Friday, July 9, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Mystery Bird—Part 2
A few weeks later a near-tragic incident finally led me to an answer. One afternoon we heard a bird blast hard up against a window (despite the branches in front of it!). I went out and found it lying in shock. I gently brought it inside, placed it in a box, and said a little prayer that it might recover. As we waited, I began to think about what kind of a bird it might be. I’d been focused on getting it quickly to the safety of the box and not inspecting it (it clearly was not one of our familiar birds).
My quick impression was that it might be a sparrow. It had the right coloring and size. While awaiting the hoped-for recovery, I got out my field guide. No, this was not a sparrow—its bill was much longer and narrower. Hmmm, I remembered that my Mystery Bird had a bill like this one. Could this be it?! I began to pour through the book, now focused on beak shapes. The only small species of bird with that type of bill is a warbler. We’ve never seen or heard of a warbler around these parts, so I’d been assuming that we had none. Besides, the book’s warblers seemed all the wrong color for the Mystery Bird.
But I continued looking through the lengthy warbler section. Way towards the end of the chapter, sort of hidden away, and not really looking like a warbler at all, was the Louisiana water thrush. It looked very much like the stunned bird. Well, a bird in the box is worth two in the bush, and now I had the opportunity to examine this guy closer. In a few minutes I could hear him recovering, telling me he wanted out of his box. I took him outside to let him go—not yet into the wild blue yonder, but into a clear plastic bag. With the field guide laid beside him, I was able to identify him as a Louisiana water thrush. I was excited. It seemed that maybe I had finally found my Mystery Bird. One more test: What was his song like?
Blessed be the Internet! I navigated my way to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s Website, did a search on the Louisiana water thrush, and clicked on a recording of its song. Bingo! That was it! This little guy was not an indigo bunting or a sparrow, but a member of the wood warbler family. Just to be sure, I clicked on the indigo bunting song. It was strikingly similar, but now that I could listen to them side by side, it was clear that the water thrush was my bird. Mystery solved!
This experience has given me the opportunity to ponder why I got so far off track the last couple of years. Had I somehow been led to page 350 of The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America three years ago, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time wandering down the indigo bunting blind alley.
It’s a good example of how we may be presented with a mystery, cast about for a solution, and then seize upon a handy but erroneous answer. It’s not hard to convince yourself that you have solved the puzzle and later even attempt to explain away contrary observations. All fields of human knowledge are replete with examples of faulty explanations of phenomena that people hang onto, long after they should be cast aside for something closer to the truth. I’ve written before of how the Catholic Church continued to insist that the Earth was situated at the center of the universe, after evidence to the contrary was available.
I had become convinced that my Mystery Bird was an indigo bunting. Although I tried to stick with that story, I at least kept my mind open to another answer. It took the water thrush’s bashing into the window to shake me out of my belief. I appreciate his hard-earned lesson for me. Now my challenge is to figure out why a Louisiana water thrush—which supposedly prefers habitat with flowing water—would take up residence in our dry neck of the woods. It’s one mystery after another.
My quick impression was that it might be a sparrow. It had the right coloring and size. While awaiting the hoped-for recovery, I got out my field guide. No, this was not a sparrow—its bill was much longer and narrower. Hmmm, I remembered that my Mystery Bird had a bill like this one. Could this be it?! I began to pour through the book, now focused on beak shapes. The only small species of bird with that type of bill is a warbler. We’ve never seen or heard of a warbler around these parts, so I’d been assuming that we had none. Besides, the book’s warblers seemed all the wrong color for the Mystery Bird.
But I continued looking through the lengthy warbler section. Way towards the end of the chapter, sort of hidden away, and not really looking like a warbler at all, was the Louisiana water thrush. It looked very much like the stunned bird. Well, a bird in the box is worth two in the bush, and now I had the opportunity to examine this guy closer. In a few minutes I could hear him recovering, telling me he wanted out of his box. I took him outside to let him go—not yet into the wild blue yonder, but into a clear plastic bag. With the field guide laid beside him, I was able to identify him as a Louisiana water thrush. I was excited. It seemed that maybe I had finally found my Mystery Bird. One more test: What was his song like?
Blessed be the Internet! I navigated my way to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s Website, did a search on the Louisiana water thrush, and clicked on a recording of its song. Bingo! That was it! This little guy was not an indigo bunting or a sparrow, but a member of the wood warbler family. Just to be sure, I clicked on the indigo bunting song. It was strikingly similar, but now that I could listen to them side by side, it was clear that the water thrush was my bird. Mystery solved!
This experience has given me the opportunity to ponder why I got so far off track the last couple of years. Had I somehow been led to page 350 of The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America three years ago, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time wandering down the indigo bunting blind alley.
It’s a good example of how we may be presented with a mystery, cast about for a solution, and then seize upon a handy but erroneous answer. It’s not hard to convince yourself that you have solved the puzzle and later even attempt to explain away contrary observations. All fields of human knowledge are replete with examples of faulty explanations of phenomena that people hang onto, long after they should be cast aside for something closer to the truth. I’ve written before of how the Catholic Church continued to insist that the Earth was situated at the center of the universe, after evidence to the contrary was available.
I had become convinced that my Mystery Bird was an indigo bunting. Although I tried to stick with that story, I at least kept my mind open to another answer. It took the water thrush’s bashing into the window to shake me out of my belief. I appreciate his hard-earned lesson for me. Now my challenge is to figure out why a Louisiana water thrush—which supposedly prefers habitat with flowing water—would take up residence in our dry neck of the woods. It’s one mystery after another.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Mystery Bird—Part 1
Identifying most of the birds who inhabit our locale has been a reasonably straightforward task. Everyone knows what a crow looks and sounds like—as well as an owl, or a whippoorwill. Other birds are not at all shy; they perch proudly out in the open—birds such as the cardinal, the chickadee, and the titmouse—so they are also easy to identify. A few others may stay pretty much out of sight, but they have a distinctive enough call that they can readily be identified—such as the wood thrush or the peewee.
Then there are the challenging birds to classify: those who keep out of sight and have a call that is not very distinct. They’ve tested me, but after a few years I managed to figure out most of them—such as the brown thrasher and Baltimore oriole. But the biggest challenge of all for me has been the Mystery Bird—who first appeared about five years ago. Well, he did not visually appear, but his attractive song floated through the clearing one day, and I knew immediately that this was a new bird for me, and one that I’d like to get to know. The Mystery Bird called from somewhere back in the woods. I tried to sneak towards him, but he’d stop calling and then wait for an hour or so, before beginning again. For a few months we played song tag—as I frustratingly tried to get closer, with no success.
In an attempt to identify him, I’d listen to my birdsong CD. Although his call sounded unique to me when I was outside, it was rather complex, and I’d quickly get confused listening to all the dozens of recorded songs that might be candidates. His seeming uniqueness quickly became buried in a mass of confusion. My frustration grew.
In the following year I got my first glance at the bird, from quite a distance. It was small—about the size of a titmouse. OK, that narrowed it down some—at least it’s not something the size of a crow. With this hint, I returned to my field guides, hoping to find some small birds that would fill the bill (no pun intended). But I was still stymied. I just didn’t have enough information to nail this bird down. My Mystery Bird remained an enigma. He kept singing away, almost as if taunting me.
Cruising yet once more through my recordings, I came upon the call of the indigo bunting. I’d once seen a bunting in the area, so they are around here and are the right size. The more I listened, the more I felt that the Mystery Bird had finally been revealed: it was a beautiful indigo bunting. But I still hadn’t gotten more than a momentary glance from a distance. Was the mystery really solved?
Well, not quite. Last year the bird seemed to be growing bolder and was coming even closer. One day I saw him land in a nearby tree and commence to sing out. That’s him! But wait a minute: this bird did not appear to be a dark bunting blue at all. In fact, he seemed to be dark brown, but he quickly flew off before I could get a good look.
Then this spring—after about four years of chasing after this bird—he became even more audacious. I spotted him in a nearby tree one day (his song once again clearly identifying him) and this time I could see no hint of blue. He was dark brown on top, with a brown-streaked, cream-colored breast. I ran for my field guide and looked up the indigo bunting. Was I wrong? Was it another species? Could it instead be a sparrow? The book showed me that the female bunting is not blue—in fact, she looks rather like the bird I had just seen. But how can this be? A female singing? I know that some female birds do call, but usually only sparingly. This bird was anything but sparing in its singing. Did the female indigo bunting sing? The puzzling questions seemed to multiply. It seemed as if I was back to square one, in my attempt to discern who this songster was.
Mystery finally solved next time…
Then there are the challenging birds to classify: those who keep out of sight and have a call that is not very distinct. They’ve tested me, but after a few years I managed to figure out most of them—such as the brown thrasher and Baltimore oriole. But the biggest challenge of all for me has been the Mystery Bird—who first appeared about five years ago. Well, he did not visually appear, but his attractive song floated through the clearing one day, and I knew immediately that this was a new bird for me, and one that I’d like to get to know. The Mystery Bird called from somewhere back in the woods. I tried to sneak towards him, but he’d stop calling and then wait for an hour or so, before beginning again. For a few months we played song tag—as I frustratingly tried to get closer, with no success.
In an attempt to identify him, I’d listen to my birdsong CD. Although his call sounded unique to me when I was outside, it was rather complex, and I’d quickly get confused listening to all the dozens of recorded songs that might be candidates. His seeming uniqueness quickly became buried in a mass of confusion. My frustration grew.
In the following year I got my first glance at the bird, from quite a distance. It was small—about the size of a titmouse. OK, that narrowed it down some—at least it’s not something the size of a crow. With this hint, I returned to my field guides, hoping to find some small birds that would fill the bill (no pun intended). But I was still stymied. I just didn’t have enough information to nail this bird down. My Mystery Bird remained an enigma. He kept singing away, almost as if taunting me.
Cruising yet once more through my recordings, I came upon the call of the indigo bunting. I’d once seen a bunting in the area, so they are around here and are the right size. The more I listened, the more I felt that the Mystery Bird had finally been revealed: it was a beautiful indigo bunting. But I still hadn’t gotten more than a momentary glance from a distance. Was the mystery really solved?
Well, not quite. Last year the bird seemed to be growing bolder and was coming even closer. One day I saw him land in a nearby tree and commence to sing out. That’s him! But wait a minute: this bird did not appear to be a dark bunting blue at all. In fact, he seemed to be dark brown, but he quickly flew off before I could get a good look.
Then this spring—after about four years of chasing after this bird—he became even more audacious. I spotted him in a nearby tree one day (his song once again clearly identifying him) and this time I could see no hint of blue. He was dark brown on top, with a brown-streaked, cream-colored breast. I ran for my field guide and looked up the indigo bunting. Was I wrong? Was it another species? Could it instead be a sparrow? The book showed me that the female bunting is not blue—in fact, she looks rather like the bird I had just seen. But how can this be? A female singing? I know that some female birds do call, but usually only sparingly. This bird was anything but sparing in its singing. Did the female indigo bunting sing? The puzzling questions seemed to multiply. It seemed as if I was back to square one, in my attempt to discern who this songster was.
Mystery finally solved next time…
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bashing Windows
No, this is not another tirade about Microsoft’s monopoly on computer operating systems and all the peripheral software programs that they blatantly plug. It’s about birds bashing into windows of human buildings. This is a significant cause of bird deaths in this country. Millions of birds are also killed (usually at night) when they fly into the sides of high-rise buildings, radio towers, and windmills, generally during their migration flights.
We have had far too many birds crash into our windows over the years. As they fly towards the house they see the windows reflecting the sky behind them. Unfortunately, nothing in birds’ evolutionary history has prepared them for knowing that window reflections are not soft sky, but hard glass. Few sounds make us wince as much as that of a bird’s headlong crash into the window. Too many of them have died instantly of a broken neck. Others experience internal injuries or become so shocked that they soon expire. A minority recovers and flies off, but I’ve read that even many of them later succumb to their injuries.
I have read about taping silhouettes of large birds of prey on windows to discourage small birds from coming near them, but I don’t want to scare them away, so I rejected that approach. I’ve also read about placing screens or closely-spaced lengths of twine a few inches in front of the window. I tried the twine, but birds still bashed into the windows. After trying a few other failed schemes, we came upon an approach that has worked very well: We attach small tree branches on the outside of the windows. This seems to give the birds the impression that there’s a tree there, rather than open sky, so they are far less likely to smash into the window. In fact, many times a bird will land on one of these branches, giving us a wonderful close-up view of them. Bird-window crashes have dramatically declined. Additionally, the branches look kind of attractive—especially if I search for pretty dogwood sprigs.
But a few birds do still try to thread their way acrobatically through the branches and bash into the window. Fortunately, most of them now fly much slower, since they are negotiating the narrow openings, so it’s more of a glancing blow and they usually immediately fly off. A very few become stunned enough, that when we go out, we find them lying upside down, panting in shock. We’ve learned to gently pick them up, bring them inside, and place them in the dark confines of a cardboard box. In a little while they tend to recover and begin fussing inside the box. We take them back outside and release them. It’s a wonderful sight to watch a just-dazed bird perkily fly away.
We have had far too many birds crash into our windows over the years. As they fly towards the house they see the windows reflecting the sky behind them. Unfortunately, nothing in birds’ evolutionary history has prepared them for knowing that window reflections are not soft sky, but hard glass. Few sounds make us wince as much as that of a bird’s headlong crash into the window. Too many of them have died instantly of a broken neck. Others experience internal injuries or become so shocked that they soon expire. A minority recovers and flies off, but I’ve read that even many of them later succumb to their injuries.
I have read about taping silhouettes of large birds of prey on windows to discourage small birds from coming near them, but I don’t want to scare them away, so I rejected that approach. I’ve also read about placing screens or closely-spaced lengths of twine a few inches in front of the window. I tried the twine, but birds still bashed into the windows. After trying a few other failed schemes, we came upon an approach that has worked very well: We attach small tree branches on the outside of the windows. This seems to give the birds the impression that there’s a tree there, rather than open sky, so they are far less likely to smash into the window. In fact, many times a bird will land on one of these branches, giving us a wonderful close-up view of them. Bird-window crashes have dramatically declined. Additionally, the branches look kind of attractive—especially if I search for pretty dogwood sprigs.
But a few birds do still try to thread their way acrobatically through the branches and bash into the window. Fortunately, most of them now fly much slower, since they are negotiating the narrow openings, so it’s more of a glancing blow and they usually immediately fly off. A very few become stunned enough, that when we go out, we find them lying upside down, panting in shock. We’ve learned to gently pick them up, bring them inside, and place them in the dark confines of a cardboard box. In a little while they tend to recover and begin fussing inside the box. We take them back outside and release them. It’s a wonderful sight to watch a just-dazed bird perkily fly away.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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