High in the Rocky Mountains, there’s a vast landscape where the wind sighs over rock and heather. The trees struggle up the steep ridges and end in mats and twisted bonsais. The fingerprint of the glaciers is fresh, and life grows slowly in patient forms over the glacial rubble. 

In British Columbia’s Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park, it’s possible to feel the quiet pulse of this expansive landscape. The mountains rise high and steep above Kootenay Lake, a spectacular basin excavated by glaciers where the waters rest before they flow into the Columbia River. And although I had never been here before I spent five days in these mountains in September 2023, the waters had already connected my life with the park. Three hours south on the wings of an eagle, the Kootenai River cuts and winds through Idaho, past the cedar forests and pileated woodpeckers of my birthplace, before it empties into Kootenay Lake. The waters connect us all.

Fall in Kokanee Glacier Park

During the winter, Kokanee Glacier Park is covered with a deep blanket of snow. The plants rest dormant under insulating snow drifts while backcountry skiers glide across the powdery slopes. But in early September, it’s a place where huckleberry bushes blaze with burgundy leaves and offer up their last juicy berries. Summer turns sour as early frosts bite the fireweed leaves, and birds hurry their migration away from the approaching winter. The scarlet red and pumpkin orange fruits of the mountain-ashes contrast with the deep green needles of the subalpine firs. 

This place has stories to tell us. Here are a few of them: a collage from my five September days in the park.

An American dipper along the stream

As the morning sun touches Kaslo Lake, light wisps of mist rise up from the calm surface—an ephemeral curtain in the cool morning air. Nearly 200 meters higher, along a mossy stream where frothy white water cascades over the granite backbone of the Canadian Rockies, an American dipper is spending the morning. Bobbing her body and doing knee bends, she forages leisurely for invertebrates among the mosses. And then, half walking, half swimming, she moves into the sunlight above the cascade and preens. 

The cool morning air carries the calm, resinous scent of the subalpine firs to me. The mountains are breathing. One of the dipper’s gray contour feathers tumbles down the cascade and circles calmly in the pool below. I’m perched uncomfortably next to it, sitting on unyielding rocks. Step by unhurried step, the dipper picks her way upstream, a cheerful gray shadow disappearing back into this world where caddisflies and mosses join water and stone.

A profusion of mountain-ashes near Tanal Lake

It’s noticeably later in the morning when the sun reaches the subalpine firs and cone-heavy spruces along the edge of Tanal Lake, set deep in a north-facing cirque basin. The pine grosbeaks are giving a quavery commentary from the treetops. The avalanche chute behind the lake is still chilly in the shade, but a mixed flock of songbirds is getting breakfast in the mountain-ashes. These striking shrubs clothe the slope, their limber, arched branches supporting a heavy orange crop of fall fruits. The chestnut-backed chickadees are partaking, nibbling small mouthfuls out of the fruits between bouts of foliage-hunting for insects. 

The ruby-crowned kinglets and Wilson’s warblers that accompany the chickadees don’t seem interested in fruits. Instead, they’re focused entirely on the leaves and branches, hunting late-season insects. Half a dozen golden-crowned kinglets are also moving with the flock, but they stay exclusively in the evergreen foliage of the subalpine firs nearby. Maybe they’re gleaning spiders. I watch as a pine grosbeak glides down from the treetops to eat the bitter orange mountain-ash fruits.

Raptors along the ridges

I keep turning an eye to the small ridge west of Kaslo Lake, where steeples of subalpine fir and Engelmann spruce grow up from the jumble of glacier-gouged granite. Fall raptor migration is underway—and this ridge is in a perfect position for migrating birds of prey. It’s located near the head of two major drainages that slope up from the northwest and northeast, Keen Creek and Enterprise Creek. Its south slope catches the early morning sun, creating plumes of warm air—thermals—which raptors can use like elevators to gain altitude.

Sharp-shinned hawks, those small, nimble hunters of songbirds, skim the treetops and pause to chase their prey. The red-tailed hawks often pass higher, gliding and circling majestically, a hundred meters or more above the ridge. Almost all of them approach from the northeast and follow along the curve of the ridge west, then continue southwards past Kaslo Lake. The pattern is consistent enough that I can be sure: these birds are in the midst of their fall migration, one trickle among the outpouring of the boreal summer’s raptors, strategically fleeing the inevitable approach of winter. 

Finches, spruces, and hawks

The sharp-shinned hawks have been finding plenty of songbirds to hunt. The seed-eating finches are widespread this fall: pine siskins by the dozens, small musical groups of pine grosbeaks, and occasional flyovers of evening grosbeaks. From time to time, I see the siskins feeding in the subalpine firs. The firs’ early-ripening cones are already far along in their yearly disintegration process, falling apart scale by scale, dispersing all of the winged seeds that the birds don’t get first. The spruces still hold their cones in cheery, drooping tan arrays.

As the day warms up, the migrating raptors become more flexible in their behavior. At times the red-tailed hawks, too, skim low over the ridge, necks craned over the boulder fields where the pikas mew. Perhaps the red-tails, too, are searching for a meal. 

Raptors and pikas in Kokanee Glacier

The raptors seem to travel in groups. Often I’ll spot a red-tailed hawk, only to raise my binoculars and see two tiny sharp-shinned hawks higher in the air. At one point, I see a golden eagle circling east of the ridge. This massive, steady soarer has an incredible vantage point, peering down at Kaslo Lake 200 meters below. As she spirals, she has sweeping vistas of the jagged, glacier-carved ridges to her east. A red-tailed hawk is harassing her, tucking wings and stooping at the much larger eagle, then rolling upwards again in a lazy dance. Three more red-tails are nothing more than specks higher up on the thermal, circling as the sunny air lifts them higher. Soon all three are coasting southwest along the ridge in a tight squadron. The pikas keep mewing below, on the lookout for danger as they cut plants for winter hay.

The quiet landscape of Kokanee Glacier

As the planet spins towards afternoon, the landscape is quiet near the headwalls of the cirques. The wind whispers through gnarled alpine larches and matted subalpine firs. A textured green carpet of sedges and heather cloaks the raw, jumbled bulk of glacier-carved ridges. I think of the other glacial landscapes in my family lineage: Norway, Sweden, Scotland. The raptors have stopped passing now—or perhaps they’re using other ridges, or they’re so high that I can no longer see them. I’m alone except for the bleating of the pikas, the sighing of the wind, and a million silent plants clinging to the rocks.

One afternoon, as I’m hiking with my friends among a bouldery expanse of pika country, a weasel pops out from the rocks to investigate us. Curious with a prudent touch of caution, she scampers towards us, then darts back under a boulder. A few seconds later, she reappears, continuing this ballet of explore and hide for several minutes. Farther down the trail, we see a second weasel, bouncing easily over the rocks in his fluid search for dinner. It’s beautiful to watch—unless you’re the pika or chipmunk that’s at risk of becoming dinner.

The fall’s final flowers

The journey of water across this landscape begins in the winter, as deep snows cover the high mountains. By now, the wintry blanket has melted entirely, much of it seeping into the earth. Now, from this groundwater supply, a mossy brooklet emerges from a high basin among the rocks. The long-ago winter snows burble towards the Pacific Ocean, 2,200 meters below and over 1,400 kilometers downstream. Along the brooklet, a pink monkeyflower is showing its last bloom, a magenta farewell to summer among hundreds of ripening seed capsules. 

Here and there, the heathers are still flowering, too, nodding urns of pink and white held a few centimeters above the rocks. Meanwhile, on the ridge where the raptors are migrating, the alpine larches are beginning their flaming goodbye to the warmth, taking on the first hints of brilliant gold. Soon they’ll drop their needles, becoming stark and bare in preparation for winter.

Wind, water, and connection

Farther down the brook near a cascade, a flock of American pipits flushes from the rocks as I stop to admire a sunny group of arnica seedheads. Half of them have already transformed into tawny parachutes, which will carry the seeds on the wind. 

This brook flows constantly onwards through glacial lakes and tumbling cascades, into Kootenay Lake, where the waters unite and continue flowing, into the Columbia River and towards the ocean. The river weaves back and forth across the border between countries, like my life, like so many lives. The golden eagles and sharp-shinned hawks follow the wind and the sun southwards away from winter, as they have for generations. The river connects us; the wind connects us. And the larches, heathers, and subalpine firs show us what it means to be rooted, to grow patiently and quietly among a jumble of stone. Next fall, they’ll still be here, waiting to share their wisdom with us.

The post A naturalist journey through Kokanee Glacier Park appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Alto en las Montañas Rocosas existe un paisaje vasto donde el viento suspira por piedras y brezos. Los árboles se esfuerzan para alcanzar las cimas y terminan en cojines y bonsáis torcidos. Las huellas de los glaciares son recientes. La vida crece en formas pacientes sobre los escombros glaciares.

En el Parque Provincial Kokanee Glacier de la Columbia Británica, es posible sentir el pulso silencioso de este paisaje extenso. Las montañas se levantan empinadas y altas sobre el Lago Kootenay, una cuenca espectacular excavada por los glaciares, donde las aguas descansan antes de verterse en el Río Columbia. Y aunque yo nunca había estado aquí antes de pasar cinco días en estas montañas en septiembre de 2023, las aguas ya habían conectado mi vida con el parque. Tres horas al sur sobre las alas de un águila, el Río Kootenai atraviesa el Estado de Idaho en curvas y cañones, pasando por los bosques de tuya gigante (Thuja plicata) donde los picamaderos americanos (Dryocopus pileatus) habitan y donde yo nací. Luego, este río se derrama en el Lago Kootenay. Las aguas nos conectan a todos.

El otoño en el Parque Kokanee Glacier

Durante el invierno, el Parque Kokanee Glacier está cubierto con una manta profunda de nieve. Las plantas se quedan dormidas bajo el ventisquero aislante mientras esquiadores se deslizan por las laderas. Pero al comienzo de septiembre, es un lugar donde los arándanos silvestres (Vaccinium spp.) brillan con hojas borgoñas y brindan sus últimas bayas jugosas. El verano se vuelve agrio mientras las primeras heladas muerdan las hojas de la adelfilla (Chamerion angustifolium). Las aves se apresuran a migrar, huyendo del inminente invierno. Las frutas escarlatas y anaranjadas de los serbales (Sorbus spp.) contrastan con las agujas de verde profundo de los abetos alpinos (Abies lasiocarpa). 

Este lugar tiene historias para contarnos. Aquí están unas de ellas: un collage de mis cinco días otoñales en el parque.

Un mirlo acuático norteamericano en el riachuelo

Mientras el sol matutino toca el Lago Kaslo, hilos ligeros de neblina ascienden desde la superficie tranquila. Forman una cortina efímera en el aire frío de la mañana. Casi 200 metros más alto, cerca de un riachuelo musgoso donde agua blanca espumosa cae en cascada sobre la espina dorsal granítica de las Montañas Rocasas, un mirlo acuático norteamericano (Cinclus mexicanus) está pasando la mañana. Se agacha y se mece, forrajeando sin prisa, buscando invertebrados entre los musgos. Luego se mueve hacia la luz del sol sobre la cascada, medio caminando y medio nadando, y ahí se acicala.

El aire fresco de la mañana me lleva el aroma tranquilo y resinoso de los abetos alpinos. Las montañas están respirando. Una plumita del mirlo acuático sale flotando por la cascada y gira serenamente en el estanque natural debajo. Estoy sentado cerca, un poco incómodamente, sobre las rocas inflexibles. El mirlo acuático continúa forrajeando aguas arriba, paso a pausado paso, una alegre sombra gris. Entonces desaparece otra vez en este mundo donde los tricópteros y musgos se unen con el agua y las piedras.

Una profusión de serbales cerca del Lago Tanal

Es obviamente más tarde en la mañana cuando el sol alcanza los abetos alpinos y las píceas repletas de conos al lado del Lago Tanal. El lago se ubica dentro de un profundo circo glaciar orientado al norte. Los camachuelos picogruesos (Pinicola enucleator) están dando un comentario tembloroso desde las copas de los árboles. El claro inclinado detrás del lago, donde el recorrido de una avalancha dejó su evidencia, aún está en la sombra de la montaña—y aquí hace frío. Sin embargo, una bandada mixta de aves cantoras está desayunando en los serbales aquí. Estos arbustos llamativos visten la ladera. Sus ramas curvadas y cimbreñas están cargando una cosecha abundante de frutas anaranjadas. Los carboneros dorsicastaños (Poecile rufescens) están alimentándose, mordisqueando frutas entre episodios de cazar insectos en el follaje.

No parece que les interesen las frutas a los reyezuelos matraquita (Corthylio calendula) y chipes corona negra (Cardellina pusilla) que acompañan a los carboneros. Estas especies se enfocan en las hojas y las ramas, cazando los últimos insectos de la estación templada. Media docena de reyezuelos corona amarilla (Regulus satrapa) también acompañan a la bandada. Estas aves, sin embargo, se mantienen exclusivamente en el follaje conífero de los abetos alpinos cercanos. Tal vez están cazando arañas. Miro un camachuelo picogrueso mientras planea desde la copa de un árbol para comer las frutas agrias del serbal.

Aves rapaces volando sobre las crestas

La pequeña cresta rocosa al oeste del Lago Kaslo llama mi atención. Ahí las torres de los abetos alpinos y de las píceas de Engelmann (Picea engelmannii) emergen desde un revoltijo de granito, rasgado por los glaciares. La migración otoñal de las aves rapaces ya está en progreso—y esta cresta se encuentra en una posición perfecta para las aves de presa migratorias. Está ubicada cerca de las cabeceras de dos cuencas notables que descienden hacia el noroeste y el noreste, el Arroyo Keen y el Arroyo Enterprise. Estas cuencas forman valles que las aves rapaces pueden seguir. Y cuando la luz solar de la mañana toca la ladera sureña de esta cresta, crea columnas de aire caliente: las térmicas. Las aves rapaces que lleguen aquí pueden usarlas como ascensores para subir en el cielo.

Los gavilanes pecho canela (Accipiter striatus), aquellos pequeños, ágiles cazadores de aves cantoras, rozan las copas de los árboles y pausan para perseguir su presa. Las aguilillas cola roja (Buteo jamaicensis) a menudo sobrevuelan más alto, planeando y dando vueltas majestuosamente, cien metros o más sobre la cresta. Parece que casi todos están acercándose desde el noreste y siguiendo la curva de la cresta al oeste. Luego continúan hacia el sur, más allá del Lago Kaslo. El patrón es suficientemente consistente para estar seguro: estas aves están en plena migración otoñal, volando para el sur. Los que veo son un goteo visible de la efusión inimaginable de las aves rapaces del verano boreal, estratégicamente huyendo de la llegada inevitable del invierno.

Pinzones, píceas y gavilanes

Los gavilanes pecho canela han estado encontrando muchas aves cantoras para cazar: los pinzones que comen semillas son comunes este otoño. Hay docenas de jilgueritos pineros (Spinus pinus) y grupos pequeños y musicales de camachuelos picogruesos. A veces sobrevuelan unos picogruesos norteños (Coccothraustes vespertinus). De vez en cuando, veo los jilgueritos pineros alimentándose en los abetos alpinos. Los conos de los abetos maduran temprano y ya están adelantados en el proceso anual de desintegración. Se desarman escama por escama, dispersando todas las semillas aladas que las aves no consigan comer. Mientras tanto, las píceas aún guardan sus conos en alegres marrones conjuntos pendientes.

Mientras el día se pone más caliente, las aves rapaces migrantes se vuelven más flexibles en su comportamiento. A veces las aguilillas cola roja vuelan más bajo sobre la cresta, sus cuellos estirados sobre los canchales donde maúllan las ochotonas. Estas aguilillas suelen cazar mamíferos: parece que ellas están buscando alimento también. 

Las aves rapaces y las ochotonas del Parque Kokanee Glacier

Parece que las aves rapaces viajan en grupos. Cuando veo a una aguililla cola roja, al levantar mis binoculares es común detectar a unos minúsculos gavilanes pecho canela más alto sobre una térmica. En algún momento, diviso a un águila real (Aquila chrysaetos) dando vueltas al este de la cresta. Esta enorme ave planeadora tiene un punto de observación increíble, mirando hacia el Lago Kaslo 200 metros abajo. Mientras hace espirales, tiene vistas extensas hacia las escarpadas crestas al este, esculpidas por los glaciares. Una aguililla cola roja está molestándola. Dobla sus alas y cae hacia la gran águila. Luego, sube hacia arriba otra vez para volver a perseguirla en una danza perezosa.

Tres más aguilillas cola roja están más alto por la térmica, dando vueltas mientras el aire soleado las levanta. Parecen ser nada más que motas. Pronto las tres empiezan a deslizarse al suroeste, siguiendo la cresta en un escuadrón estrecho. Las ochotonas siguen maullando abajo, vigilando para peligros mientras cosechan plantas para su provisión invernal de heno.

El paisaje silencioso de Kokanee Glacier

Mientras el planeta gira hacia la tarde, un sentido de silencio domina en el área cerca de los acantilados de los circos glaciares. El viento susurra por los nudosos alerces alpinos (Larix lyallii) y los abetos alpinos en cojín. Una alfombra texturada de cárices y brezos envuelve el crudo volumen revuelto del terreno esculpido por los glaciares. Pienso en otros paisajes glaciares en mi linaje familiar: Noruega, Suecia, Escocia. Las aves rapaces ya han dejado de pasar—o tal vez están pasando por otras crestas, o quizás estén volando tan alto que no las pueda ver. Estoy solo excepto por el balido de las ochotonas, el susurro del viento y un millón de plantas calladas que se aferran a las rocas.

Una tarde, mientras sendereo con mis amigos por una extensión rocosa donde habitan las ochotonas, una comadreja emerge de las rocas para investigarnos. Curiosa con un toque prudente de precaución, ella corre hacia nosotros y luego desaparece bajo una peña. Segundos después, aparece de nuevo. Sigue en este ballet de explorar y esconderse por varios minutos. Luego, más adelante en el sendero, vemos a una segunda comadreja, brincando sobre las rocas en su búsqueda fluida para alimento. Es algo hermoso para mirar—a menos que seas la ochotona o ardilla listada que corre el riesgo de convertirse en su alimento.

Las últimas flores del otoño

El viaje del agua a través de este paisaje empieza en el invierno, cuando la nieve profunda cubre estas montañas altas. Ahora la manta invernal se ha derretido por completo. Mucha humedad se ha filtrado por el suelo y ya emerge lentamente, alimentando un riachuelo musgoso que corre por las rocas altas. La nieve del invierno pasado ya borbotea para el Océano Pacífico, 2.200 metros bajo en altitud y más de 1.400 kilómetros aguas abajo. Al lado del riachuelo, una planta de flor de mono rosada (Mimulus sp.) está mostrando su última flor, una despedida magenta del verano entre cientos de cápsulas de semillas.

Aquí y ahí, los brezos aún florecen también, urnas rosadas y blancas que balancean unos pocos centímetros sobre las rocas. Mientras tanto, en la cresta donde las aves rapaces pasan, los alerces alpinos están comenzando a despedirse del verano ardientemente. Sus acículas están mostrando los primeros matices del color dorado brillante. Pronto las acículas van a caerse mientras los alerces se ponen desnudos en preparación para el invierno.

Viento, agua y conexión

Más aguas abajo por el riachuelo, cerca de una cascada, una bandada de bisbitas norteamericanas (Anthus rubescens) se echa a volar desde las piedras. Me detengo para admirar un grupo soleado de semillas y flores de árnica (Arnica sp.). La mitad ya se ha transformado en los paracaídas leonados que van a dispersar las semillas por el viento.

Este riachuelo fluye adelante por lagunas glaciares y cascadas energéticas hacia el Lago Kootenay. Ahí las aguas se unen y continúan fluyendo, siguiendo el Río Columbia hacia el océano. El río curva y cruza las fronteras entre países, como mi vida, como las vidas de tantas personas. Las águilas reales y los gavilanes pecho canela siguen el viento y el sol hacia el sur, lejos del invierno, como han hecho por muchas generaciones. El río nos conecta; el viento nos conecta. Y los alerces, brezos y abetos alpinos nos muestran qué significa estar enraizado, crecer paciente y silenciosamente entre un revoltijo de rocas. El otoño que viene, aún van a estar aquí, esperando para compartir su sabiduría con nosotros.

The post Un viaje naturalístico por el Parque Provincial Kokanee Glacier appeared first on Wild With Nature.

January 18, 2023

A waning sliver of moon hangs in a partly cloudy sky this morning. The winter sun lights up the tan grasses, gray cottonwoods, and crusty white patches of snow in Montana’s Helena Valley. The blue curve of mountains that surrounds us remains in shadow. Local birder Stephen Turner and I are driving slowly through the valley, making a 71-mile circuit through cottonwoods, pastures, agricultural fields, and subdivisions. Our goal is straightforward, but by no means simple. We’re trying to count up the overwintering raptors using this valley.

Raptors are hunters. Our smaller birds mostly feed on insects, seeds, and fruits: foods that are often abundant on a local scale. But raptors hunt animals. Depending on the species, their diets may include deer mice, voles, ground squirrels, jackrabbits, trout, suckers, sparrows, and ducks. And for this reason, raptors are relatively rare. Just as there are countless thousands or millions of seeds in the world for every sparrow that exists, there must be many sparrows for every sharp-shinned hawk. For every red-tailed hawk that exists, there are many more voles and deer mice.

For raptors to thrive, their prey must be thriving, too. And so, each red-tailed hawk, bald eagle, or sharp-shinned hawk in the Helena Valley is a sign of health. And when our overwintering raptors diminish, it’s a clue that the landscape is becoming less healthy for all life.

This is the reason for today’s survey. How many raptors are spending the winter in the Helena Valley? And how are their numbers changing, for better or worse, over time? 

How are our winter raptors doing?

Today’s survey will take us most of the day. But it’s just one of a whopping 542 routes that volunteer observers are conducting this winter across the northwestern US, from California to Montana.

The project began 18 years ago in Oregon with a simple question: how were the state’s winter raptor populations doing? Jeff Fleischer started coordinating surveys in the winter of 2004, with 79 routes across Oregon that year. Soon, East Cascades Audubon Society began supporting the effort, and it has expanded steadily ever since. 

On each route, volunteer observers do a survey once a month between December and February. Some also do surveys in November and March. And once a route is set up, the observer repeats it in the same way on each survey. This makes it possible to compare raptor numbers between months and years.

Montana’s winter raptors

The Montana raptor routes are recent additions to this project. Stephen Turner started this one in November of 2022. And even after just a few months, these surveys are already painting a much more complete picture of our winter raptor populations than casual bird observation ever could.

“If you don’t take the time to survey this stuff thoroughly, you miss a lot,” Stephen tells me. “It’s just so different from just going out to bird.”

“The numbers are much higher than I anticipated,” he continues. “The number of roughies [rough-legged hawks] in the valley is extraordinary.”

In December, Stephen counted 38 rough-legged hawks – an impressive tally in this small valley among the mountains. Red-tailed hawks weren’t as numerous as the Arctic-nesting, cold-adapted rough-legged hawks. Nevertheless, Stephen found over 20 of them in the valley. Based on his November and December sightings, Stephen now expects to count around six to twelve bald eagles on any given survey. And other notable overwintering raptors, present in lower numbers, include prairie falcons, northern harriers, American kestrels, and merlins. 

Hunting through crusty snow

So here we are this morning, driving slowly through the valley. As the passenger, I record data and scan for raptors on the right side of the road. Stephen drives, watches for traffic, and counts birds on the left side.

“It really is a lot easier with two people,” Stephen says.

We’re constantly scanning fence posts, power poles, irrigation pivots, and cottonwoods, searching intently for the distant form of a perched raptor. Sometimes we spot one in flight, too, flapping over the fields or circling higher on a thermal of sun-warmed air. We identify what we can with our binoculars, but for more distant birds we pull over and set up Stephen’s spotting scope to confirm. 

As we drive along Sierra Road, the snow forms a continuous blanket over the fields. It looks crusty: the sort of snow, shaped by thawing and refreezing, that a hawk might have trouble punching through to catch a subnivean vole or mouse.

“Doesn’t it look like this would be tough for a raptor to work?” Stephen says.

But when we turn onto Floweree Drive, the snow cover gets patchier. And the raptors seem to respond. We find several rough-legged hawks perching on irrigation pivots and power poles. A red-tailed hawk lands briefly on the roof of a newly built house, one of many that are rapidly replacing the Helena Valley’s open spaces. The hawk doesn’t stay long, though, before it lifts back up into the current of a light southwesterly breeze.

From bald eagles to sharp-shinned hawks

We find an adult bald eagle perching in the cottonwoods along Prickly Pear Creek, its white head gleaming when the sun emerges from behind the clouds. Setting up the spotting scope, we identify two more-distant rough-legged hawks, perching on fence posts among the pastures. 

Anytime we see a hawk fly, we’re doing our best to track its movements. We want to be careful not to double-count any raptors that move from one area to another during our survey.

It’s when we’re along Helberg Drive, passing slowly by a farmhouse, that the raptor-counting really starts to get busy. Stephen spots a compact, narrow bird perching in a crack willow (Salix fragilis). Its head is small, its tail long and dark-barred. In comparison with the rough-legged hawks we’ve been seeing, it’s tiny. This is a sharp-shinned hawk: an ambush predator that hunts songbirds. And unlike the mammal-eating rough-legged hawks and red-tailed hawks that are so easy to spot perching around the fields, these miniature hawks are truly hard to find. This one must have eaten recently, we think, because it’s perching calmly in the willow. It turns its head and watches us nonchalantly.

Another tiny raptor

As we’re getting ready to move on, I spot a flash of movement on the other side of the truck, along the irrigation ditch. It’s another small raptor, but this one has much pointier wings with tan spots along the primaries. It’s a merlin!

The merlin flies away, screaming in annoyance. It’s unusual to see these birds on the ground. Like sharp-shinned hawks, merlins mostly hunt songbirds. Typically, they perch on power poles or in the tops of trees, searching for prey. Finding a distant bird, a merlin will launch into rapid flight, using speed and topography to ambush its prey. 

But this merlin was on the ground. Did she land here just before we startled her, chasing a songbird to the ground? When she takes off, though, she has no prey in her talons. It appears that her morning hunt has not yet been successful.

Rough-legged hawk or red-tailed hawk?

We continue on and scan the fields again. Several bald eagles are perching along a distant fenceline. We count two more rough-legged hawks and then put the scope on another hawk, dark and backlit in a distant tree. With the distance and the bad lighting, this raptor poses a challenge.

Rough-legged hawk or red-tailed hawk? It’s a frequent question in Montana during the winter. Rough-legged hawks typically have a very pale head, an extensive band of dark feathers across the belly, and a white patch at the base of the tail. Red-tailed hawks have a dark head and a narrower band of dark feathers across the breast. Their tails are orange or grayish, without a white patch at the base. But both species are highly variable in their plumage. Some birds of each are “dark morphs”: mostly black-feathered birds without the typical patterns. And some individuals are just so distant that identification can be a struggle.

In cases like these, we also look for some additional clues. Perching rough-legged hawks look pear-shaped. They’re broadest at the belly, with a relatively small head. Red-tailed hawks appear large-headed and broadest at the shoulder. And if it’s possible to get a look at the legs, rough-legged hawks have feathers down to their feet. Red-tails, on the other hand, have bare “shins.”

This distant bird has the broad shoulders and large head of a red-tailed hawk. 

Successful hunting

As we backtrack past the farmhouse towards the main road, the sharp-shinned hawk is still perching where we first found it in the willow. The merlin has disappeared.

But it’s not our last merlin encounter of the day. Several hours later, we’ve pulled over along Lake Helena Drive to scope another distant hawk when a small shadow dives out of the sky and disappears in the weeds along the far side of the road. We watch expectantly, holding our breath. Soon the small falcon reappears, flying up to a fencepost. And this time the hunter was successful: a vole is dangling from its talons.

By late afternoon, when we finish the survey, our eyes are getting tired. And no wonder: it’s taken us just over eight hours of intensive raptor-searching to complete the route. Compared to Stephen’s December survey, red-tailed hawk numbers have fallen, while rough-legged hawks have remained stable. Today we’ve found 11 red-tailed hawks and 37 rough-legged hawks. We’ve counted 12 bald eagles, three merlins, one sharp-shinned hawk, and one northern harrier. 

No survey will find everything that’s present. Today we haven’t found prairie falcons or American kestrels, for example, two uncommon winter raptors that we know birders have seen quite recently in this area. But by repeating these surveys in the same way each time – and by conducting them not just here, but in hundreds of other places across the northwestern United States – a detailed picture of our wintering raptor populations is beginning to emerge.

Raptors under threat

In the Helena Valley, casual observations suggest that we’re losing habitat for raptors – and we’re losing it fast. In just the past five years, new subdivisions have sprawled across what was once farmland along Keir Lane, on the east side of the valley near Spokane Bay. And Stephen, who has been birding the Helena Valley for years, has noticed major changes.

“The subdivision has affected the bigger birds in here,” he tells me.

Bald eagles used to be common in the cottonwoods along Spokane Creek. Rough-legged hawks and red-tailed hawks were frequent along Keir Lane during the winter. And on those rare occasions when a gyrfalcon – an extremely rare winter visitor from the arctic – would show up in the Helena Valley, this was one of the likeliest areas to find it.

“That certainly has changed,” Stephen says.

An important valley

But in spite of the rapid growth of subdivisions and all of the habitat loss that has already occurred, this winter’s raptor surveys are telling us that the Helena Valley is still an important place for overwintering hawks and eagles. This valley supports dozens of rough-legged hawks and red-tailed hawks. The cottonwoods, creeks, and pastures still offer habitat for bald eagles. And, if you get lucky, you might find a merlin hunting for songbirds or voles along a fenceline.

When we go out to count raptors, we’re collecting the information that will allow us to see future trends in our winter populations of hawks and eagles. But it’s about much more than just the numbers. It’s about love for these hunters who share the winter landscape with us. It’s about the grasses and cottonwoods, voles and songbirds, that must thrive to support them. If our raptors can thrive – and if we can watch their populations actually increase over the years, rather than dwindle – then that’s a good sign for the future of life on earth.

Are you interested in volunteering for this project? To find out about winter raptor survey opportunities near you, contact Jeff Fleischer at raptorrunner97321@yahoo.com.

Further reading

East Cascades Audubon Society. (2022). Winter raptor surveys [with links to raptor survey data]. Retrieved from https://www.ecaudubon.org/winter-raptor-survey

The post An abundance of overwintering raptors appeared first on Wild With Nature.

18 de enero de 2023

Una rodaja fina de la luna menguante cuelga en un cielo parcialmente nublado esta mañana. El sol invernal ilumina los pastos de marrón claro, álamos grises y parches blancos de nieve crujiente en el Valle de Helena, Montana, EEUU. La curva azul de montañas que nos rodea sigue en sombra. Estoy con Stephen Turner, un pajarero local. Estamos manejando despacio por el valle, haciendo un circuito de 71 millas entre álamos, pasturas, campos agrícolas y zonas residenciales. Nuestra meta es directa, pero de ninguna manera es fácil. Queremos contar las aves rapaces que están pasando el invierno en este valle.

Aves rapaces son cazadores. En general, nuestras aves más pequeñas se alimentan de insectos, semillas y frutas: comidas las cuales frecuentemente son abundantes a escala local. Pero aves rapaces, por otro lado, cazan animales vertebrados. Dependiendo de la especie, sus dietas puedan incluir ratones ciervo, topillos, ardillas terrestres, liebres, truchas, matalotes, gorriones y patos. Y por eso, las aves rapaces son relativamente escasas. Así como hay miles o millones incontables de semillas por cada gorrión que existe, también tiene que haber varios gorriones por cada gavilán pecho canela (Accipiter striatus). Por cada aguililla cola roja (Buteo jamaicensis) que existe, hay muchos más topillos y ratones ciervo.

Para que las aves rapaces prosperen, su presa tiene que prosperar primero. Por lo tanto, cada aguililla cola roja, águila cabeza blanca (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) o gavilán pecho canela en el Valle de Helena es una señal de salud. Y cuando disminuyen las poblaciones de nuestras aves rapaces invernales, es un indicio que el paisaje se vuelva menos saludable por toda vida.

Por eso estamos haciendo estas observaciones hoy. ¿Cuántas aves rapaces están pasando el invierno en el Valle de Helena? Y ¿cómo cambian sus números, para bien o para mal, con el tiempo?

¿Cómo están nuestras aves rapaces invernales?

El relevamiento de hoy durará la mayoría del día para nosotros. Pero esta ruta solamente es una de 542 tales rutas actuales – una suma increíble – las que observadores voluntarios llevan a cabo este invierno en toda la parte noroeste de los EEUU, desde California hasta Montana.

El proyecto empezó hace 18 años en Oregón con una pregunta simple: ¿cómo estaban las aves rapaces de invierno en aquel estado? Jeff Fleischer empezó a coordinar relevamientos durante el invierno de 2004, con 79 rutas entonces dentro del estado de Oregón. Poco después, East Cascades Audubon Society empezó a apoyar la iniciativa, y desde entonces ha seguido expandiéndose.

En cada ruta, observadores voluntarios hacen un relevamiento una vez al mes desde diciembre hasta febrero. Algunos eligen también hacer relevamientos en noviembre y marzo. Y después de que se establezca una ruta, el observador la sigue de la misma manera cada vez. Esta normalización lo hace posible que se puede ver cambios entre meses y años en los números de aves rapaces.

Las aves rapaces de Montana en el invierno

Las rutas en Montana se le han sumado recientemente al proyecto. Stephen Turner inició esta ruta, en el Valle de Helena, en noviembre de 2022. Pero aun después de algunos meses, ya estamos viendo un dibujo mucho más completo de nuestras poblaciones invernales de aves rapaces que lo que pudiéramos lograr con observaciones informales.

“Si no dedicas tiempo para observar estas cosas cuidadosamente, te pierde mucho,” me dice Stephen. “Es tan diferente que sólo salir a pajarear.”

“Los números son mucho más grandes que anticipaba,” sigue él. “La cantidad de aguilillas árticas en este valle es extraordinaria.”

En diciembre, Stephen contó 38 aguilillas árticas (Buteo lagopus) – un conteo impresionante por un valle pequeño entre las montañas. Aguilillas cola roja (Buteo jamaicensis) no fueron tan abundantes que las aguilillas árticas, esas últimas que anidan en la región ártica y se han adaptado bien al frío. No obstante, en diciembre Stephen encontró 20 aguilillas cola roja en el valle. Basado en sus observaciones en noviembre y diciembre, Stephen ya espera contar entre seis y doce águilas cabeza blanca (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) en cada relevamiento. Y también hay otras especies notables, presentes aunque de abundancia baja, incluso halcones mexicanos (Falco mexicanus), gavilanes rastreros (Circus hudsonius), cernícalos americanos (Falco sparverius) y halcones esmerejones (Falco columbarius).

Cazando a través de la nieve crujiente

Así es que estamos aquí esta mañana, conduciendo despacio por el valle. Yo, como pasajero, anoto los datos y vigilo para aves al lado derecho de la calle. Stephen maneja la camioneta, se mantiene alerto para tráfico y cuenta aves al lado izquierdo.

“Realmente lo hace mucho más fácil tener dos personas,” dice Stephen.

Constantemente estamos mirando a postes de cerca o electricidad, dispositivos de riego y álamos, buscando atentamente para la forma distante de un ave rapaz posándose. A veces vemos una aguililla a medio vuelo, también, batiéndose sobre los campos o dando vueltas más alto dentro de una térmica de aire calentado por el sol. Identificamos lo que podamos con binoculares. Cuando encontramos aves más distantes, montamos el telescopio de Stephen para confirmar la identificación.

Mientras seguimos Sierra Road, vemos la nieve en una manta continua sobre los campos. Parece crujiente: el tipo de nieve, dada forma por ciclos de deshielo y congelación, que podría hacérselo difícil que una aguililla la perforara para atrapar un topillo o ratón debajo.

“¿No parece que esto sería difícil por un ave rapaz?” dice Stephen.

Sin embargo, cuando tomamos Floweree Drive, la cubierta de nieve se vuelve más dispersa. Y las aves rapaces parecen responder. Encontramos varias aguilillas árticas posándose en las estructuras de riego y los postes de electricidad. Una aguililla cola roja aterriza brevemente sobre el techo de una casa recientemente construida, una de la multitud que está reemplazando rápidamente a los espacios abiertos del Valle de Helena. Pero la aguililla sólo se queda brevemente antes de despegar otra vez, volando en la corriente del viento ligero que viene desde el suroeste.

Desde águilas cabeza blanca hasta gavilanes pecho canela

Encontramos un águila cabeza blanca madura posándose en los álamos al lado del Arroyo Prickly Pear. Su cabeza blanca brilla cuando el sol aparece desde detrás de las nubes. Montamos el telescopio e identificamos dos más aguilillas árticas, encaramándose en postes de cerca entre las pasturas.

Cada vez que vemos una aguililla volando, intentamos seguir sus movimientos. Queremos evitar la posibilidad de contar la misma ave dos veces, la que pudiera suceder cuando un ave se desplaza durante el relevamiento.

Acontece cuando estamos en Helberg Drive, pasando por una alquería, que el contar de aves empieza a volverse bien ocupado. Stephen ve un ave compacta y delgada sentándose en una mimbrera frágil (Salix fragilis). Tiene una cabeza pequeña y una cola larga con rayas oscuras. Comparada con las aguilillas árticas, es minúscula. Ésta es un gavilán pecho canela (Accipiter striatus): un depredador que suele cazar las aves cantoras desde una emboscada. Y a diferencia de las aguilillas que se alimentan con mamíferos, las cuales son tan fáciles de ver cerca de los campos, estos gavilanes pequeños son bien desafiantes de hallar. Sospechamos que éste se alimentó recientemente, porque se posa con calma en la mimbrera. Gira la cabeza y nos mira con indiferencia.

Otra ave rapaz minúscula

Mientras nos preparamos para continuar, me doy cuenta de un destello de movimiento al otro lado de nuestra camioneta, cerca de la acequia. Es otra pequeña ave rapaz, pero ésta tiene alas agudas con manchas canelas a lo largo de las primarias. ¡Es un esmerejón (Falco columbarius)!

El depredador pequeño se echa a volar, gritando con irritación. Es inusual ver estos halcones posándose en la tierra. Como los gavilanes pecho canela, los esmerejones cazan, más que nada, pájaros cantores. Por lo general, se posan en postes de electricidad o en las cimas de los árboles, buscando su presa desde ahí. Al ver un ave distante, el esmerejón despegará rápidamente, aprovechando su propia velocidad y el terreno para emboscar la presa.

Pero encontramos este esmerejón posado en la tierra. ¿Por qué? ¿Acabó de aterrizar ahí justo antes de que lo sobresaltáramos, habiendo perseguido un ave cantora? Cuando lo vemos despegar, sin embargo, no tiene ninguna presa en las garras. Parece que la caza matutina aún no ha tenido éxito.

¿Aguililla ártica o aguililla cola roja?

Seguimos adelante y examinamos los campos nuevamente. Algunas águilas cabeza blanca están sentándose a lo largo de una cerca distante. Logramos contar dos más aguilillas árticas también. Y entonces apuntamos el telescopio hacia otra aguililla, oscura y retroiluminada en un árbol distante. Entre la distancia y la iluminación mala, la identificación de esta ave nos supone un reto.

¿Aguililla ártica (Buteo lagopus) o aguililla cola roja (Buteo jamaicensis)? Ésta es una pregunta común en Montana durante el invierno. Por lo general, las aguilillas árticas tienen la cabeza pálida, la barriga cruzada por una franja extensa de plumas oscuras y la cola con un parche blanco en la base. Las aguilillas cola roja tienen la cabeza oscura y el pecho con una franja más angosta de plumas oscuras. También tienen la cola anaranjada o gris, sin un parche blanco en la base. No obstante, las dos especies tienen mucha variabilidad en su plumaje. Algunos individuos de cada especie son “morfos oscuros”: aguilillas mayoritariamente negras que carecen de los patrones típicos. Y algunos individuos permanecen tan distantes que se nos hace la identificación dura.

En tales casos, buscamos algunas pistas adicionales. Cuando una aguililla ártica se posa, se parece a la forma de una pera: más amplia cerca de la barriga, con la cabeza relativamente pequeña. Por otro lado, una aguililla cola roja parece ser más amplia cerca de los hombros, con la cabeza grande. Y si logras ver las patas, fíjate en que las aguilillas árticas tienen plumas hasta los pies. Las aguilillas cola roja, mientras tanto, tienen las “espinillas” desnudas.

El ave distante la que vemos tiene los hombros amplios y la cabeza grande de una aguililla cola roja.

Una caza exitosa

Cuando pasamos por la alquería de vuelta hacia la arteria principal, vemos el gavilán pecho canela aún posándose donde lo encontramos primero en la mimbrera. El esmerejón ha desaparecido.

No obstante, resulta que no fue nuestro último encuentro del día con un esmerejón. Unas horas después, hemos parado al lado de Lake Helena Drive para identificar otra aguililla distante cuando una sombra pequeña se lanza desde el cielo. Desaparece en la maleza al otro lado de la carretera. Esperamos con anticipación, aguantando la respiración. Pronto el halcón pequeño resurge y vuela hacia un poste de cerca. Y esta vez, el cazador tuvo éxito: un topillo está colgando de las garras.

Cuando finalmente terminamos el relevamiento, al fin de la tarde, se nos están cansando los ojos. Y con razón: la búsqueda intensa para aves rapaces nos duró un poco más de ocho horas. Comparado con el relevamiento que Stephen hizo en diciembre, el número de aguilillas cola roja ha bajado mientras que el de aguilillas árticas se ha mantenido estable. Hoy hemos encontrado 11 aguilillas cola roja y 37 aguilillas árticas. También hemos contado 12 águilas cabeza blanca, tres esmerejones, un sólo gavilán pecho canela y un gavilán rastrero (Circus hudsonius).

Ningún relevamiento puede hallar todo lo que esté presente. Hoy, por ejemplo, no hemos encontrado ningunos halcones mexicanos (Falco mexicanus) ni cernícalos americanos (Falco sparverius), dos especies escasas durante el invierno, aunque sabemos que otros pajareros las han visto recientemente acá. Sin embargo, al repetir relevamientos como esto de la misma manera cada vez – y al hacerlos no sólo aquí, sino en centenas de lugares distintos a lo largo del parte noroeste de los EEUU – se nos empieza a aparecer una imagen bien detallada de nuestras poblaciones invernales de aves rapaces.

Aves rapaces en riesgo

En el Valle de Helena, observaciones informales sugieren que estemos perdiendo los hábitats para estas aves – y rápidamente. Sólo en los últimos cinco años, urbanizaciones nuevas se han expandido sobre lo que era tierra de cultivo a lo largo de Keir Lane, al lado este del valle cerca de la Bahía de Spokane. Y Stephen, quien lleva muchos años observando pájaros en el Valle de Helena, se ha dado cuenta de cambios graves.

“La urbanización les ha afectado a los pájaros grandes acá,” me dice.

Las águilas cabeza blanca solían ser comunes en los álamos a lo largo del Arroyo Spokane. Se veía a menudo a las aguilillas árticas y aguilillas cola roja durante el invierno a lo largo de Keir Lane. Y en aquellas pocas ocasiones en que un halcón gerifalte (Falco rusticolus) – un visitante sumamente escaso desde las regiones árticas – se aparecía en el Valle de Helena, esta área era uno de los lugares más probables en el que hallarlo.

“Eso definitivamente ha cambiado,” dice Stephen.

Un valle importante

No obstante, a pesar del crecimiento repentino de urbanizaciones y todas las pérdidas de hábitat que ya han acontecido, los relevamientos de este invierno nos dicen que el Valle de Helena todavía es un lugar importante para las aguilillas y águilas invernales. Este valle mantiene decenas de aguilillas árticas y aguilillas cola roja. Los álamos, arroyos y pasturas aún ofrecen hábitat para las águilas cabeza blanca. Y, si tienes suerte, pudieras encontrar un esmerejón cazando aves cantoras o topillos a lo largo de una cerca.

Cada vez que salimos para contar aves rapaces, recogemos la información que nos permitirá ver las tendencias futuras en las poblaciones invernales de nuestras aguilillas y águilas. Pero este proyecto va mucho más allá de los números. Tiene que ver con amor por estos cazadores plumados que compartan el paisaje invernal con nosotros. Trata sobre los pastos y álamos, topillos y aves cantoras, todos los que tienen que florecer para mantener a las aves rapaces. Si nuestras aves rapaces pueden prosperar – y si podemos ver sus poblaciones crecer a través de los años, en vez de disminuirse – entonces será una buena señal para toda la vida en el planeta.

¿Estás interesado en ayudar con este proyecto? Para aprender más sobre oportunidades para relevamientos de aves rapaces cerca de ti, por favor ponte en contacto con Jeff Fleischer, raptorrunner97321@yahoo.com.

Leer más

East Cascades Audubon Society. (2022). Winter raptor surveys [con enlaces a datos de los relevamientos]. Recuperado de https://www.ecaudubon.org/winter-raptor-survey

The post Una abundancia de aves rapaces del invierno appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Kochia (Kochia scoparia): the mention of this weed conjures consternation in the minds of many. But when I think of kochia, I think of sparrows. 

October 24, 2022 was a day when it was hard to miss the connection between kochia and sparrows. A snowstorm had pushed through Helena the day before. The glowing golden leaves of the sandbar willows (Salix exigua) were covered with wet snow. It was a reminder that winter was coming. Montana’s six-month season of cold and snow was on its way. 

And among the thick, bushy kochia stands lining a recently-restored section of Prickly Pear Land Trust’s Sevenmile Creek stream restoration site, near Helena, the sparrows seemed to be everywhere.

Three other naturalists had joined me on this morning’s survey. Photographer Lea Frye had brought an arsenal of cameras along (check out more of her amazing work here!). Shawn Watts and Scot Bealer were helping to spot birds and track behaviors.

Sparrows in the kochia

And as soon as we got into the kochia, there was a lot to track. Right away I could hear American tree sparrows – recent arrivals from the arctic – making their tip calls from two different directions. Then Lea spotted three more birds as they hopped into the tops of the kochia. These were migrating Lincoln’s sparrows, compact with crisp, dark streaks across their subtle tan breasts. And it was surprising to see them here this late. Lincoln’s sparrows nest in wet, willowy patches in the mountains of Montana and the boreal forest of Canada and Alaska. Here at Sevenmile Creek, they’re a common fall migrant, their numbers typically peaking in late September. By late October, I would generally expect that all of them would have already moved through. But this year, with a mild fall, it was clear that a few Lincoln’s sparrows were lingering longer than expected.

Soon we saw another sparrow perching on top of a kochia plant. Surely this was just one of those that we had already seen? But no – this was a song sparrow, streaky like the Lincoln’s sparrows but larger, its breast white rather than tan. Its streaks were thicker, too, as if they had been painted with a crayon instead of with a fine-tipped pen.

Song sparrows and migration

The song sparrow is the more-adaptable cousin of the Lincoln’s sparrow. It nests across much of Canada, migrating south as winter approaches. But it’s also a common nester in Montana, not just in wet willow thickets in the mountains but also nearly anywhere, high or low, that there is water and good cover. Seeing a song sparrow here, it’s hard to tell what its story might be. Is it one of the song sparrows that nests here, sticking around through the fall to feed on kochia seeds? Or is this bird a migrant, moving south from Canada?

But today, the song sparrows kept popping up in the kochia. By the end of the day, we had counted at least eleven of them here – way more than the handful we find during the breeding season. With so many song sparrows present, it seemed likely that we were seeing some Canadian migrants, moving south in preparation for winter.

White-crowned sparrows from Canada

The American tree sparrows I had heard at first remained secretive. It was only later, in the chokecherries, that we got a good look at them. But soon we saw a fourth species of sparrow perching in the kochia tops. This one, the white-crowned sparrow, was the largest yet. Unstreaked on the breast like the American tree sparrow, we could see its pale-orange beak from a distance. Soon several more of them appeared, a small flock. All of these white-crowned sparrows were this summer’s hatchlings, their striped heads brown, not the striking black-and-white of the adults.

Eventually we counted at least eight of them. They looked at us quizzically as they fed on kochia seeds. Like the Lincoln’s sparrows, these white-crowns were unusually late migrants. En route from their birthplaces in the boreal forest of Canada or Alaska, they were stopping here to stock up on seeds as they fled the approaching winter. Soon, like the Lincoln’s sparrows, they would be gone, not to be seen again in Montana until the spring. (Note: like Lincoln’s sparrows, there are also white-crowned sparrows that nest in the mountains of Montana. But those birds have a dark stripe not only behind the eye, but also in front of it. Based on this distinction, we could tell that these migrants were from the more northerly, boreal forest population.)

Sparrow identification

Whew! So many sparrows! No wonder some people dismiss them all as “little brown birds.” But like the weedy kochia that feeds them, I believe sparrows are far more interesting than people often assume. And with a bit of practice, they aren’t all that hard to tell apart. Let’s review these four:

Lincoln’s sparrow: Small, with a very pointy bill. Breast with fine, dark streaks on an orange-tan background.

Song sparrow: A bit larger, with a broader, more triangular bill. Breast with wider streaks on a white background.

White-crowned sparrow: One of our largest sparrows, with a yellow or orange bill. Breast solid gray, without streaks or spots. Adults have black-and-white stripes on their heads. Immatures have chestnut-brown stripes instead.

American tree sparrow: Breast grayish like a white-crowned sparrow, but with a dark central spot. Upper part of the bill gray, lower part yellow. Chestnut-striped head.

The sparrows kept appearing. There seemed to be dozens, maybe more. After all, we only had four sets of eyes, and there were thousands of kochia plants where sparrows could hide. Maybe there were 50 sparrows in here today, maybe more. 

At one point, we saw five song sparrows perching together. Others made unidentifiable lispy calls nearby. And each time a bird popped into view, we had to check to see if it was something new. 

“There’s so many species in these little groups that, positionally, you can’t say what’s what,” Scot remarked.

Watching for rarities and other surprises

Earlier, Shawn had posed the important question of what other species we might hope to see here. And so it was that we kept our eyes open for the rarer possibilities, as well. We watched for Harris’s sparrows, with their massive pink bills. White-throated sparrows, with a prominent yellow spot in front of their eye. Swamp sparrows, like a rarer version of a Lincoln’s sparrow and without strong breast streaks. Fox sparrows, resembling the song sparrow but with their breast streaks made up of reddish rows of vees.

We kept our eyes peeled, but none of these rarities materialized. Suddenly, Scot noticed something unusual. It fell out of the sky in the gray blink of an eye, disappearing among the kochia. Or had Scot only imagined it? We waited. Nothing seemed to have changed. The sparrows kept perching and calling. Snow dripped slowly from the kochia. 

And then, minutes later, we saw it well. A sharp-shinned hawk, petite and ferocious. It leapt up from the kochia, disturbed from its attempt at ambushing the sparrows. There it perched in the chokecherries, a tiny predator, intent on a sparrow lunch. 

Here was the food web, right in front of our eyes. From kochia seed to sparrow crop to a sharp-shinned hawk’s lunch. The last link in this chain was delayed, for a time. But here or in the next kochia stand along the route of its migration, the sharp-shinned hawk would surely try again.

Kochia, the hated weed

To most people, kochia is a weed. Native to Asia and eastern Europe, it’s an annual that has an amazing propensity to thrive along roadsides and in the disturbed soil of crop fields. People spray herbicides so often to control it that kochia has become resistant to several of them. As an annual, kochia’s strategy is to grow fast, produce a cornucopia of seeds, and then get out. Here at Sevenmile Creek, kochia has benefited from soil disturbance by excavators during stream restoration work. This patch of weeds is a short-lived phenomenon. In a few years, perennials like smooth brome (Bromus inermis) will outcompete it.

Kochia, the sparrows’ food

But to sparrows, the very traits that make kochia the bane of farmers make it a popular fall food source. It’s common and it thrives where few other plants manage to grow. It’s loaded with seeds. Its dense stands provide shelter from the weather and from predators.

So what does all of this mean? Is kochia good, or is it bad? As with all plants, it’s difficult to make such a simplistic value judgment. If you’re trying to grow wheat, kochia probably isn’t your favorite plant. But if you’re a sparrow looking for seeds at the tail end of fall migration, it might be just the ticket.

I probably wouldn’t recommend planting kochia in your yard for wildlife habitat. If you’re looking for seed-rich annuals that like disturbed soil, I’d recommend some of our native plants instead. Think of pit-seed goosefoot (Chenopodium berlandieri), giant-seed goosefoot (Chenopodium simplex), common sunflower (Helianthus annuus), and perhaps marsh elder (Iva xanthifolia). 

But if you find a thick patch of kochia in the fall, don’t just call it rude names. Grab your binoculars and take a slow walk through it. And let me know which sparrows you find.

Further Reading

Friesen, L.F., Beckie, H.J., Warwick, S.I., & Acker, R.C.V. (2009). The biology of Canadian weeds. 138. Kochia scoparia (L.) Schrad. Canadian Journal of Plant Science 89:141-167. Retrieved from https://cdnsciencepub.com/doi/pdf/10.4141/CJPS08057

The post Kochia: what this despised weed does for fall sparrows appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Fall has come gently to the Helena Valley this year. Temperatures have floated well above average. Killing frosts and early snowstorms have been delayed. Nevertheless, fall bird migration has seemed to fly past. The flood of warblers has passed through and the golden cottonwood trees have become quiet. But although fall can be a bittersweet season, with so many goodbyes as the summer birds leave Montana, the frigid months ahead are far from sterile. Here are a few of the bird stories to watch for in the months ahead:

Golden eagle migration

Sometime in early to mid-October, migrating golden eagles stream southward from Canada. They fly past silently. Few of us notice them passing. But for anyone who looks, it’s a spectacular sight. Along with many other raptors, large numbers of golden eagles funnel along the mountain ridges. Here, steady westerly winds act like an elevator, keeping these soaring birds aloft with a minimum of flapping. In mid-October, a mind-boggling 300+ golden eagles can glide past Helena’s mountain ridges in a single day, streaming rapidly southwards over the wind-blown subalpine firs.

Golden eagles over the valley

On some of these mid-October days, it’s possible to see this flow of migrating eagles from the valley bottom, too. October 16, 2017 was one of those days. I was out at Sevenmile Creek, doing a bird survey among the stark gray stems of the now-leafless chokecherries. As the morning warmed up, I spotted a dark speck circling in the blue sky over the rocky bulk of the Scratchgravel Hills. Soon there was a second one: two massive golden eagles high above, circling on thermals of rising air fueled by the mellowing warmth of the autumn sun. The eagles left their thermals and glided southwest overhead, towards the Boulder Mountains and the invisible spines of the mountain ridges extending south beyond them. 

Through that day of valley birding, I counted 11 golden eagles as they passed by, riding thermals and streaming south. It was an impressive spectacle in itself – and one that I could easily have missed, had I not been scanning the skies for tiny specks thousands of feet above me. But it was also part of something larger, a flood of raptors pouring south out of Canada. On that same day, observers at Duck Creek Pass on top of the nearby Big Belt Mountains counted an astounding 394 raptors gliding past their viewing station.

Snow geese and tundra swans

As the weather turns towards freezing and the first storms of winter blanket the ground with white, listen for a shrill barking music in the air over Helena. It’s the snow geese, passing overhead in uneven vees. With them, listen for the plaintive calls of the tundra swans and the trumpeter swans with their deep-throated barks. 

The passage of the geese and swans may not last long, but it’s incredible to behold. And when it comes to swans and snow geese, October 27, 2019 is a day that remains vividly in my memory. It was a morning that began with heavy frost. The ground was still covered with a thin layer of snow from a storm two days before, and the forecast called for temperatures falling to 0°F the following week. A handful of Last Chance Audubon Society volunteers and I had special permission to do yet another bird survey at Prickly Pear Land Trust’s Sevenmile Creek restoration site. Earlier in the month, we had watched golden eagles soaring through this airspace over the Scratchgravel Hills. Now, in their place, we were spotting snow geese and swans. A lot of snow geese and swans. 

Heading south

The swans came first, traversing the sky in small, vocal flocks. Often we saw our two species mixed together, a handful of the larger trumpeter swans leading a larger echelon of tundras. 

Next came the snow geese. They were flying higher than the swans, and in larger groups. Often we would glimpse a flock of them impossibly high overhead, their brilliant white bodies contrasting with their black wingtips, and then watch them disappear above the scattered stratus clouds that hung over the valley.

It was the sort of day when the birds kept coming, fast, and it took all five of us working together to count them. Our ears were tuned for the music of swans and high-flying geese. We scanned the northern sky, snapped photos as the flocks streamed past, and tried to count every single bird. And from our single site at the edge of the Helena Valley, when we tallied up the numbers, it was clear that the waterfowl were on the move. 322 trumpeter swans. 1,686 tundra swans. 1,105 snow geese. All of them flying powerfully south, navigating along the rocky backbone of Montana.

American tree sparrows

As winter settles in and the landscape relaxes into slow dormancy, American tree sparrows appear in the Helena Valley. The first tree sparrows of the fall generally arrive in October, flying south by night from their summer nesting places in the willows and spruces near the Arctic treeline. Small flocks stay with us throughout the winter, frequenting weedy, brushy places with a mix of shelter and seeds.

Watch for American tree sparrow flocks around patches of orach (Atriplex heterosperma), giant-seed goosefoot (Chenopodium simplex), pit-seed goosefoot (Chenopodium berlandieri), and kochia (Kochia scoparia). (Check out this video for some more information on our winter tree sparrows.) These dry, tan patches of weedy annuals are loaded with seeds. It’s common to first notice the tree sparrows by their calls, a sharp tip and a slightly less-common, warbled switlit. If you hear these calls, watch the bushes and weeds closely. There’s a good chance that there are a few dozen tree sparrows within, quietly stocking up on food to make it through the harsh cold snaps ahead.

And if you’re patient, you’ll be able to spot one of these gorgeous birds alighting in the tops of the goosefoot. Look for the neat black dot in the middle of the wintry gray breast. Notice how the bill is half-gray and half-yellow. And admire the sharp chestnut markings on the head before the tree sparrow flies, returning to seed-feeding in the cover of the dead annuals.

Rough-legged hawks

As the golden eagles of October glide silently past Helena, they bring with them another visitor from the far north. Rough-legged hawks spend their summers in the arctic. Montana is their idea of Arizona: a “mild” place to spend the winter. And as long as the snow doesn’t get too deep or too crusty, dozens of them can be found in the Helena Valley through the cold months. Rough-legged hawks are crisply patterned hunters. They’re the colors of winter: black shoulder patches like the long, cold nights and brilliant white flight feathers like the glare of the sun on the snow. They perch on fence posts, power poles, and in the very tops of trees and shrubs, scanning the snow that covers the valley. On a windy day, they’ll hover over the quiescent grasses, scanning the fields for mice and voles. 

Bohemian waxwings and their predators

As we reach November and the possibility of winter storms grows higher, watch for the arrival of these sleek, black-masked fruit-eaters. The fall and winter movements of Bohemian waxwings are notoriously variable from year to year, depending on where fruit can be found. In certain rare “irruption” years, massive numbers have appeared as far south as New Mexico.

Around Helena, bohemian waxwings are regular winter visitors. But here, too, numbers can be highly variable. In 2005, observers on the Last Chance Audubon Christmas Bird Count (CBC) reported over 16,000 bohemian waxwings around Helena. But in 2018, CBC observers only counted 20. 

Waxwings and fruits

In certain years, I’ve watched flocks of over 1,500 bohemian waxwings in the midst of Helena, feeding on winter fruits in peoples’ yards. Which fruits do they eat? Around Helena, the primary attractions seem to be Rocky Mountain junipers (Juniperus scopulorum), European mountain-ashes (Sorbus aucuparia), Russian-olives (Elaeagnus angustifolia), and crab apples (Malus sylvestris). The presence of cities on the Montana landscape has changed the winter fruit scene substantially. Of these four shrubs, only junipers are native. European mountain-ashes, Russian-olives, and crab apples are all widely planted ornamentals. Russian-olive has also become very widely naturalized in Montana, where it can pose threats to native plant communities.

Small flocks of bohemian waxwings can be incredibly tame, allowing us to get a close look at their chestnut butts, their yellow-tipped tails, and the waxy red spots in their wings. But large flocks are incredibly nervous, ready to fly at the drop of a pin. Why? All of these fruit-eaters attract predators. Around Helena in the winter, it’s common to see a merlin or a sharp-shinned hawk sneaking up on a waxwing flock, searching for a feathery meal.

Stories of our winter birds

As winter inches closer, it’s a time of slowing down. The days grow shorter. The leaves glow brilliantly for an instant, then drift to the ground. Our summer birds have left, our plants have shifted to dormancy, and our wood piles are ready for the cold. But there’s beauty to be found in the changing – and the quiet of winter isn’t as quiet as you might think. So as our hemisphere turns away from the sun, keep your eyes open for the feathered harbingers of the season. Watch for golden eagles, snow geese, and swans passing high overhead. Get to know our winter birds and the patterns of their lives. And as you do, consider that these rhythms of the landscape are stories people here have been noticing for many thousands of years.

What do these stories mean to you?

The post Stories to watch for: Helena’s fall and winter birds appeared first on Wild With Nature.

September 13, 2022

It’s the sort of day when Spokane Bay is covered with birds and anything seems possible. A great blue heron is wading in the shallows, stalking prey. I can’t see what it’s catching, but every few steps it plunges its beak forward, stabbing a small food item from the water. In the cattail marsh behind the heron, the common yellowthroats are chipping constantly as they dart cryptically through the stems. The cattail leaves are just beginning to turn yellow.

Closer to me, there are dozens of birds in the low thicket of snowberry, rose, and golden currant that borders the marsh. It’s a talkative community, but one that largely stays hidden. With some patience, though, a few of these birds begin to show themselves among the shrubs. There are fat, gray song sparrows making their chimp calls. The Lincoln’s sparrows, their smaller, more crisply-streaked cousins, are pausing here as well. Once in a while, I can hear their sharp zeet calls. There are young, drab white-crowned sparrows here, along with bright yellow Wilson’s warblers. Several gray catbirds pop up from the cover of the snowberry, one of them making an emphatic, sharp call.

Fall migration is in full swing now – in spite of the wildfire smoke, which is back after a few days of respite late last week. And with all of the birds on the move, Spokane Bay is bursting with activity.

Food among the algae

A sora rail has crept out from the cattails that border the shallows of the bay. It looks like a small chicken as it wades out on top of a mat of green algae, picking mysterious foods from among this carpet. A marsh wren has started singing from the cattails.

Farther out on the bay, the algae has decreased notably since last week. Perhaps the cool nights have discouraged its growth. More ducks are showing up on the bay: a handful of American wigeons and northern shovelers have joined the mallards and mergansers here.

Suddenly, a merlin makes a low pass over the marsh, a whoosh of fast-winged falcon trying to hunt lunch. The birds of the marsh have lucked out this time: they’re all well-hidden by the snowberry and cattails. The merlin continues on, and the momentary threat of sudden death has passed.

Merlins, sharp-shins, and peregrines

With all of the songbirds and ducks stopping here, Spokane Bay is getting to be a predator magnet. Just a few minutes ago, I spotted a sharp-shinned hawk circling over the bay, rising higher and higher on a thermal. And still earlier, I spotted a much larger predator here.

I had been hearing the nasal calls of the magpies for a while, absentmindedly. Finally, I decided to take a look at the group that was perching high on the ridge. What were they doing? That was when I saw ten black-billed magpies congregated around a large, dark raptor perched on a snag. It was a peregrine falcon: duck-hunter extraordinaire and incredibly long-distance migrant. Some peregrines from the Canadian tundra spend the winter in Buenos Aires, Argentina, hunting pigeons and bats over the streets of that massive city.

But today, it was clear that this peregrine wasn’t enjoying an easy meal of city pigeons. In fact, it seemed to be having a very bad morning. For a while, the falcon resolutely managed to ignore the harassment of the magpies. But finally, it was all too much. The peregrine took off, evidently irritated, heading south along the ridgeline. A hundred yards away it landed again, apparently hoping for some peace, but the magpies followed it like a cloud of bad news. Pestered to desperation, it took off again and continued south, out of sight. But minutes later, it was back, still trailing a cloud of determined, hostile magpies.

Predators and habitat

Why were the magpies being so hostile?

Peregrines don’t just eat ducks. And it seemed that these magpies knew in their bones what I had learned five years before, on the other side of the Helena Valley. On that October day, I watched a migrating peregrine capture an unwitting magpie, plowing into it in a high-speed dive. Today, the message of the magpies was clear: get out! You aren’t welcome here.

It’s on a day like this, when we’re surrounded by fall migration, that the importance of habitat becomes especially obvious. All of the birds stopping over here are hungry. They need sources of food – and hiding places where they can be safe from merlins and peregrines. At the same time, these migrating merlins and peregrines need to hunt: they also have an incredible migration to fuel.

How fortunate, then, that we have cattail stands to feed and shelter the common yellowthroats and marsh wrens. We have an aquatic food web that supports soras, ducks, and great blue herons. We have thickets of shrubs where dozens of sparrows and Wilson’s warblers can find food and hide from predators. And in the midst of this bird oasis, there’s also food for the falcons and hawks. I’m glad this is here.

The post A flood of migration and a harassed peregrine falcon appeared first on Wild With Nature.