The Hawk Who Mistook Her Mate for a Meal

Seriously, it could happen to anyone.

Well, any working mom operating on instinct and snap-judgements who needs to snag some groceries before she flies back home to those perpetually ravenous kiddos.

Okay… maybe it couldn’t happen to anyone. But every now and then, once in a very blue moon, some harried female Cooper’s hawk (Accipiter cooperii) will be scanning earth and sky for something to serve for supper, probably thinking about the million other things on her to-do list, and she’ll innocently, accidentally, absentmindedly, kinda-sorta… confuse her spouse for take-out.

At which point she becomes a single working mother.

Now, before you get all mommy-shamey (“I would never feed my children their dad for dinner, but maybe that’s just me…), at least hear her side of the story.

First of all, you need to understand that most predators have a niche, a specific go-to prey that’s based, at least in part, on their particular hunting skill-set. Coopers are no exception; as one of the world’s most adept and daring fliers, they’re capable of barnstorming through a tangle of tree leaves, twigs, and branches as they chase down some chow. Naturally, their aerial talents give Coopers an edge when it comes to the pursuit of other winged creatures. Sure, if the opportunity presents itself they’re not going to turn up their beaks at a frog, a chipmunk, or a bat but the Coopers prey of choice is birds.

When a Cooper’s prey drive kicks in, male and female alike, the only thing that matters in that moment is hitting the target. They don’t even give much consideration to potential risk to life and limb, it seems. According to the Cornell University Lab of Ornithology, a study of this species found nearly a quarter of the 300 skeletons examined had healed chest fractures, especially of the furcula (aka wishbone, analogous to the collarbones in humans).

Of course, just because you’re willing to endure some broken bones to get the job done doesn’t mean you wouldn’t welcome easier access to some eats. Coopers are savvy enough to recognize that a backyard bird feeder is the hawk equivalent of a drive-through restaurant. If they’re lucky enough to have one or more of these bistros in their neighborhood, they’ll cruise on over and hang out in some nearby foliage until feathered patrons stop by for a snack, then grab-and-go. The humans who stock these seedy establishments can get pretty judgemental about what they view as harassment, or even exploitation, of their preferred clientele but that’s the biological carbon cycle for you. Everybody’s gotta eat.

Which brings us back to the hawk who mistook her mate for a meal.

Like many raptors, female Coopers are quite a bit larger than their male counterparts—taller, heavier, longer wing-span, you name it.  But it’s not her size that puts him at risk; it’s his.

See, Coopers tend to focus their hunting efforts on pigeons, mourning doves, flickers, cowbirds, kestrels… in other words, avian species ranging in size between an American robin and an American crow. Ironically, at 14½ to 15¼ inches from beak to tail-tip, the male Cooper’s hawk fits neatly into his very own prey niche. Add to the issue of similar stature the fact that both predator and prey share, in many cases, a color palette of whites, grays, and rusts, and it’s obvious to the most casual observer how the daily chore of hustling up some grub for the family can easily turn into an unfortunate case of mistaken identity.

I guess blue moons and beleaguered female hawks aren’t as uncommon as one might think because male Coopers have a stereotypic strategy for dealing with a distracted but fiercely efficient domestic partner.  First, as he approaches the home-front, he flies in large, slow arcs and hollers out the hawk version of “Honey, I’m home!!”  Then he listens carefully for the female’s “all-clear” response call, signaling that she sees and recognizes him. When he arrives at the nest he’ll have a thoughtful gift in his bill… a little something for her and the chicks to nosh on, or a few home maintenance supplies. Cuz, you know, it never hurts to tip the scales in your favor.

Happy hawk wife, longer hawk husband life.


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© 2019 Next-Door Nature. No reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work, just ask first). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license (from top to bottom): Hal Trachtenberg, Jenny, Chuck Roberts, Jeff Bryant, and Hal Trachtenberg.

The Jet Set

Everyone has their own personal markers of summer—the flash of a firefly, the pulsing hum of cicadas, the aroma of freshly cut grass… I’m sure you have a favorite.  To my mind, nothing says summer quite as definitively as the sight of chimney swifts (Chaetura pelagic) foraging overhead.

These small, sleek birds have belonged to the feathered Jet Set since way back. They’re trendsetters, not fad followers. For example, fashionistas trade angora sweaters and down anoraks for bright floral sundresses and tropical guayaberas as the calendar flips past March, April, and May, but swifts stick to a classic all-season, all-purpose ensemble in understated hipster tones of sooty charcoal accented with an ash-gray ascot.  Très chic! Moreover, chimney swifts really don’t need a cold weather wardrobe; when the temperature changes swifts change their address. They winter in Peru, Brazil, Ecuador, or Chile, not St. Barts or Dubai, and they always summer east of the Rockies. They simply love, love, LOVE the U.S.A and Canada, dahling.

Every chimney swift would be a platinum-status frequent flyer if they weren’t all pilots themselves.  Their cigar-shaped fuselage and narrow, curved wings are built for speed and acrobatic maneuverability, so you won’t find them shuffling through airport security headed for the first-class lounge. Commercial flights are so… pedestrian. Anyway, these birds are rarely ever seen standing still.  Their Latin family name—Apodidae—means “footless,” and while that’s not strictly true their legs and feet are not their strongest feature.  Swifts don’t perch; when forced to land they cling to vertical surfaces, including the walls of those eponymous chimneys.

Which brings us to another characteristic that sets swifts apart from the globetrotting glitterati. Long before Airbnb matched adventurers and accommodations, chimney swifts were bypassing 5 star hotels in favor of host families. It all started when Europeans arrived in the New World and began building houses and fireplaces. The local swifts, who had been housekeeping in hollow trees for more generations than anyone could count, saw an opportunity to make a killing in real estate. They seized the day and the rest is history. Now swifts are North America’s summer house guests, albeit usually uninvited and sometimes unwelcome.

It’s not because they’re inconsiderate. Swifts mostly mind their P’s and Q’s. They don’t monopolize the bathroom taking long, hot showers—a quick splash in a puddle or pool, followed by a thorough mid-air shake, does the trick.  They never raid the family fridge—thousands of in-flight protein-rich insects snacks each day provide nourishment. They don’t expect a chambermaid and fresh linens—using found objects, such as small twigs, and glue-like saliva they fashion temporary fire-resistant DIY berths on the chimney wall to cradle their offspring.

Actually, it’s their kids that cause most conflicts with the conscripted landlords.  Chimney swifts rear 1-2 broods of 3-5 young while visiting the Northern Hemisphere.  The chicks, who snuggle up quietly together while napping, turn into the very definition of sibling rivalry each time a parent arrives at the nest to deliver a meal. The hungry mob push and shove for position, stretching wobbly necks to the heavens. They open their mouths wide and scream their heads off so Mom or Dad will notice and reward them with a juicy morsel. Those high-pitched squeals for attention amplify as they bounce down the open chimney shaft, past the damper, and out into the room below. Multiply that acoustic event by hundreds of feedings per day and the human residents can begin to feel as though they’re being strafed with sound.

There’s a simple solution to live and let live.  A thick slab of Styrofoam™ (aka expanded polystyrene) from the local craft store, cut to fit snugly inside the hearth opening, will reduce the chatter to a tolerable decibel level.

Meanwhile, it can help to remember that their parents are scouring the skies above your humble abode for mosquitoes, making summer evenings outdoors much more pleasant. Plus, it only takes 2-3 weeks for the youngsters to progress from hatchling to flying away, which is pretty impressive you have to admit.

Still, if you’d rather not play innkeeper to international travelers you can turn off the Vacancy sign by installing a chimney cap.  This relatively inexpensive device will not only exclude all manner of wild things from moving into (or falling down) the flue, the cap will also stop downdrafts, prevent sparks and embers from landing on the roof, and block rain, leaves, and branches.

Keep in mind, though, that once a chimney swift family has moved in you can’t legally evict them.  The Migratory Bird Treaty Act gives swifts and most other wild birds a kind of diplomatic immunity so you’ll have to wait until they jet back to South America to pull up the Welcome mat.


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© 2016 Next-Door Nature. No reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work–just ask first). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license (from top to bottom): Jim McCulloch, Chester A. Reed (public domain), Greg Schechter, and Jim McCulloch.

Helicopter Parent

As the most literal of helicopter parents, a ruby-throated hummingbird mom (RTH, Archilochus colubris) takes hovering to a whole new competitive level.

In the case of this feathered sprite (2.8 – 3.5″ long, including bill, and just over 1/10 of an ounce), though, the word “hover” has more to do with the ability to fly than with over-protective child rearing. Which is not to suggest that an RTH mom is neglectful. Far from it… she’s just a bit Type A.

Both male and female RTHs winter in Central America or along the southern tip of Florida, but from the moment a gal returns to her summer stomping grounds in the eastern half of the US or southern Canada, she’s all go-go-go… because her biological clock is ticking like a stopwatch.

Barely hesitating to catch her breath, the first order of business is to find a baby daddy. She’s not looking for ever-after; Mr. Right-for-Now will do as long as he’s strong and handsome. Since the males of her clan aren’t the slightest bit interested in becoming a Mr. Mom this arrangement suits everyone just fine. With barely a look backward by either party following their four-second assignation, he jets off to find another hookup, and she speeds away to shop for flower-down to line the bassinet.

It takes about six days for this mom-to-be to fashion a nest barely wide enough to hold a bottle cap, and tether it to a foundation with strands of spider silk. RTH nests are most often built on a tree branch but unusual alternatives, including loops of chain or extension cord, have proven acceptable in a pinch. Darting back and forth, the female will weave bud scales, lichen, hair or fur, and other creatively repurposed found objects into a cup-shaped cradle. Next, she’ll adorn the nest with lichen and moss, finally lining the interior with a soft, insulating layer.

Once the nursery has been prepared and decorated, 1-3 eggs the size of your pinkie fingernail will appear, and then… a pregnant pause.

Think about it. The longest stretch this single mother ever sits down, during her entire life, is to incubate a clutch of future hummers. Imagine, if you will, the kind of patience, willpower, and elevated estrogen levels it takes for a creature who has lived on the wing, perpetually flitting hither and yon since leaving her own natal nest, to STOP…  settle in… and then just…

……………………sit…

…………………………..for 12-14…..

……………………………………………..long…..

………………………………………………………….idle…..

……………………………………………………………………..days.

During this time, the newly stationary creature will leave her nest only for brief breaks to stretch or grab a bite to eat. She’ll anchor there, day and night, rain or shine. No baby shower, no friends stopping by to say hello; they’re all brooding their own nest eggs. No television, even though this would be a great time to binge watch David Attenborough’s The Life of Birds. No smartphone at the ready to check email, take selfies, and whine to everyone on Facebook that she is bored beyond reason.

Heck, when I manage to stop and meditate for ten minutes two days in a row I feel like a Zen Master.

Once the chicks hatch it’s back to her normal hyperactive life… and then some. RTH nestlings are naked and wobbly-headed, with an appetite that dwarfs their bitty bodies. For the next few weeks, Mom will need to make 1-3 grocery runs per hour,  from dawn to dusk, regurgitating the food she’s foraged and hauled home in her belly into the beseeching beak of each precious child.

Once the babes fledge at 18-22 days old they’ll disperse among the branches… not too far away from the nest or each other initially, but spaced out enough to make dinner deliveries much less efficient for their harried mother. As the kids grow stronger and bolder, they’ll spread out further, testing their own wings… and Mom’s ability to be everywhere all at once.

Oh, and somewhere in that frantic schedule, this solo parent also needs to down enough calories to keep her own metabolism running on all cylinders.

Luckily, she flies like a super-charged, hyper fuel-efficient, über-nimble helicopter. Hummingbirds have been known to reach speeds of nearly 35 mph (55 kph), which is certainly impressive. Not record-breaking among the avian set, though. The difference is that most of the planet’s fastest feathered fliers reach their top speeds in a dive, asking gravity to add a significant boost to their velocity. Acrobatic RTHs can fly straight and fast, too, but it’s their ability to achieve what those avian missiles can’t—a true hover—that sets them apart.

This isn’t using a thermal to save energy, like vultures, ravens, petrels, and other long-winged birds do. That’s soaring. Hummingbirds move their wings in a figure-eight pattern at over 50 beats per second, allowing them to stop on a dime or adjust their position up, down, forward, or backward. That frenetic rhythm is also creates the humming noise that’s the source of their common name.

It also helps that the lady’s jet fuel of choice is syrup. Flower nectar, to be more precise, accounts for approximately 90% of an adult hummingbird’s daily caloric intake. RTHs and other hummers have a large surface-area:body-mass ratio, which means they lose a lot of heat in the normal course of living. Plus, their metabolism is so high they have to enter a torpor once a day, between sunset and sunrise, just to make it through the night without having to recharge.

Unlike the sugar-water mixtures backyard bird enthusiasts cook up to fill hanging feeders, blossom juice consists of more than just sucrose (from which plain white table sugar is derived). Flowers also produce fructose and glucose, as well as amino acids, antioxidants, calcium and other trace minerals, lipids, phosphates, and some protein. Other sources of protein include insects that have found their way inside the flower’s throat, where they are slurped up along with the nectar. Hummingbirds will also glean aphids from plants, pluck spiders from their webs, and nab flying insects mid-air. During breeding season, female RTHs spend a lot of time catching insects because nestlings need a high protein diet to grow and develop properly. Once they mature they’ll gradually switch to the high-carb diet of an adult.

As befits a fast-paced life, in barely the blink of an eye (or the wing-beat of a hummingbird) summer is over. Male RTHs often head south first, in early August. Females tend to delay departure until late August or sometime in September. After months of feeding others—our feathered Supermom may have raised as many as three broods in a single season—the time has come to focus on self-care, and on building enough fat reserves to power through an 18-22 hour non-stop flight across the Gulf of Mexico.

The last of her children have left the nest and are, hopefully, ready for their first migration. RTHs are solitary migrators so Mom’s helicopter parenting days are over… until next year.

Because a mother’s work is never really done.


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© 2019 Next-Door Nature. no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work–just ask first). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license (from top to bottom): Dan Pancamo, Steve Rider, TCDavis, BudOhio, ssemone, BudOhio, and Henry T. McLin.

A Moveable Feast

They say necessity is the mother of invention — I guess that’s why spiders found a clever way to order in, long before Kroger and Amazon began to lug customer’s grub. Not even a Costco cart is big enough to satisfy arachnid appetites but spiders rule when it comes to home food delivery. You see, it’s all about the web.

I don’t mean the Internet.

The menu of ingenious spiderweb designs includes: the classic spiral cobweb with its orderly silk scaffolding; messy 3D tangles rigged between available attachment points; carefully woven sheets scattered like picnic blankets across a lawn; funnels and trapdoors; and even a minimalistic single thread and sticky ball baited with pheromone-mimicking chemicals.  Gourmet or generic, webs deliver the vittles.And spiders are a hungry lot. They have to eat approximately 10% of their body weight in prey, each and every day.  Humans, by way of comparison, consume on average only 2–3% of our body weight—2.5 to 4 pounds of food per day. Now, I can already hear you bellyaching, “Not so fast, Kieran! Sure, 10% may sound like a lot at first but spiders don’t weigh very much. This hardly qualifies as extreme eating.” True, even the 12-inch Goliath Bird-Eating Tarantula is significantly smaller than most people. But, believe me, 10% can add up fast.

Based on published spider censuses (yes, I assure you there are people who do this for a living), there’s an average of 131 spiders for every square meter of land on Earth. Here’s a handy visual for metrically-challenged Americans:  Think of a square kitchen table that seats 4 people. Now imagine that table top covered with 131 peckish spiders. Next, see a vista of spider-covered kitchen tables, placed edge to edge like tiles across the entire landmass of our planet.

Remember, 131 is an average so in less hospitable regions the tables will have only a few patrons, while in other parts of the world each table may have up to 1,000 spiders patiently waiting for dinner to arrive. All told, there are approximately 27 million tons of spiders hanging out in the Earth’s forests, grasslands, plateaus, and deserts, our basements, attics, garages, and kitchen tables.

Before you shudder in horror, remember that insects are the spider-snack of choice and, consider for a moment, how buggy the world would be without these arachnid carnivores.

Scientists Martin Nyffeler (University of Basel, Switzerland) and Klaus Birkhofer (Lund University, Sweden) did just that.  They decided it would be fun to compute the global spider grocery bill and possibly add a peer-reviewed paper to their CVs in the process. They reviewed the work other researchers had done on the metabolic needs of spiders, assessed field reports on the number of prey captured and eaten by spiders, threw it all in a statistical blender, and published their calculations in The Science of Nature earlier this year. According to their recipe, spiders catch and eat 400–800 million tons of prey annually.

Let’s put that number in context, shall we?

  • Seabirds (all species) consume 70 million tons of food annually.
  • Whales (all species) consume 280–500 million tons of food annually.
  • Human beings consume approximately 400 million tons of meat and fish each year.

Still not impressed? Every year, the combined weight of insects consumed by spiders is greater than the total biomass of every person on Earth:

                      7.4 billion people x 130 lbs (avg. weight) = 400 million tons

There’s no doubt spiders play a significant role in managing insects, especially in forests and grasslands. The mere intimidating presence of spiders has been shown to limit the feeding behavior of some insects, reducing plant damage.

Spider prey includes insects that are of interest to humans due to their role as pests or disease vectors, but they’re not particularly helpful in managing agricultural pests.  Nyffeler and Birkhofer hypothesize that cultivated lands have less insect diversity and fewer insects overall than undisturbed lands, making them almost as unappealing to spiders as grocery stores.

Grocers must adapt to modern shoppers, though, and spiderweb technology could help capture the home delivery market!


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© 2018 Next-Door Nature. Originally published in Pest Control Technology Magazine (February 2018). Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author. Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Tibor Nagy, Christopher, varmfront.se, Katja Schulz, and Marcus.

Hungry

.

 

Terrier-boy transformed into a velociraptor before my very eyes!

We were walking along, minding our own business, when a momentary ruffling of leaves on the side of the pavement captured Dash’s attention and instinct took over…

head periscopes right…

ears swivel forward, nostrils flare…

field of vision narrows, eyes become lasers…

muscles tense into compressed springs…

in the pause between two heartbeats the chase is on!

 

AND…ended just as quickly by that damned ever-present leash. Grrrr.

 

Initially, I assumed Dash’s prey response had been triggered by a mouse or vole, maybe a chipmunk. Holding him back by the harness, I leaned in for a closer look without really expecting to see anything but fern and wood violet leaves; small rodents usually dive for cover when a predator is on patrol. They don’t risk a backward glance.

So I was surprised and delighted to see small, dark-bright eyes staring back at me from beneath an impromptu stone roof.  Not a rodent after all, but an insectivore. A northern short-tailed shrew (Blarina brevicauda) standing his ground against monsters (Dash and me) larger, in relative size, than a T-rex. Fearless!

Or maybe just hungry.

Thanks to an extremely high metabolic rate, the northern short-tailed shrew (let’s go with NSTS for the sake of brevity) has to eat every 2-3 hours to avoid starvation. That makes for a mighty motivated and efficient predator. I’ll bet you if an NSTS was invited to a screening of Jurassic Park, and saw how much time the velociraptors waste stalking kids in the kitchen, he’d be thinking, “Sheesh… amateurs!” Or maybe he doesn’t need to see the movie. According to the fossil record, shrew-like mammals arrived in time to observe real dinosaurs stomping around on planet Earth. Not this particular shrew of course, but it could be buried deep in his genetic memory.

Finding, catching, and eating earthworms, snails and slugs, spiders, insects, frogs and salamanders, mice and voles, along with some seeds and fungi, is a shrew’s full-time 24/7/365 job. Sometimes they even eat each other. All those meals add up to a daily grocery tab of three times the NSTS’s weight. Think of it this way: if Dash were a shrew, he’d need to eat nearly 65 lbs of food every 24 hours, and if I were a shrew I’d need to eat… well, it’s none of your business how much I’d need to eat.

This voracious consumer tips the scales, barely, at 15-30g (0.53-1.06 oz) but he and his kind are literally red in tooth (and only figuratively of claw). Unlike rodents, a shrew’s teeth do not grow continuously. One set of choppers has to last for their entire life, but red-toothed shrews (Soricinae) have helpful iron deposits that provide additional strength to the surfaces most subjected to wear and tear.

Insectivores are one of only three known living mammal Orders with member species that produce venom. The saliva of a NSTS can paralyze or kill prey, even some animals larger than itself. Nothing as large as a human or a dog, mind you, although the pain of a bite can last several days.

Toxic spit certainly comes in handy when it’s time to appease that insatiable hunger. But before you can bite your dinner, to immobilize or eat it, you have to find it. Often in low- or no-light conditions. Lucky for the NSTS, there’s this thing called echolocation. You would think, given how many terrestrial mammals live at least a partially subterranean life, echolocating would be a pretty common talent. You would be wrong. Only rats, the tenrecs of Madagascar, the solenodons, and three species of shrews, including the NSTS, are known to have this ability. Unlike bats (which, because they can fly, are not technically classified as terrestrial mammals), shrews use low-amplitude, multi-harmonic sounds rather than clicks. It appears these calls are used primarily to collect information about their habitat rather than to zero-in on a food source. Still, you can’t find your way to prey if you can’t find your way.

Even with venom and ultrasonic squeaks, life isn’t a picnic. NSTSs (and shrews in general) have a high mortality rate. Winter is particularly brutal, especially if the shrew in question doesn’t have enough cached food to carry it through the lean times, when mercury itself remains huddled in a bulb-burrow. Summer brings its own set of challenges; temperatures above 95°F (35°C) are deadly for shrews, causing the animals to shift their periods of above-ground activity, interfering with their ability to find their 8-12 square meals per day.

It goes without saying (but here I am saying it anyway) that even fierce predators are often prey as well. Shrews are no exception. Despite spending much of their lives hidden in subsurface tunnels, under leaves, leaf litter, and snow, NSTS become a meal, or part of a meal, for many species of fish, reptiles, birds, and mammals.

It’s a predator-eat-predator world out there and size isn’t everything. You’ve got to stay hungry. As the saying goes, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight that counts, it’s the size of the fight in the dog. Or the shrew. They’re still around, still hungry, and the only dinosaurs to be found are computer generated and animatronic.

I guess that settles any argument over who ruled on Isla Nublar, and who got voted off the island.

 

[Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Gilles Gonthier, Goran tek-en, and snapp3r.  © 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Town Crier

Hartlaub’s gull [photo: Paul Barnard Fotografie ccl]

My flight into Cape Town landed early last night, just before 9p. That was fine by me since, by that point, I’d been on the plane about 11.5 hours, and in transit from Blacksburg for about 31 hours.  For the next 10 days I’ll be co-leading an international field experience for some of my students in Virginia Tech’s Master of Natural Resources program.

The shuttle pulled up to the hotel and I stepped out into a well-lit courtyard. Then, less than one hour into my first trip to the continent, I had my first encounter with the urban wildlife of South Africa.

I could hear but not see birds overhead. Lots of them.  It sounded like some kind of Corvid, squawking as if they’d just spotted treasure in the form of an untapped dumpster or fresh roadkill.

I checked in at the front desk and headed up to my room on the third floor with every intention of proceeding directly from the door to under the covers. Actually, I detoured to the shower, then bed.  I wasn’t expecting to continue hearing an avian play-by-play going on outside the window but, of course, now I was closer to the commentators’ booth. Still, tired as I was, I knew a few birds weren’t going to keep me awake. I figured the din would die down as soon as everyone settled in to dine.

Boy, did I flub that call.

The birds were still going strong when I woke up this morning so I decided to see for myself who had stayed up all night talking.  Not crows or ravens, as I’d thought. Gulls.  I’d forgotten that the hotel overlooks Table Bay.

[photo: Harvey Barriston, ccl]

Gulls are notoriously difficult to identify to species. They often have several years of varying adolescent plumage before they reach adulthood and stop trying out different looks. For that reason I wasn’t expecting to get a definitive answer when I did a little research on the gulls of South Africa, even though I could see some of them quite well  as they stood preening in the morning sunshine on the roof across the courtyard. Identification turned out to be a snap, though, as there aren’t that many different kinds of gulls here. The urban birds who welcomed me to Cape Town under cover of darkness were Hartlaub’s gulls (Chroicocephalus hartlaubii).

The Hartlaub is a small, non-migratory gull found along the coasts and estuaries of South Africa and Namibia.  Also known as the king gull, and once considered a subspecies of the silver gull (C. novaehollandiae), this urban homebody doesn’t stray far from land, and nearly half of the species’ total population rarely leaves the Cape Town area.

Primarly white with a gray back and black-tipped gray wings, the usually white head is hooded in very pale lavender gray during breeding seasons. The traditional chick-rearing colony is Robben Island, infamous as the place where former South African President and Nobel Laureate Nelson Mandela spent 18 of the 27 years he was imprisoned prior to the abolishment of apartheid.

[photo: Derek Keats, ccl]

Common in its range, the Hartlaub is nonetheless a relatively rare species in the global gull panoply. They’re known for being quite social and talkative in the fall and winter months–that’s right now in the Southern Hemisphere (I can vouch for that assessment). I’ll admit, I felt exonerated for making a faulty ID last night when I read that this gull’s call has been described as “crow-like.”

Hartlaub’s gulls readily habituate to the presence of humans and have learned to exploit our built environment so well they’re considered a nuisance in Cape Town, and a hazard at the local airports (I could have easily waited to learn that nugget of information until after I’m back home).

© 2017 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work  but please ask).

Running start

.

American Coot Takeoff (Photo: Matthew Paulson, CC license)

Some birds, including the American coot, need a long water runway to get airborne (Photo: Matthew Paulson, Creative Commons license)

.

Hard landings. Anyone who’s a frequent flyer has experienced a few. Always disconcerting, occasionally dangerous. My most memorable touchdown was a trip from College Station, Texas, into Albuquerque on an Embraer ERJ-XXX. I forget which number, but it was one of those 3-seats-across models. One by one, passengers ducked through the doorway and tried to return to their full upright position, only to be temporarily twisted by the low ceiling into a fair approximation of Dr. Frankenstein’s personal porter, dragging themselves down the narrow aisle behind carry-ons in an ungainly but oddly synchronous choreography until each Igor found his or her assigned row.

I crammed my gear under the seat in front of me and strapped myself in right above the left-side wheels, although I was unaware of that fact at the time. It was an uneventful flight with no turbulence to speak of and a clear, bright blue sky. We made our approach, descending slowly as we grew closer and closer to the runway… then over the runway… then

.

BAM!!

.

Well, I guess the pilot got impatient, or maybe the end of the landing strip was coming up faster than expected, but we dropped to the pavement like a bowling ball falling out of the back of an unzipped travel case. I thought the landing gear was going to come up through the floor and imagined the plane careening along the concrete on its belly in a shower of sparks.

Instead, after a long, pregnant pause, the flight attendant simply welcomed us to New Mexico as we taxied to the jetway. But the cabin, previously humming with friendly chatter, went completely silent and stayed that way until the captain turned off the fasten seat belt sign.

Eared grebe glance (Photo: Jack Wolf, CC license)

An eared grebe in winter plumage.

I was reminded of this experience last month, when I heard reports that 3,500 migrating eared grebes (aka black-necked grebe, Podiceps nigricollis) mistook a snowy Walmart parking lot in Cedar City, Utah, for a lake. The grebes came in prepared for a water landing and, as anyone old enough to walk (and to fall) knows, asphalt isn’t as forgiving as H20. For over 1,500 birds it was a fatal error—some died immediately upon impact, others shortly after. For some who lived long enough to be found by wildlife rehabilitators and good Samaritans, euthanasia was the only humane option.

Even the ones who escaped injury needed help. They were found rowing across the landscape using their wings as oars, getting nowhere fast but too aware of their vulnerable position to do nothing but wait for a predator or scavenger to spot a dark bird struggling against a snowy white background.

6 of 6 Pacific Loon in Distress (Photo: Mike Baird, CC license)

The Pacific (Gavia pacifica) and other loons are true water birds, diving and swimming after fish with speed and grace. But out of water they are unable to take flight, and find walking difficult.

There are a large number of bird species associated with water who need a running start across a watery runway to become airborne, even for short flights; they include grebes, loons (Gavia spp.), rails (Rallidae), diving ducks (Aythyinae; aka pochards or scaups), and many sea ducks (Merginae).

The Utah stranding was unusual primarily for the number of birds affected, but similar groundings happen with some regularity during both the spring and fall migration as well as other times of the year. When I was the director of a wildlife rehabilitation center in Houston, every now and again an American coot (Fulica americana) would be ushered through our doors in a cardboard box. A single bird, usually, or at most two or three. In this case, it wasn’t snow that caused the optical illusion but heat. During Texas summers, hot asphalt roads apparently shimmer like water, at least to avian eyes, so a highway looks like the perfect place to stop for a little lunch and a quick dip, not to mention a long, straight liquid launchpad when it’s time to wing away again.

Canceled flights are such a pain in the neck… and other places, too, at times.

Merganser taking flight 2 (Photo: Mark Dalpe, CC license)

Under the right conditions, some species of waterfowl such as this female common merganser (Mergus merganser), can mistake fields and even roads for water.

Surprisingly, most of these water-walkers did survive their fall to earth. Once grounded, however, they had to hitch a ride to our center. There, we would tend to their cuts, scrapes, and bruises and then give them a helping hand back into the sky by dropping them off at an appropriate body of water. A quick look around to get their bearings and they were on their way, pedaling across the water as furiously as the pilot of a Gerhardt cycleplane but with much better results.

The snow that seduced so many birds into a making a pit-stop in Utah may actually have lessened the devastation by providing a bit of slip and slide to cushion the crash. Happily, International Bird Rescue reports that approximately 2,000 grebes were rescued and released the same week—that’s about as good as it gets in these situations, I suppose.  With any luck at all, they’re now enjoying some R&R and a little southern hospitality.  May they have friendly skies and tail winds for their return flight.

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© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: Matthew Paulson (American coot); Jack Wolf (eared grebe); Mike Baird (Pacific loon); and Mark Dalpe (common merganser).

Drummer boy

male pileated woodpecker by ucumari

The male pileated woodpecker may not have the most sophisticated sense of rhythm, but he's a stylish drummer nonetheless (Photo: ucumari, Creative Commons license).

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The holiday soundtrack, which retailers now begin to cue up before the Thanksgiving dinner plates have been cleared from the table, has a limited playlist. Even though the variety of artists covering these tunes is diverse, it doesn’t take long for the music to become little more than background noise. However, there’s one tune that always snares my attention—instantly I’m transported back in time to another Christmas… to a crisp, sunny afternoon on a favorite trail at the Houston Arboretum and Nature Center. That day, the sound of a tree-house being constructed high above my head caused me to  glance up, and I caught my first thrilling glimpse of a not-so-little drummer boy.

female pileated by Syd Phillips cc

The female pileated woodpecker doesn't have the red forehead and "mustache" of her male counterpart.

About the size of a crow (16-19 in. or 40-49 cm), the pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) is North America’s largest woodpecker (unless ornithologists can prove that ivory-billed woodpeckers (Campephilus principalis) still exist). At first glance, one might reasonably doubt my ability to determine that this was, indeed, a drummer boy. Adult pileated woodpeckers are easy to identify, but unless you look closely they don’t appear to be sexually dimorphic (males and females of the same species differ in appearance). But I was close enough to see the telltale signs of a male bird—a red forehead and “mustache” to go with the pointy scarlet gnome hat sported by both genders.

Since that first lucky holiday outing, I’ve had the good fortune to see many other pileated woodpeckers, but it’s always a bit of a jolt to the system. Perhaps it’s the combination of size and pointed head, or maybe its the wing-beat pattern during flight, but there’s something eerily prehistoric about this bird. Imaging you are ambling down a wooded path, enjoying the great outdoors but allowing your mind to wander where it will… when out of the corner of your eye your subconscious spots a pterodactylus!

It takes only a second or two for your conscious brain to recognize the error, but not fast enough to prevent your adrenal glands from springing into action, bathing your reptilian brain in fight-or-flight chemicals, turning your heart into a percussion instrument.

Human drummers display a assortment of styles—Afro-Cuban, blues, jazz, zydeco—and the same can be said for the avian set. But there’s not a lot of subtlety to a pileated groove. You can break the beat down into two sets—drumming and tapping.  To my ear, the drumming sounds most like an enthusiastic, albeit novice, carpenter: pound furiously for 2-3 seconds, less forcefully as muscles quickly tire… rest for a minute…  bash the next nail for 2-3 seconds… repeat. Tapping, which is slower and metronomic, often serves as a form of mated pair communication.

pileated foraging hole by Naomi Van Tol ccLooking for signs of pileated woodpeckers in your neck of the woods? It helps to live on the eastern side of the continent, although you can find them across much of Canada and down along a fair bit of the western U.S. coast. This species doesn’t migrate, and once a pair has established a breeding territory they defend it year-round (although they’re a little more relaxed about it during the winter months). So, assuming you’re in the right neighborhood, the next step for spotting this hammer-head is to look for squares. I’m not suggesting these rakishly attired birds aren’t hip—just that they have a stereotypic method of excavating the carpenter ants and wood-boring beetle larvae they like to eat. Unlike many other woodpeckers, pileateds don’t waste time drilling a succession of small holes into tree bark. They gouge out large, roughly rectangular chinks instead; a practice that can be quite damaging to small trees, but it’s beneficial to other bird species who come along and feed on left-overs after the bigger bird has flown the coop.

nestling pileateds by Larry McGahey cc

Pileated woodpecker nest cavities usually have more than one entrance.

Pileated pairs share child-rearing duties, and they prefer to use a different nursery for their offspring every year. That means each April the male carves a new nesting hole, leaving last-year’s crib vacant for other cavity-nesting creatures to use for many years to come. Biologists don’t really understand why some species exhibit nest site fidelity while others do not, but in the case of the pileated woodpecker, this philanthropic service improves the overall health of the ecological community.

All drummer boys—and girls—have a knack for gift-giving, it seems.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: Syd Phillips (female pileated); Naomi Van Tol (pileated foraging sign); and Larry McGahey (nestling pileateds).  Thanks also to Marty Stouffer’s Wild America Sound Effects Library for making the recording of a pileated woodpecker’s call and drumming available through a Creative Commons license.