Striking Gould and Time Travel

On our last morning in Kakadu we arose well before dawn and drove to Yellow Water (also known as Ngurrungurrudjba) for their famous boat tour that traverses the wetlands surrounding the South Alligator River. The boat trip did not disappoint; we were treated to spectacular scenery, some great wildlife sightings, and the endlessly amusing narration of our tour leader, Dennis.

The tour lasted two hours, and we saw everything from the iconic “jabiru” (officially named Black-necked Stork) to a shy and uncommon Great-billed Heron to a “bonus” Buff-sided Robin (a lifer that had eluded us at several previous stops).

Great-billed Heron – photo by Neil Hayward

At the conclusion of the boat tour we headed south along Highway 21, leaving the great Kakadu National Park behind and entering the arid wilderness of the Northern Territory outback. Stopping to bird periodically along the main road, we rolled into the tiny outback town of Pine Creek about lunchtime. Before we settled into the only cafe in town, we checked out aptly named Pine Creek Water Gardens. There we had cracking looks at Hooded Parrot, an uncommon endemic of the NT’s dry interior. Pine Creek is the best place in the world to see this beautiful bird, and Neil snapped away on his camera trying to get the perfect shot.

Hooded Parrot – photo by Neil Hayward

We checked into the Pine Creek Hotel, a modest but fully adequate local establishment, and dumped most of our gear. Then we headed out for an afternoon of birding. First stop was the glamorous Pine Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant where we checked out some local ducks and shorebirds. Then we drove southward on the Stuart Highway, further into the wilderness. We had heard that there was a small pool of water about an hour south, near Edith Falls, and that occasionally finches came down to drink at the edge of the water very early in the morning and late in the afternoon.

It took a bit of sleuthing to find exactly the right place, but eventually we discovered a tiny pool in the middle of a dusty ravine. We set up our scopes and waited under the merciless outback sun. There was no shade by the pool, and soon my hat was soaked with sweat and my mouth was completely dry. After half an hour passed, I heard a little “pop,” and looked over to see Neil holding a pocket-sized polka-dotted rain umbrella over his head. Its thin, light-colored fabric actually blocked very few of the sun’s powerful rays. But after a few minutes, I wandered over and asked him if I could join him under the tiny umbrella. We took the world’s most ridiculous selfie, and laughed and laughed at how funny we looked.

When calm was restored, we focused back on the pool of water. A flock of birds twittered through the dry brush, and then fluttered down to its damp edges. It was a group of Masked Finches. Over the next half hour, we also added Double-barred and Long-tailed Finches. Finally, a bright flash of color swept by, and a group of eight Gouldian finches flew in. The Gouldian Finch is a special bird. It is spectacularly colored, and threatened by habitat loss, climate change, and previous trapping efforts (for the pet trade). Nowhere common, your best bet to track one down is at a little pool in the outback, not unlike this one. This group was shy, but eventually we got terrific looks at both the black-headed and red-headed males in the flock. We didn’t get any photos, but here’s the illustration from my electronic field guide:

Ecstatic from our success and delirious from the heat, we decided to head even further south for one last stop: the wastewater treatment plant outside the tiny outback town of Katherine. There we picked up a new bird for our trip, Red-kneed Dotterel, an elegant Australian near-endemic shorebird. We drove back to Pine Creek with the air conditioner blasting, content with another fabulous day of birding in the Northern Territory.

To celebrate our last night in the outback, we had dinner and a couple of beers at the pub. Then when it was fully dark, we drove a few miles out of town and parked by the side of the road. The clear, moonless night made for the most spectacular star-gazing experience I have ever had. The milky way stretched completely across the sky, bathing the desert landscape in pale starlight. We easily found the Southern Cross, the constellation that adorns the Australian national flag. The Small and Large Magellanic Clouds, irregularly shaped dwarf galaxies that are never visible to observers in the global north, hung over the horizon. Jupiter was high in the sky, and through our spotting scopes we could see all four Galilean moons (Io, Europa, Callisto, and Ganymede) lined up like a tiny string of pearls. We even saw a few meteors streak the night sky before we packed up and headed back to the Pine Creek Hotel.

The next day we birded our way back to Darwin, stopping again at Edith Falls, the Lazy Lizard Campground, and a few other places along the way. We stayed a final night in Darwin, and then carefully re-packed all of our things for the long trip back to the United States. On Sunday morning, we got up early for one last round of birding in Darwin. We hit the East Point Reserve before dawn to watch the Large-tailed Nightjars return to their roosts and hear the Rainbow Pittas awaken for their busy day in the monsoon forest. We walked down to the beach to watch the sun rise, and then picked up one final species for the trip, a lost Gray-fronted Honeyeater in the trees at the far end of East Point.

After a final hearty breakfast at our favorite Darwin cafe, we had our picture taken by a friendly local couple and then headed to the airport for our flights home.

Neil departed for Boston via Sydney, and I hopped a flight to Melbourne. It was on my long flight back to the United States where I was able to engage in a nifty bit of time travel.

Leaving at 8:55pm on July 28, I arrived back in San Francisco at 6:15pm on the same day. Travelling east across the international date line had generously added a day to my life (to replace the one I lost on my initial trip west several weeks before). Thus I was able to see sunrise on the beach in Darwin and sunset as my plane landed in Seattle on the same calendar day, some 32 hours later.

Writing this blog entry has been another form of time travel. These events unfolded back in 2019, but it’s 2022 as I write these words. I guess I got a little busy with a few other things in the intervening months. But there was a sense of urgency to get this chapter of the Big Year Birders closed, for another one beckons this summer (assuming pandemics or other crises don’t intervene in the meantime).

Post Script: Here’s the trip summary that Neil sent me after we got home:

Kakadu National Park

The next morning we drove southeast towards world-famous Kakadu National Park. Along the way we stopped at Fogg Dam Conservation Reserve. We hiked the excellent boardwalk along the Waterlily Walk, and Neil introduced me to the Water Plants:

After making their acquaintance, we continued on to the end of the boardwalk where we scoped a large, shallow lake. Highlights here were many dozens of elegant Pied Herons, and a vaguely ridiculous-looking Bar-breasted Honeyeater.

The dam itself was closed to hiking because of the presence of an aggressive saltwater croc, but we drove across it and checked out the Pandanus lookout, which was beautiful but not particularly birdy. Back in the car, we continued east to Mary River National Park where we stopped at the bird billabong and picked up Little Woodswallow and Yellow-billed Spoonbill.

Brilliant pink flowers near Fogg Dam

Back on the road, we crossed into Kakadu National Park. The Kakadu area has been home to aboriginal people for at least 40,000 years, and it was an honor to visit this sacred place. It is also the second largest national park in Australia at over 7600 square miles, and home to hundreds of bird species. My enthusiasm for arriving at this World Heritage Site was somewhat tempered in the late afternoon by the sweltering humidity and withering heat: mid-30s C (mid-90s F). Even Neil called it “bloody hot.” By the time we got to the Mamukala Billabong, I had to drag my limp and sweaty body from the car. I was rewarded with a couple of Crimson Finches, new for the trip, but then collapsed panting in the shade waiting for Neil to finish scoping the lake.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time we rolled into the tiny, dusty outpost of Jabiru and the grounds of the Mercure Kakadu Crocodile Hotel. On the down side, there was not much in the way of food or services in Jabiru, and everything (food, lodging, petrol) was exorbitantly expensive. But on the upside, we got to sleep inside a giant crocodile at this aptly named hotel.

The next morning, we headed over to Burrungkuy (formerly known as Nourlangie Rock). This majestic sandstone escarpment has some of the best preserved aboriginal rock art in the world. We spent the cool early morning looking for birds, and scored a couple new ones including the spectacular Black-banded Fruit-dove.

But as the morning warmed up and the birds became quiet, I spent more and more time studying the amazing rock art.

Some of these images were painted over the past 200 years, but the earliest ones are almost 4000 years old. They are a breath-taking window back in time into the ancient aboriginal Dreamtime.

The image below depicts Nabulwinjbulwinj, a “dangerous spirit who eats females after striking them with a yam,” according to a nearby inscription.

The traditional owners (a respectful way to refer to the native people of the area) tell visitors that the painting below narrates a story about Namarrgon, the Lightning Man (upper right) and his wife, Barrginj (center left).

We eventually tore ourselves away and returned to Jabiru to grab some lunch and do some birding around “town.” Thanks to a hot tip, we picked up the rare and local Partridge Pigeon at the Aerodrome. In the late afternoon we drove out to Ubirr where we tried (but failed) to connect with Sandstone Shrikethrush. We were consoled with beautiful scenery and more outstanding examples of aboriginal rock art.

Back at the Croc, we had a couple of beers and plotted the final chapter in our 2019 Australian adventure.

The Canyons Keep Calling Me Back

It’s spring break, which means some folks are headed to Myrtle Beach.  Some lounge around on the couch and watch a lot of TV.  One teacher friend of mine curled up with a big stack of English papers and a green pen (yikes!).  I traveled to southeastern Arizona for some quality time alone in the deserts and canyons.

Well, not alone exactly – I went to spend some time with the birds of the arid Southwest.  April is a great time to visit.  The weather was beautiful during my trip, mostly sunny with highs in the 70s to 80s depending on the elevation.  I have to say that even though it is more pleasant temperature-wise in April, not all of my favorite birds are really back yet from their wintering grounds (I’m looking at you, Red-faced Warbler!).  May, and even late July and early August score slightly higher on the cool bird index.  Still, it was a great week here in Arizona.

Hummingbirds were a highlight.  I’ve seen nine species, which isn’t too bad.  A late summer visit can net you 12-15, depending on how many rare ones are about.  The one pictured above is the aptly named Magnificent Hummingbird.  Light refracts off of special feathers on its head and neck giving rise to amazing iridescence in the sunlight.  Even in the shade, they can look pretty remarkable.  The one below is a male Broad-billed Hummer.

While the deserts have a few specialty species, many hummingbirds are found at slightly higher elevations.  I had some good hummingbird watching in Madera Canyon, Miller Canyon, and Ramsey Canyon.  Speaking of the canyons, another one of my favorite canyon birds is the Acorn Woodpecker.

They look (and act) just like clowns.  I love to watch their noisy antics.  Acorn Woodpeckers are a fascinating species.  They often live in loose colonies, and practice cooperative breeding strategies in which not only the two biological parents but also other members of the colony participate in raising the young.  The colony also usually maintains a “granary tree” – which is a tree or snag that is used for storing copious numbers of acorns.  A woodpecker drills a small hole, and then stuff a single acorn in so that it fits tightly.  A granary tree many contain thousands of cached acorns.

While I was in Ramsey Canyon at the Nature Conservancy preserve there, I noticed that the next door Ramsey Canyon Inn is for sale.

I’m very happy as a teacher, but in my daydreams I think it would be awesome to cash in all my savings and run a birder’s B&B somewhere.  It’s probably a ton of work, and not nearly as much fun as it seems in my dreams.  But it gives me something nice to think about as I drift off to sleep here in my last night in Tucson.

Lest you think that my days were all filled with fun and frivolity, I want to set the record straight.  Birding in Arizona is a highly perilous affair, with dangers lurking around every corner.  Take for example, the sign I saw in Florida Canyon, south of Tucson:

 

I was lucky to escape with my life.  And even luckier to see a pair of very rare Black-capped Gnatcatchers building a nest.

Despite finding most of the birds I was looking for this week, one particular Arizona species has been giving me trouble for years – and this trip started no differently.  When you’ve been birding in Arizona as many times as I have, there aren’t many birds left to see here for the first time.  But when I arrived, there was one on the rare bird alert that had managed to escape me during all of my previous trips: Rufous-backed Robin.  These birds are quite uncommon, but there are usually multiple individuals sighted each year.  They are most likely to appear in winter, however, and I usually visit in the spring and summer.  Also, they can be very sneaky and skulky.  I have looked for them on multiple occasions – perhaps 7 or 8 times in total.  But they had always eluded me.  These Robins are, in short, my nemesis bird.

The week before I left Seattle, I noticed that a particular Rufous-backed Robin had been hanging out at Catalina State Park for several months.  Nemesis bird, prepare to meet your match!  Actually, the Robin lived up to its nefarious reputation.  I spent nearly four hours scouring its last known location on my first morning in Arizona, but it was a complete no show – and it hasn’t been seen since.  Damn you, robin!

Then, last night, as I was deciding about what to do with my last full day in Arizona, I saw another report of a Rufous-backed Robin.  This one was in Cienega Creek Preserve, a protected natural area just south of Tucson.  I had never been there before, in part because a permit is required just to enter the preserve.  I didn’t have a permit.  But I found that you can apply for one online; three hours later, the completed permit was emailed to me.  I was headed to Cienega!

The day dawned cool and cloudy.  I parked at the Preserve’s dirt parking area about 20 minutes after sunrise.  I placed a copy of my permit on the dashboard, and headed off down the trail.  Cienega Creek Preserve is spectacular.  The trail winds through a vibrant Sonoran desert scrub.  I had to shuffle my feet to keep from stepping on several coveys of Gambel’s Quail as I was serenaded by Cactus Wrens and Bell’s Vireos.  About two miles in, the trail entered an extensive stand of cottonwood trees, and the creek began to flow faster and deeper.

The cool air was scented with sage, cottonwood blossoms, and sweet petrichor.  I arrived at the place where the Robin was last seen, and began to search.  And search.  And search some more.  Then I took a break.  And a walk.  And had lunch.  And searched some more.  Suffice it to say that there were no robins on the trail this day.  Part of me was pretty disappointed that my nemesis bird had again somehow escaped my grasp.  But part of me was also deeply grateful that I keep missing these birds.  If I hadn’t been tempted by the prospect of maybe meeting my nemesis, I never would have bothered applying for a permit to visit this unique and beautiful area.  And I never would have gotten to know this special place.  My nemesis taunts me, sure.  But it also encourages me and inspires me, goads me on and fires my determination.  So laugh, robins, laugh while you can.  On my next visit, I’m going to hunt you down.

And thus ends this visit to Arizona.  I don’t know exactly when, but I’ll be back in the not too distant future.  There is always more to see.

The Kenai Peninsula

Travelling south, I passed through Anchorage and continued down the Seward Highway to the Kenai Peninsula.  This area is in many ways very different from Denali, but just as spectacular.  It borders Cook Inlet and Prince William Sound, so for one thing I’m back on the coast.  The Kenai area is also home to the Harding Icefield, which spawns several dozen glaciers.  I visited a number of them on a trip through Kenai Fjords National Park.

The photo above it Exit Glacier, which is one of the most accessible glaciers in the park.  You can drive to within a mile of it, and hike right up to its “toe.”  Exit Glacier is retreating, probably due to global climate change, having become over a mile shorter since 1895.

Glaciers are the outflows (the “drains” if you will) from the Harding Icefield.  The Icefield is a basin area that gets well over 30 feet of snow per year on average.  Over time this snow is compacted into very dense ice.  The ice slowly slides downhill, forming glaciers and carving out new valleys.

Yesterday I took a 9-hour boat trip out of Seward to tour Kenai Fjords, to see the glaciers and the wildlife of the area.  I was not disappointed.  The scenery was impressive.

Sea Otters were common, and not shy at all.

We saw five Humpback Whales, including this one very close to shore:

And this one farther out:

A transient Orca swam by, making some of the smaller marine mammals a bit nervous.  But these Harbor Seals in the shallows didn’t look too concerned.

Nor did these Steller’s Sea Lions high on the rocks:

Steller’s Sea Lions are one of several Northwest animals named after Georg Wilhelm Steller, who travelled with Vitus Bering on his 1740s expedition to Alaska from Russia.  Steller was a doctor and naturalist, and described a number of new species of flora and fauna unknown to the Old World.  Several of Steller’s namesakes are now extinct (Steller’s sea cow) or endangered/threatened (Steller’s Sea Eagle and Steller’s Eider).  Steller’s Jay, however, is doing quite well and can be seen in my yard back home in Washington state (and throughout much of the American West).

Glaciers were another highlight of the boat trip, and we spent some time at the incredible Holgate Glacier.

Holgate is a tidewater glacier, meaning it flows directly into the ocean.  You could hear thunderous cracks and booms as it calved giant boulders of ice directly into the sea.

The bluish color of the glacier comes from light that gets scattered by the densely packed ice.  Most frequencies of light pass through the ice, but blue tends to be absorbed and re-emitted by the electrons in the water molecules, scattering the light and making the ice appear somewhat blue.

Nearby, we could see the much smaller Surprise Glacier.

Birds, of course, were also a highlight.  I saw eight species of alcids, seabirds of the puffin, murre, and auklet family.  Seeing hundreds of Horned and Tufted Puffins was a highlight, as well as a half-dozen Parakeet Auklets up close –  a new bird for me.  The heavy clouds, drizzle, and rocking of the boat made photography difficult, and most of my bird pictures didn’t come out at all.  But I did get a few pictures of some Common and Thick-billed Murres resting on a cliff:

And hundreds of Black-legged Kittiwakes swirling around their nesting colony:

Kittiwakes are a kind of gull.  They make their nests on sheer rock walls on offshore islets to protect them from predators.

Returning to Seward, we passed huge rafts of murres on the water – thousands of them.

Despite the cold and wet weather, and some difficulty in finding some of my target species, I have thoroughly enjoyed my visit to the Kenai Peninsula.  I’ll be here another day or so, and then I’m headed northwest to Nome and Gambell.  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to update this blog again, but I will when I can.  I’m about to head into parts unknown (at least unknown to me!).

Denali

I had heard a lot about Denali National Park in Alaska, but none of that prepared me for the sheer magnitude and majesty of this place.  Denali is six million acres of protected wilderness in the midst of some of the most breath-taking geology in all of North America.  Almost everything about it is at least a little fantastical.

For starters, I’m just a couple hundred miles south of the arctic circle.  Sunset tonight is at 11:51pm, which is followed by several hours of twilight, and then sunrise again at 3:51am.  The sun rises in the north (NNE, actually) in an almost horizontal motion, slowing creeping above the horizon.  After five hours or so, the sun is halfway up in the eastern sky.  By midday (five hours after that) it’s swung around nearly overhead and slightly to the south.  For the next 10 hours it treks westward and then northward, finally setting again in the NNW, not too far from where it rose.

Even though tomorrow is the first day of June, in some ways it still feels like winter here.  The Denali lowlands got 9 inches of slow last week.  While daytime highs have been climbing into the 70s, I see ice and snow all around me, sometimes several feet deep.

Just getting here was an adventure.  Denali is 250 miles north of Anchorage, most of it on a two-lane road, the George Parks Highway.  I was swerving around moose in the middle of the road less than 10 minutes from the Anchorage airport, and things only got wilder from there.  On my journey north, I could see that spring is indeed late this year.  Many of the rivers were still in various stages of breakup, as the long winter’s ice cracked and buckled under the warming sun and the surrounding rush of meltwater.

I stood on the bridge over this river, and watched icebergs of various sizes and shapes float by, as thunderous cracks upstream heralded the arrival of new chunks of loose ice barreling downstream.

I stayed in the tiny town of Healy, about a dozen miles north of Denali’s main entrance road.

Aside from this sign, there are a few hotels, two restaurants, and one gas station in Healy.

There are a couple of different ways to experience Denali National Park.

There is a visitor’s center and some trails right at the entrance, and you can drive in the first 15 miles on the park road in your own car.  But if you want to go beyond the Savage River at milepost 15, you need to take an official park shuttle or bus.  The narrow and sometimes treacherous road that snakes west for 92 miles just isn’t built to handle the 400,000 people who visit Denali annually.  I bought a ticket to Toklat at MP 53; the road beyond that was still closed due to snow.  At 7am, I boarded the bus for the seven-hour round trip.

While Denali does have some interesting birds, the highlight here is mammals.  And what a highlight they are!  In two days, I got great looks at Dall’s sheep, moose, caribou, collared pika, hoary marmots, snowshoe hare, arctic ground squirrels, a gray wolf, and a lynx.

Arctic Ground Squirrel

Snowshoe Hare – still turning from his winter whites to his summer browns

Dall’s sheep, with babies

Caribou

WHY did my camera freak out and refuse to focus right when mama moose and her two cute mooselings appeared right next to the road??  I guess I’ll never know.

While Denali is the best place in North America to see large mammals, I saw a few birds too – including possibly my new favorite bird, the Willow Ptarmigan.

They are just so comical and charismatic, perched in the top of spruce trees and muttering their cackling chicken-language under their breath.  I found them utterly charming.

Even aside from the animals, there was so much to look at in Denali.  The landscape itself was breath taking.

 

 

I even got to see Denali itself (or Mt. McKinley, as the U.S. Congress still insists on it being called).  This 20,320 foot peak is the tallest in North America.  During the spring and summer months it’s often wrapped in clouds (it creates it own weather), but for a few hours yesterday you could see its glaciated summits.

And this was from some 80 miles away!  Later it rained, and I got to see my first Denali rainbow.

With near 24-hour daylight, it’s tempting to stay up all night walking the trails, reading my book, or planning the rest of my Alaska trip – but I think I will force myself to go to bed now.  It’s been 3 days since I’ve seen darkness (the blinds in my room don’t close all the way), but my body still needs sleep.  I think.  Right?

The Colima Warblers of Big Bend

I will confess that I didn’t come to Big Bend just for the scenery.

I also came to search for the Colima Warbler.  There are about 52 regularly occurring species of wood warblers in the US and Canada (depending on how you count), and I have already seen 48 of them since June of 2012.  The three hardest to get are the endangered Kirtland’s Warbler (check), the south-of-the-border vagrant Rufous-capped Warbler (check), and the Colima.  Colima Warblers are not endangered like Kirtland’s, but almost all of their natural range lies south of the Rio Grande.  Perhaps a few dozen trickle across the border to breed in the high altitude mountains of Big Bend.  In order to see a Colima, though, you need to hike up to where they live.

Up there.

It’s not a trek for the faint of heart.  The traditional spot to find Colimas is Boot Spring, about 9 miles roundtrip from the trailhead in the Chisos Basin.  The hike starts at over a mile above sea level, and climbs another 1800 feet or so, mostly in the first 3 miles.  Not being as physically fit as some hikers, I started before dawn so I could reach the Colima’s habitat while they would still be active and singing in the cool mid-morning hours.

I started up the Pinnacles Trail.  The turnoff to Boot Spring is just past the junction with the Colima Trail.

On the way up I listened to many calling Gnatcatchers, and admired the blooming cacti.

The trail is well-maintained, although it is steep and rocky in places, and the switchbacks near the crest are tiring.

As I climbed, I could see out over the entire Chisos Basin area.  The morning sun bathed everything in a golden glow.

I stopped to rest and eat a little trail mix, and a chummy group of Mexican Jays came down to request that I share some peanuts with them.  They were not pleased when I refused.

Looking up, I could see the Pinnacles formation.  The end of the strenuous climbing portion of my hike was in sight.

Near the top, I heard a warbler singing!  It took me a few minutes to track it down, but then I saw it: a large brownish-gray warbler with orange undertail coverts.

That’s birder-speak for “it has an orange butt.”  Going a little higher, I got a slightly better view of the rest of him while he was busy singing.  Note the white eye-ring and the faint chestnut cap.

Yes, my point-and-shoot camera was not quite up to the job here, but I got a few ‘record shots.’

I climbed the rest of the way to the top, and ate a congratulatory granola bar while I enjoyed the view.

I hadn’t made it to Boot Spring yet, so I decided to keep going.  The trail leveled out a bit here, so the hiking was much easier.  And I could start to see the other side of the Chisos Mountains.

After another mile or so, I saw Boot Rock (in the foreground):

Boot Rock, of course, looks like an upside down cowboy boot – and gives its name to Boot Canyon and Boot Spring.  Boot Rock is a hoodoo, a tall vertical rock formation left behind when the softer rock around it weathered and eroded away.

Near Boot Spring I found many of the expected high elevation birds: tanagers, flycatchers, and vireos – but no more Colima Warblers.  It was later in the day by this point, so it’s possible they just weren’t singing as much anymore.  I also found this guy lounging in my path.  I believe it’s a Texas Alligator Lizard.  It was quite large, and not very reluctant to get out of my way.

I didn’t make it all the way to the South Rim, but my various exploratory excursions and back-tracking amounted to at least 11 to 12 miles, by my rough estimation.  My feet were killing me by the time I got back down, and I had managed to consume all 2.5 liters of water I brought with me.  I took a short nap, and got up in time for a big dinner and one more classic Big Bend sunset.