in Western and Semipalmated Sandpipers is often frustratingly obscured by mud or water. I was delighted to see this feature while observing the Little Stint at Piute Ponds in July of 2011.

     Plumage differences have been thoroughly described (Veit, Jonsson, 1987), but also referred to as being so difficult in nonbreeding plumage that identifications are often wisely left hanging, or that only breeding adults are easily identified (Sibley, 2000). Bill variation is great enough among these species that bill structure has been stated as insufficient to establish an ID alone (Veit, Jonsson, 1987). Given these difficulties, and given the desirability of finding vagrant stints in North America, it would be nice to have another point of reference to clinch an ID. Individual variation exists, birds might look a bit different if they are molting feathers at the gape, and this is based upon a closed bill, but even with these caveats the gape notch can be quite striking and is worth looking for on a suspected stint.

    As a side note, the gape feathering on Least Sandpipers (not illustrated here) is also different from Little and Red-necked Stints, but less markedly so: Least Sandpipers show a slightly different notch, but since the feathering in this area is likely variable, I am not sure I would rely on it while in the field. It does not seem that it will help with the conundrums of identifying a Least Sandpiper from a Long-toed Stint, for example. The differences in the gapes of Western and Semipalmated Sandpipers are more clearly evident.

    I would love to hear from other birders with more Calidris experience than I, especially if you have reference photos. I have discussed this with some notable authors and birders, and it appears to hold up. The gape notch is evident on both breeding, non-breeding, and juvenile plumages. In fact, look for a prominent upcoming book with this feature in it - I have been told that plates were changed to reflect this!

    Thanks to Steve Howell for encouraging me to write up this observation and to Kimball Garrett for access to the Museum of Natural History of Los Angeles specimens and for pulling out a number of extra fresh and pickled specimens to help out. Many thanks to Luke Tiller for reviewing this article.

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References:

Veit, R. R., and Jonsson, L. (1987). Field Identification of Smaller Sandpipers within the Genus Calidris. American Birds, 41(2), 213-236.

O’Brien, M., Crossley, R., & Karlson, K. (2006). The Shorebird Guide. New York, NY: Houghton Mifflin Company.

Jonsson, L. (1992). Birds of Europe. London, England: Christopher Helm, A & C Black Publishers, Ltd.

Sibley, D. A. (2000). The Sibley Guide to Birds. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

 

Open Mic: Reflections on a Big Year

 

At the Mic: Robert Ake

Ake, of Norfolk, Virginia, saw 731 species of birds in the ABA-Area in 2010.  He wrote about his Big Year at his blog, Bob's Birds and Things.

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   There’s no doubt that listing is or can become an obsessive behavior.  Getting new birds for a trip, day, year, or life is exciting; it makes the juices flow.  Doing a big year is perhaps the most obsessive of all, particularly if it’s for a large area such as the ABA region.  It comes at a cost both in money and in time.  If you choose to go all out and chase every rarity, it can consume all of your time and a large chunk of your money.  I think most people understand these consequences.

       Of course some birders feel anyone with enough resources can amass a big list and that no skill is really involved.   At the end of each talk I’ve given about my big year, there’s always an audible gasp when I relate the financial cost.  I’m sure those in the audience are thinking of better ways that they could have spent that money. But then we all don’t choose to spend our money and time the same way.

       On the matter of skill, very few of us are birding gurus, able to differentiate two similar species at the drop of a feather.  During a big year most of the rarities are found by others, then chased and added to the year’s list if the chase is successful.  Few birders actually find ultra-rarities during their pursuit.  And when it happens, as it did with me at Gambell when I found a Blyth’s Reed Warbler which would have been a first North American record had the Alaska committee accepted it, a group effort was involved in taking photos, haggling over details, and writing the manuscript.

      All of this listing and chasing is just plain fun.  As I said many times during my big year, “If I’m not having fun, I shouldn’t be doing it.”  I certainly do encourage taking good notes and photographs, working on bird identification skills, and teaching others good field techniques.  But in the end birding is such a broadly based activity that there’s plenty of room in it for everyone.  It’s really not necessary to force every birder into the same mold.  So let’s each of us enjoy our own compulsive behavior and allow other birders the same opportunity.

Open Mic: Hoary Redpoll; A False Dichotomy?

 

At the Mic: Andy Boyce

Missoula, Montana, resident, Andy Boyce is a graduate student currently working on his PhD at the University of Montana.  His area of interest is the ecology of tropical birds in Borneo.

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    We are currently experiencing  one of the largest southern movements of redpolls in the last 50 years and birders across the country are out and about, scrutinizing flocks of redpolls at Nyjer feeders, looking for that holy grail of the redpoll flock; Hoary Redpoll.

    With the birds, there has been a surge of posts to local list-servs, blogs, etc. One group searching for advice -- “just one dark streak on the undertail coverts, is this a Hoary?”, and others diligently going through all of the traits espoused by field guides and experts that are supposed to allow us to sort through these messy flocks of finches.

    Doing my own research on this topic, I discovered a paper published in 2008 entitled “Low support for separate species within the redpoll complex from analyses of mtDNA and microsatellite markers” (Marthinsen et al. 2008). Understandably I was a little shocked. My first thought being, what the heck are we doing trying to sort these things out into species if there is no evidence that they are even species at all?  After a thorough read I was totally convinced that attempting to sort redpolls into species, or even subspecies is a totally futile exercise. 

Colorado's first Hoary Redpoll? photo by Bill Schmoker

    The crux of the paper is this; based on museum specimens from across the old-world range of the 2-3 redpoll species commonly recognized, the authors found no evidence at all that what we humans are describing as species or subspecies corresponded to any sort of meaningful, genetically differentiable groups.  After reading through this paper, I looked around some more and found out that several previous studies have also failed to find any genetic structure among species or subspecies of Redpolls (Marten & Johnson 1986, Seutin et al. 1995, Ottvall et al. 2002, Hebert et al. 2004, Kerr et al. 2007).

    The phylogenetic work was done using both mitochondrial and nuclear DNA, which evolve/mutate at different rates. Thus, this is a pretty robust study in terms of methodology and is unlikely to be a false negative. Some have argued that they simply missed the appropriate genetic markers to differentiate the species/subspecies, but this is also unlikely given that they were able to show the monophyly of two subspecies of Twite (close relatives of Redpolls) using the same methods.

Another hypothesis suggested by some is that the Redpolls represent incipient species undergoing sympatric speciation. I suppose that it possible, but we would still expect genetic differentiation between groups if this was the case.

This finding leaves us with 2 interesting possibilities;

1)      All redpolls belong to one single panmictic gene pool. There is no Hoary Redpoll, there is no Common Redpoll, there is no exilpes, there is no flammea…etc. They are just Redpolls.

2)      There are monophyletic (genetically distinct) groups somewhere in the redpoll complex, but we humans, in particular museum curators and collectors, cannot identify them based on morphology, plumage, or even range.

    These are two very different hypotheses, but for birders they really mean the same thing. They mean that we cannot ID a Hoary Redpoll. You know why? Because we have absolutely no idea what (or even if) a Hoary Redpoll is! If there is a mysterious genetically distinct group out there, it appears that it isn’t linked to any convenient suite of external traits. That means that Sibley’s wonderful page describing how to score a pale redpoll on a scale from 1-Hoary is more or less meaningless. The paper that the page is based on even admits to having essentially no clue about what a Hoary is, they simply state that they assume that any individual falling in the “hoariest” third of the total distribution of variation is a Hoary. This is shaky to begin with, but when you take into account that there is actually no such thing as a 100% surefire Hoary Redpoll, it’s totally nuts!

Common Redpoll, Quebec, photo from wikipedia

    Ok, so you don’t care about genetics, let’s talk about probability. We know that Redpolls that breed in shrubby habitat in the far north, in areas without trees tend to be larger, smaller-billed and whiter in various nebulous ways. For the sake of argument let’s throw the latest science out the window (if the government can, why can’t we, right?). Let’s call those hulking, frosty seed-killers Hoary Redpolls. Unfortunately, we know that all of these traits that are “good” for Hoary Redpoll are extremely variable and they don’t always occur in concert within an individual.  That is to say, there are birds out there that have extremely white upperparts, reduced “poll”, very little flank streaking, but gosh-darn-it look at those monster undertain covert streaks! Blast!  Given that these traits are fallible, we have the following problem, straight from the Ted Floyd book of rhetoric.

    Based on observed traits we can assign some sort of probability that a bird showing those traits is a Hoary Redpoll. We can also assign some probability of a Hoary Redpoll showing up in Colorado versus a Common Redpoll.  Based on that, we can get a probability of a pale redpoll in Colorado being a Hoary Redpoll.  Here are some numbers:

    Probability of a pale redpoll being a Hoary: 99% (this is incredibly generous)

    Probability of a redpoll in Colorado being a Hoary: .001% (numbers from the east coast during irruptions suggest ratios of around 1000:1.

    Probability of a pale redpoll in Colorado being a Hoary Redpoll: ~1% 

    I should point out that the current ratio of Common Redpoll to Hoary Redpoll on Colorado Ebird checklists for 2013 is more like 100:1. This ratio is tremendously skewed because birders, understandably, chase and report rare birds more than common ones.  Even if we take that ratio as gospel, the probability of any given pale redpoll being a hoary in Colorado is still only 50%.

    So, what am I trying to say with all this? I guess the take home message is that if you believe in the current scientific evidence, you have to acknowledge that we have no idea what or if a Hoary Redpoll is. If you don’t believe in the scientific literature but you do believe in the power of statistics, then you have to acknowledge that even if you see a pale redpoll in Colorado, there is no reason to believe that it is a Hoary. In fact, the statistics tell us that it is almost certainly NOT a Hoary Redpoll.

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Literature Cited:

    Hebert, P.D.N., M.Y. Stoeckle, T.S. Zemlak, C.M. Francis. 2004. Identification of birds through DNA barcodes. Pub. Lib. Sci. Biol. 2; 1657-1663.

    Kerr, K.C.R., M.Y. Stoeckle, C.J. Dove, L.A. Weigt, C.M. Francis, P.D.N. Hebert. 2007. Comprehensive DNA barcode coverage of North American Birds. Molecular Ecology Notes 4: 535-543.

    Marten, J.A., and N.K. Johnson. 1986. Genetic relationships of North American Cardueline finches.  Condor 88: 409-420.

    Marthinsen, G., L. Wennerberg, J.T. Lifjeld. 2008. Low support for separate species within the redpoll complex (Carduelis flammea-hornemanni-caberet) from analyses of mtDNA and microsatellite markers. Mol. Phylo. & Evolution 47: 1005-1017.

    Ottvall, R., S. Bensch, G. Walinder, and J.T. Lifjeld. 2002. No evidence of genetic differentiation between lesser redpolls Carduelis flammea caberet, and common redpolls Carduelis f. flammea. Avian Sci. 2: 237-244.

    Seutin, G., P.T. Boag, and L.M. Ratcliffe. 1995. Mitochondrial DNA homogeneity in the phenotypically diverse redpoll finch complex (aves: Carduelinae: Carduelis flammea-hornemanni). Evolution 49: 692-973.

Open Mic: Why do a Big Year?

At the Mic: John Spahr

John Spahr, of Blue Grass, Virginia, is a member of the rarefied 700 Club, birders whose ABA-Area Big Years have topped 700 species in a calendar year.  John reached 704 species in 2010.  

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    This past December I had the opportunity to spend several delightful days in south Texas with most of the birders who have ever counted more than 700 birds while doing a North American “Big Year” -- notables like Benton Basham, Sandy Komito, John Vanderpoel, Bob Ake, Lynn Barber, Greg Miller, Dan Sanders, Al Levantin and Chris Hitt.  We socialized, shared anecdotes, viewed presentations, and birded many of the Rio Grande Valley “hotspots.” 

Image 1:  Big Year 700 Club members at Quinta Mazatlan, McAllen TX

(from left: Dan Sanders, Greg Miller, Chris Hitt, Benton Basham, Al Levantin, Sandy Komito, John Vanderpoel, Lynn Barber, Bob Ake, John Spahr. (Photo by Jeff Gordon)

    On my flights back to Virginia I ruminated on this experience and came away with several conclusions.  First, I had to admit that these were all better birders than I am.  Secondly, their motivation for doing a Big Year was perhaps different than mine.  They loved the chase, challenge and competition of encountering as many birds as they could in one calendar year, and I commend them for that level of enthusiasm.  

    As for me, I’m neither very competitive (to which my high school athletic coaches would attest) nor much of a “chaser” for strays or vagrants.  I do keep a cumulative life list but do not strive for annual, state or regional totals.  Then, why did I do an ABA Big Year in 2010?  The simple answer is that I wanted to learn more about North American birds and become a better birder. 

     I started birding in my mid teens.  For the next 3 decades my birding was episodic and casual and my skills average.  I would blame this mediocrity on distractions like higher education, family, and employment.  Although I know many superb birders who were not limited by similar obligations, which left me with the realization that I simply did not put in the time and effort to excel in this avocation of mine.

     When I finally decided to ramp up my birding skills in my 40s I occasionally opted for extremes, like visiting multiple foreign countries and up to three continents in one year, or participating in the World Series of Birding for two years.  I also became more active in local bird clubs and my state’s ornithology society, which afforded opportunities to give presentations and lead field trips, both locally and internationally.  From these experiences I learned much about bird identification, avian biology, taxonomy, systematics, as well the habitats and haunts of birds.  As a consequence I’ve since become emboldened to try almost anything to continue this learning curve. 

     So, when Bob Ake told me in the fall of 2008 that he was planning to do a Big Year in 2009 I immediately asked him to consider postponing it for one year so that I could join him in my first year of retirement.  To my surprise and good fortune he agreed.  Bob is one of those superior veteran birders who I had known for a few years and with whom I had done some quality international and Virginia birding.  He has the right mix of dedication, knowledge, experience and compulsion to plan and pull off a great Big Year. 

    So, for much of the first 9 months of 2010 I tagged along with Bob as we birded in our home state of Virginia, drove to and from Texas twice -- once via Florida, flew to Arizona, California and Alaska twice, chased “chicken birds” in Colorado, joined multiple pelagic trips off both coasts, and many places in between.  

Image 2:  Bob Ake and Florida Scrub Jay. Oscar Scherer State Park, near Osprey, FL

     Unfortunately, I had to disengage for several days each month to visit elderly and ailing parents and I also spent two weeks abroad in March.  Consequently, Bob’s list grew at a faster pace than mine.  By the time I left Gambell, Alaska, on September 8 my total was 683.  Bob remained three more days and left with 700.   The balance of the year our travel schedules intersected rarely as our goals diverged.  Bob decided to go for broke and ended 2010 with 731 species, while I was burning out and wanted more time at home.

    Were it not for my wife I would have been content finishing the year six birds shy of 700.  However, thanks to Nancy’s urging (shaming?) I made a final foray in December, a solo 8-day swing through South Dakota (Ross’s Gull), Arizona (Baikal Teal, Streak-backed Oriole), California (bean goose, Thayer’s Gull, Brown Shrike {#700}, Tufted Duck) and Calgary, Alberta, where I finished with White-winged Crossbills, Gray Partridges and a Snowy Owl for a final total of 704.

     Of course I was thrilled to exceed 700 species in one year, but this was neither my goal nor my reason for doing a Big Year.  As I stated, I simply wanted to become a better birder and learn more about NA birds.  I feel that I’ve attained those goals.  I became a better birder, in part, by simply birding day after day in both familiar and unfamiliar areas.  I also learned much from Bob’s accumulated experience, birding acumen and knowledge. 

    Before 2010 most of my North American birding was in the eastern U.S.  In doing the Big Year I gained extensive exposure to the west, including my first Pacific pelagic trips and my first visits to Alaska.  This let me encounter many birds with which I had little or no prior experience.  In fact, I added over 100 “lifers” during this year.  These new birds were more than a tick on a trip list.  They were all special experiences, many of which remain encoded as long-term memories.

    For example, my first Smith’s Longspurs in January at Stuttgart Municipal Airport, Arkansas, taught me about the limited winter range of this species.  As we flushed a small flock we were able to appreciate the buff bellies and diagnostic white lesser coverts.  Three weeks later in the San Rafael Grasslands of southeast Arizona I added another “lifer” with an even more limited winter range in the US, the Baird’s Sparrow.  A single bird furtively sneaking through the snow-dusted short grass prairie paused long enough to afford good looks.  I made sure to note the short streaks of the upper breast and the face pattern that distinguishes this from the only other Ammodramus sparrow here, the Grasshopper Sparrow.

Image 3:  Snow dusted San-Rafael Grasslands, AZ

     Speaking of Ammodramus sparrows, we had a humbling experience a few weeks earlier back in Texas.  An experienced birder friend led us to some grassy fields near Galveston, where we searched specifically for Le Conte’s Sparrow.  When a likely candidate popped up for a brief view we all exclaimed success.  Bob was even able to take a good photo that he posted on his daily blog.  Several experienced birders who later viewed that photo suggested (or exclaimed) that we blew the ID.  We reviewed the image and were chagrined to admit that our bird was not a Le Conte’s Sparrow but a Nelson’s Sparrow.  Fortunately, only four days later (and, for me, additional field guide study) we found several real Le Conte’s Sparrows at Estero Llano Grande State Park near Weslaco.  This time I made sure I noticed the white crown stripe and streaked nape of yet another “lifer.”  From this experience I learned that diligent observation must always trump expectation.  

     Alaska alone gave me 23 “lifers” and let me experience some fascinating ecosystems.  Ecosystems like the cliffs of St. Paul Island with its clinging colonies of alcids, puffins, kittiwakes and cormorants.  Or the Yupik village of Gambell on St. Lawrence Island, literally within sight of Russia, where I saw Asian vagrants like Stonechat, Rustic Bunting and Common Rosefinch.  For me the most impressive avian spectacle here was the flights of birds that skirted the pea gravel shores.  In one day we saw all four eiders, both guillemots, both puffins, both murres, all the jaegers, a few Ivory and Sabine’s Gulls and thousands (if not millions) of auklets with their rapid constant wing beats.  I learned that most of these birds are here because of the abundant phytoplankton that blossom in the nutrient-rich coastal waters under the prolonged sunshine, and that this in turn feeds the zooplankton eaten by the smaller auklets and by the small fish.  The puffins, murres and larger alcids then consume these fish.  A fascinating ecosystem, indeed.

Image 4:  Murres and Kittiwakes on the cliffs of St. Paul Island, Alaska

     Although not a total landlubber, prior to 2010 I had only a handful of pelagic trips under my belt.  By doing a dozen Big Year pelagics I got much more of an appreciation for yet another ecosystem, the open oceans.  Of course, I added more “lifers.”  However, what really impressed me was that these larids, tubenoses, alcids and phalaropes survive and thrive in a habitat of waves and wind.  I was awed learning that millions of least auklets, the size of house sparrows, can survive violent open ocean storms.  And, I learned that the name of the order Procellariformes comes from a Latin word procella, which means violent storm or tempest, a fit name for these families of albatrosses, petrels, and shearwaters.

    From Bob, I learned the value of persistence, the first time by doing three repeated hikes up Florida Wash in the Santa Rita Mountains of Arizona over several days in search of Rufous-capped Warbler.  We finally scored the third try.  A second example was the repeated two-mile hike up to Island Lake in the Ruby Mountains of Nevada in an attempt to locate Himalayan Snowcock, found nowhere else in the US but these mountains.  Both treks began in the predawn cold and darkness, the first on June 21 when, upon arrival, we stood at the margin of the snow-covered lake for nearly 3 hours without hearing or seeing a single snowcock.  August 17 we returned and repeated the ascent in slightly warmer temperatures (low 50’s).  Shortly after dawn we heard a distant long-billed curlew-like howl from the ridge to our east, almost certainly our target bird.  Nevertheless, we remained and continued to listen and watch, and were soon rewarded with two birds flying about 100 feet in front of us at eye level. 

        Other learning experiences include attempting to distinguish Hammond’s and Dusky Flycatcher by their songs, call notes and subtle field marks.  For me this required multiple attempts plus study with digital recordings and field guides.  

     In marathon ventures of this sort there will be a few counted birds to be identified by song/call only without sighting them, which is OK by ABA rules.  For me, two notable examples were the rapid staccato hoots of a distant boreal owl on Cameron Pass in the dark, freezing mid-April Colorado cold, and the hollow hoots of a flammulated owl on Mosquito Ridge near Foresthill, CA two months later.  Although I was pleased to add these distinct vocalizations to my list of “heard only birds” I now have the future challenge to return for visual confirmation before I count them as true “lifers.”  With this hobby of birding there’s always more study and learning to anticipate, which I heartily welcome.  

Open Mic: Repatriation & Reintroduction Revisited

At the Mic: Stacia Novy

Stacia Novy is employed by the US military and also does contractual work for The Peregrine Fund. The latter led to her co-discovering a Solitary Eagle nest in Belize’s Mountain Pine Ridge on 30 June 2011.  She has traveled around the world birdwatching, fishing, and hunting. Her adventures have been  published by the Illinois Ornithological Society, The Journal of the North American Falconers Association, American Falconry, and several online birding magazines.

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    In the August 2012 issue of Winging It, I penned an article on the word “repatriation”, intended for a general audience without a strict biological background. Since, Rick Wright has voiced criticism of that article on his blog. It has become clear to me that the two terms may warrant examination in a scientific, as well as etymological, context.

    A standard biological definition of an “Introduced Species” is: "an alien, exotic, non-indigenous or non-native organism that is present outside of its native range or distributional habitat...” Similarly, the US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) defines an "introduced species" as those organisms that are "surviving and reproducing outside of the habitat or environment in which they evolved or spread naturally..." In both definitions, the qualifying phrase “outside of the native range, habitat or environment” is a key consideration in defining and determining a species that has been introduced. Thus, the process of “species introduction”--which ultimately results in an introduced species--applies to organisms or species which conclusively fit that description. It excludes those which are released, accidentally or deliberately, into distributional ranges where an evolutionary history or a history of natural dispersal exists.

    Therefore, it is counterintuitive to suggest that “species introduction” or subsequent introductions (i.e., “reintroduction”) results in species that are surviving and reproducing inside of the habitat, native range or environment in which they evolved or dispersed naturally.

    This definition being established for an "introduced species", and adopted by many conservation biology texts, is such that it can be applied only to those species that are alien, exotic, non-indigenous, non-native and/or living outside of historical ranges. This distinction was noted in my article. Even if one disagrees with semantic variations on the prefix "re-", the root word “introduction" cannot and should not identify conservation programs devoted to the release of native species into historical areas and/or distributional ranges.

Peregrine Falcon, repatriated or reintroduced? photo by Mike Baird

    Wright’s suggestion that species reintroduction implies “….a species being led back or put back…” into a former environment is simply not correct from an evolutionary or biological perspective: a native species cannot be “introduced as new”, “introduced as for the first time”, or even “led back into” an environment in which a genetic and ecological legacy has existed for eons. The premise is this: a native species that has evolved within such contexts already holds a long-standing interaction with its environment and, genetically, has never been separated from it.

    The original definitions of “introduction” and, especially, “reintroduction” have been corrupted since the implementation and widespread use of wildlife release programs in the past 30 years or so. The vast majority of these programs were designed to release captive individuals of a given species of concern into native environments and/or historical distributional ranges to replenish dwindling or extirpated wild populations. Hence, the terms “introduction” and “reintroduction” do not properly identify the historical origin of the species in question for such projects.

    Although an advocate of the term “repatriation”, I am not the first to realize its application to conservation biology. U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service biologists educated me on the subtle differences between repatriation and reintroduction. They, too, were dissatisfied with the latter word to describe the release of native species into historical distributional ranges. Other astute biologists have proposed the following terms: “reestablishment”, “reinforcement”, and “restoration—in lieu of “reintroduction”.

    As far as it being “so silly that there is no danger of it catching on”, it’s too late now. Research will reveal that zoological parks, nature centers, and wildlife rehabilitation agencies employ “animal repatriation” to transition captive individuals to wild locations of native origin. I see little difference in the activity of these wildlife release programs and those of conservation biology.

    The field of wildlife conservation is rapidly expanding, gaining in popularity, and experiencing the associated “growing pains” of any new discipline. Standardization of nomenclature is a much needed improvement. “Restoration”, “reestablishment”, and “reinforcement” are solid terms to describe the augmentation or return of a species to any environment, regardless of origin and evolutionary history. They are also applicable to single species or multi-species projects (e.g., “the reestablishment of a wetland” or “prairie restoration”). However, to specifically differentiate between wildlife projects involving the return of native species from those involving non-native species, the terms “repatriation” and “reintroduction” are ideal. Repatriation recognizes the evolutionary and/or historical connections that exist between a native species, its environment, and its place of origin; reintroduction does not.

    As an example of the contradiction in terms, consider the paper, “Guidelines for the in situ Re-introduction and Translocation of African and Asian Rhinoceros”, published in 2009 by the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN). In it, species “introduction” and “re-introduction” are cited as follows:

“Introduction: Introduction of an organism is the intentional or accidental dispersal by human agency of a living organism outside its historically known native range…”

“Re-introduction: An attempt to establish a species in an area which was once part of its historical range, but from which it has been extirpated or become extinct…”

    The first definition is similar to the one presented by the EPA and specifically identifies those species “living outside [a] historically known native range” (i.e., not-native, foreign, exotic, or non-indigenous). In contrast, the second definition identifies species that are to be established “in an area which was once part of its historical range”. Thus, it identifies species which will be living inside or within a historical, distributional range (i.e., native or indigenous). The two terms are nearly opposites of one another. The only difference between them is the prefix “re-“.

     I checked many dictionaries in the course of my investigation and none listed a potential meaning of the prefix “re-“ as an “opposite” to introduction. “Re-“ can mean the opposite of “de-“ (e.g. recurved and decurved), but I have never seen the terms “de-introduction” and “re-introduction” promoted in the scientific literature. As Mr. Wright also noted, “re-“ can “indicate withdrawal or backward motion”, as in retract or retrace. However, “re-introduction”, as it’s commonly applied to wildlife biology now, does not indicate “an introduction over and over” and it certainly does not indicate “withdrawal”. On the contrary, it represents the “opposite”.

     In the preceding 30-40 years, semantics on the prefix “re-“ have been distorted in the conservation field to include definitions like the one offered by the IUCN. This corruption in meaning has been widely adopted and applied by laypersons and experts alike.

    In fact, the ICUN editors applied the following disclaimer, “….The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors”, and rightly so. In the paper, the authors acknowledge that species “reestablishment” has been used in place of “reintroduction”.

    Wright’s assertion that “[his] dictionary is better than [mine]” is an amusing and philosophically unsound argument. The dictionary quoted in his blog is likely more recent, not “better”. Dictionary editors are known to update newer versions with words that have gained widespread use since the last publication. However, popularity does not make a word “accurate” or “correct” in application.

    I deliberately referenced an old dictionary, prior to the advent of modern wildlife conservation practices, to gain an uncorrupted definition of the word “reintroduction”. And while misapplied terminology might not have so great a negative impact among the general populace, it most certainly has a negative impact among scientific and academic communities. Clear communication is critical to the dissemination of knowledge, replication of experimentation, the evaluation of research methods, and the promotion of ideas and goals. One of the first scientists to realize the dangers of inaccurate and inconsistent nomenclature was Linnaeus. It is an ideal that we are still struggling to achieve today.

Open Mic: More Than Just a Number

At the Mic: Tom Leskiw

Tom Leskiw lives outside Eureka, California with his wife Sue and their dog Zevon. He retired in 2009 following a 31-year career as a hydrologic/biologic technician. His essays, book and movie reviews have appeared in a variety of  journals. His column appears at www.RRAS.org and his website resides at www.tomleskiw.com

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Saturday, 15 January 2011. 9:15 am. Estero Llano Grande State Park, World Birding Center, Weslaco Texas. Sue and I once again worked the area where the White-throated Thrush had been seen yesterday. A light rain was falling, as were my hopes for relocating this notorious skulker. Rain jacket and pants seemed a bit overkill for this semi-tropical woodland, but experience had taught me that long hours in damp clothes, well…they dampen one’s spirits. And I was determined to get this bird, even if I had to continue my vigil until darkness fell. I snuck a glance at another birder who was working the far corner of the open area, when a birder wearing flip-flops and track shorts burst into the clearing. “I’ve got the bird!!” he whisper-shouted.

We raced to follow him down the narrow gravel lane that bounded the preserve. A man and woman stood there—not celebrating, but, rather, looking sheepish, nonplussed. Then, came perhaps the most-dreaded phrase in a birder’s lexicon. “It just flew,” they stammered. “Somewhere off to the left.” “How far?” Flip-Flops wanted to know. “Did you see it fly across the lane?” “I don’t know. We lost it,” was the reply. So, we started scanning for the bird, searching high and low in the dense, shadowed woodland. After some time passed, I figured it would be best to not have all eyes looking in the same general area, so I made my way slowly back down the lane. “There it is!” said someone. I moved back to where the throng of birders had assembled. There, wet and sodden, was my life White-throated Thrush. Flip-Flops—sorry, I’ve forgotten your name—smiled broadly, winked at me, and spoke. “And just like that!” And just like that, indeed, I said to myself. Then, aloud: “My 700^th bird for the Lower-48 states!”

     The birding bug bit me in 1983. At the time I was a landscape photographer who spent a portion of the winter in desert locations that included Arizona’s Organ Pipe National Monument. Before I knew it, I’d purchased a 300mm lens so I could photograph the birds that frequented saguaro “cactus condos.” However, upon my return to California, I didn’t know any birders, and trying to see birds in the low-light, dense confines of redwood forests never caught my fancy. Thus, my interest lay fallow for a time.  

    Then, in 1987, I read that Gary Lester was leading a field trip to Elk Head to look for Tufted Puffins. I had entered the wrong date in my day planner and missed the trip. However, Gary returned to Elk Head with me the following day, my first inkling into the generosity and sense of sharing within the birding community. Later that spring, I took his bird field seminar that was offered through Redwood National Park. Gary, Lauren and their family lived several blocks from me, so the next several years were frequently punctuated with his impromptu phone calls. “There’s a male Costa’s Hummingbird on our fuchsia.”… “Black Swifts are passing over the house again.”… “I’m looking at a Cape May Warbler in our birch tree right now.”

    Following an Audubon Christmas Bird Count (circa 1990), I asked John Sterling and John Hunter if I could tag along to chase some local rarities. A year or so went by, and I began to dream about reaching 300 bird species in Humboldt County. Somewhere along the line, I began to envision that 700 species in the ABA area might be attainable. Later, I began to ponder if it might be possible to reach 700 in the ABA area without going to Alaska. I have absolutely nothing against Alaska, somehow, it just never seemed in the cards to get there.

     But I’m getting ahead of myself. Throughout this sometimes crazy, (nearly) quarter-century quest, I’ve tried to focus on the experience itself, on the goal of learning—as intimately as possible—about this great country of ours. I saw only one of my ABA area birds in Canada and I’ve still yet to make it to Alaska. It’s difficult to put into words, but my reason for steering clear of the “Land of the Midnight Sun” had something to do with loyalty. Because Alaska’s union with these “united” states is merely a political fluke (Attu being situated west of the east tip of Siberia), tallying the birds there seems somehow unfair, contrived. Furthermore, limiting my search to the Lower 48 allowed me to focus on the amazing biodiversity to be found here.

    I’m reminded of lyrics from Dave Mason’s “Can't Stop Worrying, Can't Stop Loving”:   “A man needs the challenge or a man couldn’t be.” Not a few times during this past decade, I reconsidered the wisdom of excluding Alaska from my census area. Maybe it can’t be done, I’d concede. At least not unless I drop everything and do a Big Year, which wouldn’t exactly “Play in Peoria,” if you know what I mean. 

    It’s only human nature to dwell on the one that got away. In this case, the one that eluded me wasn’t a bird, but, rather, a boy—a potential birding convert. I was in Texas’s Big Bend National Park, retracing my steps along the Window Trail, jubilant and basking in the glow of having found my life Lucifer Hummingbird. A group of boys caught up with me. Elated, they recounted the incredible view from the Window and how they’d just witnessed a snake swallowing a frog. One of them pointed to my bins and asked me why I’d traveled to the canyon. I explained that I’d come in search of a hummingbird, as the area—at least at the time—was the most-dependable place in all the U.S. to see it.

     As some of the other boys began to sidle off, the inquisitive one asked what the hummingbird looked like. Quickly, I sized up their group. Red-faced and sweating, they clutched their empty (pint!) water bottles. Clearly, the rest of the group wanted to beat the heat, get back to camp. I considered just how difficult it can be to get someone onto a hummingbird and how easy it might be to turn a group of tired, hot boys against birding. Just then, their leaders appeared. “Let’s hit it, guys,” they said. If only there’d been a little more time… maybe I could have gotten the kid onto the Lucifer.

    It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I’ve shared this journey with many good friends, birding acquaintances, and guides across the country. I never would have realized this goal without your help. There isn’t room here to mention you all, but know that you have my thanks.

     As I studied the Texas Rare Bird Alerts this winter, I realized that I lacked a bird-finding  guide for the Lone Star State. So, I contacted my birding compadre, Erika Wilson, who agreed to lend me her brand-new copy of the ABA guide for the Lower Rio Grande Valley. Paper-clipped to the guide was a note: “Have a great trip! Keep me posted on all your bird finding as you go.”

     In 1992, an event occurred that prompted me to resume writing after a lengthy sabbatical. Doc Harris, the dean of Humboldt County, California birding was poised to record his 400^th species for the county, the first to accomplish what was then regarded as an improbable feat. So, I chronicled the occasion in the Sandpiper, our local Audubon newsletter, starting contributions to this and other venues that continue to this day. My writing has improved during the intervening years. I’ve tackled many subjects, but birds, birding, and bird chases remain at the core of what inspires me to write. It struck me that Erika’s note applied, not only to the Texas trip, but also to my writing in general: recording my experiences in the field—for me, and to share with others.   

    Looking back, I think of all the out-of-the-way hamlets, urban parks, wildlife refuges, fish hatcheries, sewage treatment plants, sod farms, migrant traps, people, islands, and oceans I would never have experienced, were it not for birds. The images emerge, fade, and are renewed in my cerebral cortex’s own PowerPoint projector: Black and Brown Noddies, Masked Booby, Sooty Tern, and Magnificent Frigatebird soaring above the azure waters of the Dry Tortugas. And later, a Swallow-tailed Kite and Stripe-headed Tanager with Wes Biggs. A Thick-billed Murre in Humboldt Bay—thanks to a timely call from David Fix. Machias Seal Island for Atlantic Puffin and Razorbill followed by the Bluenose Ferry to Nova Scotia for Great Skua and Wilson’s Storm-Petrels with Brian Patteson and Ned Brinkley.

    And solo, a long night trying to sleep upright in a Jeep Cherokee near the Lesser Prairie-Chicken lek near Campo, Colorado. Ferruginous Pygmy-Owl with Jeff Gordon in the oak mottes of the King Ranch. Slaty-backed Gull, courtesy of Rob Fowler and Matt Wachs. Running alongside Guy McCaskie after hearing the shout that the Fork-tailed Flycatcher had been relocated. White-tailed Ptarmigan—and Grizz!—at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park with Jude Power. Green Kingfisher along the San Pedro River and Montezuma Quail and Five-striped Sparrow in Sawmill and Sycamore Canyons, with Troy Corman.

     The adrenal rush of confirming a beyond-improbable, second-hand report of a White-winged Tern at the Arcata Marsh one sunny Saturday morning. Island Scrub-Jay on Santa Cruz Island with John Sterling and the rest of the merry band of “Vagrants.” Great Gray Owl in a Yosemite red fir forest with John Hunter. Streak-backed Oriole near Tacna, Arizona with Erika Wilson and Elaine Emeigh. Craveri’s Murrelet and Baird’s beaked whale with Debi Shearwater. No one could forget the olfactory affront of the Brownsville Dump for Tamaulipas Crow with Joseph Brooks and Garry George. And a two-fer, the day before #700: a Crimson-collared Grosbeak amid the restored splendor of Allen Williams’s backyard in Pharr and the clockwork-like 4:45 pm appearance of the Black-Vented Oriole at the Bentsen Palm Village RV Resort.

    Each phone call, every set of directions I obtained from folks I might never meet face-to-face reinforced my belief that I’d joined a continent-wide community. Some of the fond memories center around birding comrades who are no longer with us. Running into Stuart Keith and Arnold Small while searching for the Crescent-chested Warbler at the Patagonia sewage treatment plant. Chasing the Lesser Sand-Plover with Luke Cole while attending a meeting of the Western Field Ornithologists in Humboldt County. The pilgrimage to Scheelite Canyon on Fort Huachuca for Mexican Spotted Owl with Smitty (Robert T. Smith). Swapping stories with Northcoast Environmental Center’s executive director Tim McKay at a Del Norte CBC compilation.

     Yes, 700 stories and more. All tangible, memorable, genuine. No tepid, pixilated, ersatz excuses for real encounters in real places. If the legions of those mesmerized by Wii and Xboxes only knew…    

Open Mic: Bird Feeders for the Environment

At the Mic: Ernie Allison

Ernie Allison is a nature writer with a particular interest in birds. He is dedicated to using his writing skills to bring awareness to conservation issues concerning birds. To help further this mission, he writes for the hummingbird feeder provider, birdfeeders.com.

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When I tell people about my bird feeding hobby, I get a lot of different responses. Some people go off about how much they love nature too. Others ask, confused, “aren’t bird feeders actually bad for the environment? Birds ate just fine before people fed them, right? Do they really need you?”

Of course, the short answer to this last question is no. Birds do not NEED people to put feeders up for them. But that in no way means that bird feeders are bad for the environment. In fact, if done correctly, your bird feeding hobby can definitely enhance the natural environment around you.

The reason that people think that bird feeders are bad for birds and the environment is because of a select few practices that are, in fact, harmful. By feeding birds product with refined sugars and preservatives and failing to maintain feeders in a hygienic manner, yes, you can harm the birds. If the right practices are followed however, you can turn your yard into a nature paradise that neither you nor the birds will want to leave.

 

The Feed

With the big Scotts Miracle-Gro lawsuit all over the news, a lot of people are wondering if their bird food is safe. As is made apparent by the Scotts case, it is difficult to know. But you can be intentional in your choices and make sure you are providing the healthiest food possible. Here are some ways how:

• Look at the ingredients in your birdseed
• Research what the native birds in your area eat and provide only those items
• Buy grains separately and in bulk and mix them yourself. This eliminates unnecessary ingredients, reduces the risk that pesticides and other harmful chemicals have been added, and can be cheaper in the long run.
• Birds like variety, and different birds have different diets. By providing suet, syrups and nectars, native plants, and a variety of seeds, you can attract the most birds and provide them a well-balanced diet

 

The Landscape

Feeding the birds is not limited to the bird feeder industry. You can install native plants and landscape your yard in ways that attract birds. Nectar-producing flowers and berry-bearing bushes can attract all sorts of wonderful critters to your lawn. It also promotes a healthier environment.

Look into what plants are native to your area, and what species are attracted to them. If you plan right, you can ensure that you’ll have visitors year-round.

Birds are also attracted to an area based on what it looks like. Feeders should be semi-visible, but birds should also feel safe and unexposed when visiting them. This means that large trees and areas with lots of shrubbery may attract certain species more. If you have issues with hawks and other predators waiting around your feeders for their own snacks, then consider taking the feeder down for a week and moving it to a new location.

 

Promoting Health

If your feeder frequently has a large number of visitors, it is important to make sure that it doesn’t become a breeding ground for disease. Here are some tips on proper feeder maintenance:

• Clean your seed feeders at least once a week, removing any droppings and half-eaten food.
• Rinse out your hummingbird feeder with hot water every time you refill it. Wash it completely every couple weeks.
• Provide a bird bath with fresh running water. Be sure to clean it often, and if you leave it out for winter, be sure to provide a water heater. Birds won’t always be able to tell if water has frozen over and may get hurt.
• If you see an increasing number of sick birds in your yard, take the feeders down for a week or two. Clean everything thoroughly before replacing it.

 

So why Bird Feeding?

Now that I’ve shared some tips for bird feeding, I want to talk about why you would take this up as a hobby in the first place. Personally, it is my connection with nature. I like to sit in my back yard and watch the feeders. Sometimes there are birds, sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes I can see evidence that there were visitors in my absence.

I also do see it as a contribution to nature. Though birds can certainly survive without us, there is no doubt that humans have messed with their natural habitat. Providing food is a small gesture of gratefulness and apology. It does make things easier on them, especially during migration season.

The “nature” contribution doesn’t just concern the birds though. Plants benefit from their presence, and insect life is positively affected as well. Attracting a variety of birds with a variety of plants promotes biodiversity. Since I started researching native plants, my yard has become much more pleasing to the eye. Even the plants that were already there are flourishing more thanks to my efforts.

And of course, there are the photo opportunities. While I am no nature photographer, I do enjoy the challenge of getting pictures of my avian friends. I now keep a camera near the back window, and am learning very well how to tell when a bird is about to fly off (usually my photos are taken right after these signs are shown. I’ll get quicker eventually).

These are the reasons I love bird feeding, and do not subscribe to any theories that it’s bad for the birds. Of course, if I chose to be lazy with it and not make deliberate choices, it could be. But that’s how most of our hobbies are, isn’t it?

Remembering Rich Stallcup

We at the ABA were very sorry to hear of the passing of California birder Rich Stallcup, who died this week following a long illness.  Rich was undoubtedly one of the giants of North American birding, the recipient of the ABA's Ludlow Griscom Award for Outstanding Contributions to Regional Ornithology in 2002, and a man whose kindness and knowledge are felt far beyond his Marin County home. 

Though we all felt his influence, none of us at the ABA knew Rich quite like those in the California birding community, and Tom Leskiw, of Eureka, California, offers a memorial to a man who will be missed very much. - Nate Swick

--=====--

 

Each blade of grass has its spot on earth

whence it draws its strength;

and so is man rooted to the land from which

he draws his faith together with his life

                             --Joseph Conrad

 

 

photo by Juliet Grable

    I can’t count myself among the fortunate folks who’ve spent a lot of time in the company of Rich Stallcup.  However, occasionally, our paths crossed and we corresponded via email.  The timing of Rich’s passing has re-impressed upon me the mysterious ways of the universe and how events seem to intersect far more often than the laws of probability and chance might suggest.

 

    Several days before he died, I read a captivating piece of prose by David Gessner in Orion magazine entitled “Brant’s Requiem.” Gessner’s work of fiction focused on the last week of life of writer-poet “Kenneth Brant.” Firmly grounded in the naturalist tradition, Brant’s work embodied bioregionalism—drawing inspiration from the patch of ground and surrounding area he called home. Brant’s final days at his homestead near “The Cape” were enlivened by spending time with a younger poet and videographer who’d offered to help Brant put his field notes in order and tape several interviews...  before it was too late.

    “Brant’s Requiem”—at once taut, reverent, and playful—compelled me to write a letter to the editor of Orion:

    David Gessner's "Brant's Requiem" was a moving, evocative work of prose. More importantly, it reminds us of our place in the Circle of Life. Namely, that mentors and others who have inspired us deserve mention before their walk down the Great Passage. We're limited only by our imagination: newsletter articles, interviews, or simply connecting with a mentor for a walk to look at birds or plants are all suitable tributes.

    Rich’s passing got me to thinking: one measure of the Great Ones is their ability to influence people they’ve never or only rarely met. Rich is well known, along with C.J. Ralph, as the discoverer of the amazing spring and fall vagrant phenomenon on outer Point Reyes and other migrant traps along the coast. To say that we birders have followed in Stallcup’s--as well as Guy McCaskie’s--footsteps is to state the obvious.

    For instance, I birded Humboldt County hard—Elk Head, the Rose Patch at Clam Beach, Fairhaven—on September 6 and 7, 1996, without a migrant to show for my efforts. I’d heard that Rich sometimes employed his vagrant-chasing “lite” strategy: driving coastal locations slowly, with the windows rolled down, to listen for chickadee flocks. So, the next day, I emulated his technique along Scenic Drive between Westhaven and Trinidad. Bingo! I got onto a megaflock that included five species of warblers, with a Magnolia Warbler being the highlight.

    My appetite whetted, I returned on September 27, heard chickadees, and stopped.  The flock included a Yellow-throated Vireo! Over the next two days, a grand, local "Patagonia Picnic Table Effect" ensued, with many of Humboldt’s most-ardent birders tallying the following species: Willow Flycatcher; Blue-headed Vireo; Chestnut-sided, Hooded, Blackpoll, Nashville, Palm, Hermit, and Black-throated Gray Warblers; Sage Thrasher;  and Vesper and Brewer's Sparrows. Finding  a 3rd Humboldt record Yellow-throated Vireo would have been fulfilling enough, but to have discovered a hotspot delivered an adrenal rush not soon forgotten—one I owed to Rich.

    On November 5, 1997, the Kure oil spill occurred in Humboldt, affecting both bay and offshore waters. My birding compadre John Hunter, an employee of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, was recruited to monitor its impacts on seabirds. While working offshore, he garnered his county Black-vented Shearwater. Because we took our “home ground” county list seriously, after mentally congratulating him on his finding, my thoughts immediately turned to “How the heck do I get offshore?”

    I didn’t have any contacts, so I did the next best thing: went to Table Bluff to do a seawatch. About a half-hour of searching produced nothing noteworthy. Then, a lumbering Pink-footed Shearwater suddenly appeared in the same field of view as my target species. Success! And having the two birds side-by-side for comparison made me certain of the ID. 

    Although I felt good about my sighting, I knew that my desire to keep pace with John had the potential to cloud my judgment. So, you can imagine my relief when Stallcup visited Humboldt a day or two later... and saw Black-vented Shearwaters offshore from Table Bluff.

    Rich led an annual spring herpetology trip that brought him to Humboldt. The skilled überbirder that he was, you’d better have your schedule cleared for several days or have an incredibly understanding boss or professor, because you knew you’d be springing into chase mode. Tufted Duck and Franklin’s Gull come to mind, and there were undoubtedly other noteworthy birds located during the search for amphibians and reptiles.

    Clam Beach lies near my former home in Westhaven, adjacent to Trinidad. Sand dunes end abruptly at an alder-willow grove along a creek: perfect attributes for a vagrant patch. So, I braved the mosquitoes and cleared some trails, dubbing it the “Rose Patch” in honor of the feral bush near the patch’s entrance. My efforts were rewarded with multiple American Redstarts that first summer, although I was unable to confirm breeding. Then, on September 28, 1996, I reported a Northern Waterthrush from there to NWCALBIRD. Rich promptly emailed me. “Tell me more about this Rose Patch. Where is it? What else have you seen there?” That’s the kind of person Rich was, one with an innate curiosity for all things avian within the borders of our Golden State... and beyond.

    Rich’s status as a respected ornithologist and accomplished writer made him a logical choice to be asked for a jacket quote for the “Atlas of the Breeding Birds of Humboldt County, California.” His generous words in support of the publication furnished a welcome capstone to the 10-year effort. Rich’s enthusiasm for avian projects large and small was well-known. When my first piece appeared in Birding—detailing a Barred Owl’s probable predation upon a Spotted Owl—Rich’s email was the first I received offering congratulations.   

    Fittingly, the first time I bumped into Rich was during fall at Point Reyes. John Sterling and our merry band of Vagrants were venturing beyond the Redwood Curtain, en route to desert oases. Rich was leading a field trip, which didn’t allow much time for chatting. But he had a presence about him, one amplified by meeting him on his home ground. I read yesterday online that in the 42 years since he’d co-founded the Point Reyes Christmas Bird Count, he’d never missed one, underscoring his relationship to that special place.  

    It seems to me that Kenneth Brant’s Cape and Rich Stallcup’s Point are an apt analogy: people whose lives have been replenished on a daily basis through their interactions with their home ground.  And they’re not the only ones: Witness Guy McCaskie in the Tijuana River Valley and Salton Sea. Jon Dunn in the Owens Valley. Kristie Nelson near Mono Lake. Todd Easterla in the lower Sacramento Valley. Bruce Deuel in the northern Sacramento Valley. Gary Lester and David Fix in Humboldt. Alan Barron in Del Norte. Jim Lomax, John Luther, John Sterling, and others who’ve expanded the definition of home ground to encompass all of California’s 58 counties. Space precludes mentioning all of you, but you know who you are and what your home ground means to you.

    Thanks, Rich, for sharing your knowledge and illuminating the unique nature of each spot—and the benefits of becoming intimate with our home ground.

Tom Leskiw

December 18, 2012