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Presumptive Cackling Goose in the left

During an afternoon visit, I observed a single Cackling Goose (Branta hutchinsii) in with the Canada Geese (Branta canadensis) on the ice at the north end of the pond nearest to the Visitor’s Center. The goose in question was apparently half the size of the surrounding Moffitt’s Canada Geese (B.c. moffitti). The bird possessed a triangular bill and rather steep forehead. The neck appeared thick and short, and possessed an obvious neck-band. After consulting a number of references and comparing my all-to-distance images, I believe that the Cackling Goose is a member of the Taverner’s (B. h. taverneri) subspecies.

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The Ouzel never sings in chorus with other birds, nor with his kind, but only with the streams. And like flowers that bloom beneath the surface of the ground, some of our favorite’s best song-blossoms never rise above the surface of the heavier music of the water. – John Muir from The Mountains of California

American Dipper in the sunlight

They have always fascinated me as to how they possibly survive in such a harsh environment. American Dippers live in conditions that no other songbird can survive. Most of the boulder-strewn stretches of streams in Montana have a resident pair or two of American Dippers. They song over the dull roar of the stream and feed beneath its surface. What a second isn’t this a songbird? Shouldn’t it be in a perch in the forest? I had the great pleasure of being in the company of 3 American Dippers along Rattlesnake Creek for the better part of an hour.

The most amazing behavior of the American Dipper is its ability to forage in the torrent. Their typical prey items consist of aquatic insects, small fish, fish eggs, and other invertebrates. These food items are obtained through one of three preferred hunting methods, which I was able to see all of the foraging techniques during my time on Rattlesnake Creek;

1. Wading into the shallows, and plunging the head underwater.
2. Swimming in deeper water, and diving to the stream bed.
3. Leaping from a perch into the water.

Once submerged, the American Dipper uses its wings as flippers. A wonderful adaption that you can see in the cold, clear waters of mountain streams. Once along the bottom, they will occasionally grasp the surface with their strong feet.

Just before the leap into the icy waters	Swimming and peering downward
What's down there	The American Dipper is one hardy bird

Why are they called dippers anyway? As they perch atop of mid-stream boulder, the American Dipper consistently bobbing its entire body up and down. The behavior is very similar to ones adopted by other stream-dwelling creatures. The Spotted Sandpiper bobs its tail and rump in a similar manner, and Rocky Mountain Tailed Frogs display by raising alternate legs as they sit on top of a stone. The reason for this display may be accounted to a territorial defense that requires minimum physical effort and is visible, rather than audible as the stream noise dampens sound. Another display of the American Dipper is the flash of the white eyelids, which is visible from some distance. The American Dipper’s song is rather long and loud, both of which aid in such a noisy environment.

American Dippers spend a good deal of time preening as they are required to ensure that the feathers remain waterproof and provide insulation against the icy waters. Their preening bouts can last upwards of 10 minutes on occasion.

Note the white eyelids	Found a singing boulder
The American Dipper at home in the riffles	Facing upstream

American Dipper silhouette

As spring approaches, the American Dipper will begin to search out nesting sites under overhanging cliffs/rocks and bridges. The dome-like nest often looks like a clump of moss, that is until a slaty dipper comes flashes out of the mass of vegetation. I will be back to Rattlesnake Creek to watch the American Dippers as the snow recedes up the slopes and the water runs higher.

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The noble Bohemian Waxwing. Note the red "waxy" bead on the wing

Fruits were ripped from their stems as the ravenous flock worked to clean this tree. Sharp, hooked bills spear the red flesh as more waxwings pile into the tangle of branches. The composite flock of ~300 birds was predominately (95%) Bohemian Waxwings and the reminder were Cedar Waxwings. The game was to pick out the occasional Cedar from amongst all of those Bohemians. The casual identification workshop kept me entertained for the better part of an hour, just before inclement weather moved into the valley.

The first identifying characteristic of both waxwings is their unique waxy beads located on the tips of the secondaries of adults. The waxy substance is generally bright red. The red coloration is due to a carotenoid pigment (a pigment coming solely for the waxwings’ diet). The size of the beads increases over the course of the first few basic molts. So, waxwing is not such a creative name after all.

Identifying Characteristics

Note the undertail coverts, white patch, yellow wing spots, and grayish color overall

Note the undertail coverts, no white patch, no yellow wing spots, and brownish color overall

Here in Montana and for majority of the United States, there is a prevailing seasonal pattern of occurrence for these two species. Bohemian Waxwings dominate the winter numbers with a smattering of Cedar Waxwings that have stayed behind as the majority of their species moved south. During the summer months, it is almost with 100% certainty that every waxwing is a Cedar. The Bohemians have gone, for the most part, into the boreal forests of the Canada and Alaska.

A rather stylish Bohemian Waxwing	Brightly plumaged Cedar Waxwing
Bohemian Waxwing in a classic pose	Bohemian Waxwing chowing down

The Juvenile-plumaged Cedar Waxwing

As Cedar Waxwings breed and nest quite late in the summer as to take advantage of the flush of ripening fruit, their young undertake their molt into adult plumage late as well. In fact, they may be in juvenile plumage in January, as was the case with the bird below.

Continue reading »]]> 2012 has been the year of the invasion. An invasion of normally arctic-dwelling bird species has descended upon the northern tier of the United States. There have been upwards of 50-60 separate Snowy Owl observations in the state of Montana. The causes for the invasion are, most likely, due to a couple of synergistic factors: the owls have enjoyed several good breeding seasons in the North and the vole population in Montana has exploded. This event is called an irruption. The summer of 2011 saw massive numbers of lemmings scurrying across the tundra like fleas on the rump of a cur dog, and, therefore, providing the owls with more food than normal for their ravenous young. The 2011 crop of young owlets experienced higher than normal survivability due to the surplus of lemmings. This substantial increase in the population has meant that the available hunting territories in the North are over-capacity this winter, which has force many owls further south than usually seen. The great thing is once these owls made it south, they were treated to tons of voles here as well. The perfect storm of rodent population fluctuations and competitive territory allocation has led to the most enjoyable event for us Montana birders.

The best Snowy Owl image I have been able to capture.	Snowy Owl being not the least bit concerned
Presumptive Meadow Vole aka Lunch

Summary of Montana Snowy Owl for 2011-2012

The red numbered pins reflect generalized counts for an area. The yellow diamond pins represent precise observation locations.
Download Google Earth version of this map

Another irruptive species that has been seen rather readily this winter has been the Common Redpoll. Common Redpoll irruptions are due to the success of the previous year’s seed crop.  With lots of food available, the survivability of the young redpolls are increased. However, the next year these survivors are pressed to find food sources. So, they move farther south, and they end up on the alder trees in my little neighborhood. I see these birds in small flocks of around 20 individuals that have continually worked my neighborhood for the past 3 weeks. Occasionally, they are in mixed-species flocks with Black-capped Chickadees and American Goldfinches.

Common Redpoll in an alder	Common Redpoll handing on an alder catkin
Common Redpoll portrait

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Mission Range and the valley below

Before I could bear to watch the Green Bay Packers lose to the Giants, Tom and I went up into the Mission Valley on a Snowy Owl mission.

We initially checked around the Ninepipe National Wildlife Refuge and the surrounding agricultural lands, and we turned up nada. No Snowy Owls or much else, other than Gray Partridge and ring-necked Pheasants. Coming to the conclusion that we should try up near Polson, we fired off along Highway 93 and arrived in Polson in no time.

The Mission Mountains from near the National Bison Range	The Missions from another perspective
The Mission valley from the fields north of Charlo	The long, empty road near Charlo, MT

Once we arrived at Polson, we soon found one Snowy Owl on top of a cell tower. which was quickly followed by 5 others. All of these were perched atop houses on the subdivision atop the hill. We speculated that they were making use of the roofs because they were warmer than perching on a fence post or rock.

Snowy Owl being not the least bit concerned	The best Snowy Owl image I have been able to capture.
Snowy Owl on top of house - not exactly natural	The roof must be a great place for a nap

The reason for all these Snowy Owls this winter is the epic explosion in the vole population this year. Everywhere you walk, you hear the little buggers scurrying through their tunnels.

Presumptive Meadow Vole aka Lunch

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White-breasted Nuthatch just hanging out

45 degrees in january…January! That’s how warm it has been in northwestern Montana lately. The birds were appropriately enjoying the sun. All 3 species of nuthatch were actively calling and feeding in the ponderosa pines and cottonwoods as Northern Flickers both called and drummed. Common Goldeneye and Hooded Merganser were all displaying as well. Everything must have thought that spring had come early…maybe it has. The female Greater Scaup continues to be in residence at Pond 6. She was surrounded by a host of Gadwalls and Ring-necked Ducks.

Reflections of a Mallard	Flight shot of a Northern Harrier female

eBird Checklist

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Cooperative Downy Woodpecker

I heard the Pileated Woodpecker vocalizing with its fast series of “wuk” notes. Went to that location, and he (I’m assuming a male here) was nowhere to be found. Then, I would hear the bird farther down, some 200 meters or so. This pattern repeat several times, and I decided that Pileateds are nothing more than malevolent ghosts…they do not exist. However, the entire was filled with some great winter birding. The temps were approaching 50 degrees and the sun was shining brightly. Where the ponderosa pines meet with the cottonwoods a sizable mixed flock of Pygmy Nuthatches, Red Crossbills, Red-breasted Nuthatches, Mountain Chickadees, Black-capped Chickadees, Hairy Woodpeckers, and a Downy Woodpecker are actively feeding. The whole entire lot was calling and seemingly rejoicing in the nice weather. What a day to be out, even if it was only for 2 hours. The overall species count is low, but man, what a show!

Typical Habitat at MacClay Flats	Daytime moon over Montana
Great day to be out fishing	Interesting patterns in the ice
Bitterroot River during a warm winter day

eBird checklist

Continue reading »]]> Spent yesterday afternoon at Lee Metcalf NWR, and as always it was a spectacular time to be there. I was able to spot the female Greater Scaup again, and again without an image. Along the Kenai trail, Northern Shrike and American Tree Sparrow were among the visitors from the north. The surprise of the day was a group of common raccoons that near foraging amongst the frozen and cattails of Pond 6. A pair of Hooded Merganser males were in full display (the warm weather must have trick into thinking it was spring). They were only missing a lady for all their efforts. Hundreds of Canada Geese flew overhead and they descended onto the ice as most seems to miss the open water.

Honker landing procedure engaged	Flock in synchronized landing
Northern Shrike perched and watching	Hunter calls it a day
Somber mood	Golden skies over the Bitterroot Mountains
Artsy way of looking at Lee Metcalf	Common Raccoon

eBird Checklist

Continue reading »]]> I was incredibly fortunate to spend the last morning of 2011 birding on the Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge for the Christmas Bird Count. This section of the count was led by Bob Danley, who was incredibly generous with his time and laughter. We had a great time.

Dawn rises on the Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge	It was great to see the rest of Refuge where you are not normally allowed access to
Pair of Tundra Swans passes overhead

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Lee Metcalf NWR

I needed some nature time today, so I went quickly down to the Lee Metcalf NWR for a little birding walk. I went along one of the trails that loops from the parking lot to the Bitterroot River. Once among the big ponderosa pines, Red-breasted, White-breasted, and Pygmy Natchatches along with 4 species of woodpecker and Black-capped Chickadee. Stopping by the pond near the headquarters, I observed the usual host of waterfowl, and, most surprisingly, a lone Virginia Rail did a few pig grunts from the ever-drying cattails.

Dec 19, 2011 12:00 PM – 1:30 PM

Protocol: Traveling

6.0 mile(s)

25 species

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Finally, i got away from the business of everyday life and got a chance to going old with an old friend. That old friend is the Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge near Stevensville, MT. It was incredible to be back at Lee Metcalf. Along the river, I enjoyed several Bald Eagles, and at the open water near the Headquarters, there were Northern Pintail, Common Goldeneye, Ring-necked Duck, and a displaying Hooded Merganser. He had his hood fully up and was vocalizing.

Red-tailed Hawk peering down	Now I know why they're called Pintails
Pair of Mallards	Bald Eagle over the Bitterroot River
Great to see winter Green-winged Teals	Can actually see the green wing
Pair of Common Goldeneye	Going in
Common Goldeneye drake pondering the edge	Displaying Hooded Merganser
Season's first Rough-legged Hawk image	Taking off, eh?

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Lone Snow Goose

Trio of Tundra Swans	Making a turn
Graceful landing	Onwards, always onwards

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Silver Lake, MT

Today, Andrew Guttenberg and I made the trip from Bozeman to Silver Lake (near Georgetown Lake) for some scoters, which we did see a number of Surf Scoters and a couple of White-winged Scoters. Several Red-breasted Mergansers were also actively feeding on the lake. As we left the Silver Lake area, we spotted a small shorebird in a small pond at the east end of the lake. The bird turned out to be a Red Phalarope with a clean pale gray back, stout bill (for a phalarope), and a beefy-appearing body. What a find, we were stoked. At Georgetown Lake, we chanced upon a 3 Herring Gulls (2 first year and 1 winter adult) and a ton of American Coots and Western Grebes.

Red Phalarope	Red Phalarope
Clean pale gray back of the Red Phalarope

We continued to the Warm Springs WMA, we found several great species;

• 15+ Snow Geese
• 30+ Bonaparte’s Gulls
• A single Sabine’s Gull (finally found one this autumn)

The only target we dipped on Black Scoter. Thanks to Gary Swant for the great directions and advice.

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Resplendent Quetzal from Monteverde, Costa Rica

A brilliant green feather dangles beneath the out-stretched, bryophyte-clad branch of a wild avocado tree, and my heart pounds in my ears. Sound becomes meaningless; the sweat stinging my eyes goes unnoticed. The only object of focus is that feather, that feather that I have sought for so many years. That feather leapt from the page of every field guide. It occupied my dreams, and demanded a good deal of my waking attention. I concocted my own story that this enigmatic species was the ornithological equivalent of Sasquatch. The bird was a tall tale recited by madman birders who spent a few weeks too long in the tropics. This was my third trip to the cloud forest of Monteverde, and on the last morning, this iridescent green ghost finally materialized. An object of outright obsession, the Resplendent Quetzal, that gaudy trogon of the Costa Rican cloud forest, was finally mine. I jumped up and down like a fool, shouting, “Fuck” in that birder whisper-shout, which was directed at no one in particular, as I was utterly alone. I had, at last, observed my grail bird, that one species, for the time being, that required sacred pilgrimage to a holy birding location.

After the euphoric moment passed and I packed up to trudge along several miles of jungle trail, an odd sense of emptiness swept over me. Questions arose in my mind in rapid-fire fashion.

“What’s the next grail bird?”

“Was this all there is to this quest, and it’s over?”

“Why am I so hollow now?”

The pace of my steps slowed, and almost imperceptibly my direction had returned me to the Quetzal. Having relocated the bird, I dropped to my haunches and leaning against one of the multitude of fallen, decaying trunks that studded the forest floor, I sank into the soft ground beneath the trees. The next action was not much of an action at all; I began to simply watch the bird. Instead of observing with some notion of learning from its behavior or habitat,  I just watched, letting each moment pass  without notice or yearning for the next. The barriers between the forest, the bird, and me seemed to dissolve. Today, I would call that moment “mindful” or “enlightening,” then I simply called it peaceful.

The Dharma in the normal Buddhist context is considered to be the body of the Buddha’s teaching. But, there is another dharma, a small “d” kind, which can be applied the entire palette of material and mental phenomena that one experiences. Small “d” dharma can be applied to every moment of our existence. It is the truth, which can be applied to the current state of now; it is how things should be ideally, underlying everything—although we have clouded it with our own greed, hatred, and delusion. These Three Poisons are the blinders to our true nature.

With the right kind of eyes, birding can be viewed as dharma, revealing the truth of nature to us, if only we calm our minds and let it enter our thinking. Birding can, with some diligence, shed light into any practice, whether it is Buddhism or another spiritual tradition. The practice of birding can be used to treat the Three Poisons, or it can re-enforce them. The choice is ours at every moment. Every phenomenological experience is either a lesson in the larger teaching or nothing more than a passing blip on the holographic screen of our wild imaginings.

Perhaps the dizziest lot of folks on this spinning organic spaceship, birders can be disturbingly obsessive. In fact, unadulterated mania is the hallmark of every competent birder. We keep endless lists – year lists, county lists, life lists, lists of birds seen while peeing (I know of at least three people who keep this one). The obsession and its fruits go on and on.  The lists have to grow every year, every moment of birding. We scour the guidebooks for another much sought-after species. These grail birds occupy so much of my bird study. The Resplendent Quetzal was followed by the Bare-necked Umbrellabird, and it will be followed by another when I finally observe that species. The lists in and of themselves are not a problem, but the approach we take to them can be less than enlightening.

The Chase

The news came across the computer screen with a brilliance that comes with focused attention. A Red Knot has been seen at the Warm Springs Ponds, some 120 miles from my home in Bozeman. Quickly, I call my main birding partner, and we hit the highway that afternoon. He and I each possess a great ability to re-enforce the neurotic nature of the other. The excitement of adding this bird on my state and year lists (we were doing a Montana Big Year at the time) filled the vehicle with a thick fog of anticipation. I found myself leaning into the windshield, as if it would help make the car more aerodynamic, and therefore, faster. The highway sign, “Warm Springs, 1 mile”, appeared in what seemed like seconds. Warm Springs, a fitting place for these two lunatics as it is the location of the Montana State Mental Hospital. Perhaps we could check ourselves in for even considering this 120-mile, two- hour chase of a possible, might- happen, improbable sighting of a rare bird.

Arriving at the ponds, we leapt from the still-opening doors of a car barely in park and began to scour the shorelines with bulging eyeballs through binoculars. Scanning, scanning, and scanning more, the Red Knot refused to materialize. A sinking despair like someone had taken my birthday away started to spread through my chest.

“Let’s try that pond?”

“Might as well re-scan that bank.”

“I think the bird has flown the proverbial coop.”

“Shit!”

The stink of failure loitered in every breath. I failed to see that specific bird, and now my attachment to that superlative goal was making me miserable. The heavy moment crushed any joy that could be taken in this wonderful place.

Then I decided to step back from that lowly condition of dispiritedness, and wondered:

“What if I were just birding?”

Within that instant, letting go of an outcome and simply living in that current state of existence transformed the entire experience. We started really birding, letting the world unfold without any expectation. We took immeasurable enjoyment in Killdeer and Lesser Yellowlegs as they milled around in the shallows. The cold wind that heralded the coming of winter created intricate patterns on the green water’s surface. An American Golden Plover stood on the gravel bar amid the breeze’s handiwork.

“American Golden Plover!” I shouted.

By letting go of the attachment to the Red Knot, we had let our eyes really see. The American Golden Plover was not a reward for being a good little Buddhist, which I wasn’t at the time. It was there to be simply seen.

Hating the House Sparrow

We love to hate the House Sparrow. That little brown bird seems to pop up on every birding trip at every moment. We deride them as an invasive species, and hope for their extermination, but, have we really looked at the House Sparrow for what it is?

During a particularly frigid Christmas Bird Count, I was counting one House Sparrow after the next. The monotony of ticking each one of these “worthless” birds was grinding at the better angels of my nature. Aversion had turned to outright loathing.  When I sighted a flock of Bohemian Waxwings as they sang “Zirr” from high above, the ill will I had toward the House Sparrows obscured the beauty of them. I was missing out on what birding should be about because I was wrapped up in House Sparrow hatred shit spiral.

“Take another look at the House Sparrow.”

In a leafless bit of the windrow, a flock of House Sparrows busily hopped here and there. They happily sang and called as a splinter of sun illuminated their little world. The patterning of their plumage popped as the light swept through the branches. They took full advantage of this momentary warmth. They did not despair the coming cold evening. The night was going to happen whether or not they wanted it to or not, so why worry?

Sometimes you’re wrong

I swam in a sea of delusion and ignorance. I cannot see the true nature of things without putting it through my own set of filters.  It is impossible to know everything, but it is very tempting to act like we know everything. I wear this shield of false competency with all the fake pride and hubris that I can muster.

The practice of birding provides many opportunities to be humble and learn from our mistakes. I choose to call birding a practice because it is something that you can never master; you are always learning, growing and changing. During my birding life, I have made a lot of errors – errors in identification, errors in judgment, errors as a result of hubris – and the list of mistakes and miscues continues to grow with every year.

The first weekend of April always means the annual trip to Freezeout Lake for the thousands of Snow Geese as they stage here before continuing their push northward to the tundra. They feed out on the benches above the wetlands where wheat and barley grow, and mid-morning they return in wave after white wave of raucous honking. Before their return on this day, we birded around the ponds, and there on a lens of melting ice, a lone sandpiper abided the cold morning. It stood motionless against the rising sun and its silhouette outlined the long bill and legs with a plump little body. Going through my mental identification key, I arrived at the conclusion that it was a Semipalmated Sandpiper. Very surprising, given the location and time of year, and I was understandably excited. I rushed to my fellow birders to tell them of “my” discovery.

“Semipalmated Sandpiper on the ice over there. No shit!”

A small group of birders returned from the sandpiper some time later, and with peculiar, pondering glances, they began to ask questions.

“You sure that was a Semipalmated Sandpiper?”

“You might want to think about that ID.”

“It’s a Baird’s Sandpiper. See, look at the picture.”

Sometimes you're wrong

I, the guy who wrote a field guide – the “expert” – was wrong. I trusted my knowledge over any doubt that lingered in the recesses of my mind. My ego was wounded and angry. Every synapse recoiled in the terror of being wrong and what that meant to my image (I have an image? Pretty cocky, huh?”). I stood at that familiar fork in the road, either be a jackass and demand that I was right or admit to the mistake and learn. Unfortunately, I all too often choose the former, but on this occasion I swallowed that sticky lump of pride and asked questions.

“Why do you think it is a Baird’s Sandpiper?”

“You’re so right, great catch,” I conceded.

I am a better birder now, or at least a better Baird’s Sandpiper identifier, because I was wrong and admitted to it. Letting go of that sniveling child of an ego resulted in a bit of education that has always stuck with me since that day. It reminds me that I have been wrong so many times in the past, and I will be wrong again (most likely today sometime). Being wrong is not the issue; it is how you use those mistakes to increase your knowledge, and therefore, see a little more of the truth of this reality.

When Siddhārtha Gautama settled beneath the Bodhi Tree, he came into Enlightenment within nature. This event was not done in the absence of reality as it existed in the natural world, but depended on it. When Mara, lord of Siddhārtha’s own delusion and desire, tempted and, then, demanded to know who would witness his worthiness to attain enlightenment, Siddhārtha made a simple gesture, nothing more. He touched the ground before him, and the earth shuddered in response. Mara fled from Siddhārtha’s mind, and he became the Buddha. When the sun rose that morning, I would like to believe that a bird was perched in the Bodhi Tree, and it sang for the Buddha to hear. This is why birding is dharma to me.

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Singing Rose-breasted Grosbeak

For the second summer in a row, we here in the Gallatin Valley have been treated to a visit from a Rose-breasted Grosbeak. A highly vocal male, he successfully bred with a Black-headed Grosbeak female last year. On Saturday morning, I was treated to great views of this vagrant songster and comparative Black-headed Grosbeak males.

After watching him for quite some time, I started to hear competing Black-headed Grosbeaks singing with ever-increasing volume as the Sun warmed the morning. Grabbing the iPhone, two recordings of the species were taken in an effort to aid to determining species using sound alone. Also, when listening to these recording, see how many other species are vocalizing in the background.

[wpaudio url="wp-content/uploads/2011/05/RBGR.mp3" text="Singing Rose-breasted Grosbeak" dl="0"]

[wpaudio url="wp-content/uploads/2011/05/BHGR.mp3" text="Singing Black-headed Grosbeak" dl="0"]

The tonality and pattern is too close to that of the Black-headed Grosbeak to be useful for identification. However, the repeated bouts of 3-4 “weep” notes are unique.

Continue reading »]]> Every spring a horde of Gray-crowned Rosy-finches descends on the foothills of the Bridger Mountains. Thousands of the beautiful finches crowd around any food source, and this is often a feeder. I was lucky enough to hear of such a feeder, and when I arrived on Friday morning, several thousands Gray-crowned Rosy-finches were draping off the trees and spread over the sunflower seed-studded snow.

Within the flock, the vast majority of the rosy-finches were of the Interior form with about 2% being of the Hepburn’s or Coastal form. The gray crown extends down to the cheek in this form, and it was particularly challenging to isolate one of these birds within the camera.

Overhead about a thousand Bohemian Waxwings called from the cottonwoods, while American Goldfinches competed with the horde from room at the feeders. The Black-capped Chickadees did not even attempt to feed amongst the rosy-finches, although one brave individual came flying in following one of the many blowouts of the rosy-finches.

Continue reading »]]> John Parks led his annual Raptor-viewing trip to the Springhill area north of Bozeman for Sacajawea Audubon. We had ever increasing clouds throughout the day, and the birds didn’t seem to be all that active. As for raptors, we ended up with 27 Bald Eagles, 1 Golden Eagle, and handfuls of Rough-legged and Red-tailed Hawks. It just getting too easy to become attached to the notion that we should be seeing the large concentrations that we have seen in past years. I have this overwhelming expectation that things should always be the best, whatever that means, that they can be. If I see 100 Bald Eagles one day, I sort of expect to see 101 the next. Why can’t I just love seeing that one bird or none, for that matter, and not attach any other values or concepts to that instance of time? As is often the case, the birds and weather had other plans for us. The gathering of raptors seems to be somewhat delayed this year. My mind reels with considerations of possibilities for the causative agents for this situation. Is it weather, climate change, disturbance, and/or the influence of unseen forces conspiring against my birding day? The joy that I should be feeling has been eclipsed by these notions. It then dawns on me, “Does it really matter why right at this moment?” The answer was a resounding “nope.” So, I let go these patterns of thinking, and the day simply began to unfold the way it was going to reveal itself.

However, the most interesting aspects of the day were the signs of spring’s arrival. Horned Larks sang in full throat along fence lines and high above. Northern Flickers and Downy Woodpeckers drummed in the riparian corridor along the East Gallatin River. 20 or so male Red-winged Blackbirds were already calling and having mild squabbles over perceived lines demarcating territories. The solitary Great Blue Heron gracefully flew from one spot of ice-free water to the next. At Central Park Pond, goldeneyes (both Common and Barrow’s), Ring-necked Ducks, and Buffleheads were all showing some interest in that particular rite of spring. A lone, immature Tundra Swan melded itself into the 21 Trumpeter Swans that were present.

As the day ended, the snows and winds descended on the Gallatin Valley. I thought it was nice of Mother Nature to wait until we had finished with a very enjoyable day of birding. Maybe She didn’t care one whit about our trivial activities, but it sure is nice to think so.

Continue reading »]]> Terror Birds, a title meant to strike fear in the hearts of those who  hear it. In most cases of grandiose names, the true nature of the creature is somewhat less pronounced than its name. However, in this instance, the name Terror Birds is absolutely descriptive of these giant, fearsome terrestrial predators of the order Cariamae, which includes the family Phorusrhacidae. The Terror Birds roamed around South America during Miocene with at least one species, Titanis walleri, making it into North America.

So let’s imagine a Terror Bird with following construction instructions.

• Our bird will stand 8.5 feet tall
• Its legs will be incredibly stout and allow our bird to run down prey at speeds approaching 30 mph
• The wings will be small, useless appendages – Terror Birds don’t fly!
• Our bird will weigh 400 pounds of all muscle and bone
• The large skull will possess a large bone-crushing beak

There we have constructed an apex, terrestrial, avian predator.

Recently discovered, Kelenken guillermoi was a true behemoth that ravaged the rugged landscape of Patagonia. It possessed the largest skull, nearly 28 inches, of any bird ever described.  The raptor-like beak evolved to slice through flesh and crush any bone that had the misfortune to find itself in the grasp of Kelenken.

The Terror Bird in our own backyard was the massive Titanis walleri, a sole, known member of Phorusrhacidae make its way into North American during the Great American Interchange. The Great American Interchange was a mass exchange of plants and animals as the Isthmus of Panama rose from the seafloor. The counter-current migrations reached their peak some 3 million years. The plains of Florida and Texas were haunting by this predator. It is known from precious few fossils, a single toe from Texas and around 40 other fragments from Florida. The skull has never been found, and if it were to be unearthed I can imagine it would be fearsome.

Did you know that there are living Terror Birds, the two seriemas of South America are sole living of the family Cariamidae. Seriemas are terror of small lizards that they bash against the ground after catching them in a ground-based pursuit. This style of hunting probably rather similar to how its extinct ancestors hunted some 3 million years ago.

This has been short and evil posting about some birds that tall and nasty.

Other VLB Posts

• Teratorns
• Osteodontornis

Continue reading »]]> Together since 2007, their courtship proceeded slowly on Eastern Island in the Midway Atoll. During that year, they were seldom seen in each other’s company. The subsequent year, the pair spent more and more time courting. By 2009, the relationship had progressed to the point of building a nest, but alas, no egg was to be laid that year.  On November 16, 2010, they made history with a single egg lying in the scrape. For the first time in as long as people cared to record such things, a Short-tailed Albatross pair had nested outside of Japan.

In a time before the human abuse the Short-tailed Albatross has a commodity had begun, the numbers of this large oceanic wander were estimated as high as 5 million individuals. They fed on squid over the entire North Pacific with males and immature birds concentrating among the great swells of the Bering Sea, while the females tended to roam along the coastlines of Far East Russia and Japan. They nested on many of the small, isolated Japanese islands such as Bonin Islands. But then, the humans came to islands, lusting for attractive feathers. The aho-dori, translated to stupid bird, was what the Japanese called the Short-tailed Albatross as they killed them for the feather trade. Up to 5 million albatrosses from one colony were dispatched in under 20 years. For a species that reaches sexual maturity in 5-7 years and also has a low reproductive rate (one egg per year maximum), this pace of exploitation was not sustainable. The Short-tailed Albatross’ population plummeted to dangerously low levels. They were restricted to 2 colonies on the islands of Torishima and Minami-kojima. As if this wasn’t frightful enough, these islands was not the best places in the world for Short-tailed Albatross to have as last havens. Torishima is volcanically active, and Minami-kojima is small dot of land that is disputed by Japan, Taiwan, and China, and therefore, no active management is possible. In 1939, the worst case scenario happened; Torishima erupted and covered the colony with over 30 feet of lava. The entire world population and future of the Short-tailed Albatross fell upon just 10 nesting pairs. In 1949, a researcher visiting the island found no breeding pairs to be present, and prematurely declared the species extinct, even though up to 50 individuals were still wandering around the vast Pacific Ocean.

Luckily, the Short-tailed Albatross began to receive the attention of conservationists, and the numbers started to climb ever so slowly to the point where there are upwards of 2,400 albatrosses currently. The problem was that there were only 2 nesting colonies. To remedy this situation, initiatives to create new and geographically dispersed nesting colonies were started.  The Japanese have been successful in establishing a new colony, and the US Fish and Wildlife Service sought to create another nesting colony in Eastern Island, a small, 334 acre coral island in the Midway Atoll National Wildlife Refuge. Short-tailed Albatross decoys were placed amongst the existing Laysan Albatross colony. This is point of the story where our pair of Short-tailed Albatross makes their debut.

January 14, 2011 is an historic day for the Short-tailed Albatrosses at Eastern Island. That single egg, that single hope, hatched with a fuzzy little chick lying beneath its parents. That single chick may lead to renewed hope for the continued survival of the Short-tailed Albatross. Torishima is due for another eruption, and one never knows if that event could be a devastating repeat of 1939. The Short-tailed Albatross faces many difficulties to its existence. The by-catch of commercial long-line fishing, environmental pollutants such as oil and pesticides, and competition with other albatross species and introduced predators top the list of hazards. But for today the news is all good.

Continue reading »]]> I went out yesterday with a friend of mine for a quick afternoon of birding  in Springhill area (north of Bozeman, MT). Raptors were the target birds of the day, and we ended up seeing good numbers. However, the ratios of species seemed to be way off. The Bald Eagles have started to gather already in the cottonwoods that line the draws. This seems a tad early, and maybe an indication of a fast approaching spring (fingers crossed). The Bald Eagle count was over 20 individuals. The lone representative of Falco was a rather large, presumably female Prairie Falcon. In total we 5 Rough-legged Hawks (including one incredibly large, presumably female, and another awesome dark morph) and whopping 12 Red-tailed Hawks (one of which of edging against looking Harlan-like) were observed. Usually this time of year in this particular area, one or two Red-tailed Hawks would be more normal count, at least in my experience. At the very least, Rough-legged Hawks should outnumber their Buteo kin.

Now, all these insights from yesterday got me to thinking  about if there has been any change in the Red-tailed Hawk numbers observed during the Christmas Bird Counts (CBC) for both the discrete Bozeman count circle and the total of all Montana count circles. Using the wonderful data mining tools provided by the Audubon Society, I quickly generated the data that this question required. As the following graphs illustrate the numbers of observed Red-tailed Hawks seem to be increasing over time. The cause or causes of this increase would be a matter of speculation, but data is eye-opening (for me at least). Note that the first two graphs are for the Bozeman count circle and the last graph is for all of Montana.

Continue reading »]]> It was getting very hot as morning slid into mid-day at Carara National Park, Costa Rica. Humidity hung in the air like your grandma’s heavy drapes. Silence replaced the din of song and call that filled the air only moments earlier. Suddenly, a chorus of harsh screeches shattered the scene. Above, long-tailed flashes of red and green scream over the canopy as I caught glimpses of them through gaps in the foliage. They were the reason that I had hopped the first bus heading north from Jaco, the Scarlet Macaw. The pair landed on top of a long dead but spectacularly tall tree, which possessed a hole large enough to be a nesting cavity or so I assumed. I observed many pairs and groups of this species during this particular trip as well as many other parrot species. Most of the others were green in color and flying at blurring speeds. I wish I had the Princeton University Press’ Parrots of the World by Joseph M. Forshaw on my sweaty hands during that trip.

Parrots of the World is an exceptional reference of all the known parrot species including notable subspecies. This is not field guide, but then again it is not intended to be one. Several species accounts are accompanied by a corresponding color plate, vividly illustrated by Frank Knight. The accounts are, accordingly, grouped by taxonomy with each family having a short description, which contains physical characteristics and other identifying information. The descriptions are amazing complete given the limited space on the page. The associated range maps are accurate; however, I wish they were a bit larger. The illustrations are very well done, but, again, they could be larger and I would have forgiven a few extra pages as a consequence.

Overall, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading and studying this reference. For anyone interested in obtaining a good general, overview knowledge would do themselves a favor by running out and getting Parrots of the World.

Continue reading »]]> On a warm September day in southwest Queensland in 2006, ‘Shorty’ Cupitt was running a grader over one of the few roads in Diamantina National Park. As the blade carved through the uneven gravel, a flash of yellow caught his eye. Stepping down off of his rumbling machine, he bent over to pick the desiccated, headless carcass of a parrot that he could not identify. He decided to take the dead bird take to park headquarters and see if his colleagues could positively identify the parrot. As it turned, they could not correctly determine the species of the carcass as well, and in true Australian fashion, the carcass came to end up on display at the Tattersall’s Pub in Winton. The owner had a notion of what the bird was, and how he could use it for promotional purposes. Lucky, a bloke staying at the pub was a biologist, and he knew what it was and how precious the dried-out, little body would be to science.

‘Shorty’ Cupitt’s little piece of parrot jerky was a Night Parrot (Pezoporus occidentalis), and it was the first specimen found since 1990 when a specimen was found as road kill. The Night Parrot was one of world’s rarest and most enigmatic birds. First described in 1845 by John McDouall Stuart, and since that type description, only 23 specimens have been collected and sit in the drawers of university zoological collections. By 1912, the species was thought to be extinct. Birders in the 1970s began to report sightings, although these were viewed with skepticism. Then, the 1990 bird was found, and the Night Parrot was confirmed to still be flying through Outback night skies.

The Night Parrot is a cryptically colored, small bird that possesses a variety of characteristics and habits that render it nearly impossible to observe, let alone study. It is generally yellowish-green and mottled with brown and black. The Night Parrot has mostly terrestrial habits in its preferred spinifex grassland habitat. It is thought to take flight rarely, and then only when threatened or seeking water in the arid environment. Most of its habits are unknown, although the nest seems to be a swallow burrow in the midst of a spinifex bunch. As the name suggests, the Night Parrot is nocturnal. So, we have bird that is out and about only during the night, it is well camouflaged against its environment, it lives in the remote regions of the nearly human-less interior of Australia, and it has a population of as few as 50 individuals. Ever wonder why it is so little known? Several organized, systematic searches have been undertaken, and not one has turned up any evidence of the Night Parrot. Not even a single feather, let alone an image or video. Their continued presence is only confirmed by a few lucky accidents.

This is not say that the Night Parrot has not been observed, even though sightings are generally treated with more than a adequate degree of suspicion. The last such observation took place in place during 2005 near Minga Well by biologists Robert Davis and Brendan Metcalf. This couple of contract scientists were conducting surveys required by an environmental impact study for a controversial mine in Western Australia. One evening at dusk, they observed 3 Night Parrots at Minga Well. However, it was too dark to obtain workable photographs. They were certain that they had seen the elusive Night Parrot, although they were unable to re-locate the birds. This is not surprising given the Night Parrot’s habits.

Now with recent sightings or specimen collections in both Queensland and Western Australia, it seems that the Night Parrot has at least two extant populations. This is very promising for the continued existence of the bird, but we have so little information that an accurate estimate of population and implementation of proper conservation strategy are impossible.

The 2006 Cupitt specimen sparked a bit of an avian gold rush. Australian birders are venturing from their homes along the eastern side of the continent, and pouring over the Outback looking for the Night Parrot. There have even been recent reports of the bird near Marble Bar, a small town of less than 200 souls on the eastern edge of the Great Sandy Desert. The town is famous for holding the world record for the most consecutive days in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit, 160 days in a row. Sounds like a miserable place, and I want to go there. I can imagine a small group of Night Parrots drinking for a pool of warm water as I manage to capture several images, proof that Night Parrots persist, ever so secretly, in the interior of Australia.

Continue reading »]]> Large swells rise and fall on the North Pacific of the Late Miocene. Many small birds resembling albatrosses and petrels gracefully glide along the troughs. A massive bait ball of squid roils at the surface as they are pursued by fish from below and birds snatching them from above. Soon a large form slices through mists of the wind-torn wave crests. On long, narrow wings stretching to 20 feet, an other-worldly Osteodontornis swoops in on the feeding frenzy. Albatrosses and the other birds would scatter in the midst of this giant seabird. Osteodontornis was truly immense, and only second in wingspan to the previously discussed Argentavis magnificens.

Osteodontornis’s Latin name belies its most unique characteristic, a bill that had tooth-like projections that were actually bony, rather than keratin. These are not the simple serrations that today we see in species such the mergansers. These projections looked and acted like true bony tooth, and they were intended for spearing through the flesh of squid and, perhaps, fish. The head would have measured nearly a foot and half. The head weighed so much that in flight, it would have to be held back against the body like a modern pelican. If you were to catch it sitting on its nest, probably the only time they required terra firma, Osteodontornis would have stood almost 4 feet tall. With all of its superlative dimensions, Osteodontornis had exceedingly light, yet strong, bones, and this fact coupled with its high wing-loading, the Osteodontornis would have been an incredible dynamic soaring machine. Dynamic soaring is the unique ability of seabirds such as Osteodontornis and albatrosses to use the differing wind speeds between the crests and troughs of waves to gain energy while rarely, if ever, flapping their wings. Present-day albatrosses are known to travel up to thousands of miles without landing (can you “land” on water?) using this soaring technique, and Osteodontornis would have surely covered mind-numbing distances quickly as it dynamically soared between the swells.

Its diet consisted of mostly soft-bodied creatures such as squid and other cephalopods, and the teeth were particularly adept for these purposes. The downward pointed teeth were well-suited to piercing and holding on to slimy cephalopods. It fed primarily on the surface of the water, either dipping or snagging prey mid-flight, and diving was probably impossibility for Osteodontornis.

Most of the specimens of Osteodontornis and its near relatives have been found along the rim of the North Pacific from Japan to California. During the Late Miocene (20-6 million years ago), this giant was soaring over the Pacific, unlike the teratorns, only terrorizing the squid that found themselves skewered by the teeth of Osteodontornis.

Continue reading »]]> Winter has taken a firm grip on Montana, snow is falling and the birding has slowed as it is the in-between time – fall migrants have long since passed and winter irruptives have not appeared yet. During this time of year, I spend a lot of time inside near the fire thinking about birds and devouring any associated scraps of related information. I began to think about the evolution of birds, and came across some rather intriguing information. Dare I say it is knowledge of epic portions? Do you realize that there were huge birds at one time that soared in the skies and terrorized upon the ground? I mean they were truly gigantic. Some of these species weighed hundreds of pounds, while others possessed house-length wingspans.  These birds fascinate me, and I have decided to dedicate a series of posts and (possibly) videos to these great birds of Earth’s past.

The family, Teratornithidae, which persisted from the Miocene through Pleistocene epochs, had wings with such load-bearing properties, that a bird, in all likelihood, could simply spread its wings into the wind and be lifted skyward. They are typically depicted as scavengers that closely resemble modern New World vultures, although we are discovering that the case may be that teratorns were effective predators. These raptors once soared over the expanses of the Americas, and only recently come to the end of evolution’s road.

Imagine roaming across the prairies of Pleistocene era North America, and a cold, black shadow envelops around you. This huge shadow is coming from high above, where a lone Aiolornis incredibilis (largest North American teratorn) soars overhead. Primal fear wells up from the deepest pit of your stomach as you scramble for any scrap of cover. The wings stretch nearly 18 feet from tip to tip as they hold the 50 pound predator airborne. Its huge, flesh-tearing bill slices through the air as it wheels around for one more pass. The eyes pierce the landscape looking for the tell-tale brown lump of the some hapless mammal on the horizon. These food items may have, actually, been alive at the time of their being swallowed whole as the bill morphology and stout legs may indicate it was a hunter rather than a passive scavenger. Although typically illustrated with feather-less heads of today’s vultures (both Old and New World), the crowns of teratorns may have actually been covered with feathers.

By far, the most well-known of the teratorns is Teratornis merriami, a massive raptor with wingspans commonly achieving spans of 12 feet. Teratornis merriami was larger than any existing Andean Condor and double the size of the California Condor, which it was distantly related. This particular teratorn has been excavated from the world famous La Brea Tar Pits, where it is a common fossil. Scavenging may be have been an important part of its diet, which is indicated by all the specimens coming from the tar pits. An unlucky animal would become entrapped by the sticky ooze and succumbed to death in the black goo. A teratorn would happen across the body and proceed to land near it, only to become another victim of the tar pits itself. In geologic terms, this particular teratorn become extinct only a relative blink of the eye ago. As the last Ice Age drew nearer to its inevitable termination, the ecology of North America began to radically change. The climates and habitats that once supported mega-fauna were changing, and that situation coupled with arrival of the ultimate predator, humans, lead to the demise of the mega-fauna. The teratorns were along for this extinction ride as well.

Although North America had its own massive teratorns, the most incredible member of this family that is known to science is the ridiculous Argentavis magnificens, the largest flying bird ever known to exist. All of its fossils were excavated in Argentina. Its wingspan comes in at whopping ~23 feet with an estimated body weight of 150 lb. Imagine a single wide trailer gliding overhead, and you get some sense of the massiveness of Argentavis magnificens. This species was pushing the physical limits of avian flight. It walked the fine line from effective soaring bird and evolutionary disaster. More likely than not, it would use wind-blown perches with considerable drop-offs to attain flight as it leaned out into the void. Its heaviness probably indicates that Argentavis magnificens had a scavenging ecological role rather than the active hunter abilities of its relatives in North America.

Hunter S. Thompson said that “with the right kinds of eyes, one could see the high watermark,” and I would like to think that someday atop some lonely ridgeline, I might just be able to squint my eyes just so and see the shadow of a massive teratorn race across the rocky crags.