Finding Forster and Fear-footed Gulls

I promise, I'm almost done with Salton Sea stuff. Ok, actually there are three more posts after this, but hey the Iliad and the Odyssey weren't short either.

Some of the Sea's better attractions are the Gulls and Terns than can be found there spring through early autumn (and a few all year round). It's gotta be one of the best inland areas to see these sorts of predominantly oceanic birds. Unfortunately, Pops and I dipped on the eminently cool Gull-billed Terns, but still came away with Black, Forster's, and Caspian Tern, along with California, Ring-billed, Herring, and Yellow-footed Gulls.

Most of the Tern sightings were fly-overs, but this little pack of Forster's Terns were doing their best to blend in with some Peeps. Although Forster's Terns are not exactly small birds, they're dwarfed by the Caspian Terns and outdone in attitude by the Gull-billed. Theirs must be an anxious life.

A Nervous wreck, I am afraid.

I appreciated seeing this pose. I think this is about how I felt and exactly how I may have looked as a boy when swinging as high as possible and then jettisoning from the seat at full extension. Y'all know what I'm talking about. Those few moments of free-fall from the swing were about as close as many of us will ever get to being an astronaut.

The Yellow-footed Gulls are probably the most treasured larus at the Salton Sea, and they are very appropriately named. Not only do they have yellow feet; these massive gulls (almost the size of Greater Black-backed) are very scared to show em'.

I mean, I guess the fact that these birds were all standing in water is at least in part to blame. They must be frustrating for the few larophile pedesphiles out there (yes, be sure you read that very carefully, for I'm talking about someone who loves Gulls and Feet, and nothing else).

There are few other places to find these locally common Gulls inland of the United States. While they weren't the most vivacious or revealing bunch, they certainly were a highlight, and in fact many birders migrate to the Salton Sea every year just to add these daffodil-footed dudes. HEre, for an ending note, is one such Gull chowing down on rotting fish, a typical Salton scene.

Better Go to Papago

I'm still on a high from this morning's birding. Waking up at 6 am, this morning did not feel any more glorious than Saturdays past, and with my intended destinations being the Desert Botanical Gardens and Papago Ponds--two areas I had birded very often and with few surprises--there was little reason to expect anything but the usual. I'd been on some great birding trips recently, but my photography is always lacking when I visit knew areas. The plan today was to focus on some local spots and get some better shots of common Phoenix birds. The temperature had dropped a little bit, winterfowl were starting to arrive, and there's always the off-chance for a vagrant.

American Coots are not rare vagrants, and in fact descend on Phoenix by the thousand each autumn.

Since the DBG does not open until 8am, I pre-gamed at the Papago Ponds. The Papago Park has some nice rock formations, but the three little ponds are not very scenic. Even so, they are one of my favorite places to view waterfowl in the Phoenix area as they're fairly narrow and allow for closer looks without spooking the birds. This was my first trip out in several months, and I was immediately greeted by some Northern Pintails, Coots, and three Ring-necked Ducks. The Ring-necked Ducks were already in their breeding plumage but the Pintails were still being all solar-eclipse.

Floating out with the Ring-necks was a different, curiously shaped specimen. It had a spiky, erect tail, and since its head was tucked away I wondered if it might be some weird Ruddy Duck. As the bird turned around though and revealed its slender beak, revealed itself to be some sort of Merganser.

This was exciting! I'd never seen a Merganser in Phoenix before, although it's not a super uncommon sighting I'm sure. I knew that Common Mergansers turn up in the fall and winter--I'd just never seen them--and Red-breasted sometimes migrate through. But this bird was smaller than those other possibilities. At maybe eighteen inches, with a dark grey and yellow beak (as oppose to the pinkish-orange Common Merganser) and white showing on the primaries...this was a female Hooded Merganser. Hey, it's not a jaw-dropper, but it's uncommon enough that I knew eBird would flag it, and don't that sort of thing just make a birder feel like a million bucks?

After observing the Merganser for some time, watching her dive, bathe, and preen like some sort of creepy person, I headed down the canal to the DBG. I still consider the Botanical Gardens to be one of the best desert birding areas in Phoenix, but today they were a total bust. I saw eight species inside the grounds. Eight! Not a single Lesser Goldfinch, Cactus Wren, or even a Mourning Dove!!! It was very weird. There were lots of people there already, in part due to the late opening time and there seemed to be some sort of upcoming feature event. Whatever the reasons, the birds were nowhere to be found. Despite the DBG being largely deserted, I did see a Yellow-breasted Chat in the Wildflower Garden, which was a very pleasant surprise, especially given the otherwise low turn out.

The birding was much better at Papago so I decided to walk the desert trail out of the DBG and back to the ponds, thinking maybe I'd find a Rock Wren or Roadrunner along the way. About a quarter mile in I flushed a long-winged gray bird--clearly some sort of goatsucker. Without too much hope, I watched it fly away, expecting it to disappear into the distant hills. To my surprise, it only flew a short distance before landing in a creosote bush.

I had not seen distinct white flashes when the bird flew, and it seemed a bit small to be Lesser Nighthawk. However, the bird clearly had a long tail, too long for Common Poorwill. Regardless of the final ID, I was very giddy. I'd been wanting one of these sightings all summer, to be able to finally study a stationary goatsucker in the daylight.

I'd always loved watching these birds hunt in the twilight hours, appreciating their physique and dexterity even before I was an obsessive birder. But only with better light could I finally see the incredible feather detail and all the subtle coloration. Totally stunning.

Eventually the Nighthawk noticed that I'd noticed, and it took off. I felt bad to flush the bird a second time, but at least no one else would be passing through for a while, so it'd get some peace and quiet for the rest of the day.

Back at Papago the Merganser was still cruising around (in fact, the earlier photos were taken on this second visit). The Finches, Towhees, and Thrashers that should've been partying at the DBG were all crowding around the ponds too, while skulking Green Herons stood watch in the trees.

A few dozen White-throated Swifts flew overhead and spent a few minutes snatching invisible bugs out of the invisible air. It was neat to see them in action so (relatively) close and I was able to snap a few distant shots of these fast flyers.

I left Papago feeling totally rejuvenated. It had been a few weekends since I had a really good bout of birding and photogrpahy, and the aftershock of this morning will keep me going for a while. Picking up Hooded Merganser, Lesser Nighthawk, and White-throated Swift puts me at 253 species identifiably photographed, passing the 250 goal I set for this year. Good birding!

Never Bored on Mount Ord; Never Sick of McCormick

I finally made it out to Mount Ord this Sunday. For one reason or another (work, social obligations, laziness, and standardized testing) I'd been postponing this trip for too long. At long last, I was able to head uphill and see what lurked at the higher altitudes or Maricopa County. Only about an hour outside of Phoenix, Mount Ord combines desert scrub with oak and pine forests at elevations up to 7,500 feet. It's a big, winding, rocky, dusty mountain, and the birding there can be hit or miss, but it does pull in lots of migrants and hosts some species that cannot be found anywhere else in the central part of the state. I dipped on some of Mount Ord's signature species, like the Gray Vireo, Pygmy Owls, and Band-tailed Pigeons, but still came away with some new lifers and, thanks to the hiking, total inhibition for pigging out at dinner.

Leaving the house at 4:30 am, I arrived at the base of Mount Ord well before sunrise and had to snooze in the car for a little while until I had some light. The drive up to the top of the mountain passes through some winding sage brush, the perfect habitat for Gray Vireos and Black-chinned Sparrows. The gamble paid off in that I did glimpse a few distant Black-chins, but the Vireos eluded me. Always eager to provide an omen, this Turkey Vulture circled overhead while I scoured the scrub for little gray birds.

After a fairly unproductive exploration of the summit, I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon exploring Forest Road 1688, which runs around the side of the mountain at about mid-altitude and has more of the shady, birdier pine growth. Spotted Towhees and White-breasted Nuthatches were the most common birds of the day, but one of my favorite sightings of the morning was a pair of purple-eyed Red-breatsed Nuthatches.

Mixed flocks of Nuthatches, Juniper Titmice, Kinglets, Vireos, and Juncos provided little bursts of excitement throughout the hike, but there were also long dry spells. The downside of mountain birding is that you move at half-speed while the birds still move just as quickly, and they have such a massive area in which to move...it can be a photographic quagmire. This Hermit Thrush was about the only other bird that came out to have its picture taken, content as he was to rustle around in low-lying juniper while everyone else cavorted up high.

There was a lot of down time (birdless time) on the mountain, but always still plenty to see. The mountain views are stunning, but I seldom remember to take pictures of them, in part because the photos don't do them justice. There are little things to appreciate on Mount Ord too.

One doesn't have to be a hard core lepidopterist to enjoy the Painted Lady Butterflies, nor an arachniholic to appreciate the Desert Tarantulas. I ended the Mount Ord excursion with about thirty species of birds and enough dust in my shoes to make a whole new person.

On the way back from Mount Ord, I decided to swing by the McCormick Ponds to supplement my very shallow avian photo pool. I didn't find the big rarity I'm waiting for there, but did get to practice some action photography. As the evening started to set in, hungry birds started to move out.

Large and slow, Great Blue Herons are accommodating subjects for in-flight photography.

Timid and fast, Kingfishers are generally a photographic nightmare. This doesn't make birders or photographers or birdographers love them any less.



Killdeer aren't super fast or super shy, but they are really loud and annoying. Up to this point, I did not have any passable in-flight photos of these raucous birds, so it was very nice to have this curious cuss cruise by with unusual poise and serenity for the perennially anxious species.

Like so many of the Phoenix area waterways, the McCormick features are tied to a well-watered and well-maintained golf course. Unfortunately, golf courses don't have the same appeal for shorebirds as sod farms, but they do provide a decent setting for some other avifauna. The McCormick Ranch course, for example, is covered with Say's Phoebes.

They're pretty skilled aviators. Catching bugs in the air is like bobbing for apples while flapping your arms really fast. Ok--I've never actually bobbed for apples in that manner, but I bet it's a challenge.

No Common Cuckoos or Northern Lapwings turned in Phoenix this weekend, but the birding was great as ever.

Rope-A-Dope Phalaropes!

The Salton Sea is a weird place, so naturally it's popular with weird birds, like gender-role reversing Phalaropes. There were hundreds of Wilson's Phalaropes along the Salton shore, and sprinkled in among them, along with other waders and shorebirds, were little clans of Red-necked Phalaropes.

They were not as close to the shore as many of the other birds, and since they were in fact among the smallest birds at the beach that weren't also Peeps, I can understand how they wanted to keep a safe distance. At any rate, they still afforded better looks than I'd ever had in Phoenix, and their non-breeding plumage combined with the high temperatures to make me hungry for cookies n' cream ice cream.

Pops and I saw many birds around the Sea and I took many photos, but I think this distant shot of the chubby little Phalarope riding the tide is my favorite. Underneath this bird, the rotting remains of 94,328,954 fish drag back and forth across the sand, pushed and pulled by the gentle tide. Luckily, none of that shows up in the photos.

Sentinels of the Salton Sea

Much like on Tatooine and the other far-flung desert planets of our universe, the area surrounding the Salton Sea is a desolate stretch that seems the spurn the very idea of wholesome life. The inhabitants out there scrape their existence off of rocks and out of the ground. Life is bleak and the very notion of 'cheer' has not penetrated that far into the ether.



This impression does not radically change as one gets nearer and nearer to the saline waters, and yet certain signs of life start to pop-up out of the ubiquitous sandy scapes.



And not just literal signs, but something even more promising. All of the dirt roads leading around the sea are closely watched by winged sentries. With their eyes never blinking and minds always thinking, nothing enters or exits the sea without the sentries' knowledge.

The Burrowing Owls are only the first line of defense, the chain of outposts and alerts that sense any intrusions well before the intruder can catch a glimpse of the fetid fens and their feathered friends. Bawling Blackbirds and blathering Black-neckled Stilts fill the air with a crossfire of obnoxious screeching. Everywhere they patrol, never granting birders or explorers a moment's peace.

Sure, they look gentle and soft. So do babies, but you don't want to sit next to either on an airplane!

So...why? Why are they so diligent in such a desolate place? What are they guarding? What precious treasure does the Salton Sea contain, what consecrated commodity that requires such constant surveillance? Pelicans, obviously...

Sweet, helpless, innocent, pure, and jejune, the Salton Sea Pelicans that must be protected at all costs, even as their numbers swell into the thousands.

Despite their large size, powerful build, and legendary durability, White Pelicans are actually tiny, delicate, and exceedingly fragile. As such, the Burrowing Owls, Black-necked Stilts, and Yellow-headed Blackbirds have taken it upon themselves to keep the Pelicans safe and secure in the Salton Sea, where they can stay insulated from the cares and troubles of the modern world.

Tragically, some ungrateful Pelicans still leave the sanitized boundaries of their salty confines every day, showing a disregard and disrespect for the Salton sentries' efforts as they risk life and limb in superfluous displays of aeronautics. Floating is safe, but when the Pelicans fly, oh...the Burrowing Owls do worry so.

But the sentinels of the Salton Sea do not need thanks or recognition for their work. even in their stubbornness, White Pelicans are a precious commodity, and the self-satisfaction the sentries find in their sacrifice is reward enough for their service. Ever vigilant, ever ready!

Go with God, Godwit

Godwits are intrinsically elegant birds and prodigious migrators, but they have one of the more etymologically befuddling names in the North American bird world. I saw a rampaging pack of Marbled Godwits at the Salton Sea a few weeks ago, where they lent class and poise to an otherwise harsh environment. 

Arriving back in Phoenix I figured, "Hey, they fly 7,000 miles nonstop while migrating. I can spend some time trying to figure out when and/or why they picked up their unusual name." 
I'm sure that flying 7,000 miles nonstop is still the more difficult task, but Godwit etymology is no picnic either.

After trading in many of my internet tokens and credits, the earliest instance of the name I could find was in a middle english dictionary entry that's actually talking about Attagens, a Mediterranean-area species of Sand Grouse. It did not lend any real reasoning or clues to the Godwit name (which I can only guess is used in a somewhat literal sense of 'God-wit': 'God-knower'). Here's the entry, from an english dictionary written in 1552:

"Attagen and Attagena, a byrde, which is found in Ionia. Thei are deceiued that take him for a woodcocke, it is most lyke a byrde called amonge vs a godwitte."

What is perhaps the most strange of all is that Grouses really don't look much like Godwits. 

These 'God-knower' birds don't look especially theological to me, at least not compared to Monk Parakeets, Northern Cardinals, or Orange Bishops. True enough, there is something heavenly, even angelic, in a 7,000 mile sustained flight, and these birds do have stunning plumage. However, I doubt the chroniclers and namers of the mid-1500s would likely have known about their migratory habits, or found them so awe-inspiring compared to Eurasian Bee-eaters or Hoopoes. Wit,' or 'witte,' could be taken to mean 'white' in old Dutch, but that doesn't really apply more than anything else.

 Despite their mysterious moniker, Godwits are great birds to observe, as I wish them well as they depart on their long journeys this fall. Go with God, Godwits.

Staying Alive with Irish Ponds

Hello Humans! And anyone else who might be visiting from beyond the stars...

It's been super busy these last few weeks. The opportunities for birding have been scattered few and far between other work and social obligations. Alas, I am not made of the sterner stuff required to endure a perpetual birding weekend. At least the residual glow and satisfaction from my early September Salton Sea trip has kept me alive, aided by some occasional forays to local urban sites.

Last Friday I made it out to the McCormick Ponds in east Phoenix/Scottsdale, hoping to maybe see some early waterfowl or an unusual migrant. The waterfowl have not yet arrived in Phoenix en masse, but the drab fall-plumage warblers are trickling through. I had some decent looks at MacGillivray's and Orange-crowned Warblers around the ponds, and was also happy to see Sparrow activity picking up as well. The McCormick ponds are a great place to see Lincoln's, Brewers, Song, and White-crowned Sparrows in winter. I'm hoping that later this year they'll pull in a vagrant White-throated or Golden-crowned to really put McCormick on the birding map.

There were no range rarities, but a perpetually blurry and intrinsically early White-crowned Sparrow was a noteworthy sighting. I don't know that I've ever seen White-crowneds in Phoenix as early as September 14th before. Even eBird scoffed at my sighting, until I provided a photo that would make Bigfoot proud.

A pair of early Northern Flickers also added to the sense of prematurity around the ponds. I have to keep their images blurred too because they wouldn't sign a legal release for me to use their photos publicly. Bummer.

With lots of overhanging vegetation near water, the McCormick ponds are a pretty good spot for Flycatchers. They pull in summer Kingbirds and are a reliable location for Say's Phoebe, Black Phoebe, and Vermillion Flycatcher year round. It is too bad the top of this Phoebe's nasty pipe isn't brown. It could've matched the bird perfectly.

A Western Wood Pewee produced on my recent trip was a first for the location. He seemed to be gearing up for some flycatching just while the sun was gearing down. This may be one of those rare, purely nocturnal subspecies that hunts with echo-location and night vision goggles.



There is a large population of Great Egret and Herons in the McCormick area, and often times they try to disguise themselves as lawn ornaments on the golf course, you know, like those wire-legged flamingo decorations. They stand for a while and then evacuate their bowels in a very torrid fashion (If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about!). This must drive the golfers nuts. The thought of them stepping in Egret discharge makes me chuckle every time.

As I was safely disguised as/behind a palm tree, this Egret felt comfortable enough to indulge in a little scruffy fluffy shakin' down.

As mentioned before, one of my goals this winter is to find a nice rarity at the McCormick Ponds. In part this is just to vindicate my trips to the area, as I've never encountered another birder there and do not know that anyone visits these sites anymore. I also feel like, in part for that reason, they're overdue. Even if I dip on the rarity this year, it will not be time poorly spent.