Dog and Bird Spotting at Hacienda Solimar, Costa Rica

I am happy to report that, after 8 days away, my laptop has been returned by the excellent gentlemen of Elan Technologies, fitted with a new top case, keyboard, trackpad, and battery. No more will its swollen and aging battery impede progress on all fronts. Back in the blogging saddle! I took this time to write thank-you notes, 27 of them, to people who helped me with Baby Birds. It was like doing Christmas cards, and hand-writing a different letter to each recipient. Being that nice for five days was exhausting. :) I want to thank you all for the vote of confidence on old-fashioned prose posts, though; my photo-free post "Becalmed" has done better than most of my glitzier photo posts. Huh.

On Day 4 of our Costa Rica expedition, we made a lunchtime stop at Hacienda Solimar, a working cattle ranch of epic propotions in the Guanacaste region of the northwest Pacific coast. On this enormous ranch, beautiful Brahma cattle are bred and raised, mostly for breeding stock.
They are definitely a cut above the usual, even to my untrained eye.  I'm guessing the red X's on these cows indicate they've been bred.

On this day, the cowboys were separating calves from moms, and there was a lot of bellering going on, and dust rising in the air.

They use horses for much of the cattle cutting, but there were also some fancy four-wheelers in the garage. I spotted a very cute doggie resting in the shade. She had the nicest smile!

And then, feeling a little self-conscious, she yawned, and displayed perhaps the longest tongue I've ever seen on a dog.  

Just down the road, a classic yaller dog trotted home, curled tail held high over his back.  A good yaller dog is not too far from a dingo, if you ask me. Survival instincts keen and sharp; a coat that blends into dry grass, a yaller dog is a hunter, vigilant and crafty. Perhaps the ancestral dog.

  Much as I love cattle and dogs, I had to admit we were here for birds, and Hacienda Solimar did not disappoint. A pair of rufous-naped wrens drinks from a coconut shell. Oh sweet scene, there in the dappled light.

And just down the driveway, a Pacific screech-owl pretends to nap. It's a real good bet that an owl who looks like he's sleeping is glaring at you from behind those heavy lids. And wishing hard that you'd bug off.

Good as the land birding is, the marshes of Solimar are stupendous. We were gobsmacked by throngs of black-bellied whistling ducks. Struggling to comprehend why there were so many, I kept asking Mario and Solimar guide Demetrio if they were  massing for migration, enjoying  a post-breeding break or what? No, they replied; they're always here in numbers. Well, that just didn't make sense to me.

The more I thought about it, the more it bugged me. The black-bellied whistling duck is a cavity nester. It's a big duck, almost goose-sized. That's a whopping cavity! And every one of these ducks was born in a cavity.

Where do they find all those huge cavities for their nests?? And what are they all doing here? How can there be enough food in these sloughs for all those ducks? Sometimes nature just befuddles me. 

And wading around with the whistling ducks and an amazed great blue heron was an enormous jabiru, nearly five feet tall. 

These endangered storks nest at Solimar, and we were privileged to see a nest, with three young, at a great distance, so as not to bother them. What a tree, what a nest, what amazing storks they are.

In flight, with those pure-white primaries beating, they're magnificent. I expected their wings to be trimmed in black.  Melanin strengthens feathers for the inevitable wear flight brings. That's why most white birds like terns, gulls, gannets, wood storks and snow geese have black-tipped primaries at least. Not the jabiru. Does it not make long-distance flights? How come no black? Always scratching my head. Especially in the Neotropics. 

This is a fun shot. If you click on it to embiggen it, you'll find that three of these things are not like the others. Three of these things are not the same. Can you name all the birds in the photo?

** Answer at the bottom of the post. **

I'm just going to say right now that for some reason my photos in this post, viewed at normal size, look like crap. And when you click on them and see the larger version, you see that they are largely not crap. This is something I've been noticing about Blogger lately. If you like a photo, by all means click on it and see it how it's supposed to look. For instance, you can vaguely tell that the large birds in the photo above are some kind of craney storkey thing. Click on the photo and boom! Wood storks!

We watched the flocks for signs of danger, for the high whistled calls of the ducks and sudden explosions and rises. For there were peregrines about!

And why not? Wherever there are huge flocks of shorebirds and waterfowl, the wandering peregrine will attend them.  These two sparred playfully, thrilling us to bits.

Look at that leg extension! Wow!!

It always gets me when birds fly upside down. It never gets old.

By now you're probably figuring out that birding in Costa Rica is just fun, fun, fun. Especially with the Science Chimp jumping around scratching her head and asking questions. Right, Mario? Heh.

**The flock consists of 19 wood storks, and from left a black vulture, a tiny high-soaring anhinga, and an osprey, heading the other way. 

The Peregrine's Gift

This is birding. 

You have some days when you have to beg for a freezing cold ovenbird in pea-soup fog. And you have fun anyhow, because you're with people who get that sometimes birds appear and sometimes they don't. And you're outside and who can have a bad time outside?

And then there are days like these, Saturday May 1, 2015. On the last day of the New River Birding and Nature Festival, we've been imbibing warblers and tanagers on a trip I'm co-leading all morning. After lunch we all tromp down to Hawks Nest Overlook and gasp at the beauty of the wild and savage New River Gorge. 

It's getting hot and we're peeling layers like crazy. Those of us who aren't wearing long underwear and can't. Heh.

I just can't believe I get to be here and look out at all this. I'm kind of overloading, so I look down at the stone steps and find a teeny tiny plant which, in my bookless botany, I determine by its four petals and whorled leaves to be related to bluets, in the Rubiaceae. I can't go any farther, and it takes Jim McCormac, summoned via electrons, to tell me this is Blue Field Madder, an exotic weed. But a cute one. 

How bad can it be, tiny as it is? I decide I love it anyway.

Birding friends have a stony chat.

And someone says, "There's a peregrine perched up in that tree!" 

We crane our necks and marvel and feel blessed. But the show hasn't even begun.

The peregrine launches out over the gorge and suddenly rolls over in flight and falls like a stone or a spear. Somehow I manage to follow it in my binoculars, though it's likely doing better than 120 mph in that stoop, and I see it hit a barn swallow which explodes in a puff of feathers, falls limp and disappears into the river.

The peregrine circles a couple of times, looking for the swallow, but it can't see it. Too bad, waste of a good bird, but that's hunting for you.

I am shooting and shooting as the falcon circles up from the water's surface without once moving its wings. It rises, using the updraft from the river and cliffs, rises like a thought or a dream.

The raw steel blue of his back, the muscularity of his shoulders, the bright buttery cere. 

I can't believe he's coming so close. I fall over the dopey giant swiveling binocular, the kind that takes up precious space at every overlook, the machine nobody ever uses, trying to keep him in my sights. I click and click.

I have to show this bird to you, cropped in closer.

It's a male, Paco and I agree, murmuring softly as we watch it circle and rise; something subtle about its build and size and big eyes and bright cere. We are rapt, enraptored. He makes me promise to send him these photos. Here you go, Paco. Here's that bird we saw. 

As exquisite as it is up close, this living missile is even more thrilling against the backdrop of man's attempt to tame the New River, the dam we put in its wild and rugged path.

The peregrine is a gift, snatched away when we couldn't stop spraying DDT everywhere, and now returning. In my lifetime, it's back. When I was 14, I never thought I'd see a peregrine, ever. And now I'm reaching out and catching this one and keeping him to look at forever. And he's nesting somewhere on these ledges, or under the bridge, making more peregrines. My friend Tiny worked several summers hacking baby peregrines out in the Gorge, and now it's all paying off. They're here. They're HERE. Killing barn swallows, somehow making it past the great horned owls who like to eat its chicks, and thrilling us all.

I didn't even see the people on the rocks until I got these photos on the computer. Epic!

Eventually the peregrine circles back to its branch, then leaves altogether, the branch wiggling in the empty air as I look longingly at where it was, wishing.

Thus endeth the Peregrine Show. A fine show it was. And a fine bird it is. A gift.

Chet Baker Steals the Butter!

These holidays have held so much joy for us. Corey comes to visit. We went birding on New Year's Day and found all three falcon species (kestrel, merlin and peregrine!)

Bolt upright, regal

Ohio River falcon

dresses up a bridge

To know where she is

Make the pilgrimage on foot

So much like worship

She, our own Horus

iPhonescoped photo by Bill Thompson III

 We also have been playing a little music (more on that later).

Corey and Phoebe toast our sighting of the St. Mary's Peregrine in a hobo's swing under the bridge,with some muddy beer bottles.

And those chirren bake. Oh God, do they bake. This photo is from January 2014, but they did the same dang thing yesterday. Cranberry orange cream scones. There really is nothing better under the sun, and I'm helpless around them. Just get them out of my sight, please, because if I have to look at them I'll have to eat them. And I did, 2 of them. And now I have to go run again. A lot.

Chet Baker has this thing where he begs for boxes. If he sees someone finishing up a box of cereal or Cheezits, he MUST have the box. He will rip it to smithereens, and then I will pick up the smithereens.

These are things that never change. 

So Phoebe and Corey were finishing up four quarters of butter, and he was begging for a butter box, leaping up to grab it. She jokingly asked him if he wanted butter and waved a stick at him. And he grabbed that stick of butter out of Phoebe's hand and took off!

When he realized how delicious was his treat, he began to drool, and he took off to find a place where he could enjoy it, and blow out his pancreas at the same time. (Large amounts of fat are really bad for dogs).

Well, that was not going to happen. We all gave chase, laughing as we went. This set off a game of Keepaway, which as we all know is the Boston Terrier's forte.

Chet's cave is beneath the kitchen table, so after a few turns around the living room, he repaired to his cave.

He was a bit surrounded: Phoebe behind him, and Corey in front, taking these photos, and me to the side, admonishing him not to eat that butter!

Uh-oh. Now Mether is going to crawl under the table. I feel a spitbubble forming at the corner of my jowl.
I am unrepentant. I want to eat this butter. I want to eat all of it.

And given half a chance, I would. But Mether is using her growly voice now. She is escalating.

I told that bad little dog to sit and stay and I got the butter back from him and I told him he was very naughty. With kisses afterward.

He was not sorry, not one bit. And now...NOW...when we take butter out of the refrigerator, he roos at us. As if we're going to just spontaneously grant him a whole stickabutter for hisself.

Dream on, bad little black dog. Dream on.

Last two photos by Phoebe Thompson. The rest by Corey Husic. Badness by Chet Baker. 

That dog is SO BAD.

Along the Inland Sea

 Writing from a hotel in Columbus, where I'm waiting to go on WOSU to do an hour of fun fundraising with my sweet dear friend Ann Fisher, who constantly amazes me with her grasp of diverse issues and ability to interview anyone in depth, fearlessly, smoothly and kindly. If you want to listen/watch, it's at this link.  If you've got good Net, which I don't, you can watch! Eee! Good thing I dressed in my best torn up top. At 18:14 I read a commentary about Fergus, the bird-eating bullfrog. Makes me realize how very much I miss radio, miss performing commentaries on All Things Considered. Ah well. We raised around $2,000 in an active hour of wheedling. I adore Ann Fisher and it's clear Columbus does too.

On my way into campus last night, a spirit tapped me on the shoulder and told me to scan the building tops. "There's something up there for you," he whispered. Sitting at the light, I looked up far to my left, thought I saw a remote camera. Or was it a juvenile peregrine, perched above the L in LIVE IT? B. A deep charcoal black dream of a bird, calmly preening where only I could see it. This is why we listen to the little voice, why we carry binoculars in the car, everywhere we go. Yes, it made my day. I parked at my hotel and ran the half-mile back to properly ogle it. Looked big. Probably a hen, born this year. In Columbus? Who could say? There is a nesting pair in town, but it's also time for dispersing juveniles to be finding new places to live, heading south. She seemed a little surprised that I noticed her, but it didn't stop her sorting through her fluffy pantaloons. Best I could do with my iPhone steadied on a trash can. Yes, sometimes I yearn for my telephoto, but I tend not to take it to cities. I ought to. Wildlife is everywhere, if you're watching.

But with this post we're back in Ithaca, where my friend Joyce, whom I met during Joy of Birding at Hog Island Audubon Camp, has kindly offered to take me on a guided tour of Montezuma NWR, up north at the head of Cayuga Lake. I jumped at the chance to spend a day birding on my busy trip.

We stopped by Ithaca's fabulous Green Star Co-op, where you can get everything from lentils and bran to vegan tuna toenails in bulk, and picked up some sammitches. I chose Vegetarian Tuna, not realizing that it had never so much as been waved in front of a fish. Maybe I thought that meant it was made from vegetarian tunas, who ate kelp or something. I guess I don't know what I was thinking. I had Montezuma brain. Turns out I had bought textured vegetable protein bathed in some kind of vegonnaise, masquerading as tuna. Got a couple of bites into it. Texture convincing. No tang o' the sea. I scratched my head and looked at the label again.

 

Hmmm. Something about vegetables being made to pretend to be other food. Nuhhh. I ate it anyway, and resolved to be a little more label-conscious next time. It wasn't so bad. Zick. You fool.

 

The day was so beautiful I settled back, burping vegan Tu-Nuh, and dove into the trees and sky.

Vineyards abounded.

 

You don't see sheep farms in Ohio.

The sheep looked like scattered boulders out there, and the sky looked like North Dakota.The wind roared like that too. I fell into a momentary reverie of prairie.

 

That's what I love about travel--the way it neatly excises you from whatever trench you're in and refreshes your outlook with a vista, a color wash, a bracing gust in your ear.

I felt blessed to be on this road on this day with Joyce, the woods coming into peak color.

We sped north to Montezuma, rolling along the edge of this huge inland sea.

And the grapevines turned yellow from the bottom up.