The Grateful Gull

Liam and I, turned loose in Florida, when the Weather Gods decided to smile instead of crap on us. It was in the upper 60's and 70's for the duration of our visit, and only rained one night and the next morning. The reason I'm blogging this now is because it is unconscionably dreary here in them Mid-Ohio Valley right now. 40's and drizzly and gray. Not complaining, mind you, for all of you buried under yards of snowpack. Grateful. Just pinin' for the F'lords.

You never know when a walk on the beach is going to turn into a rescue mission. Liam and I saw this beautiful juvenile bluefish swimming wan figure eights in a tidepool. The tide was receding, and the lovely opalescent bluefish was clearly doomed to become gull food. 

The problem was how to catch a very fast fish with sharp spiny fins and a good set of razor-sharp teeth with only one's bare hands. Which, by the way, one uses to make one's living. I studied on this little dilemma as I walked a short distance past the fish.  I could have kept walking, which was what I wanted to do. But I couldn't leave it there to die. 

Being a landlubber, I don't have much practice catching fast toothy spiny fish bare-handed. Noodling, I believe they call it. I tried the Direct Grab, and the fish wisely nipped me. OK. Direct Grab, bad.

Thought some more with my big brain, like the hunter-gatherer I was designed to be. Aha! Got it. I cornered the fish in the deepest part of its pool and with both hands swept a big wave of water, including the fish, out onto the flat sand.

In moments I had it safely contained and on its way to freedom.

photo by Liam Thompson, who accompanied me to release it just back of the breakers. Yay.

Better luck next tide, Fish.

We hadn't gone another ten minutes of breathing salt air, walking on perfect wet sand and listening to waves when I heard a willet give a sharp, urgent, keening call I'd never heard before. It was clearly sounding an alarm, but for what? I followed the bird's gaze 

far down the beach to a woman with a fishing pole, and a small white gull, grounded, facing a man. 

Oh, that's not good. 

As I ran toward the scene I could see the man was afraid to approach the gull, and that it was tangled in his line and would only get more tangled the more it flapped. Well. We'll see about that.

I swooped in there like a big ol' bird and in one grab had the gull by the back of its neck with its wings tucked under my arm. It bit me a lot, but ordinary bird bites don't bother me in the least, because I was  perforated for 23 years by the best biter that ever lived. She could crack a Brazil nut in one go. Enormous masseter muscles; tremendous crushing power; piercing tip and shearing mandible. By comparison, a nip from a laughing gull is a loving tickle. 

I didn't bite you that much. I just bit you good. 

Yes, you did, Charlie, like a good parrot should. 

Back in my parrot-keeping days, I remember talking with a guy from whom I was buying a used cage. From the look of his hands, he'd handled a lot of parrots. Ever the reporter, I asked him about it. He said the bites didn't hurt him any more. "You get bit enough, the nerves die back." Niiice. Let's all handle parrots until our nerves die back. Then we wouldn't need to scoop bluefish out of tidepools like a wussy. We could just grab those runners with our nerveless hands.

I still have nerves in my hands, and want to keep them, so I secured the little laugher's pointy part, but not before he scored bigtime on my poor titty, whose nerves, despite baby Phoebe and Liam's best efforts, have clearly not died back. How do they know to stab humans where it hurts most? Not slow, these larids. Titty twisters.

I held the gull while the fisherman unwound his line, then Liam shot a commemorative photo of the happy bird-whisperer, and I joyfully hoisted the gull back into the air, to live and laugh again. That was sweet, to give it its freedom, with two still usable wings as a bonus. Monofilament is not kind to bird bones.

We'd been at the beach 20 minutes and already rescued two creatures. I guess we came at the perfect moment. Or we were the right people for the moment. Nobody else on the beach, I noticed, batted an eye or turned around when the willet started shrieking. To my ear, it might as well have been screaming, 

"OH MY GOD THAT GULL'S GONNA BREAK HIS WINGS!!! SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!!! ZICK!! ZICK!! ARE YOU SEEING THIS???"

It's all about tuning into what the birds are saying, all the time. Being more huntergathery.

Our hunting and gathering at the lovely Quality Inn seemed to be strictly limited to carbohydrates. Man. I look at these hotel breakfast bars and there is literally nothing the Atkins adherent or Paleogal in me wants to eat. Liam is another story. Malted waffles, cinnamon rolls, English muffins, biscuits with lumpy white gravy...that's just pure breakfast heaven for him. Part of what is unfair about life is that a 15 year old boy can turn that stuff into several feet of python-lean beauty, growing up instead of straight out. His 50 something mother can only watch and marvel and have a half-bowl of Raisin Bran, a guilty pleasure I save strictly for motel stays. It's a sugar bomb, probably the worst of all breakfast cereals. At least motels are consistent in their choices.

We thought the gators looked very well-fed at Merritt Island NWR. They're not eating flapjacks for breakfast.

Little blue heron has that lean and hungry look I dig. An avian javelin, perfection in slate and mauve.

If you can't get a good photo of a little blue heron in Titusville, you're doin' it rong.

We saw more roseate spoonbills this trip than ever. What a treat! And this immature bird has yet to go bald, to show its slightly icky chewing-gum green scalp. I've always wondered why the white Eurasian spoonbill manages to keep its nice white hair, and ours goes bald. 

Miraculous bird, the spoonbill. Another gift.

As was that evening's sunset on Biolab Road.  A good day with my sweet boy in the rare, warm sun.

RGV Birding Festival Hobnobbing

Lest you get the idea that our trip to Harlingen was one big photosafari, well, it was, but we were working too, leading field trips and giving talks. I gave a keynote about The Bluebird Effect, and Laguna Atascosa's nature shop sold out of my books. That was nice.  Very cool perfectly exposed photo by my friend, superphotog Debbie Barnes.

Got to meet some really cool people, too. This is a Zick sandwich made of Charles Alexander and Bill Thompson III. BT3 needs no introduction here, but Charles is a most excellent writer and painter of wildlife. A native Texan, he has a zookeeper background, a smashing accent, a bad case of wanderlust and a sensitive, thoughtful take on the animals he studies and paints. He connects deeply with animals he studies on an individual basis. Needless to say, the message in The Bluebird Effect hit him like a ton of (good, nice) bricks.  It was a big thrill to meet him in person at last. And I liked being the chicken salad in the man sammich. Who wouldn't?

You can see Charles Alexander's amazing work on Facebook where he also posts intriguing writings and historical snippets about animals. He's a voracious reader and deep thinker and I'm thoroughly enjoying getting to know him better. One of those people you wish you'd known for years.

Birdchick had the honor of escorting actress Lili Taylor around the festival area. Little did I know, but the Lili Taylor who pre-ordered The Bluebird Effect in January was THAT Lili Taylor, who I've loved in every film she's graced. Mystic Pizza, Say Anything, High Fidelity, to name just three, not to mention HBO's Six Feet Under. Whoa. She's a birder. And for me, that only adds to her already sky-high coolness quotient. Plus, she and Birdchick make me look...sort of...tall... which is nice for a pygmy Science Chimp who gets towered over by two of the four members of her family. About to be three.

I tried not to geek out too much but Lili was just so cool and delicate and lovely, like a fairy. I would not have been surprised to see a pair of dragonfly wings folded up in back of her shirt. And she came to my talk. Thanks to Amy Hooper for taking these photos. It's nice to connect with someone whose work  you admire.

We met up with our Ohio friends Julie Davis, Kathi Hutton, Margaret Bowman, and Jason Larson on the boardwalk.  What a treat it was to experience these outrageous Texas birds with other similarly gobsmacked Ohioans.

We decided that the little blue heron wasn't much like a reddish egret after all. For one thing, you'd never catch a reddish egret wading through marsh vegetation, seemingly slowly looking for his lost contact lens. Reddish egrets are birds of salt flats, birds of extreme and fancy fast fishing action. And they have wild spiky hairdos.

Ohio has largely escaped the Eurasian collared-dove invasion. I got Ohio's first of state record from our tower. Just too bad our rare records committee needed a photograph instead of Zick sketches and a painting. Not bitter, nope, not at all. That same fall a mourning dove hunter shot one. We've got 'em. And that carcass served to confirm my sighting. 

This Eurasian collared-dove is drinking in typical dove fashion, sucking water rather than dipping and let it trickle down its throat. I had thought this marsh was salt, but it's apparently brackish. Wonder if EUCD's develop salt processing glands in coastal areas? Wonder if they eat collards down south?

I always get a kick out of egrets. They are so decorative, and we have so few of them here at home.

It was blowing a gale, probably 35 mph sustained winds, lifting even the short feathers on his sleek neck.

This is a behavior well known in herons and raptors, aptly called "foot staring." Nobody really knows why they do it; they seem to stare at their feet when in some kind of transition or conflict between behaviors. Should I stay or should I go? Or maybe he has an ingrown toenail. Or is wondering why he doesn't have golden slippers like the snowy egret. Who can say. He's staring at his foot. We all do that from time to time.

We enjoyed watching the least bittern turn from a football to a javelin at the flash of a shiner.

When Phoebe spotted him, Bill took off for the distant part of the boardwalk where the other Ohioans were birding, netting Kathi and Margaret a hugely satisfying look at a life bird!

Wow. That's a lotta neck all scrunched into an S-shape under those long feathers. 

The Life Bird Wiggle, as executed by Jason Larson and Kathi Hutton. Bill demands it and is rarely refused. Kathi cleaned up on this trip. 43 lifers!! I got some life butterflies. Note Phoebs taking five behind the So. Padre Convention Center. Terrific view of marshes and flats there. And of happy Ohioans.

In case you're wondering what my rig looks like, here 'tis. This is the Canon L-series image-stabilized 70-300 telephoto lens.  mounted on a Canon 7D body. The black part is a lens shade, so the lens itself is extremely compact. As you can see the lens barrel fits nicely in my hand. Compact, reasonably light yet nimble and powerful, and death on flying birds, as you've seen. I do love it. So much. It rocks. So hard. I've linked right to Midwest Photo Exchange's page for each component, just to help Santa along. My strap is the Blackrapid RS-W1 sling camera strap, designed for women. One attachment point, with a screw, on the bottom of the camera. Padded and curve-friendly, very comfy. Don't worry, they work for men, too. Worn bandolier style over the far shoulder, so the camera hangs nicely at the hip and swings up for action.  I lurve it. Just check that attachment screw (by the hook at the bottom of the camera below) each time you don the rig. Make sure it's tight and you're good to go. Otherwise your rig might fall into fine loose silty dust on El Costero Ranch and you might let loose a string of very bad words.

photo by Bill Thompson III. Hair by Windy. I don't have a combover, yet.

Amusement Park for Birdwatchers: So. Padre Island, TX

We're walking the South Padre Island boardwalk in Texas. It's like an amusement park for birdwatchers. We're looking at the expected (great egret, little blue heron) when Phoebe stops dead with a "Mamamamalooklooklook what's this?"

Well, that's a least bittern. A bird I've seen in glimpses, heard cooing in Connecticut wild rice and North Dakota cattails, but never ogled for long.

OMG!

Learning later that this little character is well-known along this boardwalk did nothing to lessen the thrill of having our daughter point us to the best least bittern of our lives.

He gave us every possible spraddled pose; he lengthened from little Nerf football to javelin.

He dove out of the frame (check that leg anatomy, folks, that's a lean little drumstick there with the feathers on it, and a pretty good thigh)

and came up with fishies

and then he flew under the boardwalk (just try not to hum THAT now)

and I cussed missing the shot because he wears a coat of many colors and he looked like a Promethea moth in flight. Don't miss his tiny black tail here. Yes, we fell in love.

We will come back to him because we caught up with him on the other side and banged away at him for the better part of an hour. It was so much fun.

Sure, you see more great egrets in a lifetime than you do least bitterns, but they are so saurian, so fine, and they croak in the most splendid way when they fly.

Awwwwk! Rawwwwwk! Raaawwwwk! The voice of the velociraptor is heard upon the land.

The vinaceous plum neck of the little blue heron enchants me.

As you can see, the South Padre boardwalks associated with both the Convention Center and the World Birding Center (both of which centers were closed this fine Sunday afternoon) afford terrific photographic and birdwatching opportunities. The boardwalks remain accessible 24-7. Heavenly!

Coming here was a huge delight for us. We met up with Ohio friends and birded the daylights out of that marsh. 

 The wind was ripping along at a sustained 30 mph with gusts that tottered the Science Chimp. Yet there were birds absolutely everywhere. I could only imagine what we'd have seen had it been still.

Below us, mystery big-eyed suckers. Still waiting for that Sibley Guide to Fishes of North America (that was a joke, David...) I have had to call in my beloved Floridacracker to help with ID. For your amusement, our correspondence:

Zick to Floridacracker:
I come, hat in hand, to ask for a fish ID. South Padre Is. TX, mid-Nov., swimming in small schools in very shallow brackish marsh off the Convention Center boardwalk. Mouth downturned, suckerlike, pectoral fins oddly upward-pointing. This was not a momentary accident. They swam with their arms up. Maxed out at about 14". Very large eye. I wanted to call them bigeye suckers, but I know nothing about fish, so I stood there flapping my arms. Audubon Guide has failed me. Need the Sibley Guide to Fish of North America.

Floridacracker to Zick: Hey Zick! THAT is the real "chicken of the sea", a mullet. Historically, a fish of life saving abundance for early Florida colonists and settlers. Vital through every step in the foodweb, they are forage fish from the moment they are spawned...every predator in the sea loves mullet.

They are grazers and algae slurpers.Also... they are birds,  not fish. Years ago two poachers,who were caught redhanded with an illegal amount of mullet, argued in court that since mullet had a gizzard (they do) ... well they must be birds.
I believe they won their case.
Fried mullet gizzards are pretty yummy.

Thanks for sending me a fish I know.

(That was characteristic FC modesty and tall-tale embroidery at work there)

Zick to Floridacracker: HEY FC!

You're such a prince, handling my fragile Science Chimp ego with kid gloves. Mullet crossed my mind because I had seen them jumping in the brackish mangrove shallows at Ding Darling, but I couldn't imagine that a mullet had such big goopy eyes and flying fish fins. I realize that, for you, this is equivalent to someone sending me a picture of a pileated woodpecker and asking what on earth this strange creature might be. Marine life humbles me. So thank you for being gentle. 

If you have never experienced Floridacracker's blog, PureFlorida, you have an amazing treat in store. I know many of my regular readers robinandrea are enraptured, but there are always those who haven't been exposed to his steady drip of subtropical natural history, cookery, humor, Labrador cuteness, underwater merman escapades, teacher tales, home renovation, and mudwallering ironman derring-do. And their lives are poorer for it.

And overhead as I mull over what turned out to be mullet, royal terns cutting fleurs-de-lis in the sky. This year's babies are full-grown but still wheedling their folks for fish. Mmm-hmmm. Probably money, too.