In the interest of science, I’ve been strolling down memory lane.
(That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.)
I’m trying to get more consistent about using eBird; I recognize that it has become a really powerful tool for ornithologists studying birds’ ranges, migration and many other elements of their life cycles. My little observations don’t do much scrawled in a notebook or on the back of an envelope, but they gain strength when combined with millions of others.
Part of getting more solidly into the habit has been adding old sightings. Right now I’m working on adding lifers because I’ve generally recorded them with greater detail about dates, locations and other field notes.
Some first sightings have no firm date associated with them — the robins and blue jays and cardinals of my childhood — but starting in the late 80’s when I got my first field guide, I started writing things down, and in 1994 my mom gave me this book to record sightings (some of those notes are included here). In the early days, I’d get a ten or more new birds on every Audubon walk I took. After a few years, it was rarely more than ten a year unless I traveled. These days, it takes a bit of work to add someone new to the list, but that also means that there’s generally an adventure to go with it. And those adventures usually involve friends because extra eyes = better chances.
Sometimes sightings are memorable because they’ve been long sought top-of-the-wish-list birds (like last year’s Montezuma Quail). Others linger in memory because of the setting of the sighting — dawn at a Sage Grouse lek in northern Colorado; last light in a Yosemite high mountain meadow as a Great Grey Owl appears… or the shopping center parking lot where a dozen birders gathered outside Home Depot to see a Rusty Blackbird. Sometimes it’s the effort involved — a two mile hike (including about a half-mile on loose sand) to the far end of Abbott’s Lagoon for a LeConte’s Sparrow, or any first sighting on any pelagic trip ever. Or perhaps sometimes it’s the lack of effort involved, like a drive-up Emperor Goose sighting… “wouldn’t it be funny if it was that bird sitting on the boat ramp? Ohhhh…. it is.”
Join me on memory lane — and share some of your own!
This one was pretty memorable because of the circumstances. It was only seen for a couple of days, and normally I would have had to miss the chance because it appeared mid-week. But I’d lost my job just a few days before that so… screw it, I’m gonna go look for the bird. Beats sitting around feeling sorry for myself. We managed to see it — not easy in this vegetation! (and I soon found another job)
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of winter birding at Bolinas Lagoon, you know that the mudflats can host thousands of shorebirds — and that the viewing distance can vary by half a mile between high and low tide. If something unusual shows up here, it would be easy to overlook, other than the fact that it’s surveyed by some of the best eyes in the business. And even those best eyes weren’t entirely sure about the ID at first. When my friend and I headed out to see it, we thought we were going for a Mongolian Plover but by the time we got there the talk was that it was a Greater Sandplover — a first North American record. This was my first experience with a mega-rarity, with hundreds of people along the lagoon’s edge hoping to get a glimpse.
My lifer Gyrfalcon was really memorable because it’s really the only time that I was the original finder of a rare bird (along with my good friend). We were on one of our favorite country roads for wintering raptors and saw a large bird on a fence post. It was the size of a redtail, but it was beige overall and had a streaky front with no noticeable belly band. Ah! Prairie Falcon — this was a good location for spotting them. We drove past but I wanted another look. I had just spent a few days doing a portrait of a prairie falcon and it just didn’t seem right. It was so big — chunky even - and it lacked the bright white cheek and eyebrow. When it flew up to a pole, it had a heavy wingbeat very unlike the snappy flap of a prairie falcon. We scribbled some notes and tried snapping a few photos but this was in the days before digiscoping and it was dumping rain, too. Still it was a enough to convince the California Bird Records Committee that we had indeed seen a Gyrfalcon, only the ninth sighting for the state and the furthest south at that time.
I had to include this one because it’s proof that location is everything in birding. My location on the central coast of California means that there are a lot of chances for rarities. It also means that some eastern birds are completely out of reach. American Black Duck, for one. I tried to see them for years during visits to my family all around the Great Lakes and finally succeeded after 20 years of attempts. I saw both Baikal Teal and Falcated Duck before I ever laid eyes on a Black Duck. And that makes sense because there are only two accepted reports of Black Ducks in California, but 10 each of the other two.
Another midwesterner that I will likely never see in California is Kirtland’s Warbler. My parents had a cabin in northern Michigan about 20 miles (as the warbler flies) from Grayling. in 1994, I made the stopover and went on a warbler tour offered by the state. By then their numbers were starting to increase because the amount of habitat being managed for them had nearly doubled. Still, with only 1000 birds or so, it wasn’t easy to find them. We got lucky and had some nice views. I didn’t get any photos, but postcards were conveniently on sale. Seeing this little cutie brings back happy memories of times at the cabin — birds by day, Northern Lights in the evening sky and hanging out with my family.
I still remember this trip for the fact that I don’t remember most of it. The seas were heavy enough that they debated if the trip would even happen; the decision to go ahead wasn’t made until we left the harbor and they could assess conditions. Worse, I was trying a different seasickness medicine that day and it was not effective for me. (I am firmly in Camp Dramamine ever since.) About 20 minutes after we passed the breakwater, I began chumming the hard way and spent almost the entire day with my eyes closed, just wishing everything (especially my stomach) would stop moving. The one redeeming element of the day was seeing the Sabine’s Gulls — so graceful, just a totally lovely bird.
My husband likes to sleep in late when he’s on vacation, so I normally get up and explore for a few hours before he stirs. On one Yosemite trip, I was awake extra early and headed up to Sentinel Dome; I really love sunrise in the high country and got to the trailhead just before first light. On the trail, I encountered this Sooty Grouse also taking in the sunrise. I didn't have a field guide with me that morning but this was pretty easy to figure out.
One thing that told me a have a good boss: This Ross’ Gull showed up on a Thursday and all the local message boards were abuzz! On Friday morning, I asked if I could leave early for a “bird emergency” — figured it was best to just be honest rather than make up a doctor appointment or something. He said absolutely yes, and I was able to get there with about half an hour of light left. With dozens of birders on the side of the road, it wasn’t hard to find the gull. Unfortunately, a peregrine also had no problem finding it the following day, in front of hundreds of onlookers.
Any lifers that stand out for you? Favorites? Hardest Slog?