Yet another apology and an owl

It may seem to you, my scattered readers, that I have now finally mastered the bloggers failure of sustaining a blog and with you I fully agree.

Life has continued, flowing on in its endless, random and abstract style. It has in this fascinating process tossed me a biscuit or two: a bittern, a few Tundra Swans, the first January RI record of a Barn Swallow, more recently a Sandhill Crane, but my biggest recent enjoyment was the kidnapping of a quite substantial quantity of Dragonfly and Damselfly larvae which are now being cruelly constrained in a number of water-filled pickle jars which line an upper floor windowsill. They and their brethren have been latest in a number of wild-eyed obsessions.

Seeing that adult odonates (dragonflies and damselflies) don't overwinter I have not had much satisfaction in this thrilling new pursuit. Larvae odes are aquatic and look like what you would get if you bred a spider with a cockroach and, as might be assumed, are not quite as enthralling as their older selves to observe. To be fully truthful this enthrallment is not fully recent. I have been watching these sewing-needles since early last summer but at the time made very little headway on my identification skills. It took an insect net and a field guide to get me just about over the line of no return. A line which (as anyone who has ever fallen too deep into a hobby knows) will haunt you for many years to come (particularly financially; I have spent over $200 on ode-ing equipment since November.)

I have now resorted to polishing my net and occasionally taking a swing at some object thrown by a sibling which after netting will probably be misidentified (by me) as a Pygmy Snaketail or even a Lake Emerald and then after inspection through a loupe I will realize it is nothing but a rubber ball. I have long ago memorized the local species and now all I can do is wait for the coming of the summer months.

It seems that I have run out of things to say about the elegant insects of my current fascination and seeing that this blog post is pitifully small I think I will give you yet another average summing up of a recent encounter. Unfortunately the "other" in this chance meeting was deceased.

On the 12th of February in the year of our Lord 2013 at 3:15pm, a quick stroll along the Ten Mile River had come to the collective mind of the Shamgochian household. Fresh water was needed for the odes so it was decided to walk the section of river which flows from Turner Reservoir where the water flows at it's fastest and is easily accessed. After retrieving the water we happily collected a number of ants which had been discovered lying prone under a tree. Later it was realized that the largest ant, a soldier, was still alive when collected. I have yet to release the "fortunate" survivor.

The snow which blanketed the trail/road of a short and none-to-attractive loop of the grounds which starts and ends at the river seemed fairly compact and walkable so without any discussion the walk commenced down this trail.  As we neared the parking lot, I (weary from having worried continuously about the of unleashed status of our flesh-hungry dog combined with not-so distant main road and the locally large cottontail population and quite irritated with substantial long list of birds not seen) was pleased to see the mottled plumes of a sparrow. A squint through my binos and the identity of the sparrow was instantly obvious (it was a Song Sparrow) - the identity of the sleek pile of brown feathers at the birds dainty pink feet, however, was not.

As I approached swiftly, smoothly and surely it's name came towards my awaiting gray matter in leaps and bounds (as the Gazelle leaps into the awaiting jaws of a Lion aka. me). In seconds the name tickled my pimpled forehead and with one mighty twitch of my outstretched hand I flipped the husk of a life bird onto it's back. It would be cooler to say that two gold-black eyes stood out stunningly against the brown of the feathers and the white of the snow but to be fully honest it's feathered eye lids had drawn up over the two golden orbs. But that didn't bother me - it was beautiful as it was.

I gazed down on the (robin-sized) bundle of feathers in my hand, a handsome white on brown tail preceeded the similarly colored wings and the white breast and belly buttered with an artists touch by warm cinnamon. From these "butterings" protruded two down covered legs, ended by the yellow of the toes and complemented by the equally brilliant black of the (literally) needle-sharp talons. With it's heart-shaped face sheathed in a soft layering of tan feathers and ringed with chestnut, ornamented with sparkling white streaks like a fanciful tiara, it was stunning.

It, as you may have already picked up, was a very dead Northern Saw-whet Owl, an uncommon and much loved species.

I gazed at the crime scene and remembering the words of my detective hero Chico Marx "you gotta do like a Sherlock Holmes, you gotta get what they call the clues".
First you say to yourself what have you got?, and the answer come right back:  something dead!
Then you say to yourself what is dead? and the answer comes right back: a Northern Saw-whet Owl!
Now you say to yourself what killed the owl? and the answer come right back: something in these woods!
Now you take-a de clues and you put dem all together, and what you got? The owl is dead!
Where did it die? In these woods!
What killed it? Something in these woods!
Now we all we got to do is go to everything in these woods and ask them if they killed it!

There were some interesting features of the picture laid out before me. For instance a dead North American Deer Mouse was laid out on a gnarled branch. The frozen remains of the mouse sat above, and six inches to the left of it's (late) would be devourer. But despite the fact that pepper and salt had been metaphorically sprinkled on the owls furry dinner, it was on the outside not physically damaged.
Even stranger was the direction the owl's now stiff form faced. It was found face down in the snow and twisted 180 degrees from where it must have once perched. If the bird had fallen from the branch on which the mouse rested it seems only logical that it would face away from the same when it dropped.

Strange.

A photo of the crime scene

I finished the walk with 6 dead animals (and the living ant) on my person. Not bad for a short walk in a non-exceptional locale. Now there is a dead owl on the porch and I don't know what to do with it!

The lack of new contents on this blog has been quite disgraceful as of late. I have had many subjects on which I could have written extensively. I could have described my experiences with a recent Northern Shrike, or reviewed the annual solstice bird count tradition which we observed with our grandfather (quite recently but not, as might be expected, on the solstice) for which we thank him. I could have even put up a post about one of my many recent sighting of Pine Grosbeaks in this most beautiful of winters. 

My only real defense for this lack of blogging covers but the last few days I have spent sorrowfully wallowing on the living room couch with the taste of green apples on my breath, my hands feeling like two balloons. My only enjoyment during my recent illness was the time spent watching of the distant hulk of St. John's Catholic Church. It seems to have a curious tendency of terrifying the local pigeons and swallows which so freely frolic in the airways of this fair city of Providence. Their obvious avoidance of the steeple has puzzled me greatly. Perhaps some raptor has taken it as its roosting spot or maybe some other not wholly terrestrial species has taken up an abode there. Hopefully I can get up to Federal Hill some time soon and come to the bottom of this mystery.

My current state of sanity is not fully thanks to this little puzzle. Some of the honor has to go to the nature books which I have most recently immersed myself in. The book which has occupied my attention and lap the most is my new and wisely-purchased (despite what some might think) handbook to the Simuliidae, properly titled.

The Black Flies

(Simuliidae)

of North America      

Peter H. Alder

Douglas C. Currie

D. Monty Wood"

It is a beautifully in-depth and completely unintelligible masterpiece, an indispensable reference to any "Simuliidaeer" which I plan to become once I figure out what a black fly is precisely and how the range maps work, and what the hell that little black thing on page 2028 is.

In fact these completely unlikable vectors aren't that bad really. They are more like blood-thirsty versions of those jolly, fat dwarfs who sneak into your bedroom at night to leave all the sweet little parasites you could possibly dream of under your pillow for you to enjoy when you awake in the morning. Apart from the horribly sawlike jaws of the adults, the gills of the pupae and the labral fans of the larvae, both of which are just too maddeningly Cthulhu-ish for comfort, they are actually rather beautiful in their own highly evolved sort of way.

One parasite which particularly interested me was the Onchocerca volvulus which spends the first part of it's life in the skin of a human but has to be transmitted to a black fly to grow into its second stage and then, to top it all off, the worm has to find its way back into the blood stream of a human where it can live up to 15 years and grow up to a foot in length.

Even more horrible than the adult worm though are the consequences played out if the immature worm does not reach the fly. It will spend the next, and last, 2 or so years of its short life burrowing through the body of its human host (even chewing through the eyes which causes blindness in so many of its victims).

Chapter 7  on the economic importance of the "bugs" was particularly eye catching. They are, it seems, no friend of the economy. Each season they are responsible for the murder of livestock across the country in an number of equally blood-thirsty ways which generally involve: lack of oxygen, lack of blood, shock and agony. There were even reports of animals tossing themselves off of cliffs and rolling in fire to relieve themselves of the terrible swarms that occasionally spring up.

The species Simulium vampirum has since 1886 killed more than 3,500 animals and far more deaths remain un-reported! Thankfully only about 33 species of North America's 263 have been reported to bite humans, livestock and poultry.

Ahhhh Mother Nature, so loving and kind! 

All I need now is a stereo dissecting microscope and some 18 inch forceps to go with it. Time to start saving.

Next on my reading list: Fleas of the Northwest and Mosquitoes of California.

A completely unrelated photo of a Canada Darner (Aeshna canadensis) larvae I recently caught in Petersham, MA.

East Beach, Charlestown, RI - Nov/18/12

Through the hazy paranoia of life came the sweet burbling call of the crossbill and the noise lit a spark of excitement. The sand crunched beneath my feet and I found myself walking down a sandy path. To my left a forest of stunted Japanese Black Pines. to my right that shimmering mass a big blue wobbly thing that mermaids live in, that they call the Atlantic.  Off in the distance the hulking form of Block Island is just visible in the distance. In a dazzling wave of color and noise over my head sweep crossbills; hundreds of them. They land around us covering the trees in their radiant joy of life. Mixed in with their warbles I can hear the calls of Red-breasted Nuthatches, chickadees and the occasional siskin and redpoll.

The sky is that clear shade of springtime although in reality winter had but recently come to the beach and as I watched more and more of the handsome crossbills appeared falling from the windless skies in a bubbling and burbling cloud, sheathing the trees in yet another layer of feathers.

The snapping of cones being disassembled surrounded us.

They had come as an eruption from the North. They had arrived at East Beach by wing, a bad cone crop was all it had taken to send the two species wheeling out of control and spilling them across the country.

The spit of land that was East Beach boiled with them, the biologically diverse Red and the opposingly un-diverse White-winged Crossbill. They played a game of cat and mouse: one-day the beach would swarm with Reds the next there wouldn't be Red Crossbill in sight all replaced by their sibling species. That day was one of the latter and in total I positively ID'd a little over ten of the brick red birds. 

As we walked the Jeep trampled road the birds followed, billowing up behind us and trailing us with cheerful calls. The two species themselves could practically be summed in but one word: EFFERVESCENT.

Our shoes weighted by the pixie dust sand we eventually decided that as the Charlestown breachway, our original turn around destination was still quite distant and considering that we had been walking for at least an hour it was time to turn around. 

We slogged back down the beach for a change of scenery, watching gannets diving the azure tinted waters whose usual wavy complexion had all but vanished on this day of days.  

Closer to shore floated loons.  I could see from the beach the crossbills still cracking open cones with those most unique bills and that's when it finally sinks in what a magical day it was in this beautiful world. I don't think that in all my birding days I have ever loved birding more than at that moment!                                                       

A delicious dead gannet

A quick video to share

This blog has been sadly lacking in posts recently. I'm sorry for this and hope to get back to writing posts soon but at the moment I don't feel particularly inclined to write so instead I've decided to share with you this birding video:

Sh*t Birders Say

Ruff!

To quote the great NatGeo: "Calls are poorly known; one call reportedly a rippling tr-tr-tr and a soft whistle". I have never heard the above call, if I had I would be the proud rediscoverer of the Eskimo Curlew. Nor have I heard the rare call of the practically mute Ruff, but contrary to the curlew my experiences with this species transcend to a much higher level then just a literary knowledge.

It was a life bird when I found it. The moment is still engraved in my (always decaying) grey matter. I was standing on the mini dunes of RISD Beach when time froze. I had at first passed the bird off as a Greater Yellowlegs, a species which is as much a part of RISD Beach as the beach itself. My first squint at the bird had revealed nothing of it's heritage and my call of Greater Yellowlegs was just a guess. Thank God I gave the bird another look for as my eyes set on the bird once more I mentally trashed the idea of this bird being a yelllowlegs of any kind. I must say this was one of the most thrilling experiences that has been tossed my way yet. The sweet moment of realization, in my opinion, is one of the highlights of the birding disease which I am afflicted with. What had caused this sudden change of identification was no more than the birds back and I must admit that it didn't immediately strike me in any way vagrant like, in fact my first thought was snipe. But as the bird drew out into the open this random ID was quickly replaced by a frenzy of bafflement, confusion, puzzlement and many other types of unknowingness. This last array of thoughts lasted a mere second and after mentally flipping through the list of possible species I decided that species could not be an average one. Nataraja danced away my illusion and in a flash the ID had dawned on me; this bird was no average wader - this bird was a Ruff!!

After this the usual things happened: I got some cheap photos, ran around a little bit panicing, confirmed the identification, eBirded it and eventually reported it. We went back the next four days in a row and saw it on each. I liked seeing the beach being put to it's proper use, it is generally neglected by the birding community but now it was near certainly haunted by a flock of those elusive bird-obsessed. Each day produced new excitements and by the last of the four days I had scored a Dickcissel, two Snow Buntings, three late Least, one late Semipalmated Sandpiper and (a partridge in a pear tree) although the excitement eventually died, the birds continued to flow in.

When Sandy FINALLY hit (a storm I had been looking forward to all week) I was unable to check on the Ruff due to some rumor about the storm being a safety hazard. The next day the Ruff did not show  and I had to admit that she (she had been identified as a female, a reeve) had "flown the marsh". But this lack of reeve Ruff was made up for in full. Two days after Sandy swept through a Cory's Shearwater flew over RISD Beach.

This event was quite amazing and although not quite as extraordinary an occurrence as that of the Ruff it was still a moment which will be long lived in my rotting brain. It soared low, directly overhead from North-ish to South-ish over the neighboring country club, swept past the marsh and above the long missed salt-water. It was followed quickly by my camera lens.

As it wheeled by it was hard not think of the last few, severe, starving days this beautiful bird had suffered through. It was a fit, but bedraggled, specimen and you could literally see the relief and pleasure in the birds countenance as it bathed itself in the pleasing salt water and skimmed, inches, above the gently rolling waves. The story behind this birds strange location (for it was indeed strange, this bird was as far as I know the most Northernly report of the species in the state along with being the fifth November record for the same state) was quite obvious. The bird had, near certainly, been blown helter-skelter across miles of frothing ocean and then continued on over beach, town, woods and field until Sandy, the culprit of this terrible blowing, released it from it's enveloping folds and let its fly as it will. From there a long and arduous journey back over fields, town, woods and finally beach, RISD Beach, ensued.

I think the flight of the shearwater has to be one of the most beautiful sights in nature, easily comparable  to the Aurora Borealis, a deep, dark, dank, dirty rainforest over flowing with the songs of hidden birds, or even the terrible countenance of the penguin eating Shoggoth (illustration below). The shearwater sweeps over the water riding the breeze as easily as a ball rolls down a slope or our dog chases a squirrel. The bird skims, swerves, swerves again and vanishes behind the crest of a wave, but as the wave hits the shore and gently recedes the bird is once more seen, continuing its loving waltz with the swells.

 
It was, I think, a near perfect lifer.

   

                           

The terrible Shoggoth

Six Golden Grosbeaks in Petersham, Massachusetts

In the beginning there was light and a quite obnoxiously loud BANG. Fast forward 13 billion years or so and you get me. You have my permission to stop at any given point between me and the beginning. Maybe you will stop by in the Jurassic to observe that peculiar creature the Archaeopteryx or maybe you will decide to see the last Dodo, perhaps you will even wish to see the Elder Things battle with the Star-Spawn of Cthulhu. But I do insist that you eventually come to pause on me and preferably on the day of October the 28th, 2012. I have two reasons to chose this great date. First off; on this date in time I was alive currently suffering through my thirteenth year of life and secondly; this was the day that I scored my first flock of Evening Grosbeaks.

I had on this date taken it into my head that I was currently the soul New England birder who had not seen the aforementioned grosbeak, though to be fair to my earlier self there must have been at least a few other New England birders who suffered from the same lackingness as I. Whatever the case I was goaded by the constant stream of infuriatingly delicious local reports of the species and I decided that a quick bike ride around town could do me little damage. I, in fact, nearly lost my left hand to frost bite later that same day but at the hour of 9 am I knew nothing of that future. My mind made up, it was in no time at all that I found myself seeing for the first time a clip to add to my birding history about three minutes long that will be forever graven into my brain (unless of course I forget it). In general it was a fairly unremarkable three minutes for the average muggle but to me these three minutes, which were more than likely just a prolonged one minute, were quite special.

In Minute Number One I take my bike out the garage and slowly wheel it down our dead-end road on which for most weekends dwell I. On reaching the base of the road the bike, for no reason whatsoever neatly topples from under me and sends me and all my geeky-ness sprawling. I not-so-neatly pick myself up, scramble back onto the seat of the bicycle and turn right heading for the center of town. My wheels complete 70 or so rotations at regular cadence before with barely a screech the bike again comes to a halt. This time although the vehicle tumbles the ground, I do not. 

Minute Number Two is played out something like this: after the bike comes to a halt I release the handle bars and extract myself from the device. I then proceed to call my younger brother back from in his position in front of me (he had, to my annoyance, insisted on accompanying me on this ride although, he bike-less, had to jog the route). I turned my attention, which at this point in time was employed through my ears, to my right and began to analyze the sound that had so rudely disrupted my revery of the still spinning bicycle wheels.

The noise in question was obviously the call note of a passerine. It was a soft purring chip resembling what you would vocally get if you bred a Great-crested Flycatcher with a House Sparrow (if such a thing were humanely possible). It was at this point that my brother reached me and we first set our eyes upon the golden form of the Evening Grosbeak. 

It's golden colors were so brilliant that I had to remind myself not to scan the surrounding trees in hopes of seeing perched in one of them Yossarian, stark naked and eating chocolate covered Egyptian cotton being handed to him by the ever hopeful Milo Minderbinder. (As an abrupt aside, might I suggest that anyone observing me now should quickly rewind at this point to the Mediterranean island of Pianosa, circa 1944, on the day of one Snowden's funeral attended by the tree-d Yossarian. For not only is it undoubtedly the strangest funeral you will ever go to it is also at the exact location that Pianosa's only endemic bird is observed for apparently the first and last time (and was described as a brilliant gold not unlike my grosbeak).

Minute Number Three runs its course in a startling 60 seconds. In this time I watch the grosbeak flutter about in a Sugar Maple where it's distinguished plumage sets off a seeming blast of flames; its colors blending with the red and yellow of the maple's last few brilliant leaves. I can almost hear the crackle of the fire.

In the last thirty second dash before my three minutes run dry I witness a flash of white as the wings of the bird open and close and send it whizzing into the air where it blends with the drifting gold of so many leaves caught and tossed in the wind. I lose the grosbeak in the falling foliage but then I see the flash of white again and this time it is joined by five similar, dancing white and gold comrades. They drift to the top a of tree where they perch. Their huge bills stand out prominently against the overcast skies. The gray light falls on them softly and it bleaches the colors out of their feathers, replacing the vibrance with a dark imitation. They blur into the background, and, for a moment, I see them as the last six leaves on a bare tree and I watch as the fall breeze plucks at these leaves and pulls them free from the grasp of the tree but the leaves float up instead of spiraling downward as any self respecting leaf should. I see flashes of white once more and realize my mistake as the six grosbeaks disappear over the treetops. 

For anyone wishing to see more birding excitement stick around on this date for a few more hours and you will see me watching a pair of Lark Sparrows a five minute walk from my house.  

Wood Sandpiper - Marsh Meadows Wildlife Preserve, Jamestown, RI - Oct/15/2012

The sandpiper did not think he was in Africa anymore.

After the billows of winds had picked him up and carried him, his inner compass had not been quite sure what to think. He had known there was water below him, an endless expanse of sickening blue, land had appeared after days at sea, the water seemed calmer and the winds gusts were less forceful, he had put down in a marsh surrounded by roads, cars and noise, apart for some cormorants and egrets he had remained alone, with the one nagging thought that he had no clue to his whereabouts. He was quite sure he was now completely lost. 

The birders didn't think he was in Africa either. After his initial discovery, he had, in minutes, seemingly become a celebrity. 

The bird was, as with most things still in early life, unsure of what to think of this new popularity. He suspected he enjoyed the attention but wasn't certain, mainly because he didn't have a clue why he was suddenly so liked. 

The birders knew the answer to this question, to them the answer was simple, this bird did not belong here. He was in fact the first Wood Sandpiper ever in recorded history to enjoy the delights of fresh Rhode Island seafood.

Once the sandpiper was informed of the rareness of himself, he was quite willing to be enjoyed by all. 

My mothers favorite feature of chasing a rarity is not the watching of the bird, but the antics of the mass of birders.

I must admit that the beauty of this quaint little shorebird exceeded my expectations.

On the fifteenth of October, two days after it had been discovered by RI birder Carlos Pedro (the discoverer of an equally confused, first state record Little Stint earlier in the year) we finally had the time to make the 45 minute drive from our house in the center of East Providence down to Jamestown's Marsh Meadows Wildlife Preserve. 

Our arrival at first seemed ill-timed and although there were twenty or so birders along North Road, which cuts directly through the marsh, the bird had remained hidden all morning. We were now faced with three options: the first was to wait with the other birders on the road. The second was to go for a short walk along the rocks at Beavertail State Park and hope that the birders had turned up something when we passed back along the road on the way home. The third plan involved us driving to the other side of the marsh and trying our luck on the sanctuary trails that abutted the marsh and which gave great views of the wetland. 

A birder observes the first Wood Sandpiper ever discovered in New England.

This third plan was soon agreed upon by us and in no time at all we were walking down the wooded trails of the refuge. The first loop we made of the trails turned up nothing unusual, other then the terrifyingly exciting sight of all twenty birders who had just minutes before been chatting quietly with one another as they scanned the marsh with their thousand dollar optics, now dashing along the far side of the swampy terrain. Needless to say we freaked out and sprinted away as fast as we could while being weighed down by binoculars and cameras and in my case a scope. Thus began a harrowing 20 minute sprint. First we tried running down the grassy verge of highway which goes past the entrance to the trail we were on and was in the general direction the birders had been running to. When we finally decided that the marsh and highway were not in fact connected at any crossable point we turned around and sprinted equally as fast back to the trail head and circled another loop of the wooded trail. This time we tried to find away across the marsh to the birders who had now stopped running and were instead happily observing something.

The first observation platform which was more of a bench really, seemed not to have any safe route to the marsh as did the second. The third was surrounded on all sides by phragmites but here it appeared that others likewise minded had cut through the tall grasses and made it safely to the marsh. We followed this rough trail until we reached the point where the phragmites was replaced by by a lower, native grass. Here the trail seemed more defined and we had no trouble walking the short distance to the birders and the Wood Sandpiper. 

Needless to say the bird was there and it was beautiful. We watched it for at least 45 minutes while our mother (who had steadfastly refused to walk through the muck and mire) grew slowly more impatient for our return. The only disappointment of the day was the loss of my notebook which now has been laid to rest somewhere in a deep puddle in the marsh.