That "Documentation" Thing

During a recent exchange with Mary Nemecek, we stumbled onto the topic of written bird descriptions. The general question was just how long of a description can one manage when compiling a written documentation? Well, maybe that wasn't really Mary's question, but she did indicate that it might be useful to her to take a peek at what happens when Kristi Mayo sits down to document a rare bird.

So, in the interest of helping Mary and probably frightening many others, what follows is possibly the longest documentation known to man ... or, at least, the longest one I could find in a quick search of my records.

Back in September 2010, I crossed paths with a very rare and difficult-to-identify bird. Well, it was difficult for me to identify, at least. The process of identifying that bird is well documented in this previous blog entry. The situation was unique, because at the time, I had done very little reading on jaeger identification. I didn't know what details were important and what details were irrelevant to the identification of an immature jaeger. So, from the outset, I aimed to make notes before delving into the field guides. The result was probably one of the most un-biased set of field notes I have ever compiled.

After the dust had settled and I was confident that Long-tailed Jaeger was the correct identification, I had to sit down and submit my written documentation—along with a detailed set of photographs and video—to the Missouri Bird Records Committee (MBRC). When writing my description, I tried to include useful details such as:

- size, especially in comparison to nearby known species
- structure
- behavior
- general impression

...and, of course, a careful description of the bird. When writing a description, I try to walk the reader through the bird from head to tail and from bill to legs. In the case of a complex identification such as a jaeger, I was extremely thorough; in a less difficult identification—or, admittedly, one I wasn't so darn excited about—my description might not be so long. Since I had multiple observations of this bird, each at different distances, I was careful to report my impressions at each range. The impression at 1/2 mile can be just as important as the impression of a bird in the hand.

Did I really need to write the (possibly) longest written doc known to man? After all, there were lots of pictures taken of this bird, and it was seen by many observers. So no, I probably didn't need to write this much in order for it be accepted by the MBRC. But, it was good practice, because we're not that lucky in every observation. Sometimes you see a bird only for a few moments, and a photograph isn't possible. Or maybe the photograph is fuzzy. Maybe the photo doesn't show key details like the spread wing, the rump, or the lores. The more thorough your written documentation becomes, the more likely you are to include the key details that will confirm your identification, with or without photographic support. And, the more you scribble those field notes and strive to throughly scrutinize that avian rarity before diving into your field guides—Oh! it's so tempting to go to the books first!—the more you are going to learn.

Description of the Bird

This bird was first observed on 16 September 2010 at about 17:00. It was in flight at a long distance (1/2 mile) for the vast majority of that observation. On 17 September, I returned and watched the bird almost continuously through my scope for two hours, this time having my best views when the bird sat down on the water and preened at a distance of about 400 yards. On 19 September, I rented a boat and captured photographs within 30 yards. On 20 September, on a scheduled boat tour of the lake with Burroughs Audubon Society members, we were able to get the bird within 10 or 20 feet of the boats, and at one point it was within an arm’s length from me.

Gull-like bird. In direct comparison to Ring-billed Gulls at close range (10 feet), the bird was lighter in structure and slightly smaller. With indirect comparison, it seemed similar in size to a Franklin’s Gull (which came near the boat just before and after the jaeger). Also seen at a distance (1/2 mile) in direct comparison to Sabine’s Gull (Sabine’s Gull appeared to be smaller than the jaeger) and Osprey (Osprey’s wingspan appeared less than twice as long as the jaeger).
Flight varied from slow flaps and glides, soaring and circling on thermals for long periods of time, and then folding wings to drop quickly to lower altitude, then accelerating in a more direct, powerful flight when pursuing other birds. At a distance, flight struck me as being falcon-like, not particularly buoyant, but overall very similar to a gull’s familiar movement. Wings backswept. An aerodynamic appearance, fairly deep-chested, tapering to a long tail, with the body and tail’s projection behind the wings being about twice the length of the head’s projection in front of the wings.

Even at 400 yards, the head appeared small, with a dove-headed appearance, and large dark eye. Bill small, bluish gray base with black tip. At close range (10 feet), the black at the tip bleeds down the cutting edge of the mandibles. Black tip about 1/2 the length of the bill. The actual nail was shorter than the total of the black tip, about 1/3 the length of the bill. Nostril, positioned behind the nail and gonys, was approximately at the center of the bill, with the back end of the nostril being closer to the base of the bill than the tip of the bill. Fairly shallow gonydeal angle. At 400 yards, face appeared very pale buff with pale buff above eye and around base of bill. Darker, grayish buff on forehead and top of head, forming a slightly “capped” appearance. Nape pale buff. At close range, faint streaking on face, nape, and neck.

Lower neck and upper breast clean grayish buff with some reddish-brown tones detected when in flight (less noticeable in direct, intense sunlight). Darker breast band very obvious in flight and at a distance, cleanly separating the pale buff head from the pale buff sides and belly. Snow-white base to feathers (exposed when preening). Sides barred with grayish-buff barring, relatively indistinct and difficult to see at a distance and at certain angles. Clean, black-and-white barring on flanks, undertail, and rump. 

Back contrasts with head and underparts. Dark brown or blackish (at a distance). At close range, each feather on the back and wings neatly tipped with pale, grayish-buff edges that are similar in tone to the face and breast. At a distance (400 yards), this gives a paler appearance to the coverts and scapulars, which contrast with the darker primaries and secondaries. Pale edging to the greater coverts creates, at a distance, the appearance of a pale line or very narrow bar that runs the length of the wing. Front edge of the wing has a crisp, pale, line, usually only apparent when the bird is viewed head-on in flight. Primaries 10, 9, and 8 with a pale shaft. My notes from 17 September show that at a distance of 400 yards, the pale shaft was only apparent on P10 and 9 (observed in flight and while preening). Underwing neatly barred and marbled black and white, similar in tone to the barring on the flanks and tail coverts. Pale base to the primaries created a variable white patch on the underside of the wing, which seemed more pronounced at a distance and changed in intensity depending on the bend and action of the wing. 

Tail dark brown or black, rounded. Two central rectrices project noticeably beyond the rest of the tail. At a distance, the shape of the feathers were seen very well when the bird preened its tail. Central rectrices rounded at the ends. At close range, the tips of the rectrices were edged in white. 

Legs and feet (observed at very close range) pink with black webbing, giving the appearance of having been dipped in ink. 

Behavior: Incredibly fast flyer, capable of covering the entire distance of the lake in just a minute or two. Almost always flying very high, about 1.5 binocular views above the trees. Observed pursuing several Osprey, Ring-billed Gulls, and a juvenile Sabine’s Gull. The bird would dive on its target, sometimes pursuing it for a short distance. Harassment of other species did not last very long—perhaps 30 seconds at a time—and chases were never successful. Once, the bird dropped from a high altitude and sat on the water, picking at a fish that had apparently been spotted floating on the top of the water. At 9:45 a.m. on 17 September—presumably at the time of day when thermals begin to rise higher—the jaeger circled to a very high altitude and soared around making short, acrobatic movements and flicking its head—possibly catching insects—much like a Franklin’s Gull. On 20 September, the bird came within feet of a pontoon boat full of birders, eating popcorn that had been thrown out on the water.

Similar Species Discussion

First, this bird was aged as a juvenile by the presence of extremely clean, crisp, pale edging to all feathers (including primaries and tail).Juvenile Pomarine Jaeger was eliminated by size (this bird was the same size or smaller than a Ring-billed Gull, while Pomarine would be the same size or larger); the pale, grayish-buff edges to feathers and overall cold, grayish appearance (while Pomarine would tend to be darker and have warm, golden-buff edges to feathers); a “sweet”, small-billed look to the head (while Pomarine would be heavier billed with stronger gonydeal angle); the notably longer central rectrices (while Pomarine has a less-pronounced projection in the central rectrices); and the lack of any distinct white ?flash? on the underwing, where Pomarine has extensive white bases to the primaries that would be much more noticeable even at a distance. Juvenile Parasitic Jaeger was eliminated most definitively by excellent looks and images of the bill. The black in the bill extends to nearly 1/2 the total length of the bill, while Parasitic would show a black tip about 1/3 the length of the bill. The nostril is positioned at about the center-line of the bill, with the distance from the tip of the bill to the nostril being greater than the distance from the nostril to the base of the bill. In Parasitic, the nostril is positioned closer to the tip of the bill than the base of the bill. Additionally, in flight, this bird was broadest at the breast, tapering quickly to the tail, while Parasitic would appear more “pot-bellied” in flight. Parasitic tends to be darker with golden-buff edges to feathers. Parasitic shows a stronger white “flash” on the underwing and sometimes the upperwing, while this bird showed only a faint pale area on the underwing at certain angles. The two central rectrices were rounded, while Parasitic would have pointed central rectrices. Barring on the flanks of the Parasitic is less distinct and more uneven, compared to the very neat vertical, black-and-white barring of this bird. Parastic has 3-8 pale primary shafts, while this bird had 3 (only 2 visible at >400 yards).

Resources Used / Did they affect they way you wrote?

Sibley Guide to Birds (Sibley); Advanced Birding (Kaufman); Skuas and Jaegers (Olsen and Larsson); No—Documentation above is based largely on field notes take during a lengthy but distant observation on 17 Sept, prior to doing any in-depth reading or study. Documentation modified 25 September to include details observed at much closer range on 20 September.

Jaeger

In the quiet space between the eye and the lens of a spotting scope, a spark of excitement leapt into my consciousness, ran down my brainstem to my spine, and settled around the pounding of my heart.

A brown bird on the water, half a mile away. Small head. Long, pointed wings. The shape reminded me of a Sabine's Gull, a bird that nests in the Arctic and spends the rest of its time over the open ocean. Some of the birds, usually juveniles making their first trip south, migrate over the center of the continent. In recent years, Sabine's Gull has become an annual fall visitor to Smithville Lake.

But this was not a Sabine's Gull.

Why? I asked myself, watching the bird ride gentle waves, its head high and alert. It's just not. Wait for it to fly.

My phone rang. It was my husband, just home from work, wondering where his wife and three-year-old daughter were. "I have a bird," I said. "It's a good one." He understands me after 15 years. The tone in my voice told him it was useless to ask when we would be home. He let me go.

Adrian played nearby. From the corner of the eye that was firmly affixed to the eyepiece of my scope, I saw her start off toward the rip-rap at the edge of the lake. "Adrian..." I breathed, warning her not to go. She ignored me. The bird raised its wings and all at once started across the lake, rising into the air. All brown at this distance. No distinctive pattern on the upper or underside of the wing. Definitely not a Sabine's Gull. It's — a — jaeger.

Until this moment, I had never seen a jaeger. Like the Sabine's Gull, this family of gull-like birds is almost exclusively pelagic, and they can even be difficult to spot from the coast. To see a lot of jaegers and see them well, one must get on a boat and travel out to sea. I have never been on a pelagic birding trip, but I have spent every fall and winter for the last ten years keeping an eye open for that one stray jaeger. Because, also like the Sabine's Gull, jaegers occasionally are found on inland lakes as they take a short-cut through the center of the United States.

The last time any jaeger species was seen in Missouri was 1996. Coincidentally, that sighting was also at Smithville Lake.

As I watched the jaeger gain altitude and, with remarkable speed, cover the entire distance of the main body of the lake (which is about one mile at its widest point), I dug back in my memory to find field marks that might help me separate the three jaeger species. But, because I have never tried to identify a jaeger before, the field marks were not lodged in my brain. I even had trouble recalling all three species by name. Parasitic ... Pomarine ... and ... and ... Long-tailed.

In their brown juvenile plumage, all three are very similar. I have heard horror stories about multiple birders seeing the same bird independently, and independently they each arrived at a different identification. Knowing the identification conundrum I was up against, I simply watched the bird and took as many mental notes as I could. And I occasionally glanced toward the shoreline to make sure my daughter had not fallen into the lake.

"Adrian, I have a really good bird here," I called.

"Good, Mom!" she said encouragingly, taking off her shoes to tiptoe across the rocks.

"Adrian, did you know you're my lucky charm?" I called. Three years earlier, when she was just four months old riding on my chest in a Baby Björn, we kicked up a Common Ground-Dove in a field near our home. It turned out to be only the sixth time that particular dove species had been seen in the state.

"Yeah, Mom," Adrian replied.

She has no idea, really, but—like the man in my life—she already knows that sometimes it's best to humor me when my eye is on my scope and my heart is in my throat.

Identification, misidentification

That first evening, I spent more than 30 minutes watching the bird fly. By then, Adrian had thoroughly soaked her clothes with lake water and we needed to go home. Before we left the parking lot, I wrote down everything I observed. After making a written description and sketching the bird from several angles, I opened my Sibley field guide, confident that I would have an identification—and immediately became lost. I had no idea what I had just seen. Parasitic Jaeger? Pomarine Jaeger? Long-tailed Jaeger? I did not know. But it was time to go home.

What is the allure of identifying a bird? Most people could care less about separating a House Sparrow from a European Starling. But for me—and a good number of afflicted others who call themselves birders—the presence of a difficult-to-identify bird can cause various symptoms including a gnawing sensation in the stomach, diminished appetite, difficulty sleeping, and lack of concentration at work.

In my case, the jaeger resulted in all of the above symptoms.

When a red sun cracked the horizon the next morning, I was standing on the shore of Smithville Lake, my scope panning furiously to keep up with the powerful flight of a bird in silhouette. I waited, heart pounding, for confirmation that my jaeger was still here, that I had re-found the same bird from the night before. At that moment, the bird accelerated toward an Osprey lazily flapping toward a cove. It strafed the large fish-eating raptor in an attempt to steal its catch. The Osprey wheeled, held onto the fish, and the jaeger—yes, still here—climbed back to a higher altitude.

I jogged along the shoreline with my scope and tripod on my shoulder, my digital SLR camera banging my hip and tangling with the strap on my binoculars. Finding a clear area of shoreline, I raised my camera into the sun and tracked the jaeger, which was following one or two Ospreys around the cove. It headed directly toward me, coming closer than I had seen it before, but it was silhouetted against the sunrise and I was determined to get a photo instead of raising my binoculars. Finally, it banked with its ventral side perfectly parallel to my camera's view. Click - click - click. I checked the photo preview on my camera's LCD screen. It was all black against the sky, but there was the tell-tale jaeger tail—rounded with one or two longer central tail feathers. At least now it was documented as a "Jaeger species".

Knowing I would have the sun in my eyes from this location for the rest of the morning, I made a fast ten-minute dash in my car to the east side of the lake, heading straight for a point that provides good views of the full length of the dam and several arms of the lake. I waited for about ten minutes before the jaeger finally flew into view. I centered it in my scope and panned as it crossed the entire distance of the lake. From that moment forward, I kept the bird continuously in my scope for over an hour.

The jaeger spent most of its time flying high above the tops of the trees on the horizon. It crossed the length of the lake many times. It dipped down to the water once, picked up a fish off the water, and stayed still on the waves while it picked at and ate the fish. Then it took off, rose into the sky, and began its patrol of the lake once again. In a heart-stopping moment, the jaeger's meandering flight became more focused and intent. It dropped low to water, and suddenly there was another gull in the scope view with the jaeger. Just as the jaeger pulled in close to the gull, the gull flared its wings with its back to me, and I gasped when I saw the bold upper-wing pattern of a juvenile Sabine's Gull. The Sabine's Gull wheeled away and the jaeger gave up the chase.

But the chance to observe the bird's behavior took a back seat to my attention to the bird's plumage. The jaeger stayed infuriatingly distant, making it difficult to interpret the colors and tones I was seeing relative to the bird's topography. I watched how color and tone of the upper wing changed when the bird was flying in a relaxed attitude, compared to sharp, banking turns or more aggressive flight. Light danced on the wing and underside of the bird, changing the way my eye perceived "white" or "buff".

Finally, the jaeger settled onto the water about 400 yards away and preened while resting. This was close enough to make out some finer details, but far enough away that some details were left to interpretation. I saw a small, dove-like head. Unstreaked breast. I scribbled notes blindly onto a small notebook while keeping my right eye pressed against my scope. The bill appeared to be one-half black, and it was small and fairly straight. I scribbled more notes. When the bird took flight once more, I had a sense that I might have been closer to a positive identification.

When I returned to my car, I pulled out my field guides, compared them to my notes, and reached a conclusion: Long-tailed Jaeger.

Uncertainty

What is worse than not knowing the identity of a bird? Thinking that you might have identified it incorrectly.

Immediately upon returning to my computer, I shared my one silhouetted image of the jaeger with the community of birders online. By the end of the day, others were calling into question my identification. I tried to stand by my original ID, but faltered in the face of my own inexperience. By Saturday, others had seen the bird and were posting pictures of the jaeger and sharing their own opinions. Some said Long-tailed. Some said Parasitic. Most shied away from a public declaration of its identification. All seemed to agree that it was not a Pomarine Jaeger, so at least we had made it 33 percent of the way toward a positive identification.

By Sunday morning—my husband's birthday—I was completely distracted in everything I tried to do. The following day, I was scheduled to take a group of birders in two pontoons out onto Smithville Lake for the annual "Smithville Lake Pleagic", which I started leading six years ago. I knew that if the bird stayed until Monday, we would have a good chance of getting close enough to get good photos and—hopefully—a good, solid, indisputable identification.

But for me, standing in the light of Sunday morning, Monday afternoon could have been a year away.

"How would you like to go on a boat trip for your birthday?" I asked my husband. He hesitated, but agreed to go. He knew it was useless to resist.

Rick and Adrian tolerate me

Rick, Adrian, and I rented a pontoon with the intention of taking it out on the water for two hours. At the two-hour mark, we had caught two tantalizing glimpses of the jaeger flying at a distance and then disappearing against the horizon, but I did not have the photos I needed. Feeling completely defeated and somewhat foolish and really selfish, I started to tell Rick to head for the marina—but then changed my mind: "No, try going that way." I pointed north. Almost immediately, we had the jaeger in our sights. And it was cooperating. The bird made several passes high over the boat as the pontoon's tiny, shredded propellor tried to keep up with the jaeger's amazing aerial speed. At last, the jaeger landed on the water.

Rick, driving the pontoon, eased up slowly ... slowly on the bird. I crouched at the front of the pontoon and clicked my camera incessantly. At a distance of about 30 yards, the bird took off, and there! I had the photo I had come for. Upper wing, under wing, flanks, breast, bill all visible in a single frame.

It flirted with our boat a few more times but never allowed a close approach, so we headed for the marina to avoid stressing the bird unnecessarily.

Looking at the photos on my camera's LCD on the way home, I said to Rick, "The bill doesn't look like it's half black. It looks one-third black." And I rattled off a few other identification points that I had learned over the last few days. "I think that means it's a Parasitic Jaeger."

When we returned home—in between putting our daughter down for a nap and rushing to make my husband a birthday cake—I quickly shared my photo with the online birding community, convinced that we now had the correct ID: Parasitic Jaeger.

But 90 percent of the comments that came back congratulated me on the identification of Missouri's fourth Long-tailed Jaeger!

The Annual Smithville Lake Pelagic

By Monday morning, I knew two things: 1) jaeger identification is hard and 2) I needed to get my hands on an excellent but out-of-print book, Skuas and Jaegers by Olsen and Larsson.

I also went into Monday having been reassured by a number of people that my original identification, based on my long period of study on Friday morning, had been correct, and that my photograph taken from the boat on Sunday verified that identification. But there was still a sense that doubt lingered among some other respected birders.

At 2 p.m. two boats with ten birders each set out from the marina to try to find the infamous Smithville Lake jaeger. After an hour of searching, we had not found the bird. A very small group of gulls was loafing on the water in one spot, and I suggested that we idle the boats in that area and attempt to "chum" with popcorn and cheese crackers. I threw out one handful of crackers. The nearby gulls reacted by flying closer to the boats. I threw one more handful of crackers. Someone on our boat shouted, "There!"

I turned around, looked up, and here came the jaeger, making that direct, intent flight straight at our boats.

The next 30 minutes have become a memory—solidified with photographs and video—that I will carry with me the rest of my life. The jaeger came to our boats and picked up popcorn from the water, only feet away. While shooting video of the bird with my iPhone, it circled us and was practically an arm's reach away from my face.

Long-tailed Jaeger, 20 September 2010
Smithville Lake (Smithville, Missouri)

No other rare bird that I have experienced compares with the Smithville Lake Long-tailed Jaeger of 2010. Each time I watched this bird—beginning with distant views on Thursday, building with the long, peaceful observation on Friday, climaxing with the birthday boat ride on Sunday, and concluding with naked-eye views of the jaeger at arm's length—a new level of detail was revealed. And although the gnawing in my gut, the distraction at work and at home, was tied to a personal desire to pin a precise name to a creature—by the time it circled our boats on Monday, its exact identification had become a quiet footnote. Instead, I gained an appreciation for individual perception, for subtleties in plumage and structure, for movement and behavior.

My desire to learn more overrode the need to assign a name. Every bird sighting should be like this.

Cool bird!

Yesterday afternoon I received a call from birding buddy Doug Willis. His voice was slightly muffled in a way I have come to recognize as Doug talking on the phone while staring intently through a spotting scope. "I have a Pacific Loon in full breeding plumage at Smithville." A little over an hour later, I was standing in the warm sunshine by the old oak tree at Shelter 9, Crow's Creek picnic arm, Smithville Lake, watching the handsome black, white, and silver bird preen, stretch, and flap its wings.

I took a few embarrassingly fuzzy pictures by holding my Nikon DSLR camera up to my spotting scope to document the bird—only the fourth Missouri spring record. The images resemble those of the Loch Ness Monster, which is how all of my Pacific Loon digiscoping attempts over the years have turned out. Click here to see a picture from the Web that shows what the bird should have looked like under perfect photo conditions.

Pacific Loon, Smithville Lake, 3 May 2010.
Found by Doug Willis.

The Pacific Loon stretches its wing.

Since the 1990s, Pacific Loons have become a rare but regular visitor to Smithville Lake during fall migration, but Doug's May 3 sighting is a first for this location. Other spring Missouri sightings have come from southwestern Missouri: two reports from Table Rock Lake and one at Fellow's Lake in Springfield.

Seeing one in full breeding plumage is a particularly special treat, since they are usually in drabber gray-and-white dress during the fall migration. Pacific Loons breed in the northern reaches of Canada and usually winter in the Pacific Ocean. Some birds migrate straight south from Canada, which brings them through the Midwest. It stands to reason that those birds would make the return trip straight north from the Gulf of Mexico, or wherever they end up after passing through the Midwest—but either it doesn't happen very often or many birders are too busy watching the warblers and shorebirds that highlight spring migration to keep a close eye on reservoirs. (I suspect it's a combination of both.)

Later in the day Monday, Linda Williams reported as many as five Common Loons in the Pacific Loon's company. Apparently this bird was moving with a migrating group of this more common species, which nests as close as Minnesota.

Thanks to Doug for keeping me on speed dial in spite of the recent distractions (family, running, etc.) that have kept me from birding as much as I would like. What a cool bird!

Winter's Last Hurrah

This morning, I stubbornly set out on a run at the Smithville Lake mountain bike trails with two primary goals in mind: 1) test running with Rick's Nathan hydration pack to see if it's a good fit for future long runs; and 2) raise a big, glorious middle finger to Winter ("Snow on the first day of Spring? Ha ha! You'll never keep me inside!"). Uncharacteristically, I had no mileage or time goals in mind. I was just going on a run.

On the frosty 20-minute drive to Smithville Lake, I was mesmerized by the snow drifts piled in ditches on the north side of the road. Their cascading shapes and impossible crevasses were works of art. Where one could peer in through a narrow opening in some drifts, there was an icy blue glow—like the "blue ice" that one sees in glaciers. Stunning.

As I neared the lake, I had difficulty maintaining a decent speed as all along the roadside there were flocks upon flocks of birds—American Robins, Killdeer, Dark-eyed Juncos, Song Sparrows... I could have amassed a decent species list if I'd slowed down. Several Harlan's Red-tailed Hawks flapped by overhead. Crossing a narrow branch of Smithville Lake, an American White Pelican was clumsily chasing a first-cycle Herring Gull in a game of "go (gimme that) fish".

Gulls on the boat slips at Camp Branch Marina
(Photo taken 14 March 2010)

Then I "accidentally" turned south at the little town of Paradise and ended up at Camp Branch Marina. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of gulls swirled around the lake and loafed on the roofs of the boat slips. Pelicans paddled though the shallow water. I felt the spandex in my running gear pulling me toward the trail, as the sight of so many birds — representative of infinite possibility — pulled me to reach for my binoculars. I scanned the flocks of birds briefly, then finally gave in and drove promptly to Sail Boat Cove, when I tumbled out of my vehicle into the icy parking lot, turned my face into the 20 mph north wind, and struck out onto the trail.

I descended into the trees, found shelter from the strong wind, and lost myself in pure joy for 7 or 8 miles.

This was a day when the run could have gone on forever. I gave new meaning to the word "singletrack" — where the only track through the snow was my own. Well, the only human tracks. Innumerable deer, coyotes, foxes, squirrels, raccoons, and possums had gone before me down these trails. In the quieter areas, snow clung to the branches of the trees. In some particularly dense stands of younger trees, the effect that of a crystalline cathedral.

I lost myself in a way that allowed me to forget pace and effort. My body walked when it wanted to walk, and ran when it wanted to run. I would find myself clicking down the trail at a smooth and steady pace and think, "Wasn't I just walking a moment ago? When did I start running?" Then I'd turn my mind off and enjoy the sight of a Fox Sparrow in the tree above me, or the audible pleasure of Northern Cardinals, Eastern Bluebirds, Tufted Titmice, Black-capped Chickadees, and Golden-crowned Kinglets in full song.

By the time I regained the trailhead, I had no concerns about Winter making an unwelcome return on the first day of spring. It is all part of the pulse of nature and the passing of time, and I was grateful for the opportunity to move effortlessly through those woods on such as day as this.

Random Thoughts

The Nathan pack was wonderful.

I returned to the marina after my run and took notes on a first-cycle Thayer's Gull, a rarity that is becoming easier to find at Smithville Lake in recent winters.

Blindfolded

The air today has that soft, moist smell of spring. It wafts in through an open window. At home on a Monday, I am playing the role of full-time mommy as Adrian recoups from a fever and ear infection. We have laughed and played. Listened to the Mamas and the Papas as I beat out the rhythm with her Dora the Explorer tambourine. And we watched one of her favorite movies, Fly Away Home.

Silly faces on a quiet sick day at home

The movie is based on the true story of Bill Lishman, a Canadian who pioneered the method of teaching young birds their migratory routes using ultralight aircraft. The closing scene is full of lovely, sweeping images of the fictional main character, a little girl named Amy, flying the final few miles alone with her Canada Geese. The scene always makes me cry, but today it left a lasting sensation of longing deep in the pit of my stomach.

Migration. I spent so many years deeply engrossed in the northward and southward movement of wild birds. From mid February through late May, and then again from late August through early December, you could find me standing on the shore of a lake or lurking deep in the forest or walking through golden prairie grass—nearly every day—watching, waiting, discovering the wonder of migration.

Since Adrian came into my life, it has been more difficult to put my finger on the pulse of migration. And now that I am focusing much of my free time on training my body to endure a trail marathon, I am finding myself even more torn than before. Mother - birder - runner.

But even as I pour my energy into training, migration is happening around me. Last weekend, running the trails at Clinton Lake, I gleaned Yellow-rumped Warbler chip notes over the sound of other runners' footfalls. On treks around the neighborhood, Belted Kingfishers have uttered their toy machine-gun rattle overhead. And, of course, flocks of geese headed north and west speak the story of spring.

Drake Cinnamon Teal among Blue- and Green-winged Teal
Photo by Linda Williams

It's as if I am blindfolded in my bedroom—a place of perfect familiarity. I do not need to see migration to know that it is there. Sure and steady, the birds move on a calendar of their own, driven by daylight, magnetic currents, and low-pressure systems. March 1: the first Turkey Vultures glide in on a south breeze. March 15: Blue-winged Teal arrive, and among them a drake Cinnamon Teal bobs its head. April 1: the nasal call of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher carries through the still-barren trees, though their buds are swollen and poised to burst forth with another year's foliage.

I'm not watching them, but I know they're there.

To know something so intimately, and yet only catch the occasional glimpse of it in passing... This is a beautiful but bittersweet sensation.

Dead from a bough

January 1, 2010 — Fat Ass 50k, Wallace State Park (near Cameron, Missouri)

Frozen toes, frozen nose, frozen water bottle. I cupped my hand around the spout on my water bottle and blew long, slow, warm breath into my hand. I turned the water bottle over and squeezed hard, then repeated the process a couple more times until there was a slushy sound and free-flowing water dribbled onto the snow. I took a drink and continued my seven-mile trek through ten inches of snow and single-digit temperatures at Wallace State Park.

There were just a couple miles left until I reached the warmth of my vehicle—and the ranger station where the Rissers (who put on the Fat Ass 50k at Wallace State Park each New Year's Day) provide an awesome spread of warm soups, chili, and cookies.

As I tried to remind myself that I was having fun (sure, I really was ... really), I noticed a small, reddish-brown lump in the middle of the footprint-pocked trail. I bent down to scoop up the Carolina Wren, its feathery weight barely noticeable in my palm. It had been dead long enough to be literally frozen stiff, its half-closed dark-brown eyes coated with frost. Running a finger along its breastbone revealed no layer of fat. These little dynamos are bundles of energy. Pairs will stay on territory throughout the winter, and will not hesitate to vocalize their displeasure if you get too close to their brush pile. But cold, ice, and heavy snow are hard on the Carolina Wren. In fact—thanks in part to the relatively mild winters of the 1990s and 20-aughts—their numbers have been increasing gradually since a series of hard winters almost completely drove them out of Missouri during the late 1970s.

This has been a hard winter.

I set the wren down in the snow a few paces off the trail and continued on, feeling a little more absurd for being outside on a day like this, in the undeniably severe cold, in the beautiful and deadly stillness of those blanketed woods.

Seven miles was enough. And at the end of the trail, there was a husband, a daughter, some warm chili, and conversation to warm life back into my nose and my toes.

Later in the day, I told Rick about the wren.

He said, "What's that poem? 'I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself...'?"

"Yes," I replied. "I believe that's how it goes."

All Alone

I took a short run on the Smithville Lake trails today. I headed south along the shoreline and danced with the rocks a little faster than I had intended. The Mute Swan, dubbed "Crook" last weekend by my fellow Birrunderers, fed quietly in a cove. Silent. "Mute," one might say ... And rather alone.

Last Friday's birrundering (that's "birding while running" for the uninitiated) was the first time I had run with a group since high school. It was a nice way to pass the miles. Shelley asked me if I always run alone on trails. Of course, was my reply. She told me she runs alone, too, but pointed out that some people think it is foolhardy to go out on trails alone. You're isolated. You're vulnerable. What if...?

Being on the trails never seemed strange to me, because my time spent outdoors—alone—goes back farther than that. I have spent the last 12 years looking for birds in quiet, isolated places. Standing on the banks of the Mississippi. Watching ducks for hours from the shore of Smithville Lake. Bushwhacking through cane stands along the Eleven Point River in Missouri's Ozarks. All that time spent exploring, and most of that time I was alone.

But it goes back farther than that. Before running, before birding, I was a little girl. An only child. Creeping through the woods behind my parent's house. Splashing through the creek. Sitting quietly beside the pond. A constant narrative ran through my mind, my imagination conjuring up tales of magic and adventure. Out on those back acres, I was alone.

So today, here I am. Running through a sea of fallen leaves, the golden sunset glancing off the lake to set the woods on fire. Just as I have always been. Yes: alone. But also surrounded by so many fantastic sights and constantly engaged in such adventure that the words isolated and vulnerable and what if... take on less importance. I tuck those words away, let them keep close company with my awareness and common sense—and I live in this one moment that was made for me. Alone.

Common Ground-Dove

Common Ground-Dove
Brooke Haven subdivision, Kearney, Missouri (Clay County)
11 October 2007

This picture was taken with a Nikon D50 with a 200mm zoom lens through my Swarovski AT-80 spotting scope set at 60x magnification. There are certainly better ways of taking a picture, but I was working with what I had available at the time!

Smithville Lake Pelagic 2007

Sabine's Gull
Photo by Kristi Mayo

Three years ago, I suggested to the field trip organizer for Burroughs Audubon that it might be fun to take a pontoon or two out on the lake in the fall. It is something that birding groups have been doing for some time out on Carlyle Lake in Illinois, and, in fact, St. Louis-area birders Jim and Charlene Malone planted the idea in my head back in 2003 when they suggested that Smithville is similar in size to Carlyle. So, in 2005, I reserved a couple of pontoons and announced the trip. The boats filled immediately.

That first year we set out on October 8—a beautiful, crisp, cool morning... but one that yielded little species variety. Timing was perfect to enjoy the large Franklin's Gull flock (10,000+) that stages on the lake each fall, but we saw little else. It was just too late in the year to be finding Sabine's Gulls or phalaropes.

In 2006, I moved up the date to September 18 and scheduled the trip in the evening and on a weekday to take advantage of the evening gull roost and less boat traffic. We spotted an immature Sabine's Gull in a relatively short space of time and both boats got fantastic looks from 20 to 30 feet at the bird sitting on the water.

This year, the formula changed a little once again: September 22 was still within the window for Sabine's Gull and phalaropes, but this time we tried the trip on a Saturday. Add to that a perfect, blue-sky, 85°F day, and we were not alone on the water. Boats and jet skis were everywhere, and seemed drawn to the large flocks of Franklin's Gulls that attempted repeatedly to settle down on the water. Nonetheless, we were able to sidle up in both boats to a very cooperative immature Sabine's Gull, watched numerous Osprey catching and eating fish, and marveled at a Peregrine Falcon pummeling (but not killing) an American Coot in mid-air.

Here's a few photos from the excursion:

Brock Winkelbauer (pilot of the second pontoon) & me
Photo by Marsha Hawk

Sabine's Gull between the two pontoons
Photo by Kristi Mayo

We tried "chumming" with popcorn. This attracted the attention of a few Ring-billed Gulls, but there simply weren't enough Ring-bills around to create the feeding-frenzy we had hoped for.
Photo by Laura Gilchrist

Baby Huey and the European settlers

Today a Chipping Sparrow came to our yard with its "kiddo" in tow: a big, ungainly juvenile Brown-headed Cowbird. The young cowbird stumbled around in the grass, begging continually. The Chipping Sparrow, about half the weight of Baby Huey, hopped around frantically, diving after insects in an attempt to satiate the gaping, hungry mouth.

To the uninitiated, this would be a surprising sight. You might wonder if the tiny Chipping Sparrow had adopted the baby cowbird out of the goodness of its heart. Well, the Chipping Sparrow is certainly raising the cowbird as its own, but not by choice. The female cowbird is a brood parasite—she removes an egg from the nest of another species and replaces it with her own. Then, Ma Cowbird leaves the residents of the nest to incubate the eggs and eventually care for her progeny. When the egg hatches, the young cowbird usually dominates its smaller siblings for food and space. Despite a striking contrast in appearance and, often, size, the host parents continue to care for the cowbird... and within about 10 days Baby Huey leaves the nest and follows his adoptive parents, continuing to take whatever he can from them until he's ready to fly off on his own to make more little cowbirds.

I sat watching this scene through my living-room window as my own kiddo nursed. An image flickered through my mind of attempting to breastfeed a baby 50% heavier than me. I've felt sorry before for parent birds parasitized by the Brown-headed Cowbird—but this time I felt true empathy.

The unfortunate thing about Brown-headed Cowbirds is that they are only doing what they have evolved to do, but sweeping habitat changes brought on by—you guessed it—human beings have made it even easier for the cowbird to survive. Naturalists speculate that oodles of years ago, the cowbird followed the bison herds across the sweeping prairies, dining upon insects attracted to and flushed out of the grass by the grazing animals. Because the bison were nomadic, the cowbirds found it necessary to evolve the same kind of nomadic ways. As any nomad knows, however, it's downright tough to find time to pick out territory, defend that territory, build a nest, lay eggs, incubate eggs, and raise young. That could take weeks. By the time the young were raised, the bison herd could be many miles away. So, the cowbird evolved a better plan: let someone else raise the kids, and once they were full grown, they could catch up with the herd.

As with all things in nature, that tactic worked as long as a delicate balance was maintained. Balance, though, was not something that the European settlers excelled at. As the forests in the east fell to logging, the cowbirds took notice. Before, the cowbirds would only visit the nests of woodland species that utilized the edge habitat of forests. But today, most tracts of woodland are heavily fragmented. You can't walk too far into the forest before you're walking back out the other side. Cowbirds gained access to what used to be the deeper parts of the woods, and began to use the nests of some more delicate songbirds. According to Ken Kaufman's Lives of North American Birds, a female Brown-headed Cowbird is known to have used the nests of more than 220 species of birds, and she can produce up to 40 or even 70 eggs in a single season.

That's a lot of displaced songbirds. And that means the Brown-headed Cowbird is looked upon by many as a villain. But for Baby Huey's bio-mom, it's the only method of survival for her species.