This story is the third and final in a series about a pair of pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus) along the Clark Fork River near Missoula, Montana, USA. If you haven’t heard the rest of the story, you can start with part 1… or just jump in here!

When I next return to the pileated woodpecker forest, it’s early August, a hot afternoon with evening approaching. Wildfire smoke from Saskatchewan blurs the mountains into vague gray shapes and a western wood-pewee (Contopus sordidulus) sings lazily in the distance. The forest has changed dramatically since my last visit. Two weeks ago, the fierce winds of a freak thunderstorm pummeled Missoula, knocking down trees and powerlines. Here, it looks like a hurricane has passed through. The forest is still standing, but perhaps a third of the trees are gone. The wind snapped 60-year-old cottonwoods like toothpicks. The forest floor is littered with tree trunks and the smell of drying cottonwood leaves.

I pick my way over and around the debris to check on the nest tree. I fear the worst for it. Although the breeding season is over now, the woodpeckers might have reused the cavity as a winter roost—or, in rare instances, as a nest in a future year. But even if the woodpeckers never again were to visit their laboriously-excavated home, it would remain important to the forest community. Dozens of species reuse old pileated woodpecker nests to take shelter and raise their young, from western screech-owls (Megascops kennicottii) and wood ducks (Aix sponsa) to Vaux’s swifts (Chaetura vauxi) and northern flying squirrels (Glaucomys sabrinus). As I get closer, I prepare myself for bad news. Is the tree even standing still?

Destruction and regeneration

When I arrive, I’m relieved to see that the snag is unharmed. In fact, this section of the forest seems to have gotten off easily, with just a few toppled trees and downed branches. In contrast, a stand farther away from the river looks like a massive bulldozer ran over it, knocking over more than half of the trees.

During the hot, late summer afternoon, a very occasional kekekekeKE in the distance is my only clue that the pileated woodpeckers are still here in their wind-struck forest.

Standing among broken tree trunks, I think about destruction and regeneration. The loss of these trees feels tragic. But I know this isn’t the end of the story. In a few years, the downed trees will fruit with oyster mushrooms (Pleurotus sp.)—delicious sauteed in garlic—as the cottonwoods slowly transform into soil. Perhaps a hollow log will become a winter shelter for a porcupine. Will the snapped-off trunks resprout next year, like they do when the beavers cut them down? In spite of the catastrophic winds, much of the forest is still standing. And if the river is allowed to flood, a future spring will deposit fresh sediments as cottonwood silk is flying on the breeze, and a new generation of forest will emerge.

Threads of story

Soon the fall carries me south, to my partner’s home in Oaxaca. But the pileated woodpeckers stay with me; the cottonwood forest stays with me, imprinted on my heart and mind. Sometimes I let my imagination wander among the tree trunks, not knowing what I will find: a pileated woodpecker family, a song sparrow’s nest, fresh beaver activity along the river, a new story in the wordless tapestry. 

As I write over the winter, I gather together threads of story—special places in nature like this cottonwood forest, the call of a Cassin’s kingbird (Tyrannus vociferans), the dogbane that grows along the river and the birds of evening in the Oaxacan tropical forest—as I try to find meaning among the contradictions of my life. To love people and places bridged by jet fuel as climate change unleashes catastrophic wildfires, droughts, and hurricanes. To integrate into this Huatulco community as the tourist boom skyrockets prices, destroys mangroves, and changes ways of life. To seek a healthy relationship with the earth and my neighbors as billionaires and large corporations threaten it all to fill their pockets.

The Story is in Our Bones

I keep on thinking about the pileated woodpeckers as I read Osprey Oreille Lake’s book The Story is in Our Bones: How Worldviews and Climate Justice Can Remake a World in Crisis. She writes:

…[W]hen we take a deep breath and slow down to really think about it, the things that actually make our lives possible and joyous very often are not the things that require extractivism or items to purchase. Photosynthesis, the hydrologic cycle, love, friendship, walking in the beauty of nature, mutual aid, sharing stories and meals—these are all things that can be done without financial exchange. In the current dominant culture worldview, which commodifies everything and sees things only for their deemed financial worth, we become further detached from what is given freely—wildflowers and glaciers are exiled to the realm of the superfluous since there is no monetary value assigned to them. We are taught in the commodification culture to lose respect and appreciation for many nonfinancially related treasures.

To counter this rapacious economic worldview, we can work to restore what many have called a gift economy—a system that many of our ancestors participated in, some communities still practice today, and has engaged an ever-growing network of thought leaders. One of the central principles is not to hoard wealth; rather, the gift economy framework is about understanding that the only way the entire breathing, living ecology of place and community survives and thrives is through mutual aid. By making and giving gifts and moving those gifts throughout the community, we ensure our human and nonhuman relatives are taken care of. The essence of this exchange model is about aligning our economies with the natural laws of the Earth and our neighbors. 

In communities that have practiced the gift economy, valuables are not exchanged for money or for other goods but are instead given with no outward agreement that anything will be immediately returned. There is an implicit expectation that the person who received the gift will also give at some point in the future, whether back to the giver, to another person, to the land, or to the whole community, and until that happens, one remains in a state of positive debt. While debt is uncomfortable for those of us who live in a market economy, in a gift economy, debt is what binds one to the gift-giver and to the whole community, intentionally creating an atmosphere of ongoing reciprocity.

A gift economy

Osprey’s words ring true for me. I’ve experienced it so often in Oaxaca, this heartfelt generosity. An ear of maíz criollo, an invitation to share a meal. A complete stranger who invites me to visit their rancho. A glass of mezcal, an unhurried conversation, an “ésta es tu casa.” In many cases, to offer to repay these gifts with money would be an insult. And so I stay forever indebted, humbled, and grateful. I share my knowledge of birdsongs, pass on the gift of oranges from the abuelo Teo’s orchard, help out with dishes and firewood. Not to repay, because that’s not possible, but to pass the gift forward.

It’s that way with the pileated woodpeckers, too. How can I repay the gift of a wild call on the April breeze? They’ve showed me their home, trusted me with their nestling, helped me see the magic of this forest. To repay the gift would be impossible: I’m forever indebted to pileated woodpeckers. But I can try, in some small way, to reciprocate. To protect the location of their nest tree; to share the magic of their forest. To invite you, as well, to enter into a gift economy with pileated woodpeckers.

The song of the western screech-owl

It’s a starry April evening in 2025, one of those nights when the frost falls as soon as the sun sets. In a cottonwood grove along a stream in the western Montana foothills, a western screech-owl sings his bouncing-ball song as the water rushes over billion-year-old polished stones. I wonder if he has a mate yet, or if he’s still searching. I wonder whether the pileated woodpeckers have left a nesting cavity for him in this cottonwood stand, excavated one dry beakful at a time from the heart of a dead tree.

Each spring, the woodpeckers carve new holes, and their gifts continue for years afterwards. They provide homes where they didn’t previously exist for western screech-owls, hooded mergansers (Lophodytes cucullatus), Barrow’s goldeneyes (Bucephala islandica), and American kestrels (Falco sparverius). Ésta es tu casa. The song of the western screech-owl continues in the frosty night: a song held by snowmelt streams, old cottonwood silhouettes, and the gift of the pileated woodpeckers. And in the quiet song of the owl, I seem to hear a “thank you.”

Further reading

Bull, E.L. and J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Pileated woodpeckers and reciprocity appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Esta historia es la tercera y final en una serie sobre una pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos (Dryocopus pileatus) al lado del Río Clark Fork cerca de Missoula, Montana, EU. Si no has escuchado las partes anteriores, puedes empezar por la primera parte… o si prefieres, empieza aquí en medio!

La siguiente vez que regreso al bosque de los picamaderos norteamericanos, es el comienzo de agosto, una tarde calurosa unas horas antes del atardecer. Una humarada de incendios forestales en Saskatchewan difumina las montañas en formas grises vagas y un papamoscas del oeste (Contopus sordidulus) canta con pereza en la distancia. El bosque ha cambiado dramáticamente tras mi última visita. Hace dos semanas que una tormenta eléctrica inesperadamente intensa golpeó Missoula, tumbando árboles y cables eléctricos. Aquí, se ve como si hubiera pasado un huracán. El bosque sigue en pie, pero quizás una tercera parte de los árboles se ha caído. El viento rompió álamos de sesenta años como si fueran palillos. El suelo del bosque está cubierto con los troncos y escombros de los árboles. Llega el olor de las hojas arrebatadas de los álamos, secándose en el calor.

Camino despacio a través de los escombros para checar el árbol donde los picamaderos hicieron su nido. Temo que ha sido arrasado. Aunque ya ha pasado la temporada reproductiva, los picamaderos podrían haber reutilizado el nido como abrigo durante el invierno—o en casos raros, como un nido en otro año. Pero incluso si los picamaderos nunca jamás visitaran su hogar que pasaron tantas semanas excavando, este seguiría teniendo importancia para la comunidad del bosque. Docenas de especies utilizan los nidos viejos de los picamaderos para abrigarse o anidar, desde tecolotes del oeste (Megascops kennicottii) y patos arcoíris (Aix sponsa) hasta vencejos de Vaux (Chaetura vauxi) y ardillas voladoras norteñas (Glaucomys sabrinus). Mientras me acerco más, me preparo para las malas noticias. ¿Qué le pasó al árbol del nido?

La destrucción y la regeneración

Cuando llego, me alivia ver que el árbol muerto donde está el nido salió ileso. De hecho, esta parte del bosque parece haber escapado sin muchos daños; sólo se ven unos cuantos árboles tumbados y ramas caídas. En contraste, un parche más alejado del río se ve como si una máquina gigante lo hubiera aplastado, tumbando más de la mitad de los árboles.

Durante esta tarde calurosa en la intensidad del verano, una llamada quiquiquiquiquí muy de vez en cuando es mi única pista de que los picamaderos norteamericanos siguen vivos en su bosque afligido.

Rodeado por troncos rotos, pienso en la destrucción y la regeneración. La pérdida de los árboles se siente trágica. Pero sé que no es el final de la historia. En unos años, de los árboles tumbados van a brotan setas (Pleurotus sp.)—deliciosas salteadas con ajo—mientras los álamos poco a poco se convertirán en tierra. Tal vez un tronco hueco le vaya a dar abrigo invernal a un puercoespín. ¿Y el año que viene, van a rebrotar los tocones de los álamos que rompió el viento, tal como lo hacen cuando los castores los talan? A pesar de los vientos catastróficos, mucho del bosque sigue en pie. Y si las condiciones le permiten al río que se inunde, alguna primavera va a traer nuevos sedimentos mientras la seda de los álamos esté volando por la brisa, y una nueva generación del bosque va a emerger.

Hilos de historia

Pronto el otoño me lleva al sur, a la casa que comparto con mi pareja en Oaxaca, México. Pero los picamaderos norteamericanos se quedan conmigo; el bosque de los álamos se queda conmigo, impreso en mi corazón y en mi mente. A veces dejo mi imaginación deambular entre los árboles, sin saber qué voy a encontrar: una familia de picamaderos, el nido de un gorrión cantor, nueva actividad de castores por el río, una nueva historia en esta complejidad sin palabras.

Mientras escribo durante el invierno, junto hilos de historia—lugares especiales en la naturaleza como este bosque de álamo, la llamada de un tirano chibiú (Tyrannus vociferans), el cáñamo americano que crece por el río y las aves del crepúsculo en la selva oaxaqueña—intentando encontrar el sentido entre las paradojas de mi vida. Amar a personas y lugares conectados por combustible de avión mientras el cambio climático desata incendios forestales, sequías y huracanes catastróficos. Integrarme en esta comunidad huatulqueña mientras la expansión turística sube los precios, destroza manglares y cambia formas tradicionales de vivir. Buscar una relación sana con la tierra y con mis vecinos mientras multimillonarios y corporaciones masivas amenazan todo en su avaricia por ganancias.

La historia está en nuestros huesos

Sigo pensando en los picamaderos norteamericanos mientras leo el libro de Osprey Oreille Lake The Story is in Our Bones: How Worldviews and Climate Justice Can Remake a World in Crisis [La historia está en nuestros huesos: cómo las cosmovisiones y la justicia climática puede rehacer un mundo en crisis]. Escribe:

…Cuando respiramos profundo y nos detenemos para pensarlo bien, las cosas que realmente nos hacen la vida posible y alegre muchas veces no son las cosas que dependen del extractivismo, o de las cosas que podemos comprar. La fotosíntesis, el ciclo hidrológico, el amor, la amistad, caminar en la belleza de la naturaleza, el apoyo mutuo, compartir historias y comida—todas estas son cosas que se pueden hacer sin gastar dinero. En la cosmovisión de la actual cultura dominante, que mercantiliza todo y sólo valora las cosas por su supuesto valor económico, nos alejamos de las cosas que son libremente dadas—las flores silvestres y los glaciares están exiliados a lo superfluo ya que no tienen asignado un valor monetario. En la cultura de la mercantilización se nos enseña a perder el respeto y el aprecio por muchos tesoros no monetarios.

Para contrarrestar esta cosmovisión económica rapaz, podemos trabajar para restaurar lo que muchos han llamado una economía de regalo—un sistema que muchos de nuestros antepasados utilizaban, que algunas comunidades aún practican hoy, un sistema que ha llamado la atención de una red creciente de líderes. Uno de los principios centrales es no acaparar la riqueza; sino más bien, la estructura de la economía de regalo conlleva el entendimiento de que la única manera en la que la ecología viva de un lugar y una comunidad pueda sobrevivir y prosperar es a través del apoyo mutuo. Al crear y dar regalos y mover esos regalos a través de la comunidad, aseguramos el bienestar de nuestros parientes humanos y no humanos. La esencia de este modelo de intercambio es alinear nuestras economías con las leyes naturales de la Tierra y de nuestros vecinos.

En las comunidades donde se ha practicado una economía de regalo, los bienes no se cambian por dinero ni por otros bienes sino se dan sin ningún acuerdo explícito de inmediatamente devolver nada. Existe una expectativa sobreentendida de que la persona que reciba el regalo también vaya a dar en algún momento en el futuro, ya sea un regalo de reciprocidad al dador, a otra persona, a la tierra o a la comunidad entera, y hasta que pase eso, la persona se quedará en un estado de deuda positiva. Mientras que la deuda es algo incómodo para los que vivimos en una economía de mercado, en una economía de regalo, la deuda es lo que conecta a uno al dador y a la comunidad entera, creando con intención una atmósfera de reciprocidad continua.

Una economía de regalo

Me parece cierto lo que escribe Osprey. Lo he experimentado mucho en Oaxaca, este tipo de generosidad sincera. El regalo de una mazorca de maíz criollo, una invitación a compartir comida. Un desconocido que me invita a visitar su rancho. Un vaso de mezcal, una conversación sin prisa, un “esta es tu casa.” Tratar de pagar estos regalos con dinero en muchos casos sería un insulto. Y así me quedo endeudado y agradecido para siempre. Si algo que he aprendido de los cantos de las aves es de interés, lo comparto. Cuando el abuelo Teo nos regala naranjas de su terreno, las compartimos. Cuando estamos de visita, ayudo con los platos y la leña. No para pagar la generosidad, porque nunca se puede, sino para que el regalo siga adelante.

Así es con los picamaderos norteamericanos, también. ¿Cómo puedo recompensar el regalo de sus llamadas salvajes en el viento de abril? Me han mostrado su hogar, me han confiado con su cría. Me han ayudado a ver la magia de este bosque. Recompensar el regalo sería imposible: me quedo endeudado con los picamaderos norteamericanos para siempre. Pero sí puedo intentar reciprocar, de alguna manera. Proteger el secreto de su nido; compartir el amor por su bosque. Invitarte a ti, también, a practicar una economía de regalo con los picamaderos norteamericanos.

El canto del tecolote del oeste

Es una noche estrellada en abril de 2025, casi exactamente un año después de que primero conocí a los picamaderos. Es una de esas noches cuando empieza a caer hielo tan pronto como se pone el sol. En un bosquecillo de álamos cerca de un arroyo en las estribaciones de la cordillera de la Montana occidental, un tecolote del oeste da su canto acelerado mientras el agua corre a través de piedras pulidas que se formaron hace más de mil millones de años. Me pregunto si ya ha encontrado una pareja, o si sigue buscándola. Me pregunto si los picamaderos norteamericanos le han dejado una cavidad de anidación entre estos álamos, excavada bocado a bocado del corazón de un árbol muerto.

Cada primavera, los picamaderos tallan nuevos huecos, y los regalos siguen por años después. Como mencioné antes, aportan hogares donde antes no existían para tecolotes del oeste, mergos cresta blanca (Lophodytes cucullatus), patos islándicos (Bucephala islandica) y cernícalos americanos (Falco sparverius). Esta es tu casa. El canto del tecolote del oeste sigue a través de la noche helada: un canto moldeado por arroyos alimentados por la nieve, las siluetas de álamos viejos, el regalo de los picamaderos norteamericanos. En el canto suave del tecolote, me imagino que escucho un “gracias.”

Leer más

Bull, E.L. y J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), versión 1.0. En Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, EU. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Los picamaderos norteamericanos y la reciprocidad appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Esta historia es la segunda de una serie sobre una pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos (Dryocopus pileatus) al lado del Río Clark Fork cerca de Missoula, Montana, EU. Si no escuchaste la primera parte, puedes empezar ahí… o empieza en medio con ésta!

21 de abril de 2024. Es una tarde soleada pero ventosa por el Río Clark Fork, una semana después de mi última visita a este lugar. Los días recientes han sido frescos, marcados por ráfagas de viento y una tormenta de nieve efímera. ¡Todo cambia muy rápidamente en esta temporada! Ya están brotando las hojas por el río donde hacía una semana los árboles estaban vestidos de gris. Ahora el bosque ribereño está perfumado por el aroma de los álamos negros (Populus balsamifera). El dosel está lleno de una neblina viva de color verde cobrizo. Esta vez estoy con mis amigas las fotógrafas Lea Frye y Rachel Ritacco, que vinieron de Helena. Decidí confiarles el secreto del nido de los picamaderos norteamericanos, sabiendo que van a cuidar el bienestar de las aves tan bien como yo.

Esta vez, escuchamos un picamaderos norteamericano antes de acercarnos al nido. Aún cientos de metros lejos, en la parte más comúnmente visitada del parque, encontramos un macho tamborileando en la parte muerta de un tronco ramificado de un álamo. El sonido viaja lejos a través del bosque primaveral.

El nido

Sin embargo, mientras nos acercamos al tronco donde está el nido, todo está quieto. El viento se escucha más fuerte aquí por el río, suspirando por el bosque. Unas golondrinas bicolores (Tachycineta bicolor) vuelan forrajeando energéticamente sobre el agua, pero el tronco muerto del álamo parece estar abandonado. ¿Se han ido los picamaderos para construir su nido por otro lado?

Justo cuando estamos a punto de irnos, el macho llega volando desde atrás, una sombra silente de rojo y negro. Mientras llega al tronco, la hembra sale del hueco—que claramente estaba ocupado desde que llegamos—y él entra, desapareciendo por completo. Es obvio que los carpinteros han profundizado el hueco mucho durante esta semana fría de abril. Cuando los observé la semana pasada, todavía sobresalían sus alas y cola al excavar.

Astillas de madera por la brisa

Observamos al macho por una hora y media. Generalmente, todo lo que vemos es un hueco negro en el tronco marrón claro del álamo. De vez en cuando podemos escuchar al picamaderos excavando, si escuchamos con mucha atención, un golpeteo quieto desde las profundidades del árbol. Finalmente, después de varios minutos de excavación, lo vemos extender la cabeza de la entrada, un contraste de sombras y plumas parcialmente iluminadas por el sol al oeste. Observa el mundo afuera en silencio por un buen rato—confirmando que no haya depredadores en el área, sospechamos. Finalmente, agarra bocados grandes de astillas de madera y los tira con un movimiento rápido de la cabeza. Me pregunto cómo se siente tener la boca llena de astillas secas de álamo. La brisa del oeste dispersa las astillas en un instante.

Dos semanas de excavar un nido

Tres días después, vuelvo a visitar a los picamaderos. Han pasado 13 días después de que primero los vi construyendo el nido. Hojas nuevas del tamaño de mis uñas están creciendo en los cornejos colorados (Cornus sericea). Los gorriones cantores (Melospiza melodia) están cantando y los carpinteros nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) están tamborileando desde todas partes del bosque de álamo. Los arbustos están salpicados con telarañas orbiculares.

El sol lleva unas horas subiendo y el día apenas está poniéndose templado cuando llego al nido. Al inicio no veo ninguna señal de actividad, pero dentro de unos minutos llega el macho. Después de pausar en el exterior del tronco y meterse la cabeza en el nido con mucha precaución—¿checando por depredadores?—entra y comienza de nuevo la misma rutina de excavación que observé hace unos días con Lea y Rachel.

Pero esta vez, sólo pasa un ratito golpeteando y tirando astillas antes de que acontece algo diferente.

Una conversación entre los picamaderos norteamericanos

Escucho una sola llamada de otro picamaderos en la distancia, desde el otro lado del río. De inmediato la cabeza del macho aparece en la entrada del nido y él responde con una llamada. Al rato, llama de nuevo. No reacciono a tiempo, desafortunadamente, y no logro grabar las llamadas. Al encender mi micrófono y empezar a grabar, los picamaderos ya se han callado.

Es entonces que veo la hembra—o por lo menos supongo que ha de ser la hembra, aunque estoy demasiado ocupado grabando para levantar mis binoculares y confirmar. Vuela ondulando sobre el río, directamente hacia el nido. Ya que está cerca, da otra llamada. Sigue volando 10 metros más allá y aterriza en el tronco de un álamo vivo.

Esta vez el macho no sale del hueco. En su vez, empieza a golpetear dentro de la cavidad—un golpeteo claramente comunicativo, más rápido y ruidoso que sus sonidos de excavación.  

La hembra vuela al nido. Parece que golpetea brevemente en la entrada. Ahora sí el macho se asoma y sale volando, retrocediendo por el otro lado del río. La hembra entra, pero sólo se queda unos segundos antes de seguir al macho volando.

Anidación en el bosque primaveral

¿Qué está pasando aquí? me pregunto. Parece que la cavidad ya está bien profunda, a lo mejor casi terminada. ¿Estaba la hembra buscando una cópula? ¿Ya está poniendo huevos, o pronto va a hacerlo?

La temporada de anidación definitivamente está progresando. Esta misma tarde, mientras camino por el río, un gorrión cantor se echa a volar en silencio desde los zacates casi debajo de mis pies. Me detengo inmediatamente. Buscando con cuidado, logro encontrar el nido, una canasta meticulosamente tejida sobre el suelo, escondida entre las hojas muertas del alpiste (Phalaris arundinacea) del año pasado. Adentro están por lo menos tres crías. Les tomo una foto y rápidamente las dejo en paz.

Mayo y una profusión de voces

Ya pasa casi un mes antes de que encuentro otra oportunidad para visitar a los picamaderos. Es una mañana lluviosa a finales de mayo. El aroma dulce y resinoso de las hojas de álamo permea el aire. Las copas de los álamos reciben el regalo de la lluvia constante y lo concentran en gotas grandes que salpican el follaje de los cornejos colorados por abajo.

Un chipe charquero (Parkesia noveboracensis), recién llegado desde sus tierras invernales—tal vez en México, tal vez en Colombia—está cantando fuerte cerca del brazo del río que protege el nido de demasiada atención. El tronco caído donde típicamente cruzo el agua está casi sumergido por el caudal primaveral. Las partes bajas de la zona inundable se han convertido en charcos alargados. Zorzales de anteojos (Catharus ustulatus) y zorzales cola canela (Catharus guttatus) que están haciendo escala aquí durante su migración están forrajeando en el suelo. A veces escucho sus llamadas suaves a través de la lluvia.

Al llegar al nido, busco un lugar relativamente protegido para sentarme debajo de un álamo y observar. Un maullador gris (Dumetella carolinensis) se está escondiendo en los arbustos cerca del territorio del gorrión cantor local. Otro chipe charquero está cantando desde los arbustos más densos detrás de mí.

¿Incubación?

Tengo que esperar mucho a que aparezcan los picamaderos. Finalmente, la hembra llega en silencio y se percha en la entrada del nido. Veo que no está cargando alimento ni nada más en su pico. Espera ahí por un buen rato, inclinando su cabeza un poco. Miro al otro lado en un instante importante, así que no veo exactamente qué pasó—pero de repente un picamaderos norteamericano está volando hasta lejos, cruzando el río. Un minuto después veo al otro picamaderos asomarse del hueco. Pronto desaparece, quedándose adentro.

Había pensado que en esta temporada estarían alimentando sus crías, pero lo que estoy viendo no cuadra. ¿Todavía están incubando huevos?

Cuando checo en Birds of the World, decido que casi tienen que estar incubando aún. Se supone que el periodo de incubación dura unos 18 días, y durante este periodo los adultos están reservados y quietos. Pero sólo tres días después de eclosión, “los pichones suenan como colmenas.” Es claro que aún nos falta llegar a la etapa de colmena.

El crecimiento de junio

No puedo regresar de nuevo a la isla hasta el 13 de junio, una mañana soleada dentro de un periodo de mañana soleadas. La combinación de las lluvias de mayo y el sol de junio ha hecho todo crecer rápidamente. El bromo suave (Bromus inermis) y el alpiste están a punto de florecer; la cola de caballo (Equisetum spp.) está verde y cubierta en rocío; y las copas de los álamos brillan en verde dorado donde el sol las toca. El deshielo de las montañas ha subido el caudal del río aún más. Cruzar el brazo del río por el tronco caído me parece un poco precario, y mientras sigo el sendero hacia el nido las únicas huellas que veo en el barro son las de los venados.

Esta vez, no tengo que esperar la actividad por el nido. Ni siquiera tengo que acercarme para verlo. De repente la voz poderosa de un picamaderos norteamericano resuena por el bosque y atisbo la espalda de uno de los papás mientras se aleja volando a través de los árboles. Cuando llego a ver el nido, deduzco que tuvo que ser el macho que vi volar: la hembra sigue cerca, cien metros a la izquierda, forrajeando en el tronco de un álamo vivo. Mientras se mueve a una rama muerta más chica que sobresale del tronco y empieza a golpearla fuerte, usando su pico como cincel y tirando pedacitos de corteza, saco mi micrófono y empiezo a grabar.

El pichón

Poco a poco, llego a darme cuenta de otro sonido, que se escucha desde el nido. Es una llamada ronca e insistente, repetida una y otra vez. El autor del sonido es un picamaderos pichón, su cabeza saliendo impaciente del hueco. Cuando la hembra vuela a otro álamo más cercano y da su fuerte quiquiquiquiquí, las quejas del pichón se aumentan. La hembra espera unos segundos más y vuela al nido, atiborrando el pico del pichón con comida. Ella se retira al árbol donde antes llamaba, da una llamada más, y vuela para el sur. El pichón se calla, pero pronto vuelve a asomarse por la entrada del nido.

Aproximadamente media hora después llega el macho. Arriba sin avisar y el pichón sólo mendiga por unos segundos antes de que el picamaderos papá lo alimenta. Después, papá vuela al mismo árbol donde mamá antes llamaba. Ahí se queda por unos segundos, a lo mejor tomando un poco de espacio antes de resumir sus responsabilidades. Llama una vez más y desaparece, siguiendo el río al oeste.

Ya llegamos al final de la segunda parte de esta historia sobre los picamaderos norteamericanos. ¡Regresa al comienzo de junio para la tercera parte, donde vamos a finalizar la historia!

Leer más

Bull, E.L. y J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), versión 1.0. En Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, EU. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Sumergirnos en el bosque: observando la anidación de los picamaderos norteamericanos appeared first on Wild With Nature.

This story is the second in a series about a pair of pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus) along the Clark Fork River near Missoula, Montana, USA. If you haven’t heard last month’s installment, you can start there… or just jump in here!

April 21, 2024. It’s a sunny but windy afternoon along the Clark Fork River. It’s been just over a week since I last came here. The intervening days have been cool and gusty, punctuated by a short-lived spring snowstorm. Everything changes so fast in this season. Now the leaves are bursting forth along the river where a week ago the trees were gray. The floodplain forest is perfumed with the scent of cottonwoods (Populus balsamifera), the canopy filled with a haze of pale coppery green. This time I’m with my Helena-based wildlife photographer friends Lea Frye and Rachel Ritacco. I’ve decided to entrust them with the secret of the nest tree, knowing they will care for the sensitive nest location as well as I do. 

This time, we hear a pileated woodpecker even before we get close to the nest. Hundreds of meters away from it still, in the more heavily-traveled section of the park, we find the male drumming on a dead section of a branching cottonwood trunk. The drumming carries far through the springtime forest.

The nest tree

As we approach the nest tree, though, all is quiet. The wind is stronger here along the river, whooshing through the forest. Tree swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) forage energetically over the water, their calls faint above the wind noise, but the cottonwood snag appears abandoned. Have the pileated woodpeckers left and decided to build their nest elsewhere? 

Just as we’re about to leave, the male flies in from behind us, a silent red-and-black shadow streaking past. As he arrives, the female flies out of the hole—which clearly was occupied all along—and he enters, disappearing completely. Obviously the woodpeckers have deepened the hole substantially during this chilly April week.

Wood chips on the breeze

We watch the male for over an hour and a half. Mostly, we see a black hole in a tan tree trunk. From time to time we can hear him excavating if we listen closely, a quiet tapping from deep inside the cavity. Finally, after several minutes of excavating, we see his head poking out of the entrance, a contrast of shadows and feathers partly lit by the westering sun. He observes the outside world silently for a long pause—making sure the coast is clear of predators, we suspect. Finally, he retrieves huge beakfuls of wood chips and flings them out of the entrance with forceful flicks of his head. I wonder what that sensation is like, having a mouthful of dry cottonwood shards. The west wind disperses the wood chips in the blink of an eye.

Two weeks digging a nest

Three days later, I return to the woodpeckers. It’s been 13 days now since I first noticed them digging the nest cavity. Fresh leaves the size of my fingernails are emerging on the red-osier dogwoods. Song sparrows (Melospiza melodia) are singing and red-naped sapsuckers (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) are drumming from all over the cottonwood forest, and the orb-weaving spiders have webs strung all over the place. 

The sun is a few hours high and is just starting to feel warm when I arrive at the nest tree. There’s no sign of activity when I arrive, but within a few minutes the male flies in. After perching on the outside of the trunk for a while and cautiously poking his head in—checking for predators?—he enters and begins the same excavation routine I watched with Lea and Rachel a few days ago.

But this time, he only gets through one bout of tapping and wood chip throwing before something different happens.

A conversation among pileated woodpeckers

I hear a single call from a different pileated woodpecker in the distance, on the other side of the river. The male immediately pokes his head out of the hole and responds. A minute or two later, he calls again. I’m slow on the uptake, unfortunately, and don’t manage to record any of these calls. By the time I manage to turn my microphone on and begin recording, the woodpeckers have fallen silent.

Then I see the female—at least I presume it must be the female, though I’m too busy recording the sounds to lift my binoculars and confirm—fly in shallow undulations across the river, straight towards the nest tree. As she gets close, she gives a different call. She flies 10 meters past the nest snag and lands on the trunk of a live cottonwood. 

The male doesn’t poke his head out this time. Instead, he begins tapping inside the cavity—a clearly communicative tapping, faster and obviously louder than his excavation noises. 

The female flies to the cavity. It seems that she taps briefly on the entrance. The male pokes his head out and exits, flying away across the river. She enters, stays just a couple of seconds, and then flies off in the same direction.

Nesting in the springtime forest

What is happening here? I ask myself. It seems that the nest cavity is quite deep, perhaps close to finished. Could she have been soliciting a mating? Are they laying eggs, or getting ready to?

Nesting season is definitely progressing. That afternoon, as I’m still wandering along the river, a song sparrow flushes silently from the grasses almost at my feet. I freeze. Searching carefully, I manage to find the nest, a neatly woven cup nearly at ground level, tucked in a clump of last year’s reed canarygrass leaves. There are at least three nestlings inside. I snap a photo and quickly back off.

A profusion of May voices

Almost a month passes before I’m able to visit the pileated woodpeckers again. It’s a rainy morning in late May. The sweet, resinous scent of cottonwood leaves permeates the air. Their canopies catch the steady, life-giving rain and concentrate it into big fat drops that splash against the red-osier dogwood foliage below.

A northern waterthrush (Parkesia noveboracensis) is singing loudly near the side channel of the river that protects the nest tree from attention. The log I usually cross is almost submerged in the spring flow, and the low swales along the river have become elongated pools. Migrating Swainson’s thrushes (Catharus ustulatus) and hermit thrushes (Catharus guttatus) are foraging in the understory. Occasionally I hear their faint calls through the rain.

When I arrive at the nest tree, I find a relatively protected place to sit under a cottonwood and I watch. A gray catbird (Dumetella carolinensis) is lurking in the shrubs near the song sparrow’s territory. Another northern waterthrush is singing from the denser shrubs behind me. 

Incubation?

It doesn’t take long for the pileated woodpeckers to appear. The female flies in silently and perches at the entrance to the nest. I notice that she’s not carrying food or anything else in her beak. She waits there for a while, tilting her head slightly. Then I glance away at a critical instant and miss seeing what happens—but suddenly a pileated woodpecker is flying away across the river. A minute later, I see the other woodpecker poke its head out of the cavity, then disappear back inside.

By now I had been expecting to find the parents feeding chicks, but what I’m seeing isn’t lining up. Are they still incubating?

Reading in Birds of the World, I decide that they almost have to be. The incubation period is supposed to be around 18 days, and adults are quiet and secretive during this time. But by day three after hatching, “nestlings sound like [a] beehive.” We definitely haven’t reached the beehive stage yet.

June growth

I’m not able to return to the island again until June 13, a sunny morning in a stretch of sunny mornings. The combination of May rains and June sun has made everything grow in the blink of an eye. Smooth brome and reed canarygrass are about to flower; the horsetails are lush and dewy; and the cottonwood canopy is green-gold and glossy where the sun is touching it. The melting snow in the mountains has made the river even higher than last time. The log across the channel seems slightly precarious, and as I follow the trail toward the pileated woodpecker nest the only tracks I see in the mud are those of the deer.

This time, I don’t have to wait for activity at the nest tree. Before I can even see it through the intervening cottonwoods, I hear the booming voice of a pileated woodpecker and glimpse the black form of one of the parents bouncing away through the trees. As I approach within sight of the nest, I deduce that it must have been the male whom I saw fly away: the female is still nearby, a hundred meters to my left, foraging on a live cottonwood. As she moves to a smaller dead branch protruding from the trunk and begins to forage loudly, chiseling with her powerful bill and dropping shreds of bark, I pull out my microphone and begin recording.

The nestling

Gradually, I become aware of another sound, this one coming from the nest. It’s a hoarse, insistent call, repeated over and over. The maker of the sound is a nestling, its head protruding impatiently from the hole in the tree. As the female flies to a nearer cottonwood and gives her deep kekekekeke, the begging becomes louder. She waits a few seconds more and then flies to the entrance hole, shoving food into the expectant bill of the nestling. She retreats to her calling tree, calls once more, and then flies south into the forest. The nestling falls silent, though before very long it resumes poking its head out of the hole.

It’s around half an hour later when the male arrives. He flies in without warning and the nestling only begs for a few seconds before papa woodpecker feeds it. He too flies to the same calling tree afterwards. There he perches for several seconds, perhaps taking a bit of “me time” before resuming parenting duties. Then he calls once and is gone, heading west along the river.

This concludes part two of this story about the pileated woodpeckers. Look for the third and final installment of the story next month, at the beginning of June!

Further reading

Bull, E.L. and J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Immersed in the spring forest: watching a pileated woodpecker nest appeared first on Wild With Nature.

This was going to be a story about pileated woodpeckers. But then historical events intervened, and I couldn’t ignore them. We’ll get to the woodpeckers, I promise, but first we’ve got a journey ahead of us…

The hot March winds buffet the jet as we thunder skyward, shattering the quiet of the dry tropical forest below and spewing hot gases of ancient sea life. I crane my head and say a silent goodbye to the Huatulco landscape that has become a second home to me. We’ve already rocketed higher than the Cerro Huatulco; the dry course of the Arroyo Todos Santos slips by in an instant and then we’re banking towards the coast, a wide wide turn over the tierra natal of my partner and generations of her family. Goodbye for now, my loved ones, que Dios los cuide. 

Santa María Huatulco is out of sight now, but I left part of my soul in the tiny garden in front of our house, and I know Carito and our family will keep it watered while I’m gone. The tomatoes are still green, but we harvested epazote this morning before we had to go to the airport, and yesterday I planted sugarcane from grandfather Teo in a crate along the street.

Saying goodbye

Banking, the jet keeps banking, then levels out again, paralleling the coast. The water has dropped even more in the Laguna El Zarzal, where I watched a black-bellied plover (Pluvialis squatarola) on the mudflats in December, within the protective circle of the mangroves. We race over La Crucecita and all of the tourist hotels and sprawl of Bahías de Huatulco, the golf course at Tangolunda, the mouth of the Río Copalita where the collared plovers (Anarynchus collaris) hide in the sand.

We bank again and the landscape keeps shrinking into anonymity as we set course towards Ciudad de México and points north. By the wee hours of the morning, if all goes well, I’ll be in Missoula, Montana. I keep my eyes glued to the window and trace the Río Copalita upstream to Santiago Xanica, where the first oak forests begin and Zapoteco is still a living language, and then I’m lost for a time, without landmarks as we cross the pine forest, mountains and narrow valleys, so many mountains, of the Sierra Sur. Goodbye for now, Santa María Huatulco.

A critical time

This is no routine trip. We’re two months into the second Trump presidency in the US, and all of the reports I’ve been seeing make me fear that my country of origin is plunging into a dictatorship. Some of my Republican friends and family members interpret things differently, and still believe that Trump is fighting corruption and has everyone’s best interests at heart. I really wish I could believe that. A few days before my flight, Trump’s police arrested 261 immigrants in the US, accused them of being linked to a violent gang—no evidence, no trial—and shipped them to a hell-on-earth prison in El Salvador. When a federal judge ordered them to turn the planes around, they ignored the order. “Oopsie, too late,” posted Nayib Bukele, the dictator of El Salvador. 

By the time I reach Salt Lake City and am ready to pass through US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I have a pounding stress headache.

Finding our shared humanity

I pass through customs without incident, shielded (so far) from Trump’s terrorism by my white skin and my American passport. A security agent jokes lightheartedly with his companions about DOGE, the informal agency Trump has illegally created without congressional approval through which Elon Musk, the world’s richest person, has been dismantling federal agencies, favoring his own companies, and accessing sensitive information about taxpayers. I’m relieved to see the human side of these security agents, relating without aggression to the passengers they’re screening and making jokes in the face of it all. As Trump tries to convert my country into a fascist police state, our shared humanity—immigrants, citizens, police officers—is a vital defense.

I think of my companions on the flight from Mexico City, an older man from Michoacán who has lived many years in Oregon and his wife from Pinotepa Nacional, Oaxaca, who is visiting the US for the first time ever. It took them three years to get her immigration documents approved. Their courage in crossing the border at this time gives me strength, and I hope they make it through without problems.

The resistance

I arrive in Missoula with a cautious sense of hope. This doesn’t feel like a community defeated by two months of attacks on democracy, humanity, and nature. If anything, I sense that the storm—as Trump and his ultra-rich backers show us the extremes of sick human behavior—is bringing us together. Community is resistance. Kindness to our fellow humans is resistance. Saying no to fascism is resistance. And nurturing a healthy connection with the earth is resistance.

And so — I connect anew with this Missoula earth and community that I love. I chart my steps forward, to live towards a thriving world connected to nature even as those afflicted with the sickness of greed and power would destroy it. I talk with my partner from the wintry cusp of a Montana spring and feel the tug of mangoes ripening in the hot March winds. And, as I ground my being once again in my relationship with this Missoula earth, I remember the pileated woodpecker family I got to know here last spring…

The pileated woodpeckers

It’s mid-April along the Clark Fork River when I first see the pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus). The cottonwoods are flowering and the red-osier dogwoods haven’t leafed out yet. An occasional mourning cloak (Nymphalis antiopa) or Milbert’s tortoiseshell (Aglais milberti) butterfly flutters through the air. The tapping of the male pileated woodpecker is barely noticeable in the cottonwood (Populus balsamifera) the pair has chosen for their nest along the river channel. I watch him for maybe 20 minutes, perching on the outside of the dead snag and tap-tap-tapping on the trunk, periodically tossing out beakfuls of wood chips.

Finally I hear a kekekekeke call in the distance and he responds. A few minutes later, the same call and response again. And then comes the caller, the female. She lands on the far side of the nest tree. He flies off. She sidles over to the hole and starts the same excavation process. Tap-tap-tap, quietly. Toss toss toss, silently.

I look up the nest-building process. Three to six weeks in Oregon, reports Birds of the World. 23 days in Kentucky. Goodness!

Three weeks minimum for a pair of pileated woodpeckers to build a nest. Three weeks beating away at a stubborn dead tree, chipping a hole with a durable bill, constructing a fortress for the nestlings. Talk about dedicated parents.

Excavating a home

Two days later, I visit the pileated woodpeckers again: a sunny morning after a brief rainstorm in the night. The female is on the outside of the nest tree as I carefully approach, working on the cavity. But I get distracted by the ducks feeding in a riffle along the river—mallards (Anas platyrhynchos), gadwalls (Mareca strepera), and two green-winged teals (Anas crecca). When I turn back, the female is gone.

Fifteen minutes later, the male flies in, following the river upstream, and begins a long labor of tapping and tossing. The hole is already deeper than the last time I watched him. Still perching on the outside of the trunk, he now has to reach deep for wood chips. Many times I can only see the tips of his tail and wings, poking subtly out of the hole.

He is notably quiet, especially compared to the northern flickers (Colaptes auratus), which I can hear calling every few minutes from the surrounding forest. Finally, through pure luck, I’m able to capture a few of his calls.

Land of the pileated woodpeckers

Sitting here among the cottonwoods and red-osier dogwoods, the other sounds of this landscape gradually seep into my bones. A song sparrow (Melospiza melodia) gives long performances nearby, his melodic song of whistles and trills forming the backbone of the morning soundscape. One of his song perches is among the branches of a red-osier dogwood near the riverbank. Another one is higher, in the canopy of a young cottonwood. In the distance, another song sparrow answers from the far side of the river. 

The deciduous forest of this floodplain is extensive, an expanse of gray cottonwood trunks towering above an understory of tall dogbane (Apocynum cannabinum), goldenrods (Solidago spp.), and invasive grasses. The cottonwoods might look drab to some eyes in this still-leafless season, but for wildlife habitat they’re incredible, providing food, cover, and nesting cavities. I can hear the signs of this bounty in the mid-April soundscape: the pileated woodpeckers aren’t the only cavity-nesters here. Several northern flickers call and drum periodically. Red-naped sapsuckers (Sphyrapicus nuchalis), recently arrived from their winter range in northern Mexico and the southwestern US, give their slowing-down tapping from dead branches, defending territories across this forest. A group of tree swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) swirls along the river, giving their liquid calls.

The voice of the pileated woodpeckers

The male pileated woodpecker remains quiet most of the time. Once, a northern flicker lands nearby, then thinks better of it. The pileated begins calling forcefully and follows the flicker, warning him off, then returns to his nest tree. Another time, as the song sparrow choruses in the background, he calls without any inspiration that I can see, the powerful kekekekeke that lets the whole forest know a pileated woodpecker is around. 

Mostly I just hear his quiet tapping, barely audible over the noisy conversation of the river.

Further reading

Bull, E.L. and J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Journey to the pileated woodpeckers: earth connection in a critical time appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Esto iba a ser una narración sobre los picamaderos norteamericanos. Pero entonces intervino una situación histórica, y no pude ignorarla. Vamos a llegar a los picamaderos, te lo prometo, pero primero tenemos un viaje por delante…

Los vientos calurosos de marzo golpean el avión mientras subimos hacia el cielo, rompiendo la tranquilidad de la selva baja caducifolia por abajo y emitiendo gases calientes de la combustión de organismos marinos ancianos. Mirando hacia afuera, le digo un adiós silente a la tierra huatulqueña que se ha vuelto un segundo hogar para mí. Ya hemos ascendido más arriba del Cerro Huatulco; el lecho seco del Arroyo Todos Santos pasa en un instante y entonces estamos girando hacia la costa, un giro amplio sobre la tierra natal de mi pareja y generaciones de su familia. Adiós por ahora, mis seres queridos, que Dios los cuide.

Santa María Huatulco ya ha desaparecido de la vista, pero dejé una parte de mi alma en el jardincito frente a la casa. Sé que Carito y nuestra familia lo van a mantener regado en mi ausencia. Los tomates todavía están verdes, pero cortamos epazote esta mañana antes de ir al aeropuerto. Ayer sembré caña del abuelo Teo en un guacal al lado de la calle.

Despedidas

Girando, el avión sigue girando, luego se nivela de nuevo, yendo en paralelo a la costa. El agua se ha bajado aún más en la Laguna El Zarzal, donde observé un chorlo gris (Pluvialis squatarola) en el barrizal en diciembre, rodeado por el círculo protector de los mangles. Rápidamente pasamos La Crucecita, todos los hoteles turísticos y la expansión urbana de Bahías de Huatulco, el campo de golf por Tangolunda, la boca del Río Copalita donde los chorlos de collar (Anarynchus collaris) se esconden en la arena.

Giramos de nuevo y la tierra sigue disminuyéndose hacia la anonimidad mientras fijamos el rumbo hacia Ciudad de México y lugares más al norte. Antes de la madrugada, si todo va bien, voy a estar en Missoula, Montana, EU. Sigo mirando a través de la ventana y trazo el curso del Río Copalita aguas arriba hasta Santiago Xanica, donde los primeros bosques de encino empiezan y zapoteco todavía es una lengua viva, y entonces me pierdo por un rato, sin puntos de referencia mientras cruzamos el bosque de pino, las montañas y los valles estrechos, muchísimas montañas, de la Sierra Sur. Adios, Santa María Huatulco.

Un tiempo crucial

Esto no es ningún viaje normal. Ya llevamos dos meses de la segunda presidencia de Trump en Estados Unidos, y todos los reportes que he estado viendo me hacen temer que mi país de origen está cayendo hacia una dictadura. Algunos de mis amigos y familiares republicanos interpretan las cosas diferente y siguen creyendo que Trump está luchando contra la corrupción y tiene los mejores intereses de todos en su corazón. Quisiera poder creerlo. Unos días antes de mi vuelo, la policía de Trump arrestó a 261 migrantes en Estados Unidos, los acusó de estar vinculados a una pandilla violenta—sin evidencias, sin juicio—y los llevó a una cárcel diabólica en El Salvador. Cuando un juez federal les ordenó regresar los aviones, lo ignoraron. “Ups, demasiado tarde,” publicó Nayib Bukele, el dictador de El Salvador.

Al llegar a Salt Lake City y estar listo para pasar por el Servicio de Inmigración y Control de Aduanas de Estados Unidos, tengo un dolor de cabeza horrible por el estrés.

Buscando nuestra humanidad compartida

Paso por la inmigración sin incidente, protegido (hasta ahora) del terrorismo de Trump por mi piel blanca y mi pasaporte estadounidense. Un agente de seguridad bromea con sus compañeros sobre DOGE, la entidad informal que Trump creó ilegalmente sin la aprobación del Congreso a través de la cual Elon Musk, la persona más rica del mundo, ha estado derrumbando servicios federales, favoreciendo sus propias empresas y ganando acceso a información sensible sobre las cuentas bancarias e historia de salud de los ciudadanos estadounidenses. Me alivia ver el lado humano de estos agentes de seguridad, interactuando con los pasajeros sin agresión y bromeando frente a la situación dura. Mientras Trump intenta convertir a mi país en un estado policial fascista, nuestra humanidad compartida—migrantes, ciudadanos, policías—es una defensa crucial.

Pienso en mis compañeros en el vuelo de la Ciudad de México, un hombre mayor de Michoacán que lleva varios años viviendo en Oregón y su esposa de Pinotepa Nacional, Oaxaca, que está visitando Estados Unidos por la primera vez. Tuvieron que esperar tres años para obtener su permiso migratorio. Su valentía en cruzar la frontera en este tiempo me fortaleza, y espero que hayan pasado sin problemas.

La resistencia

Llego a Missoula con un sentido cauteloso de esperanza. No da la impresión de una comunidad vencida por dos meses de ataques contra la democracia, la humanidad y la naturaleza. Al contrario, percibo que la tormenta—mientras Trump y sus aliados ultrarricos nos muestran los extremos del comportamiento humano pervertido—nos está uniendo. La comunidad es la resistencia. Los actos de amabilidad a nuestros prójimos son la resistencia. Decir no al fascismo es la resistencia. Y cuidar una conexión sana con la tierra es la resistencia.

Y así — me conecto de nuevo con esta tierra y comunidad missoulienses que amo. Visualizo mis siguientes pasos para vivir hacia un mundo floreciente, conectado con la naturaleza, aunque los que están afligidos con la enfermedad de la codicia y el poder lo quisieran destrozar. Hablo con mi pareja desde la orilla helada de la primavera montanense y siento el llamado de los mangos madurando en los vientos calurosos de marzo. Y mientras arraigo mi ser de nuevo en mi relación con esta tierra montanense, recuerdo la familia de picamaderos norteamericanos que conocí aquí la primavera pasada…

Los picamaderos norteamericanos

Primero conozco a la pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos (Dryocopus pileatus) al lado del Río Clark Fork a mediados de abril. Los álamos negros (Populus balsamifera) están floreando. Las hojas de los cornejos colorados (Cornus sericea) todavía no han emergido. De vez en cuando una mariposa velo de duelo (Nymphalis antiopa) o una mariposa de Milbert (Aglais milberti) pasa aleteando. El golpeteo del picamaderos norteamericano macho apenas se nota en el álamo negro que la pareja ha escogido para construir su nido al lado del cauce del río. Lo observo por unos 20 minutos, posándose vertical en el tronco muerto y golpeteándolo, pausando regularmente para sacar bocados de astillas.

Finalmente escucho una llamada quiquiquiquiquí en la distancia y él le responde. Unos minutos después, se repite la misma llamada y respuesta. Y entonces la hembra llega, aterrizando al lado lejano del tronco. Él se echa a volar. Ella se acerca al hueco y comienza de nuevo con el proceso de excavación. Golpetea la madera sin hacer mucho ruido. Tira las astillas en silencio.

Investigo sobre el proceso de excavar un nido. Suele durar de tres a seis semanas en Oregón, según Birds of the World. 23 días en Kentucky. ¡Órale!

Mínimo tres semanas para que una pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos construya su nido. Tres semanas golpeando un árbol muerto obstinado, cortando un hueco con sus picos fuertes, construyendo una fortaleza para las crías. Pienso en qué tan dedicados son estos padres.

Excavando un hogar

Dos días después, vuelvo a visitar a los picamaderos norteamericanos. Es una mañana soleada después de un chubasco breve en la noche. La hembra está perchada afuera por el tronco, trabajando el hueco, mientras me acerco con cuidado. Pero me distraen unos patos que están alimentándose en un tramo ondulado del río—patos de collar (Anas platyrhynchos), patos frisos (Mareca strepera) y dos cercetas alas verdes (Anas crecca). Cuando vuelvo a checar el tronco, la hembra ha desaparecido.

Quince minutos después, el macho llega, siguiendo el río aguas arriba. Comienza una labor larga de golpetear y tirar astillas. Ya el hueco está mucho más profundo que la vez pasada. Él todavía está excavando desde afuera, pero ya tiene que agacharse mucho para sacar astillas. Muchas veces sólo puedo ver las puntas de sus alas y cola, apenas sobresaliendo del hueco.

Está notablemente callado, especialmente en comparación con los carpinteros de pechera comunes (Colaptes auratus), los cuales puedo escuchar cada par de minutos desde el bosque alrededor. Finalmente, por pura suerte, logro grabar unas llamadas del picamaderos.

La tierra de los picamaderos norteamericanos

Sentándome aquí entre los álamos negros y cornejos colorados, los otros sonidos de esta tierra se filtran poco a poco hacia mis huesos. Un gorrión cantor (Melospiza melodia) da interpretaciones largas cerca de mí, su canto melodioso formando el estribillo del paisaje de sonidos mañanero. Una de sus perchas está entre las ramas de un cornejo colorado en la orilla del río. Otra está más alto, en el dosel de un álamo joven. En la distancia, otro gorrión cantor contesta desde el otro lado del río.

El bosque caducifolio de esta zona inundable es extenso, un paisaje pintado por los troncos grises de los álamos que ascienden sobre una capa baja de cáñamo americano (Apocynum cannabinum), varas de oro (Solidago spp.) y gramíneas invasoras. Para algunas personas los álamos podrían resultar aburridos en esta temporada sin hojas, pero para el hábitat de la vida silvestre son árboles increíbles, aportando alimento, abrigo y cavidades para la anidación.

Puedo escuchar las señales de esta abundancia en la banda sonora de abril: los picamaderos norteamericanos no son las únicas aves que utilizan cavidades acá. Varios carpinteros de pechera comunes llaman y tamborilean de vez en cuando. Los carpinteros nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis), recién llegados de sus tierras invernales en el norte de México y el suroeste de Estados Unidos, dan sus tamborileos desacelerados desde ramas secas, defendiendo territorios a lo largo de este bosque. Una parvada de golondrinas bicolores (Tachycineta bicolor) se arremolina por el río, dando sus llamadas líquidas.

La voz de los picamaderos norteamericanos

El picamaderos norteamericano macho sigue excavando, generalmente en silencio. Una vez, un carpintero de pechera común aterriza cerca. Inmediatamente decide mejor no quedarse. El picamaderos empieza a llamar fuerte y sigue al carpintero, advirtiéndole que no piense en regresar. Después, el picamaderos vuelve al árbol del nido. Otra vez, mientras el gorrión cantor da su estribillo en el fondo, el picamaderos llama sin ninguna inspiración visible, el quiquiquiquiquí poderoso que avisa al bosque entero que un picamaderos está por aquí.

Pero por lo general sólo escucho su golpeteo quieto, apenas audible sobre la conversación ruidosa del río.

Leer más

Bull, E.L. y J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), versión 1.0. En Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, EU. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Viaje hacia los picamaderos norteamericanos: encontrando calma bajo estrés appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Un silbido simple, ascendiendo al final, fácil de imitar. Es la hora cuando la luz se va, convirtiendo los árboles en siluetas, y el azul se va desapareciendo del Cerro Islá. Un silbido simple que nunca he escuchado, sólo en grabaciones. Los meses de estudiar cristalizan en este instante y voy casi corriendo, el silbido llamándome adelante, pasando la milpa y los nopales, la carambola y el cempasúchil, el campo querido del abuelo Teo, pasando los mangos, entrando en la selva. Los grillos son la voz de la noche inminente, este silbido el misterio del crepúsculo. 

El misterio es esto: ¿por qué cada día aquí es diferente? ¿Por qué la tierra nos da tantos chances, tantos guías para aprender? La voz de cada ave nos cuenta su historia, su relación con la tierra viva. El brote de cada planta es un universo en espera—y todos nos esperan; ¿qué vamos a hacer? Aprendemos la magia humilde de la milpa, de miles de generaciones de manos cuidando el maíz y el frijol, la calabaza y el chile, la leña y el abono, el cacao y la guanábana, para que nuestras huellas sean campos de flores y selvas donde el tinamú canelo (Crypturellus cinnamomeus) da su silbido simple al anochecer?

Los fantasmas de las aves

O ¿destripamos la tierra, que la comida venga sólo del supermercado, que venga con los fantasmas de las aves y los escarabajos que vivían donde un solo cultivo a máquina gatea hasta el horizonte?

No es ninguna pregunta retórica. La agricultura mecanizada sigue creciendo a través del planeta, el impulso más fuerte de las pérdidas de biodiversidad (a pesar del cambio climático, otra amenaza en aumento). La agricultura industrial es un sistema enorme y eficiente, difícil de cambiar, tanto para agricultores como para consumidores. Eficiente para despedirnos de las selvas, milpas, insectos, tinamús, eficiente para vendernos sabritas y golosinas, diabetes y cáncer, para perder la milpa y la conexión con la tierra. Pero no es inevitable. Cada milpa, cada cafetal en la sombra de la selva intacta, cada intento hacia una relación sana con la tierra nos abre otra posibilidad.

Prácticas ancestrales

Estas prácticas las tenemos todos en nuestra línea ancestral. Aquí en México, el sistema de la milpa es una de ellas. Por las tierras donde yo nací en las montañas y valles del noroeste de Estados Unidos, son las tradiciones indígenas, cuidando el hábitat para el salmón, la tuya gigante, la camassia y el arándano. Supongo que por alguna parte de mis raíces europeas ha de haber una tradición de cuidar las frutas, porque siempre me han fascinado. Mi mamá tiene recuerdos lindos de cortar frambuesas con su abuelita Jessie como niña.

En mi juventud, yo iba a pizcar arándanos silvestres con mi papá. Antes de que él falleciera, lo llevé a observar las polillas noctuidos polinizando las flores de los cerezos en su huerta, una huerta de árboles frutales viejos sin pesticidas donde los carpinteros nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) hacían huecos en los troncos para chupar la savia y los picamaderos norteamericanos (Dryocopus pileatus) visitaban en el otoño para alimentarse de manzanas. Había suficientes para compartir. Deshidratábamos manzanas, ciruelas y cerezas y yo crecí con antojo de esta fruta deshidratada. No me interesaban mucho las golosinas del supermercado, porque la fruta deshidratada de la huerta sabía mucho mejor.

Todas estas tradiciones y muchas más nos ofrecen otro camino adelante, junto con las aves, plantas y hongos—un camino que nos dé comida sana y a los animales les dé el hábitat para prosperar.

El tinamú, el halcón selvático y los tecolotes

El tinamú canelo, que aquí se le conoce como la jolina, sigue cantando. La tierra nos da tantos chances, y la voz de cada ave cuenta su historia. El abuelo Teo me dice que había codornices, pero desaparecieron. Puede que fue por más uso de insecticidas en la zona, dice. Sigo buscando sus cantos en los anocheceres. Quizás un día las vaya a encontrar, como el tinamú canelo que silba ahora desde la selva cerca del Río Sal, esta ave escurridiza de la vegetación densa. Es como una gallina, pero no rasca. Usa su pico para buscar semillas, escarabajos y frutas caídas y anida en el suelo durante la primavera caliente y el verano lluvioso.

Junto con el tinamú, ¿escuchas este grito nasal? Ya se acercó más. Es el halcón selvático de collar (Micrastur semitorquatus), cazador de aves y ardillas, que se esconde en la selva y anida en los huecos de la caoba (Swietenia macrophylla) y otros árboles grandes. Y ya empieza el tecolote sapo (Megascops guatemalae) con su trino nocturno, este tecolote insectívoro que caza chapulines y escarabajos al borde de los cultivos. 

El misterio del crepúsculo

En la distancia ulula el búho café (Strix virgata), más grande que el tecolote. También come muchos insectos por la orilla del bosque. Los chotacabras pauraque (Nyctidromus albicollis) han emergido de los arbustos densos donde pasaban el día. Puedo verlos en la oscuridad cada vez más profunda, posándose en la arcilla del camino. Revolotean bajo la creciente de la luna, cazando escarabajos, polillas y otros insectos voladores. A veces escucho sus llamadas líquidas y su canto ¡pajíu! 

La pregunta

Las luciérnagas están destellando sobre las sombras de la milpa. Cúmulos de estrellas quedan suspendidos sobre la silueta protectora del Cerro Islá. Hace rato que dejó de silbar el tinamú canelo, pero sé que está ahí, en la hojarasca de la selva. El tecolote sapo sigue cantando. 

La tierra nos da tantos chances para aprender; la voz de cada ave nos cuenta su historia. La milpa nos muestra cómo podemos vivir con campos de flores y selvas diversas, y todos nos esperan. ¿Qué vamos a hacer?

Nota: Esta historia sobre las aves nocturnas de la Costa de Oaxaca, México alude a la importancia de la biodiversidad de insectos y la integridad de los ecosistemas para las aves, y para la vida en general. Es un tema que he tocado en otras historias (como las que siguen las referencias por abajo) y que lo voy a seguir desarrollando el próximo mes con una historia desde Montana, EU sobre los tecolotes, las polillas y un proyecto que está documentando la diversidad e importancia de estos insectos voladores. ¡Hasta entonces!

Leer más

Billerman, S.M., B. K. Keeney, P. G. Rodewald y T. S. Schulenberg (editores) (2022). Birds of the World. Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, EU. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/home

Hingtgen, L. (2014, 11 de diciembre). Review: The Third Plate: Field Notes on the Future of Food. Edge Effects. https://edgeeffects.net/third-plate/

Jaureguiberry, P. et al. (2022). The direct drivers of recent global anthropogenic biodiversity loss. Science Advances 8:45. https://www.science.org/doi/10.1126/sciadv.abm9982

Lozada Aranda, M. y A. Ponce Mendoza. (2016). La milpa. Biodiversidad Mexicana. Comisión Nacional para el Conocimiento y Uso de la Biodiversidad, Cd. de México, México. https://www.biodiversidad.gob.mx/diversidad/sistemas-productivos/milpa

Milne, L. (2023). Losing Ty. Great Plains Quarterly 43:4. https://www.lornamilne.com/losing-ty

Las golondrinas bicolores de Montana: revirtiendo un declive

Moscas para el almuerzo: adoptando la perspectiva de un ave

The post El misterio del crepúsculo: las aves y la agricultura sustentable appeared first on Wild With Nature.

A simple whistle, ascending at the end, easy to imitate. It’s the hour when the light departs, converting the trees into silhouettes, and the evening blue leaves the slopes of the Cerro Islá. A simple whistle that I’ve never heard before, only in recordings. The months of study crystallize in an instant and I’m almost running, the whistle calling me onwards, passing the milpa and the nopales, the starfruit and the cempasúchil, the beloved garden of grandfather Teo, passing the mangos, entering the jungle. The crickets are the voice of the approaching night, this whistle the mystery of the twilight.

The mystery is this: why is each day here different? Why does the earth give us so many chances, so many guides to learn from? The voice of each bird sings its story, its relationship with the living earth. The bud of every plant is a universe in waiting—and they all wait for us; what will we do? Will we learn the humble magic of the milpa, of thousands of generations of hands caring for the corn and the beans, the squash and the chile, the firewood and the manure, the cacao and the guanábana, so that our footprints may be gardens of flowers and jungles where the thicket tinamou (Crypturellus cinnamomeus) gives this simple whistle at sunset?

The ghosts of the birds

Or will we tear apart the earth, so that our food only comes from the supermarket, so that it carries the ghosts of the birds and the beetles that once lived where a monoculture crop creeps to the horizon? It’s not a rhetorical question. Large-scale, mechanized agriculture continues growing across the planet, the primary cause of biodiversity loss (in spite of climate change, another huge and growing threat). Industrial agriculture is an enormous and efficient system, difficult for anyone—farmers or consumers—to change. Efficient for saying goodbye to rainforests, milpas, insects, tinamous, efficient for selling us candy and snacks, diabetes and cancer, for losing our connection with the earth. But it’s not inevitable. Every milpa, every shade-grown coffee farm within the intact rainforest, every attempt to form a healthy relationship with the earth opens up a different possibility.

Ancestral practices

We all have these practices in our ancestral lineages. Here in Mexico, the system of the milpa is one of them. From the land where I was born among the mountains and valleys of the Pacific Northwest of the United States, there are the indigenous traditions, stewarding habitat for salmon, cedar, camas, and huckleberry.

I suppose that somewhere in my European roots is a tradition of tending fruits, because they’ve always fascinated me. My mom has vivid childhood memories of picking raspberries with her Grandma Jessie. As a kid, I used to go huckleberry picking with my dad. Before he died, we went out in the evening to observe noctuid moths pollinating the cherries in his orchard, an orchard of old fruit trees without pesticides where the red-naped sapsuckers (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) drilled wells in the tree trunks and the pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus) visited in the fall to feed on apples. There were enough to share. We dried apples, plums, and cherries, and I grew up craving this dried fruit. I wasn’t very interested in candy, because dried fruit from the orchard was so much better.

All of these traditions and many more offer us another way forward, together with the birds and the plants, the fungi—a way that gives us healthy food and gives the animals habitat to flourish.

The tinamou, the forest-falcon, and the owls

The thicket tinamou continues singing. The earth gives us so many chances, and the voice of each bird tells its story. Grandfather Teo tells me that there used to be quail here, but they disappeared. Maybe it was because of an increase in insecticide use in the area, he says. I continue to listen for the quail at sunset. Perhaps one day I’ll find them, like the thicket tinamou whistling now from the forest close to the Río Sal, this timid bird of the dense vegetation. It’s kind of like a chicken, except that it doesn’t scratch with its feet. Using its beak, it seeks out seeds, beetles, and fallen fruits. It nests on the forest floor during the hot spring and the rainy summer.

Along with the tinamou, do you hear that nasal cry? Now it’s gotten closer. It’s a collared forest-falcon (Micrastur semitorquatus), hunter of birds and squirrels, a bird that hides in the jungle and nests in cavities in the caoba (Swietenia macrophylla) and other big trees. And now the Middle American screech-owl (Megascops guatemalae) begins its nocturnal trill, this insectivorous owl that hunts grasshoppers and beetles at the edge of the plantings.

The mystery of the twilight

In the distance hoots the mottled owl (Strix virgata), larger than the screech-owl. It also feeds on many insects at the edge of the forest. The common pauraques (Nyctidromus albicollis) have emerged from the dense bushes where they passed the day. I can see them in the deepening darkness, perching on the clay of the track. They flutter under the crescent moon, hunting beetles, moths, and other flying insects. Sometimes I hear their liquid calls and their song, purwheeoo!

The fireflies are glimmering above the shadows of the milpa. Clusters of stars hang suspended above the guardian silhouette of the Cerro Islá. A while ago the thicket tinamou stopped whistling, but I know it’s still there, in the leaf litter of the rainforest. The Middle American screech-owl continues singing.

The earth gives us so many chances to learn; the voice of each bird tells us its story. The milpa shows us how we can live with fields of flowers and diverse forests, and everyone waits for us. What will we choose?

Note: This story about the nocturnal birds of the coast of Oaxaca, Mexico alludes to the importance of insect diversity and intact ecosystems for birds and all life. It’s something I’ve touched on in other stories (such as those in bold that follow the references, below) and that I’ll continue exploring next month with a story from Montana, USA about owls, moths, and a project that is documenting the diversity and importance of these flying insects. Also, if you’d like to delve more into sustainable agriculture and biodiversity, check out the references I’ve shared below. In particular, I recommend Lorna Milne’s poignant and deeply personal essay “Losing Ty,” and Luke Hingtgen’s review of the inspiring book The Third Plate.

Further reading

Billerman, S.M., B. K. Keeney, P. G. Rodewald, and T. S. Schulenberg (editors) (2022). Birds of the World. Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/home

Hingtgen, L. (2014, 11 December). Review: The Third Plate: Field Notes on the Future of Food. Edge Effects. https://edgeeffects.net/third-plate/

Jaureguiberry, P. et al. (2022). The direct drivers of recent global anthropogenic biodiversity loss. Science Advances 8:45. https://www.science.org/doi/10.1126/sciadv.abm9982

Lozada Aranda, M. and A. Ponce Mendoza. (2016). La milpa. Biodiversidad Mexicana. Comisión Nacional para el Conocimiento y Uso de la Biodiversidad, Mexico City, Mexico. https://www.biodiversidad.gob.mx/diversidad/sistemas-productivos/milpa

Milne, L. (2023). Losing Ty. Great Plains Quarterly 43:4. https://www.lornamilne.com/losing-ty

A hopeful sign for a bird in decline: helping Montana’s tree swallows

Lunch on the fly: a bird’s-eye view of chokecherries

The post Mystery of the twilight: birds at dusk and sustainable agriculture appeared first on Wild With Nature.

December 17, 2022

The snowy parking lot along the LaValle Creek Road is framed by frosty branches and a gray blanket of fog this morning. I glimpse a Townsend’s solitaire as it flushes from the hawthorns, flashing the pale stripe in its gray wings. The solitaire flutters over the grassland of the hillside, then disappears back into the hawthorns of the draw. On the other side of the road, the trees of the dry forest rise up next to us, ponderosa pines and Douglas-firs. Occasionally we can hear the yank of a red-breasted nuthatch from the conifers. Farther from the road, aspen groves mix with the conifers along the creek. A lone raven perches in a ponderosa pine beyond them.

The mix of habitats in the LaValle Creek drainage is impressive – and we’re trying to cover the area thoroughly today, censusing birds as part of the Missoula Christmas Bird Count (CBC). I’m with Steve Flood, who has led the LaValle Creek segment of the CBC for four years now. 

“You can essentially walk from sagebrush and bunchgrass, and in about a mile up here you’ll see grand firs,” Steve says.

Grand firs (Abies grandis) are moisture-loving conifers. You won’t find them around Helena, where the low-elevation forest is too dry for much except ponderosa pine and Douglas-fir. So in the LaValle Creek area, to be able to go from sagebrush to grand fir in such a short distance means that we’ve got a lot of habitat diversity. And hopefully, that will translate to a lot of birds today.

Moving up LaValle Creek

Steve and I are covering the upper portion of the LaValle Creek area. A team of three more birders – Andy Boyce, Adam Mitchell, and William Blake – are covering the lower half of LaValle Creek, where the habitat consists of open pastures and mature cottonwood forest along the stream. Originally, a single group tried to cover both areas – but splitting it in half gives us time to be more thorough.

“Now each group can do it much more leisurely, not feel like they’re having to hurry,” Steve says.

In spite of the nice-looking habitats we’re walking past – mature ponderosas and Douglas-firs, dense hawthorn thickets, smooth-barked aspen groves – the morning is off to a quiet start. Even the chickadees are muted in the fog, only making their sip contact calls. Since they aren’t giving their distinctive chickadee-dee-dee calls, we’re forced to listen and look extra-hard to try to distinguish black-capped chickadees from mountain chickadees.

The birds are quiet enough that we have time to ponder mammals as we ascend farther into the forest. We spot the tracks of weasels, snowshoe hares, a red squirrel, and a miniature bounding trail that is probably a deer mouse. The trail of a red fox merges with our own path for a time. And we know there are other creatures around, too.

“Every year we do this, there’s usually a pretty good herd of elk running around this basin somewhere,” Steve says.

A woodpecker near the ridge

Above us to the northwest is the ridge that marks the edge of the LaValle Creek watershed. This area is all privately owned, and the landowners have graciously given us access to count birds here for the CBC. We start following a sloping trail up the mountain through Douglas-fir forest with an understory of mallow ninebark (Physocarpus malvaceus). The tracks in the snow tell us that a weasel and a snowshoe hare have passed this way recently.

A red squirrel starts scolding us from high in the canopy. And then we start to hear a different sound from ahead of us. It’s a resounding, sporadic tapping, far too loud to be a nuthatch. A woodpecker is foraging. And from the sounds of it, it’s a large one.

“That’s really heavy hammering,” Steve says. “I think it’s a pileated.”

But foraging sounds can be trickier to identify than songs and calls. Is it really a pileated woodpecker? We locate the ponderosa pine snag where the woodpecker is hammering. But of course, it’s foraging on the far side of the tree, completely hidden by the trunk.

It’s so loud. It must be a pileated woodpecker, we think. Still, I start making a wide circle downhill, trying to see the far side of the snag without disturbing the woodpecker. The tapping falls silent. Then it starts up again. Finally, I see a head and a powerful beak attacking the edge of the snag. But this bird is way smaller than I was expecting, and its belly is white. It’s not a pileated.

Smaller than expected

“You aren’t going to believe this,” I tell Steve as I rejoin him farther up the slope and show him my photos. “It’s a hairy woodpecker!”

Steve’s expression shows just as much surprise as I felt when I saw the bird. We had both been almost sure it was a pileated. How can a bird as small as a hairy woodpecker make such a large noise?

“That’s a particularly resonant piece of wood!” Steve says.

We can see sun and blue sky by the time we reach the ridgeline. The valley is still filled with fog, but we’ve climbed above the clouds. The forest around us is open, with large Douglas-firs and ponderosas. It’s the sort of forest that might, possibly, support flammulated owls in the summer. One of these years, Steve hopes to return and check during the warm season for these rare, sensitive, moth-eating owls.

But in December, any flammulated owls are long-gone. In their place, we’re hearing the occasional kip-kip of a few red crossbills, drawn here by the conifer seeds.

“I had about a hundred crossbills up here last year,” Steve tells me.

Looking for owls, finding nuthatches

We’re following a fence line along the crest of the ridge now. Along the fence is a row of young, bushy Douglas-firs. Steve is peering into the firs with the razor-sharp intensity of a birder searching for northern saw-whet owls. Seeing him inspires me to do the same. But in spite of our best efforts, we don’t see any of these tiny, rodent-eating owls today. If we did, though, this is where we’d expect them.

“Whenever I find them, it’s a dense, limby patch next to an opening,” Steve says.

Past the Douglas-fir thicket, we notice a few recent elk tracks along the ridge. We can see the LaValle Creek valley unfolding below us. Steep, knapweed-covered hillsides blend into dense hawthorn thickets along the draws. Soon, we’ll be heading back down there. If we’re lucky, we may find a long-eared owl, a ruffed grouse, or some American tree sparrows among the hawthorns.

But we aren’t quite done counting birds on the ridge itself yet. We hear the hoarse calls of a single Clark’s nutcracker in the distance. Like the red crossbills, it’s probably finding conifer seeds.

Then a series of piping calls erupt from a massive ponderosa pine near us. Pygmy nuthatches! And they aren’t alone. A female downy woodpecker is tapping on a branch among the bright yellow wolf lichens (Letharia vulpina). She flies to the main trunk and continues feeding. Several white-breasted nuthatches are active here, too, almost twice the size of their pygmy nuthatch cousins. And not to be left out, three red-breasted nuthatches are flitting from branches to the main trunk and back again. These aren’t our first nuthatches of the day, but it’s exciting to see all three of Montana’s nuthatch species in a single tree.

What we see and what we don’t

We begin descending the knapweed-covered hillside, heading for the hawthorns. A few years ago, Steve found a flock of gray partridges on this hillside, but today the ranks of knapweed are still and birdless.

As always when birding, we’re paying close attention to the habitats we’re moving through. We’re noticing patterns and thinking about trends. It’s not just about what we are seeing today, but also what we aren’t. 

“No flickers yet,” I comment.

“Yeah, that’s kind of bizarre, actually,” Steve replies.

He looks back up the hill, scanning the tops of the Douglas-firs for a perching red-tailed hawk. That’s another common bird that we haven’t seen yet today. And although we’ve played tag with flocks of mountain chickadees, black-capped chickadees, and nuthatches through the forest, we haven’t seen or heard a single golden-crowned kinglet today. It’s quite a contrast from the spruce-cottonwood forest of the Swan Valley, where two days ago golden-crowned kinglets were one of the commonest birds.

The hawthorns of LaValle Creek

We split up as we get to the hawthorns, one of us taking each side of the thicket. If one of us flushes a long-eared owl, hopefully the other one will see it. But the first thickets we check are silent. Except for an occasional black-billed magpie, the birds are absent.

It’s only when we’re checking our final hawthorn draw, approaching the parking area, that we start to find some more birds. All of a sudden, it seems like the chickadees are everywhere. There are 15 or 20 of them, all black-caps, darting out of the shrubs and landing in the spotted knapweed (Centaurea stoebe). It’s a familiar pattern of activity: it appears that the chickadees are hunting Urophora gall flies again. I stop to watch them more closely. They’re actually picking individual knapweed seedheads, breaking each one off at the stem. Then they return to the hawthorns to hammer at their catch, presumably extracting some juicy gall flies.

The chickadees aren’t alone here. We spot a few dark-eyed juncos twittering nearby. Steve sees them making forays into the knapweed, too. Are the juncos also eating gall fly larvae?

A subtle brown movement among the hawthorns alerts me to the presence of a ruffed grouse. I get a good look at its sweeping crest before the grouse fades back into the thicket, a brown shadow among the tangled branches.

A few American goldfinches perch briefly in the tops of the bushes, taking off with a cascade of musical perchicoree calls.

Snow buntings and other surprises

As we meander back towards the parking area, a few American tree sparrows call out their presence. We tally a few more chickadees and nuthatches, but nothing more unusual turns up. 

As we drive down the road, we stop to compare notes with Andy, Adam, and William. What have they found among the cottonwoods and farm fields below us?

The lower LaValle Creek team has had a good day. Like us, they weren’t able to find any long-eared owls or northern saw-whet owls. But they found a prairie falcon perched along the hillside, a flock of snow buntings and horned larks among the cows of a feedlot, and several great horned owls close to the creek.

By the time we’re done birding for the day, it’s mid-afternoon. We haven’t managed to count every single bird in the LaValle Creek area – but between our two teams, we’ve done our best. The Missoula CBC isn’t over yet, though. From LaValle Creek to Kelly Island to McCauley Butte and beyond, teams of birders have been in the field today, combing Missoula for winter birds. What remains now is to tally up the results.

Comparing notes

Some groups just send their lists to Larry Weeks, the count compiler. Others of us show up at his house in the evening for the CBC potluck. To me, this is one of the best parts of the day. It’s a chance to hear about the surprises everyone has found, consider how this year stacks up against others, and enjoy the company of other bird lovers.

At the potluck I see Don Jones, an excellent birder and wildlife photographer from Troy, Montana, who I last saw  seven or eight years ago on the Troy Christmas Bird Count. He’s taking part in five CBCs across western Montana this week. Today, his group birded the area around McCauley Butte. One of their most surprising sightings was a blocky-headed raptor that appeared to be a Cooper’s hawk – an uncommon sighting during the winter. A much-smaller sharp-shinned hawk was dive-bombing it.

As the evening progresses, more surprises trickle in. Jim Brown reports finding a short-eared owl. One group found a marsh wren at Council Grove. Common redpolls, those arctic finches that can be abundant in some winters, were sparse today. But the group that checked Kelly Island found 12 of them there.

Winter finches appear to be down this year. No one tonight reports seeing Cassin’s finches, pine siskins, or pine grosbeaks. And between all of our groups, we’ve found just a few dozen red crossbills.

Conifer cones and other conundrums

Why? Don Jones reports that northern Canada is heavily loaded with cones right now, and the Finch Research Network confirms that the bumper cone crop is widespread in that area. The Canadian spruces look brown under the weight of their seeds. Don says that the trees there are loaded with white-winged crossbills. So is the scarcity of finches here related to better food supplies to the north? It seems very possible.

Larry Weeks is still waiting on a few more bird lists before he’ll be able to finalize the CBC results. But soon, we should know how this year’s CBC compares to almost 50 years of these counts in Missoula.

How are our birds doing? Are there less of them around than there were ten years ago? It turns out that questions like these are difficult to answer well. Bird populations don’t just trend smoothly up or down – they typically fluctuate from year to year, sometimes wildly.

Is it the cold and snowy winter we’re experiencing? Is it the availability of conifer cones or other food sources? How much has the day’s weather changed our counts? How many birds have we missed because we haven’t looked in the right places or listened closely enough?

Decades of Christmas Bird Counts

In short, counting birds is complicated. But since 1976, teams of experienced birders have been going out once a winter to conduct the Missoula CBC. It’s one of our best sources of data on our winter bird populations. And it’s especially important for the northern birds like American tree sparrows and common redpolls, which spend the summers in remote, hard-to-access areas. So how are our birds doing? Christmas Bird Counts like this one, conducted year after year for decades, will help us answer this question.

And in the meanwhile, we’ve gotten to spend a day with all three of our winter nuthatches. We’ve climbed above the foggy LaValle Creek valley and watched a hairy woodpecker sound impossibly large. We’ve gotten to see chickadees harvesting knapweed seedheads, and wondered whether dark-eyed juncos are doing the same. And we’ve gotten to be part of something much larger: a continent-wide search, involving thousands of volunteers, to check up on the health of our mid-winter birds. Whatever the answer, it’s fun to be part of this.

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December 15, 2022

The Swan River slips gently under the snowy bridge where the Cold Creek Road crosses it. A pileated woodpecker flies past, its heavy kakking calls echoing into the distance over the snow-shrouded cottonwoods and Engelmann spruces along the river. In the cottonwoods, we can hear a mixed flock of black-capped chickadees and golden-crowned kinglets, calling busily as they forage. One of the chickadees gives its fee-bee song briefly. It’s a reminder, here in the depths of winter, that spring is coming. By March, the chickadees will be singing much more, staking out their breeding territories.

This morning I’m near Condon, Montana, counting birds with Mary Shaw, an avid wildlife watcher and a board member for the nonprofit Swan Valley Connections. We’re one of a handful of teams conducting the Upper Swan Valley Christmas Bird Count (CBC) today. Like CBCs all over the Americas (primarily North America), the goal is simple: count all the birds we can find in one day within a fixed 15-mile diameter circle. Between December 14 and January 5 each winter, about 2600 CBCs take place across the United States, Canada, and Latin America. 

The first CBCs took place in 1900, and the number of them has been growing ever since. They’re fun community events, but they’re also one of our best sources of long-term data on the populations of North American overwintering birds. Based on CBC data, we can see patterns over the last 50 years – and sometimes farther back -such as the relative stability of overwintering American robin populations, the steady decline in western meadowlarks wintering in the United States, and the northward shift of pine grosbeaks as the climate changes.

A river runs through it

Between the trees, the snow is a few feet deep here in this mostly forested valley. Among the conifers, we can expect to find flocks of chickadees, kinglets, and nuthatches: the usual forest birds. Otherwise, we’re expecting the birds to be clustered in just a few areas today. Here along the river, where the open water provides opportunities for food and shelter, we’re hoping to find some ducks and perhaps an American dipper. The highway can be another surprisingly-attractive spot for winter birds. Roadkills can bring in bald eagles, dozens of ravens, and sometimes golden eagles.

But so far, the river hasn’t been as active as we were hoping. We can see some whitish-yellow branches in the stream, neatly stripped of their bark by the local beavers. But as far as we can see in either direction, neither ducks nor American dippers are visible on the water.

We debate about whether to hike farther along the river. Swan Valley Connections has loaned us snowshoes to navigate the deep snow. And there’s a good chance we might find some mergansers or other ducks somewhere along here.

“Well, I love hiking,” Mary says.

It’s decided.

Birding by snowshoe

We wade through the snow, stumbling occasionally over fallen spruce logs. We stop several times to scan the river, but the water remains birdless. Soon we begin to wander deeper into the forest, attracted by the soft sip calls of a few chickadees.

It’s another flock of black-capped chickadees, at least five of them making these soft contact calls as they glean acrobatically among the spruce needles. In the winter, chickadees hunt for spiders, insect eggs, and larvae. They also feed on fruits, seeds of goldenrods and conifers, and sometimes the fat of animal carcasses. 

By 9:40, we’ve meandered back towards the Swan River. Still no ducks. Mary and I decide to split up. She’ll follow our snowshoe trail through the trees, back toward the bridge. Meanwhile, I’ll bushwhack along the edge of the river, hoping to find some more birds. We’ll meet at the car in just over half an hour.

I make my way along the riverbank, passing a spruce hanging out over the water. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by birds. It’s another mixed winter flock. Golden-crowned kinglets, black-capped chickadees, and mountain chickadees are moving through the spruces. The sips and dees of the black-capped chickadees mix with the softer twitters and whispers of the golden-crowned kinglets. Occasionally a mountain chickadee gives its raspy, sore-throated call.

Chickadee identification

Black-capped and mountain chickadees are our two most common species of chickadees in Montana. In the wetter forests towards Idaho, it’s also possible to find the gorgeous chestnut-backed chickadees. But according to Eli Estey, the leader of this CBC, chestnut-backed chickadees are very rare here in the Swan Valley. 

Black-capped and mountain chickadees are easy to tell apart. Mountain chickadees give notably raspier calls, sounding as if a black-capped chickadee has a very sore throat. These birds also have a white line running through their black cap, just above the eye. The top of a black-capped chickadee’s head, on the other hand, is all-black. Black-capped chickadees give the familiar chickadee-dee-dee call, without the raspiness of the mountain chickadees.

The mixed flock fades away as unexpectedly as it came. Flocks like this are a common winter sight in the conifer forest. But that doesn’t make them any less magical.

Mary and I arrive back at the bridge at almost the same time. We still haven’t seen any ducks. But now, a belted kingfisher is perching in a cottonwood over the water, scanning for fish! The extra time along the river has been worthwhile.

Willows, ponderosa pines, and nuthatches

Our first stop of the day is done. Now we drive across the highway and walk a stretch of a snowy road through an extensive complex of beaver wetlands near Condon Creek. The wetlands are almost entirely frozen. 

A light breeze is picking up now, brushing past the willow thickets and cattail stands. It’s entirely quiet except for the occasional croak of a distant raven and the construction noises from a house along the road. I’m almost positive there must be some song sparrows hiding in these willows. But as we walk along, the quiet prevails. These common, hardy sparrows aren’t showing themselves today.

Soft gray clouds hang low over the valley as we stop near Condon Creek itself. We don’t see any song sparrows here, either, though a trickle of open water gurgles under the bridge. But right along the road, we hear a nasal yank call. We spot two red-breasted nuthatches, twittering softly as they inch down a small ponderosa pine trunk. They’re just feet away from us, so close that I can see one of them removing seeds from the bark of the pine. 

What are these seeds doing here, anyhow? How did they make their way from the cones overhead to the bark of this trunk? It turns out that, like their cousins the pygmy nuthatches, red-breasted nuthatches are well-known for caching food items. Some researchers suspect that these birds focus on caching food early in the day, retrieving many of these hidden food items later in the afternoon to build up fat for the cold winter nights.

Back to the river

So far today, we’ve seen or heard 13 species of birds. It’s a remarkable contrast from the summer landscape. In June, we’d be hearing dozens and dozens of species in these trees and around these wetlands. But in spite of the quiet, there’s still something lovely about being out in the winter forest. And the sparse birds only serve to make each encounter more special and to highlight the special places where we find them.

“I just want to keep doing this all day!” Mary tells me. “Even though there aren’t very many birds, this is fun.”

But by now it’s 10:45, and we’ve agreed to meet back up with the other birders at noon to compare notes. We decide we still have time to drive a few miles north to the Salmon Prairie bridge, where we’ll be able to check another stretch of the Swan River.

There aren’t ducks here, either. But an adult bald eagle is perching in a cottonwood. I can hear another mixed flock of songbirds moving through the western larches behind us. There are a few mountain chickadees, some more golden-crowned kinglets, and a couple of red-breasted nuthatches. Then a hairy woodpecker flies past, giving its sharp peek! call.

As we’re driving back toward the highway, Mary spots a lone wild turkey walking methodically across a pasture. She tells me that she sees them commonly in this area.

A dipper in the current

We have just a few minutes remaining before we need to head back to Condon for our noon meeting. On our way, we decide to check the Cold Creek Road bridge one more time. It turns out to be an excellent idea.

The belted kingfisher we saw here before is gone. But in its place, a compact gray bird is bobbing rhythmically at the icy edge of the river. It’s an American dipper! The dipper plunges elegantly from the ice into an eddy. It swims low in the water, like a muskrat, a purposeful gray bird leaving a gently spreading wake.

The dipper flies across the river in front us, giving its tough, wiry call inches above the ripples. It lands on the snowy bank, bobbing once again, then leaps back into flight. This time, it lands in the main current and rides the river downstream, spinning in circles like a phalarope. And, playful though it seems to be, this dipper’s movements have purpose, too. As it drifts down the current, I watch it snap up what appears to be a caddisfly larva.

Comparing notes

We meet up back at the Swan Valley Connections interpretive center in Condon. We’re joined by Amber Langley, who birded an area near Loon Lake and Hemlock Point by cross-country ski this morning, and CBC compiler Eli Estey, who covered some areas south of us near Falls Creek Road. Compared to CBCs that take place in more populous areas, which can sometimes involve a hundred or more participants, this one is a tiny affair. It’s just the four of us covering what we can of the count circle, plus several observers who are counting the birds around their homes today. 

Like us, Amber and Eli have had quiet mornings. The most common birds have been ravens, chickadees, and golden-crowned kinglets – the familiar standbys of winter in the conifer forest. We discuss the birds we haven’t seen today. None of us have seen the winter finches – red crossbills and pine siskins – that we might hope to find in this forested valley. These finches are notoriously mobile, following good crops of conifer seeds from region to region. Nor have we found any common redpolls, northern finches that feed on birch and alder seeds during the winter. Why?

From the Swan Valley to the boreal forest

In the case of the crossbills and pine siskins, at least, there seems to be a straightforward explanation. According to the Finch Research Network, there is a bumper crop of spruce cones north of us this year. Spruces in northern British Columbia and the Northwest Territories are loaded with cones. Presumably, they’re also loaded with winter finches. Meanwhile, in the Swan Valley, the finches are sparse or absent.

This year-to-year variability in winter finches serves to highlight the importance of CBCs like this one. Changes in bird populations are often much more complicated than just simple declines or increases. And to study changes in creatures that can move thousands of miles, it takes an effort like this, something that is geographically extensive and long-lasting.

It’s been a typical winter day in the conifer forest of the Swan Valley: a deep, snowy quiet punctuated by the sudden appearances of mixed-species flocks of chickadees and kinglets. A belted kingfisher, a bald eagle, and an American dipper have reminded us of the bird diversity that the river hosts, even in the middle of winter. The absence of winter finches here has connected us to observations of heavy spruce cone crops 1500 miles away. We’ve waded through deep snow, seen red-breasted nuthatches retrieving seeds, and made some new friends. And we’ve added a few more observations to over a century of data on how North America’s wintering birds are faring. 

Additional reading

Ghalambor, C.K. & T.E. Martin (2020). Red-breasted nuthatch (Sitta canadensis). In Birds of the World Online (P.G. Rodewald & F.B. Gill, editors). Ithaca, NY: Cornell Lab of Ornithology. https://birdsoftheworld.org/

Grubb, T.C., Jr., & T.A. Waite. (1987). Caching by red-breasted nuthatches. Wilson Bulletin 99(4):696-699. Retrieved from https://sora.unm.edu/sites/default/files/journals/wilson/v099n04/p0696-p0699.pdf

Hoar, T. (2022). Winter finch forecast 2022-2023. Finch Research Network. Retrieved from https://finchnetwork.org/winter-finch-forecast-2022-2023

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