21 de junio de 2023

Vine a Spokane Bay en el solsticio de verano sin ninguna intención de escribir algo nuevo. Remando por Hauser Lake, en la parte oeste de Montana, desde la casa de mi amiga Margaret, mi idea había sido, más bien al contrario, escapar de mi oficina en la casa y mis varios proyectos de escribir. Pensé que tal vez encontraría inspiración entre los seres silvestres para presentar otro artículo a una revista para publicación.

Pero cuando mi kayak y yo llegamos a la bahía bajo un inquieto cielo gris, con las golondrinas risqueras (Petrochelidon pyrrhonota) y los vencejos pecho blanco (Aeronautes saxatilis) volando cerca al agua bajo el taciturno banco de nubes, algo sobre el día y el lugar y su diversidad de vida me hizo querer compartirlo.

En parte, fui inspirado por el blog de Chris Helzer, The Prairie Ecologist. Chris, basado en Nebraska, escribe con curiosidad sin remordimientos sobre la vida cerca de él, su pasión por las criaturas y acontecimientos innumerables llevándolo de una planta a un insecto en una manera que me hace tener la esperanza que algún día tendré la oportunidad de deambular en la naturaleza con él. Entonces gracias, Chris, por la inspiración. Que disfrutes mis contemplaciones naturalistas en uno de mis lugares especiales, Spokane Bay. 

La botánica en la bahía

Apenas había entrado en la bahía y ya se me había distraído de cualquier objetivo que pudiera haber tenido. La brisa, soplando débilmente desde el sureste tras una tormenta, empujaba mi kayak contra una ladera inclinada con cara al este. Tomé unos minutos para apreciar la diversidad de plantas ahí.

La ladera era una mezcla inquieta de plantas nativas y no nativas. Todas contaban una historia sobre la interacción de humedad y sequedad, rocas desplazándose, la dispersión de semillas y el crecimiento improbable. Cerca del borde del agua, la invasiva dulcamara (Solanum dulcamara) estaba en plena floración, sus flores en lindos racimos llamativos de estrellas de morado profundo. En el otoño, las flores se convierten en bayas rojas nauseabundas y jugosas que los gorriones corona blanca (Zonotrichia leucophrys) comen, dispersando semillas de las que germinan plántulas nuevas para formar matorrales de enredaderas que desplazan a las plantas nativas del borde del agua.

Cerca de la dulcamara estaba una balsamina nativa (Impatiens sp.). Hay dos especies en Montana, Impatiens ecalcarata e Impatiens aurella, las cuales se pueden distinguir cuando florecen. Las dos son poco comunes, conocidas como Especie de Atención Potencial y Especie de Atención, respectivamente. Sin embargo, he visto las dos en el Valle de Helena.

Más alto en las rocas estaba una especie nativa de Mentzelia, probablemente Mentzelia decapetala, aquella planta que atrapa insectos y cuyas flores abren al atardecer que conocí el verano pasado. Cuesta arriba estaba una franja del pasto espiguilla (Bromus tectorum), sus cabezas de semilla secándose. También había unos tallos del beleño negro (Hyoscyamus niger), una frondosa planta bienal, llamativa y altamente tóxica, que prefiere crecer en el suelo perturbado.

Golondrinas en la lluvia

Mis observaciones fueron acortadas por las primeras gotas grandes de lluvia cayendo desde la tormenta inminente. Empecé a remar fuerte a través de la bahía hacia el muelle. Remaba cara al viento que de repente se hacía más fuerte, las olas abofeteando la proa de mi kayak y salpicando mis lentes con agua.

Llegué a la orilla y busqué refugio bajo un viejo sauce (Salix fragilis) antes que el chaparrón empezara en serio, soplando a través de la bahía en suaves cortinas grises. Las golondrinas permanecían muy activas, bailando por el aire y rozando el agua, haciendo descensos aleteados y planeos ascendentes entre las gotas de lluvia. La mayoría de ellas eran golondrinas risqueras, las cuales anidan en las rocas una cuarta de milla lejos. A veces vi golondrinas verdemar (Tachycineta thalassina), alas aserradas (Stelgidopteryx serripennis) y ribereñas (Riparia riparia) también. Los vencejos pecho blanco, que aparentemente anidan en los riscos más aguas abajo, se habían ido.

Pronto me encontré sentándome en cuclillas al borde del agua bajo el sauce, donde el frondoso dosel verde desviaba la mayoría de la lluvia. Estaba intentando, con poco éxito, capturar el baile de más de treinta golondrinas sobre el agua. Era un baile hecho aún más mágico por saber que muchos de nuestros insectívoros aéreos están en declive. En Montana, por lo que sé, tenemos casi ningún dato cuantitativo sobre los posibles declives a largo plazo en los insectos aéreos que las golondrinas necesitan para alimento. Sin embargo, he escuchado anécdotas inquietantes de algunas personas que han vivido en el área por mucho tiempo. Dicen que los números de insectos salpicados en el parabrisas al manejar han caído mucho en las últimas décadas. En cualquier caso, el baile de las golondrinas es algo especial para mirar.

Sin palabras

¿Cómo se puede capturar la biodiversidad en una historia? Después de media hora, la lluvia había pasado cuando vi una golondrina bicolor (Tachycineta bicolor). La monótona luz gris tocaba su espalda de azul reluciente mientras sobrevoló el agua, casi rozando las ondas. Ya había visto cinco especies de golondrinas acá en una sola tarde. Había cientos de especies de plantas, varias de ellas nativas y otras no, cada una con su propia historia.

Los cantos de los praderos del oeste (Sturnella neglecta) hacían eco llorosamente desde el otro lado del lago. Una polluela sora (Porzana carolina) relinchó, escondida en el humedal de espadañas (Typha sp.) donde el arroyo desembocaba en la bahía. No hay manera en la que pueda capturar este lugar en una historia, decidí, ni quiero. Este lugar, y otros como él, existen y viven y respiran fuera de estas palabras. Y eso es parte de su hermosura. Pero lo que sí puedo hacer es celebrar este mundo vivo que respira cerca de mí. Les puedo agradecer con palabras inadecuadas a estas plantas que hablan a través de donde escogen crecer, a estas golondrinas que bailan como atletas sobre las ondas. Y tal vez mis palabras te inspirarán a buscar tus propios lugares especiales, a aprender de las criaturas allí y encontrar maneras de agradecerles por todo lo que nos dan.

Con esos pensamientos, otra vez dejé de listar y describir todo. (Pero sí hice una lista de aves, y al fin de la tarde había alcanzado a 39 especies.) En vez de listar toda la vida cerca de mí, deambulé, pausando donde mi curiosidad me llevó. Me tomé el tiempo para escuchar, oler y apreciar. Altamente recomiendo días como esto.

Desde los chinitos hasta la Lewisia

El árbol del paraíso (Elaeagnus angustifolia) aún florecía, aunque la lluvia había lavado la mayor parte del olor empalagoso de sus flores. Detecté un nido relativamente plano de palos en medio de las ramas y me retiré inmediatamente. Un par de chinitos (Bombycilla cedrorum) estaba cerca, dando sus trinos, y sospeché que el nido podía ser el suyo. En efecto, con unos 30 metros de distancia, fui recompensado con una vista breve de uno de los adultos volando al nido.

No quería acercarme más y perturbarlos, pero esperaba sacar una foto del nido. Por eso tomé la mala decisión de subir a una ladera demasiado empinada para verlo de arriba. Subí con éxito, pero el nido desapareció, bien escondido entre las ramas.

Pero el ascenso me puso a la misma altura de un mirlo primavera (Turdus migratorius), por turnos acicalándose y cantando desde otro sauce. También me dio una buena vista hacia la desembocadura de Spokane Creek. Allí nadaba una flotilla pequeña de patos de collar (Anas platyrhynchos) y patos frisos (Mareca strepera). El ascenso también me puso dentro de una pradera de alta calidad. El suelo estaba alfombrado de la planta Selaginella densa, parecida a un musgo, y muchos líquenes. Había césped de Agropyron spicatum y arbustos de Artemisia tridentata. También me emocioné al ver las flores de la Lewisia rediviva, sus hojas ya marchitadas por el verano.

De la pradera al humedal

Caminé con cuidado a través de la ladera, ojos alertos para insectos inusuales u otras criaturas. El sol había emergido de las nubes y las golondrinas estaban más altas. Ya había proporciones casi iguales de golondrinas risqueras y verdemar, aún volando a baja altura sobre los relieves de la ladera y la superficie de la bahía.

Seguí deambulando de aquí para allá, informalmente buscando insectos interesantes, pero encontrando pocos durante esta tarde relativamente fresca. Paré para fotografiar las flores de la Phacelia linearis en la ladera yerbosa y su pariente perenne, la Phacelia hastata, con sus matas del color lavanda en una cuesta de esquisto.

En el humedal de espadañas, miré un gorrión cantor (Melospiza melodia) cantando con su cabeza levantada contra un fondo del euforbio (Euphorbia esula). Revisé las flores de los rosales nativos (Rosa woodsii) y el lindo pero definitivamente no nativo cardo de almizcle (Carduus nutans) buscando polinizadores. No vi ningunos—tal vez no hacía calor suficiente. Pero mientras tanto me resbalé en las plantas, mojadas por la lluvia, alarmando a un venado cola blanca. El venado se levantó de su encubrimiento y saltó por el humedal, sobresaltando a un par de cercetas alas azules (Spatula discors) de un remanso.

Las golondrinas

Unos abejorros con franjas anaranjadas en el abdomen, los cuales sospechaba eran la especie Bombus huntii, visitaban la Phacelia hastata. Pero las golondrinas estaban teniendo mucho más suerte que yo en encontrar los insectos. Volando sobre la bahía y la ladera en un patrón de tráfico que cambiaba constantemente, sus números seguían aumentando. De 30 durante el chaparrón a 50, a 80: ya había hasta 40 golondrinas verdemar. Fue fácil ver sus espaldas de verde aterciopelado y sus rabadillas blancas mientras pasaron rápidamente por arriba. No me tomó mucho tiempo para cambiar mi enfoque completamente a las golondrinas.

Pero las golondrinas eran increíblemente veloces, y mi cámara dolorosamente lenta. El lente redujo el fluido baile aéreo de las golondrinas verdemar a un borrón poco interesante. Traté de sacar fotos de la Phacelia con mi móvil, yo tumbado barriga abajo sobre las rocas puntiagudas, intentando capturar las manchitas rápidas de las golondrinas en el fondo. Si usas mucha imaginación, puedes verlas.

Y entonces, algo cambió. Por unos minutos, y por razones que aún no entiendo, las golondrinas verdemar empezaron a aterrizar en la tierra expuesta de la ladera. Dos o tres aterrizaban a la vez sobre el parche de Phacelia hastata. ¿Obtenían minerales? ¿Materiales para anidar? No sé. Pero finalmente pude sacar unas fotos aceptables, unos recuerdos que aún no le hacen justicia al asombro del baile de las golondrinas.

El baile de las golondrinas

Unos minutos más tarde, una agrupación vespertina de golondrinas empezaba a formarse. Primero había 15, y entonces 30, posándose en los cables de luz. Otra vez saqué mi cámara. Podía ver cuatro especies en el cable: golondrinas verdemar, alas aserradas, risqueras y bicolores.

Conté el número de golondrinas en el aire otra vez más antes de irme esa tarde. Una ráfaga del viento había subido a la ladera y un remolino de golondrinas saltó dentro de ella, evidentemente agarrando insectos. Conté rápidamente por múltiplos de diez: 130 golondrinas, llenando el espacio aéreo sobre la bahía.

Cuando me fui de Spokane Bay esa tarde, me fui enamorado de las golondrinas. Me fui pensando en jejenes (cerca del fin, finalmente atrapé un enjambre de ellos en mi gorra) y los otros insectos que las golondrinas comen. Y me fui esperando que, cien años en el futuro, aún haya tantas (o aún más) golondrinas, llenando el cielo sobre Spokane Bay.

Leer más

Spiller, K.J. & Dettmers, R. (2019). Evidence for multiple drivers of aerial insectivore declines across North America. The Condor 121(2). Recuperado de https://academic.oup.com/condor/article/121/2/duz010/5497088

The post El baile de las golondrinas en el solsticio appeared first on Wild With Nature.

June 21, 2023

I came to Spokane Bay on the summer solstice with no intention of writing something new. Paddling up central Montana’s Hauser Lake from my friend Margaret’s house, my idea had been, if anything, to escape my home office and my many writing projects, perhaps to find inspiration for yet another magazine pitch among the wild creatures.

But as my kayak and I reached the bay under an unsettled gray sky, with cliff swallows and white-throated swifts foraging low under the brooding cloud bank, something about the day and the place and its diversity of life made me want to share it.

In part, I was inspired by Chris Helzer’s blog, The Prairie Ecologist. Chris, based in Nebraska, writes with unapologetic curiosity for the life around him, his passion for the myriad creatures and happenings taking him from this plant to that insect in a way that makes me hope I’ll get the chance to wander in the field with him someday. So thanks, Chris, for the inspiration. Enjoy my naturalist musings at one of my special places, Spokane Bay. 

Botany on the bay

I had barely entered the bay and already I was distracted from whatever my mission for the day might have been. The breeze, pushing gently from the southeast behind a storm cell, was pushing my kayak up against a steep, rocky east slope, and I took a few minutes to appreciate the plant diversity there.

The slope was an uneasy mix of native and non-native, all of them telling a story of the interplay of moisture and dryness, shifting rock, seed dispersal and improbable growth. Near the water’s edge, the invasive bittersweet nightshade (Solanum dulcamara) was in full bloom, a strikingly beautiful array of deep purple stars. In the fall, they develop into nauseating, juicy red berries that the white-crowned sparrows eat, dispersing new seedlings to form viney tangles that displace native plants from the water’s edge. 

Near the nightshade was a native jewelweed (Impatiens sp.). There are two species in Montana, Impatiens ecalcarata and Impatiens aurella, which are distinguishable when in flower. Both are rather uncommon, listed as a Potential Species of Concern and a Species of Concern, respectively, and I’ve seen both in the Helena Valley.

Higher in the rocks was a native blazingstar, probably Mentzelia decapetala, that evening-blooming insect trapper that I got to know last summer. Farther upslope was a band of cheatgrass (Bromus tectorum), its seedheads drying out, and a few stems of black henbane (Hyoscyamus niger), a leafy, striking and highly toxic non-native biennial that likes disturbed soil.

Swallows in the rain

My observations were cut short by the first few heavy raindrops from the impending storm. I started paddling hard across the bay towards the boat docks, pointed into the suddenly stronger wind, the waves slapping over the bow of my kayak and spattering lake water onto my glasses.

I reached shore and took shelter under an old crack willow (Salix fragilis) before the rain shower began in earnest, blowing across the bay in soft gray curtains. The swallows stayed active, skimming within a foot of the water, dancing in fluttered stoops and ascending glides among the raindrops. Most of them were cliff swallows, which nest on the rocks a quarter of a mile away; occasionally I saw violet-green, northern rough-winged, and bank swallows. The white-throated swifts, which apparently nest on the higher cliffs farther downstream, had departed.

Soon I found myself squatting at the water’s edge under the crack willow, where the leafy green canopy deflected most of the raindrops, trying with limited success to capture the dance of thirty-plus swallows over the water. It was a dance made even more magical by the knowledge that many of our aerial insect-eaters are declining. In Montana, to the best of my knowledge, we have virtually no quantitative data on any potential long-term declines in the aerial insects that these species depend on for food. I have heard disturbing anecdotes, from several long-time residents, though, that the numbers of windshield-splattered insects have declined very substantially in the last few decades. In any case, the dance of the swallows is a special thing to behold.

Beyond words

How does one capture biodiversity in a story? Half an hour later and the rain had moved on. I spotted a tree swallow, the flat gray light catching its shining blue back as it skimmed over the ripples of the bay. Five species of swallows catching insects here, just on this single afternoon. Hundreds of species of plants, many native and others not, each with a story of its own. 

The songs of the western meadowlarks echoed plaintively from across the lake and a sora whinnied invisibly from the cattail marsh at the mouth of the bay. There’s no way I can really capture this place in a story, I decided, nor do I really want to. This place, and others like it, exist and live and breathe outside of these words. That’s part of their beauty. But what I can do is celebrate this living, breathing world. I can thank them with inadequate words, these plants that speak through where they choose to grow, these swallows that dance athletically over the ripples. And perhaps my words will inspire you to seek your own special spots, to learn from the creatures there, and to find ways to give back to them.

With those thoughts, I once again stopped trying to catalog and describe everything. (Though I did keep a bird list, and by the end of the afternoon it had reached 39 species.) Instead, I wandered, pausing where my curiosity took me, taking time to listen and sniff and feel and appreciate. I highly recommend days like this.

From cedar waxwings to bitterroot

The Russian-olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia) was still flowering, though the rain had washed most of the sickly-sweet smell from its blooms. I noticed a relatively flat nest of sticks at mid-level among the branches and backed off. A pair of cedar waxwings were making buzzy calls nearby, and I suspected that the nest might be theirs. Sure enough, from 30 meters away I was rewarded with a brief view of one of the adults flying to the nest.

I didn’t want to get closer and disturb them, but I was hoping to get a photo of the nest. That led me to the ill-advised move of scrambling up a far-too-steep bank to get a farther-away view from above. The nest obligingly disappeared, well-hidden among the branches. 

But the scramble put me at eye level with an American robin, alternately preening and singing from another crack willow. It also gave me a nice view towards the mouth of Spokane Creek, where a small flotilla of mallards and gadwalls were swimming. And it put me in the midst of a high-quality native grassland carpeted with dense spikemoss (Selaginella densa) and lichens, dotted with bluebunch wheatgrass (Agropyron spicatum) and big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata). Here I was excited to see a few bitterroots (Lewisia rediviva) blooming, the leaves already withered away for the season. 

Grassland to marsh

I picked my way gingerly along the grassland slope, eyes alert for unusual insects and other creatures. The sun was out now and the swallows were higher, almost equal numbers of cliff and violet-green swallows now, skimming the contours of the hillside as well as the surface of the bay.

I continued to putter here and there, casually looking for interesting insects, but finding little on this relatively cool afternoon. I stopped to photograph the linearleaf phacelia (Phacelia linearis) flowering on the grassland slope and its perennial relative, silverleaf phacelia (Phacelia hastata), in lavender clumps on a loose shaly embankment. 

In the cattail marsh, I watched a song sparrow throwing his head back in song against a backdrop of leafy spurge. I checked for flower visitors on the native Wood’s rose (Rosa woodsii) and the gorgeous but emphatically not native nodding thistle (Carduus nutans). Not warm enough, perhaps—nothing was there. I did slip on the rain-damp vegetation while taking photos, though, startling a white-tailed deer, who leapt up from hiding and bounded across the marsh, flushing a pair of blue-winged teal from the backwaters.

The swallows

A couple of orange-banded bumblebees, which I suspected were Hunt’s bumblebees (Bombus huntii), were visiting the silverleaf phacelia. But the swallows were having much better luck finding insects than I was. Flying over the bay and the phacelia slope in an ever-shifting traffic pattern, their numbers kept increasing. From 30 during the rain shower to 50, to 80: 40 violet-green swallows alone, velvety green backs and white rumps on prominent display as they whizzed past. It didn’t take me long to shift my focus almost entirely to swallows.

The swallows were impossibly fast, though, and my camera painfully slow. My lens reduced the smooth aerial dance of the violet-greens to an uninteresting blur. I tried taking cell phone photos of the silverleaf phacelia, lying on my stomach on the sharp rocks, trying to capture the darting specks of the swallows in the background. If you use a lot of imagination, you can see them there.

Then something shifted. For a few brief minutes, and for reasons unknown to me, the violet-green swallows began landing on the exposed soil of the slope, two or three at a time, above the silverleaf phacelia patch. Were they finding minerals? Nesting materials? I don’t know. But at last I was able to get some halfway recognizable photos, some mementoes that still don’t really do justice to the wonder of dancing swallows.

The dance of the swallows

A few minutes later and an early evening swallow aggregation was beginning to form. There were 15, then 30 of them, roosting on the power lines. Out came the camera. On the line, I could see four species: violet-green, northern rough-winged, cliff, and tree swallow. 

I did one final count of swallows on the wing before I left that evening. A gust of wind had swept suddenly up the slope and a swirl of swallows dove into it, evidently snatching prey. A quick, rough count by tens: 130 swallows, filling the airspace over the bay.

When I left Spokane Bay that evening, I left enamored by swallows. I left thinking about midges (towards the end, I finally caught a cloud of them with my hat) and the other insects that swallows eat. And I left hoping that, a hundred years from now, there are still this many (if not more) swallows around, filling the sky over Spokane Bay.

Further reading

Spiller, K.J. & Dettmers, R. (2019). Evidence for multiple drivers of aerial insectivore declines across North America. The Condor 121(2). Retrieved from https://academic.oup.com/condor/article/121/2/duz010/5497088

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September 6, 2022

The sun is high and the afternoon is hot by the time I make it over to Spokane Bay. A lone turkey vulture teeters as it glides along the ridge, riding the wind that flows across the grasses with a distant sigh. Since last week, smoke has blown in from fires in Idaho, a dirty white haze that fills the sky. The smoke hides the distant mountains and blurs the dry, tan hills across the lake. Around me, the rocky slopes hold Spokane Bay in a bowl, cut off from the outside world by the grip of the haze.

I let my kayak drift slowly into the bay, through the mats of green algae where the carp hide and the damselflies hover. Eventually I reach the shady shallows where the crack willows (Salix fragilis) hang over the water. Just like last week, dozens of yellow-rumped warblers are spending the afternoon here, chipping energetically from the canopy. But today, floating on the water, I have a better view of them. 

Yellow-rumps and mallards

The yellow-rumps are darting forth over the water, catching flying insects. Four or five warblers will fly out at the same time, as if they’re choreographing the hunting. It doesn’t always work, though. Several times I watch a warbler try for a large white moth. But this moth is a survivor. Each time, just as the warbler is closing in, it casually changes course, leaving the unfortunate bird snapping up a beakful of air.

The yellow-rumps are hunting along the willow branches, too, looking for caterpillars and other foliage-dwellers in an intense stop-and-start. The noisy clicking of the Great Basin cracklers floats in from the steep, dry slopes above us. 

In many ways, the bird community today seems similar to what I saw here last week. An American white pelican glides in and lands on the water with a heavy splash. The mallards are feeding at the water’s surface, darting this way and that at the outer edge of the mat of algae. Every few seconds, a quack emanates from the group of foraging ducks. 

But a hint of fall migration is evident in the turkey vultures that glide over the ridge every so often. As they fly south, they search out updrafts and thermals to save them from flapping. The wind across this ridge is providing just such an updraft. And today’s yellow-rumped warblers are probably different individuals than the ones I saw here last week. They’re spending every moment of this afternoon fattening up on insects, 12-gram athletes getting ready for another night’s marathon. Though yellow-rumps don’t migrate as far as many of our songbirds, by the winter a continent’s-worth of them will be concentrated in the southern United States and Mexico.

Algae: bad and good

Slowly, I paddle back out of the shade of the willows, paralleling the shore. Remember how the ducks last week were swimming in the open channels between the algae? I haven’t been as smart as them today, and now I realize why it matters. The algal mat is thick and heavy here. Within a few feet, my kayak is pushing a mattress-sized carpet of algae ahead of it. It’s hard to make any progress.

But the algae isn’t just a trap. It’s also an interesting microhabitat at the interface between water and sky. Besides the hundreds and hundreds of damselflies that are hovering over it, there are also tens of thousands of minute flies crawling on this bright green mat. Are the flies what the mallards are feeding on?

Eventually, I make it through the mats of algae and beach my kayak. Near the water’s edge, two banded garden spiders (Argiope trifasciata) have set up their webs. One web has four damselflies in it. It seems that this spider may be benefitting from the algal mat.

Marsh elder and a merlin

I wander along the creek upstream of the bay, passing more crack willows and a cattail marsh. A young white-tailed deer, its coat still spotted, stares back at me from among the snowberry. 

I come across a rank patch of tall plants, covered with arrays of seeds. This is marsh elder (Iva xanthifolia), an impressively large annual that typically grows in wet areas. Its seed crop has not gone unnoticed: as I walk past, a dozen American goldfinches leap into the air and fly away.

As I look up from the marsh elder, a mourning dove flies past with a faint whistle of wings. Then, seconds later, it flies back past – a merlin is in hot pursuit! The small, maneuverable falcon is flapping hard, intent on the possibility of lunch. But the mourning dove has too much of a head start. Soon, the merlin peels off and continues out of sight past the willows.

I stop to sit and reflect in the shade of the willows along the creek. In spite of the smoke today, it’s peaceful here. A black-capped chickadee flock is calling from the canopy. In the twigs of a golden currant overhanging the stream, a common yellowthroat is foraging silently.

Early migration

The drastic changes that fall migration will soon bring aren’t yet very evident here. A few common loons have shown up farther out on Hauser Lake, where a large flock of gulls are now staging. Here at Spokane Bay, last week’s yellow warblers are nowhere to be seen. These warblers are relatively early migrants; they may be gone for the year now. They’ll spend the winter in Mexico, central America, or as far south as Colombia. And a few green-winged teals have joined the mallards on the bay – though maybe they were already here last week and I overlooked them.

A hot afternoon isn’t the best time for spotting bird diversity: an early-morning foray would be better for checking up on fall migration. But even in the midst of this hazy afternoon, I’ve made new connections with this place. I’ve gotten to spend time with the yellow-rumped warblers in the willows, fattening up on insects between marathons of nighttime migration. I’ve learned about the possible hazards and opportunities that the mat of algae on the bay poses. And I’ve learned to watch for goldfinches in the marsh elder.

Even in the smoke and the heat, we can go outside and get to know the world around us. It’s still beautiful, still alive. On an afternoon like this, there’s nothing I’d rather do than be here, where the steep orange rocks meet the water, getting to know the life this landscape supports. 

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August 30, 2022

The sun is hot on this midday at the end of summer, but the breeze carries a cool hint of fall. A delta of bright green algae marks the mouth of Spokane Creek where it flows lazily into the bay on Hauser Lake. Twenty mallards are swimming slowly away from me, following the shallow blue channels that wind among the algae. A lone female hooded merganser is swimming alongside them. Otherwise, the bay is empty of waterfowl.

Earlier, I had watched two pelicans swimming placidly along the far shore, where the steep hills of pink-orange shale rise up. Three sandhill cranes were circling over the bay, their throbbing calls echoing off of the slope.

The cranes have landed now. They’re foraging quietly among the rushes and cattails near the mouth of the creek, picking methodically among the damp vegetation.

Early migrants

Fall migration is already underway. The shorebirds were some of the earliest to migrate – since the end of July, they’ve been passing through the Helena Valley. But now, the songbirds are beginning to move, too. Here at Spokane Bay this morning, the native cottonwoods (Populus sp.) and the non-native crack willows (Salix fragilis) along the water are full of yellow-rumped warblers. Yellow-rumps are breeding birds of the conifer forest. Seeing them here, in riparian habitat along the lake, it’s clear that they’re already migrating. Their spic calls fill the trees as they flit from leaf to leaf, hunting insects.

Occasionally I also hear the sharper chip calls of a Wilson’s warbler. These furtive birds nest along mountain streams and beaver ponds. Now they’re beginning to migrate, too. They’re much less common than the yellow-rumps today, though. This morning I’ve counted just five of them, scattered in the trees and shrubs around the bay. At the same time, I’ve counted 40 yellow-rumps.

We’re still near the start of this fast-moving season of transition. Here at Spokane Bay, many of our summer breeding birds are sticking around. Spotted towhees mew from the dry, shrubby slopes. A western wood-pewee sings his lazy, descending slur from the crack willows. Several gray catbirds mew from dense shrubs near the stream. A few of the yellow warblers that probably nested here this summer are still around, hunting insects in the cottonwoods.

Into the hills

In the grassland on the hills, the clattering crepitations of grasshoppers, red-winged and yellow-winged, fill the air. The broom snakeweed (Gutierrezia sarothrae) is in full bloom now. The dotted blazing star (Liatris punctata) is almost done flowering, while rubber rabbitbrush (Ericameria nauseosa) is just beginning.

By now I’ve climbed nearly to the ridgeline, hiking through the bright yellow clumps of broom snakeweed and the tufts of the bunchgrasses. Suddenly, in the distance, I hear a chorus of strange calls. They remind me vaguely of Clark’s nutcrackers, but each call is like a question mark. It slurs strongly upwards and then drops off again. 

Then I see them, sailing over the bay in an undulating line, heading for a Rocky Mountain juniper (Juniperus scopulorum) below me. They’re pinyon jays, dusty blue from their beaks to their tail feathers. They land in the juniper, making more of their questioning calls, then continue to a more-distant ponderosa pine. I manage to get a bad recording of them calling in the distance, a nasal wee-ow above the constant conversation of the wind and the grasses.

Pinyon jay biology

I’ve been watching for pinyon jays since I first arrived in Helena six years ago. And over those years of casual looking, they’ve always eluded me. Around Helena, the Scratchgravel Hills and the nearby Forestvale Cemetery are the places where birders see them most frequently. But even there, a pinyon jay sighting is never a sure thing. And in the Spokane Bay area, across the Helena Valley from the Scratchgravel Hills, it’s been 22 years since anyone has reported pinyon jays.

Pinyon jays are birds of the interior west. They’re usually associated with pinyon pines, whose seeds they harvest and cache for food. But interestingly, although we don’t have pinyon pines in Montana, we do have pinyon jays. According to the excellent reference Birds of Montana, these birds are residents in much of the state east of the continental divide, where they’re associated with ponderosa pine and limber pine-juniper forests. 

Without pinyon pines in Montana, what do pinyon jays eat? Birds of Montana suggests that our local pinyon jays probably eat pine seeds, too – just not pinyon pines. But pine seeds aren’t the entire diet. Birds of Montana also relays some observations made over a century ago in far-eastern Montana, near Fallon. There, ornithologist Ewen Cameron saw pinyon jays flipping over cow pies to hunt beetles. During the winter, he watched them feeding on juniper berries.

Why I write

From the completely unexpected pinyon jays to the first migrating warblers, it’s been a good day for birds. Today, Spokane Bay has reminded me, once again, why I write. I write because I love being out here. The stories are different every day, and I want to share them with you. Today it’s the cranes bugling over the marsh, the mallards and a hooded merganser swimming at the mouth of the creek. It’s the warblers feeding in the willows, the broom snakeweed covering the hillsides with gold, and the possibility of pinyon jays landing, unexpected, in a juniper. 

Being out here gives me a sense of wonder and lets me feel grounded in the place where I live. When I’m here, I’m connected to the changing of the seasons through my eyes, my ears, and my bones. And no matter how much I may be doubting – questioning my purpose, despairing at all that seems wrong in the world – somehow, after sitting out here, a measure of hope and awe always comes seeping back in. I hope that these stories do the same for you.

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