Eulogy to the Ordinary

Though Black-capped Chickadees are among the most common birds of the Fill, they are anything but common, everyday animals. On the contrary, Black-capped Chickadees are extraordinary. Just ask yourself this: If to fix your breakfast you had to climb barefoot up a 50-foot tree, hang upside down by your toes, then drop like a trapeze artist 20 feet down to grab onto a new hold, all for the reward of one bug — and all before your first cup of coffee — how long could you survive?

My answer would be: three minutes, tops. But chickadees do this every morning for years without a single complaint.

Well, maybe they complain. It’s hard to say, not knowing exactly what their frequent “chickadee-dee-dee” song means.

Yesterday I was standing among the willow trees where the chip path curves south to Yesler Cove when three chickadees flew in to forage for insects. Before I knew it, they had triangulated me: one bird behind my left shoulder, one behind my right, and one in front. The one in front was so close I could see its throat throb as it gave its diagnostic call. The other two answered from concealment. The first one examined me with its beady left eye, then shined its equally beady right eye at me. Again it spoke to its companions, and again they answered. Then everyone came out to forage.

I became part of the little feeding flock. It was magical. Extraordinary. Some of the flock members hunted for bugs on the undersides of leaves and branches. Some scrambled through the leaf litter looking for seeds. I wanted so much to join in, but I’m not fond of bugs, and the seeds all around me were better left to the birds. I found myself getting hungrier and hungrier. The thought of a cheeseburger began to take over my mind. When the flock finally moved on, so did I: they to the next patch of brush, I to the nearest fast-food outlet. Not good. My recommendation? If you want to join a feeding flock, bring along a healthy salad in your backpack.

FUN FACTS ABOUT BLACK-CAPPED CHICKADEES

• In fall and winter, Black-capped Chickadees often cache seeds in many different hiding places.

• They can remember where they hide all their seeds because each fall, they grow new neurons in their brains, just for this purpose.

• Black-capped Chickadees are the gourmands of the avian world: They spend much of their day finding and eating food, and they aren’t fussy about what they consume. They eat seeds, nuts, fruit, insects, spiders, larvae and eggs of small arthropods, suet at feeders, and even carrion.

• Black-capped Chickadees form long-lasting pair bonds.

• In breeding season, they are extremely territorial and will fight to defend their nest holes.

• During the off-season, though, they flock together for protection. Other small birds are welcome to join the flock. It’s common to see a feeding flock of chickadees, kinglets, sparrows, and even overwintering warblers.

• The oldest known chickadee lived to be 12 years old.

• Chickadees sleep in their own holes at night.

• Chickadees communicate many messages with their song. Among the most important are alarm calls, warning other birds of predators. The more “dee’s” in a chickadee’s song, the greater the alarm.

Due to bad road conditions, my book reading in Port Townsend for the Admiralty Audubon Society has been cancelled Jan. 19. We’ve all decided to stay home instead! The book reading has been rescheduled for April 19, same time, same place. – Connie

Four juvenile Trumpeter Swans (left) with parent (far right) in Yesler Cove.

January is the season for newbies, the time for us to say goodbye to the old, worn-out year and ring in the hopeful new one. It’s the month we make resolutions to become a newer, better person, the paragon we always wanted to be but so far never were: slimmer, perhaps, with curlier hair (or straighter if you’re already curly), tidier, more organized, dedicated to eating more vegetables. In a sense, January is when we all become young again, free to discover who we really are and what we really can become.

In Western culture, this annual stampede to our personal Big Bang is symbolized by a happy, diapered baby, often wearing (for reasons that escape me), a top hat. At Yesler Swamp, however, beginnings are epitomized by swans. Four juvenile Trumpeter Swans, to be exact.

Their story began last summer. Far away on a tundra pond, four baby swans pecked open their shells and saw the light of day for the very first time. Their snow-white parents worked hard to protect them and shepherd them to the best places to eat plants. Throughout the long days of summer, when the sun never sets, the cygnets grew until at last they reached the size of their parents. Just in time, too, for winter was coming to the Far North. The swan family felt the shortening days and fled, all the way to Yesler Swamp. Here, the young swans are safe. Here they are free to explore their new world. And here their feathers will molt from gray to white, as the juveniles become adults. In the spring they will fly back to the tundra, beginning a cycle that can last more than a decade. For now, they sleep in Yesler Cove in the evenings, paddle into the lake to feed during the day, fly a little, learn a lot, as youngsters should. We are their home.– Constance Sidles

FUN FACTS ABOUT TRUMPETER SWANS

• Trumpeter Swans are the largest and heaviest waterfowl native to North America.

• They can be difficult to tell apart from Tundra Swans. Trumpeters are bigger than Tundras and have all-black bills. Tundra Swans often (though not always) have a spot of yellow on their bills, near the eye. (We have one Tundra Swan visiting us this year.)

• Juvenile Trumpeter Swans are sooty gray all winter long. They don’t molt into the all-white plumage of adults until spring migration.

• It takes four to seven years before Trumpeter Swans begin having babies. However, they choose their lifelong mates between ages two and four.

• In our area, Trumpeter Swans feast on aquatic plants, often tipping up their rear ends to reach deep underwater with their long necks. Farther north, in the Skagit Valley, swans come onto land to graze in fields.

• Parents do not bring food to the babies; rather, they bring the babies to the food. Baby Trumpeter Swans are able to leave the nest and swim almost immediately after hatching and don’t need to be fed by the parents. However, family groups usually stay together until the young are fully grown and can fend completely for themselves.

• Trumpeter Swans used to range throughout North America. Their numbers were reduced by hunting to around 100 birds south of Canada. The population is rising now, thanks to habitat preservation and protection from hunting.

• From the time the Pilgrims arrived in America, Trumpeter Swans were hunted extensively for food and for their feathers, which people thought made the best quill pens.

• Washington State hosts more Trumpeter Swans than any other state except Alaska.

Two of "our" Trumpeter Swans, Lake Washington south of Loop Trail.

Four years ago, heavy snows in December drove a flock of 11 Trumpeter Swans down from the Skagit, where they usually spend the winter eating leftover grain in farmer’s fields. Three of the swans were juveniles, easy to tell apart from the all-white adults because juvenile Trumpeters are gray.

The three babies spent the winter here in the waters of the Fill, always close together, frequently touching each other with their bills. Here they grew to adulthood, always together, often touching. We became their home.

When spring arrived, the three flew north to the tundra to look for mates. We human fans were sad to see them go, but as all good parents must, we told ourselves it was for the best. Babies have to leave the nest if they are ever to grow up properly, and ours — while still so very young and untried — were ready to fly.

The next winter, “our” swans came back, now snow-white but still close-knit, touching each other often. Once again, they spent the winter here at home with us, and once again, they flew north when the call of spring told them it was time. Last winter, I began to look for them again, hoping they had survived, hoping they would return. On January 1, 2011, two swans flew overhead and landed gracefully in Waterlily Cove. Before I could shout with joy, four more winged in. “Our” swans were back, and they had brought their spouses! We enjoyed the pleasure of their company all winter long before spring arrived and they left to breed.

This year, like most parents of adult children, my hopes were high that some of our swans would bring their babies home for the holidays. In December, they did. And they brought some friends. We now host 14 (!) adult Trumpeter Swans and four juveniles. Among the Trumpeters is a true rarity: a Tundra Swan.

Tundra Swan in slough near Canoe Island.

Tundra Swans are noticeably smaller than Trumpeters and have a different facial pattern: the black skin of their bills and foreheads is usually graced with a yellow splash near the eye. Tundras’ heads are frequently more rounded than Trumpeters’, and their bills often more curved. Unfortunately, these field marks are not always helpful. Size is hard to judge when bodies are distant, not all Tundras have a yellow lore, and head shape varies considerably from individual to individual.

One day, I was gazing at the swan flock on the lake, muttering to myself about the finer points of swan identification, when a nonbirder happened by. “Swans are here?” she asked, having caught a piece of my one self arguing with my other self, both out loud. (I will point out that in times of yore, such uni-conversations would have made audiences start back-pedaling out of a conviction that there was no knowing the outer limits of the speaker’s outre behavior, but nowadays, listeners just assume you’re hooked up to a cellphone.)

I told her we have 19 swans visiting now, but, I cautioned, at least one was a different species. She was supremely indifferent to this point. “Swans!” she said in an awed voice, and was off down the trail to get a better look.

She made me realize that while precise identification of bird species does matter to many of us, and it matters for very cogent reasons of science, not to mention personal goals of listing, at another level, it matters not at all. Swans of any sort are wondrous creatures. The fact that we host them in the heart of a major city is even more miraculous.

Adult spreads wings over juvenile foraging near Canoe Island.

January 1 is a special day for many of us birders. As soon as we down our first cup of coffee, we stagger blearily to the window and look for the very first bird to appear. That bird becomes FOY: First of the Year.

For many of us, the FOY becomes the year’s birding theme. If Mother Nature sends us a good bird, we gleefully brag to all our birding friends. If she sends us one we don’t like – say, a bird introduced to the US from another country (eg., a European Starling), or a bird we associate with bad vibes (eg., a gull from the local dump, or a blackbird strolling around the K-Mart parking lot) – we despondently seek comfort from our birding friends. Everyone always commiserates with the unlucky birder, but secretly we’re glad that bird wasn’t wished on us.

I don’t wait for a quality bird as FOY because if I did, it would *always* be a crow. Crows have their fans, but I am not a big one. To avoid having one Crow Year after another, my husband and I engage in long discussions in late December about which strategy we should pursue to see a bird before the crow tide flows out of the current roost in the cemetery at 7:29 a.m.

This year, he told me he has been seeing a “fluffy, fuzzy, owly kind of thing” fly out from a tiny nook between the beams of the Center for Urban Horticulture building in the early mornings. John is not a birder by choice or by nature: he loves to watch birds’ behavior but cares nothing about identifying species. You might say his lack of interest in listing is zen-like in its purity.

While I admire his dedication to ideals, I have to admit it’s frustrating at times, too. This Jan. 1 was one of those times, when it would have been great if he had been able to provide a few more details about his nook bird. But his description was good enough to determine our plan for FOY: get to the CUH before first light and try to identify what was lurking in the nook.

So there we were in the dead of a dark January 1 morning, creeping up on the CUH building as silently as we could, dressed in dark clothing, with a flashlight and various optics strewn about our persons. My best hope was that none of the neighbors would report us to security (remembering the eco-terrorists who set the building on fire some years ago). I get so nervous when questioned by authority figures. I start to babble, and the more I babble, the more suspicious I appear. Been there, done that – no desire to repeat.

Anyway, despite our stealth, no one was at home in the nook, so there we stood, plan shot to pieces. Now what? We headed over to the Lagoon to look for ducks, but the night was so dark even my Nikons couldn’t pick up enough photons to make out a bird from a buoy. We decamped to the New Wooden Bridge to discuss. There, in the brightness of the light standards, were five Pied-billed Grebes paddling around in the puddle of orange light shining on the water. Great birds, no gendarmes, and a whole day of surprises still ahead. Who could ask for more?

In the still mornings of winter, when the air is humid and chill, the fog drifts across the lake in vapors of chiffon. If the sun is strong enough, the vapors fade into nothingness as the day advances. But if the fog is stronger, it thickens with the day, squeezing the land tightly along the shore, shrinking our vistas, fading the last golden colors of fall into shimmering gray. Such mornings are rare at the Fill, and not to be missed.

Yesterday morning, I thought the fog would triumph over the sun, making all the world silver. I dressed in my coats of many layers and hurried to the east end of Wahkiakum Lane, gateway to the Fill. The fog was so thick, it beaded in droplets on my binoculars. I started walking, able to find my way only because I have walked this trail countless times and cannot now go astray.

Ten steps past the Lone Pine Tree, I could dimly see the trees shrouding Boy Scout Pond as they loomed indistinctly over the Loop Trail. It was so quiet, I could hear the splash of a diamond drip of dew that condensed on the tip of a branch, trembled briefly, and then let go. The tiny plop it made when it landed on a poplar leaf was the sound of intimacy.

American Wigeons on Main Pond.

If you come on such a morning, you might think you are all alone in this gray world. But if you stop and listen, you can hear the scritch, scritch of a Spotted Towhee flinging leaf litter aside in gay abandon as it searches for seeds. Nearby, a Pacific Wren chitters a snatch of its song, then abruptly stops in mid-phrase. I guess it’s too cold to sing a full song, even for the world’s smallest, most accomplished tenor. The Song Sparrow who grew up in this grove rattles the bare branch of his favorite bush, gives one chirp to acknowledge me, then falls silent. In the distance of Main Pond, I can hear the American Wigeons talking to each other: “Tew-TEW-tew, tew-TEW-tew.” I wish I knew what it meant, but I do not speak wigeonese.

Birds on these mornings are everywhere heard but nowhere seen. It is a magical kingdom — for those of us willing to enter it.

Like fog clinging to moss, like smoke wafting over trees, the Barred Owl floats noiselessly to its favorite perch in the swamp: a cottonwood nook hidden from the prying eyes of its enemies, the crows and jays who are ever on the lookout for this silent predator.

Barred Owls have come to Yesler Swamp for the first time in history. If you search the branches near large tree trunks, you may find this new resident sleeping the day away. It will no doubt see you before you ever see it, blinking open its eyes to squint at you, checking to see whether you are harmless.

If you are quiet and respectful, the owl will slowly close its eyes again and go back to sleep. But in that moment when you lock eyes, you will discover why this owl has always been so mysterious to us.  Its eyes are black, with no visible pupil or any white rim, like two lumps of living coal. In them you can see nothing — or everything. In them you can get lost.

FUN FACTS ABOUT BARRED OWLS

• Barred Owls are not native to Washington. They have been slowly expanding their territory on their own, moving in from the east.

• In old growth forests, they are replacing our native Spotted Owl, probably because Barred Owls are more aggressive than Spotties, more omnivorous, and more tolerant of habitat degradation. In other words, Barred Owls are less choosy, so their opportunities for expansion are much greater.

• Barred Owls eat almost anything they can catch, including small mammals, other birds, amphibians, and even large insects. They hunt by hiding quietly in cover, then they fly out suddenly on silent wings.

• The feathers of the owls’ wings are fringed with tiny tufts that break up

Barred Owl in Yesler Swamp © Lewis E. Johnson 2011

• Barred Owls are monogamous. The female lays and broods the eggs, while the male hunts for her. When the eggs hatch, the female continues to keep the babies warm while the male hunts even harder to feed the whole family. It takes more than eleven weeks from the time eggs are laid to the time the babies can leave the nest.

• Owls cannot turn their eyes to look in different directions. Instead, they turn their whole heads. Owls have twice as many vertebrae in their necks as humans do and can turn their heads in a range of 270 degrees.

• Barred Owls hunt mostly at night, which is why they need their big eyes: to see in the dark.

• One way to find owls is to look for “owl pellets” under their roosting trees. Owl pellets are compressed balls of the indigestible leftovers from their food: bones, claws, fur, and teeth. These pellets must be regurgitated before the owl can eat again.

• When a Barred Owl is about to regurgitate a pellet, it stretches out its neck, opens its bill, and hacks. The pellet then drops out.

The two Marsh Wrens who lay claim to the cattails of Southeast Pond have been venturing forth into unknown territory recently. It all started when they ratcheted themselves up the berry tree that grows amid the cattails on the north end of the pond. From there, they could look over a vast spread of prairie, where sparrows and finches have been feasting on the grass seeds and chicory that grew so abundantly this past summer.

Something about the prairie or the other birds must have attracted the wrens, because, after hesitating in the tree a few days, they finally worked up the courage to fly over the Loop Trail that separates the pond from the field, crossing the Rubicon, as it were. Since then, they have roamed all over the field. I hear them chittering among the grass tufts that rise from the prairie like miniature teepees on the Great Plains. If the air is still, I can follow their progress by the twitching of the grass tufts.

Occasionally, one of the wrens will pop up at the top of a grass stem to see what’s what before diving back down again. The marsh that figures so large in their names seems a distant memory to them, at least for now. “Marsh?” they seem to say. “What are you talking about?”

It’s a reminder that although we humans like to give names to everything, thereby categorizing and locking it all into niches, the ones thusly named do not have to agree to stay safely categorized. Marsh Wrens can be prairie wrens whenever they want. And who knows? Maybe they’ll become forest wrens someday, or mountain wrens, or Lexus-driving suburban wrens. Whatever they do, it won’t be up to an outside agency to set their internal limits.

It never was.

Recently, I’ve added a new project to my activities at Montlake Fill. The Friends of Yesler Swamp (the swamp is easternmost part of the Fill) have asked me to post a “Bird of the Week” on the signboard at the entrance to the main trail leading into the swamp. Actually, I think I’ll be posting a “Bird of every two weeks,” because I’ve counted only about 105 different species in the swamp, and I’d like this project to last longer than just two years!

The current Bird of the Week is:

RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET

Two Ruby-crowned Kinglets were going after each other on the East Trail of Yesler Swamp the other day. The way these diminutive knights fight is they shine their ruby crowns at each other. Whichever warrior shines the brightest wins the match. The male I saw was shining his crown so brightly it looked like his head was on fire. I’ve never seen more red feathers on a kinglet’s crown in my life. Normally, kinglets keep their firebrands sheathed, as it were. So seeing even a glimmer is unusual for me in the field. As for the kinglet’s opponent, he had already retreated into the brush, flinging insults with his little voice as he fled.

Meanwhile, to the victor go the spoils. The winner shook out his feathers and began feeding in the territory he had defended. Ruby-crowned Kinglets spend the winter with us here in the balmy south of their range. When they arrive in late fall, they must establish a new territory each year. The stakes are high: rich habitat means survival through the difficult winter and early spring. Luckily for “our” kinglets, Yesler Swamp and the rest of UBNA provide plenty of food for all.

Fun Facts about Ruby-crowned Kinglets:

• Look carefully at Ruby-crowned Kinglets’ feet: they’re yellow!

• Ruby-crowned Kinglets breed in the heights, either in the Far North or in montane regions from New Mexico north to Alaska. They come down to the lowlands in winter.

• Ruby-crowned Kinglets eat small insects, arachnids, their eggs, and small fruit and seeds. They glean their food with their, tiny, pointed bills.

• Kinglets’ food is often stuck to the undersides of leaves and branches. To get at it, kinglets often hover under a likely piece of vegetation, flapping their wings quickly and maneuvering with their tails to stay in one place (a bit like hummingbirds).

• Males and females are loyal to each other throughout the breeding season, but in the winter they part company. Spring finds each one looking for a new mate.

• Relative to their size, Ruby-crowned Kinglets lay more eggs than almost any other bird — as many as 12 in one clutch.

• Both parents work hard to bring food to the babies after they hatch, but only for a couple of weeks. After that, the female leaves, and the male continues to care for the young.

• The nests are somewhat elastic and can expand as the young birds grow.

• Ruby-crowned Kinglets have only one near cousin: Golden-crowned Kinglets, which can also be found in Yesler Swamp. Golden-crowned Kinglets have black-and-white racing stripes on their heads, as well as gold-colored crowns that are always visible.

• Ruby-crowned Kinglets often feed in mixed flocks, traveling from one bush to another in the company of chickadees, other kinglets, wintering warblers, and other small birds.

• They are fierce birds. When they see a predator, such as a Northern Saw-whet Owl, they will band together and mob the owl, pestering it until it leaves. Listen for excited, fast-paced chipping noises from many throats — it’s a good way to see an owl!

A male Wood Duck floated into my sphere of existence today, decked out in breeding plumage like a multicolored party balloon. His head was helmeted in iridescent plumes trailing down the back of his neck, by turns green, purple, turquoise, and blue as the feathers caught the sunlight at different angles. His eye was fiery red, matching a flaming brand of red and yellow on his bill. His breast was bright plum, speckled with pale dots. His tan sides were outlined in icy white. Bluish-black framed his back. When he spread out his wings, a flash of satiny teal-blue appeared, like a magician opening his cloak briefly in garish display.

Most un-Seattleish. We Seattleites prefer a more sedate color scheme when we appear in public. Dark gray, black, or green are about as colorful as we allow ourselves to get (except on football Saturdays, when we expand our color wheel to include purple, gold, and white).

However, we must be careful not to judge others’ choices, flamboyant though they be. The Wood Duck, for all his foppish dress, is a utilitarian at heart. His feathers serve a multitude of nuts-and-bolts purposes: They keep him warm and dry in winter and cool in summer. His wing feathers enable him to fly. His tail feathers let him steer. His bright colors warn off rivals and let the females know he is good to go.

Our own organic covering suffers mightily by comparison. Our hair is not thick enough to keep us warm, even on our heads (assuming we still have hair there at all). It doesn’t enable us to fly or even walk. We can’t steer with our hair; in fact, when it gets in our eyes, we can’t steer at all. Our hair does attract mates, especially right after we come out of the salon, but it works a lot better if we also pay fashion visits to the mall.

Our hair does do something that a Wood Duck’s feathers cannot achieve: Styled properly, it drives our parents crazy. I guess that’s something.