Celebrating Our Local CBCs

This year, again, Alan and I joined the national ritual of Christmas Bird Counts, once more participating in the back-to-back counts for Portal, Arizona, and the Peloncillo Mountains, New Mexico. The weather couldn't have been finer, with temperatures rising into the high 60s and low 70s.

The Portal count, coordinated by Jackie Lewis, was on Saturday. We hiked out our door and up to the high base of Portal Peak, a big bowl full of old-growth Arizona Madrone trees. Away from the canyon bottoms, much of our territory burned last May during the Horseshoe Two fire. Some regrowth has begun, but a lot of it still looks like the Desolation of Smaug.

Trudging through the Desolation, heading for that ribbon of green at the foot of Portal Peak (All photos except oriole by Narca)

Happily, many of the big madrones had weathered last year's drought, freeze and fire, although only a few still bore fruit this day.

An ancient Arizona Madrone, partly burned out, is sprouting new branches. Go, Life!

Junipers are way off in their cycle! We saw almost no berries (and a corresponding lack of berry-eaters like Sage Thrashers and Phainopeplas), and many junipers were peaking in their pollen production! Who ever heard of juniper pollen at the end of December?? Late February is more normal. Clouds of orange pollen were wafting on light breezes, creating a very sneezy CBC. Come on, hay fever in December?

This especially bright Say's Phoebe was flycatching within the Desolation.

The Vesper Sparrows surprised me by being in the burned area, higher on the mountain than they usually winter.

Several friends joined us––Skip from Maine, Linda from Idaho, Brad from Tucson––and here is Brad's photo of a highlight for our territory, an adult male Scott's Oriole, in all his finery. We've never before recorded one in our yard in December! I don't know whether Mr Scott is very late, or very early.

Scott's Oriole near Portal, AZ (Photo by Brad Tatham)

Sunday's Peloncillo count, coordinated by Nick Pederson, includes the north end of the Animas Valley, where the Diamond A Ranch (formerly Gray Ranch) allows entry for the CBC counters. Our territory was south of Dunagan's Crossing, from the hackberries through Middle Well, for those who know this valley. This part of the ranch had obviously endured a dry summer, and bird numbers were very low. (Other parts of the count circle fared better.)

The Peloncillo count has always shown boom-and-bust cycles, in synchrony with rain and drought. Once in a span of two years, we went from having the all-time national high for Brewer's Sparrows to zero! Such huge fluctuations emphasize why studies of wildlife in desert regions must be long-term to be truly relevant.

This cryptic Great Horned Owl was roosting in an old hackberry tree. He's hoping we don't see him!

Great Horned Owl in the Animas Valley, New Mexico

The Lark Buntings were also fun, as they picked through horse droppings in search of goodies. This male shows a trace of his classy black breeding dress around his bill.

Lark Bunting looking for a snack

Twenty-four! Snowy Owls!

Snowy Owl at Boundary Bay, Canada (Photos by Narca)

Boundary Bay near Delta, Canada, is hosting a Snowy Owl fiesta this winter. Twenty-four of the superlative creatures were visible from one spot on the day that our friend Jim Shiflett asked me to grab my passport and head north.

The Dyke Trail at Boundary Bay is accessible from 72nd Street.

Boundary Bay is renowned as a migratory stopover along the Pacific Flyway and as an Important Bird Area. Extensive mudflats, beds of eelgrass, and salt marshes support a rich mix of wintering birds and as many as 100,000 migrants, including many Dunlin and Western Sandpipers. And Snowy Owls like a dinner of Dunlin just fine, thank you.

Snowy Owls' feet are feathered all the way to their toetips, unlike the feet of birds from more temperate climes. This owl grooms those all-important foraging tools.

Snowy Owls feed high on the food chain. They mostly feast on small rodents like lemmings and voles, but readily switch to birds like gulls, shorebirds, and even other owl species. They are vigilant, although very few predators bother them: Arctic Foxes, dogs, the occasional Golden Eagle or Peregrine Falcon.

This year Snowy Owls are staging an irruption from their northern haunts and are penetrating regions far south of their normal habitats. Why do owl invasions occur? Some speculate that weather patterns are involved. In some years, irruptions may be caused by a failure of their lemming prey base, but this year's invasion appears to have a different cause. The Arctic experienced a huge boom in the lemming population this past summer, and many more young Snowy Owls are thought to have fledged than is the norm. A pair of Snowy Owls may not nest at all when the prey base is poor, but in a good year a pair can raise up to a dozen nestlings!

The winter food supply up north apparently isn't sufficient to support those extra youngsters, so many owls have moved south. This year's owl invasion is exceptional by any standards. It is even being called a "once-in-a-lifetime" irruption. Nebraska's tally is up to 58 individual Snowy Owls, and Wisconsin's count has surpassed 100. They are appearing in states as far south as Texas!

Will Arizona and New Mexico be adding Snowy Owl to their state lists? This is the year it might be possible! So watch for a big white owl in open country, in agricultural fields, or even on the roof of your local Target, the preferred perch of one owl in Washington this year. I guess that big, flat roof was as close to tundra as the owl could find in its immediate environs. Along the coast, the owls frequent beaches. A few years ago, Jim and I even saw a group in a small clearcut in a montane forest north of Seattle.

Those owls overwintering at a mecca like Boundary Bay should be able to find plenty of food, but, unfortunately, at least some of the owls are very hungry and growing weak. A few are finding their way to raptor rehabilitation centers.

My 6-year-old grandson already knew all about Snowy Owls––thanks to Harry Potter's Hedwig.

Adult Snowy Owls are whiter than young birds, and males tend to be whiter than females.

Immersion

Arizona Sycamore against an impossibly blue Arizona sky

(Photos by Narca)

Fall comes late to southern Arizona. Up north, trees are bare by now and shrouded in ice. Here Indian Summer has drifted into fall, and shifted bit by bit into chilly winter, yet any venture out-of-doors is still an immersion in color.

Richardson's Geranium in autumn dress

Consider Whitewater Draw in the Sulphur Springs Valley northwest of Douglas. Low afternoon light slants across the ponds where a Canvasback naps. Waves of Sandhill Cranes drift in, settling among thousands of their fellows in a dancing, clangorous multitude. Two dazzling Snow Geese catch the sun.

The land glows. We skirt the ponds with my brother. Suddenly a wheeling mass of Yellow-headed Blackbirds returns to their evening roost in the reeds. They announce their coming, loudly. A friend, Steve Laymon, once described the voice of a Yellow-headed Blackbird this way: imagine a Red-winged Blackbird being held under water.

Yellow-headed Blackbirds descend pell-mell to their evening roost.

These blackbirds are mostly males. The males and females tend to migrate separately. Once years ago, I saw a fallout of male Yellow-heads in the city of Chihuahua, Mexico, as night descended. They festooned every tree and telephone wire around us. Two weeks later I returned to Chihuahua, and that night a huge flock of female Yellow-heads descended on the city to roost. The males and females were following the same migratory path, but the males were going first, to set up their breeding territories in preparation for their mates' arrival.

A Merlin routs the panicked blackbirds, but soon they settle back in for the night. What form do their dreams take, I wonder? Spilt seed for foraging, safe harbor in the reeds, and––after the cold––the gurgling songs of spring?

Celebrating the Silver

Yesterday the Chiricahua Gallery in Rodeo, New Mexico, opened its holiday show. We've come to the 25th year––the silver anniversary––of our art guild's founding. We've been around for a quarter of the time that Arizona has been a state!

The gallery is a not-for-profit cooperative of local artists and our supporters within the community.

We interpret "art" broadly, as is fitting. The guild includes painters, sculptors, woodworkers, masters of needlecraft, workers in glass and ceramics, writers, poets, metalcrafters, jelly-makers, crafters of soaps and lotions and candles, photographers, jewelers, weavers, printmakers, a calligrapher.... The gallery nurtures the creative ferment of our Borderlands community, offers workshops, encourages art for kids, gives scholarships to aspiring artists who graduate from our two local (and tiny!) high schools.

The Chiricahua Gallery in Rodeo, New Mexico: Looking through into the craft room, beyond a wall showcasing Jean Bohlender's paintings, mosaic tables by Dan Reheurek, and a vase by Mike Garino. 

(Photos by Narca)

Yesterday's festivities were enhanced by good conversation over cake and punch. We heard a few tales of the early days, when a local lawyer insisted that a bunch of women opening a gallery in Rodeo wouldn't last the year. (Ah, the value of a challenge!)

One gorgeous cake!

The gallery building itself is a registered historic landmark, an old adobe with walls two feet thick and hardwood floors. It has enjoyed a long, colorful life as general store, bar-and-brothel, and church.

The historic Chiricahua Gallery in Rodeo

I've often thought of our local group of painters as the Borderlands School. We are constellated around the Chiricahua Gallery, this small outpost at the edge of the art galaxy, and I like to think that we are doing good work.

Once a very close friend remarked that she wanted to live in the Big City, "where all the important decisions are made." I disagreed. I believe that the important decisions are made in the quietest of places, in our hearts. Artists probe those quiet places.

It's an artist's job to explore the texture of our psyche, to grope for fresh symbols that can revitalize our lives and our culture. Art calls us back to ourselves. It can expose what is rotten and celebrate what is wondrous. Artists who dig deeply, tapping the core of human experience, can produce work that burns with potency, that inspires us all.

Our renewal is at stake.

A serene nicho, highlighting Dan's crosses and art bowl, Susan Hill's wonderful scarf (let's see––how many of these have I bought?!), and Doug Julian's exquisite calligraphy.

Next time you are roaming through Cave Creek Canyon to look for Elegant Trogons or Montezuma Quail, stop in at our little art outpost in Rodeo. See what the locals are up to!

Those silvery 25 years have clearly enriched our Borderlands heritage!

Steamin' Along

Ordinarily, if Alan and I chase something it has feathers. This morning we rose early and headed up to the Interstate to watch the Union Pacific's historic steam locomotive No. 844 chug from New Mexico into Arizona. At least "chug" was what I expected, but this train was moving out!

The 844 steam locomotive rolls into Arizona, with mighty billows of steam.

(Photo by Narca)

We chased it for a few miles, as far as San Simon. Drivers along I-10 were mightily impressed, judging by the swerving cars and people pulling over for a better look. We leap-frogged the train at various exits, and recorded the event in this video.

This venerable train is here in celebration of New Mexico's and Arizona's statehood centennials. Today it is headed for Tucson. You can check out its full route at this website. The 844 was the Union Pacific's last steam locomotive. It was designed for pulling passenger trains and today is considered the UP's goodwill ambassador, its 67-year-old "Living Legend."

And, just for Milo (whose interest in trains spurred us to get up before dawn for something without feathers): the UP 844 weighs 907,980 pounds and its engine and tender are 114 feet long. That's a grand old train!

My favorite attribute of a train has always been its whistle... heard at night, under a sky ablaze with stars, in a lonely, desolate sweep of land.

Autumn Comes

What builds, what informs our sense of a place?

Fresh from yesterday's late-season rain, South Fork in the Chiricahua Mountains is entering autumn. Today I hike up the road, now inhabited by winter birds: the chittering small flocks of Chipping Sparrows, kinglets and titmice. The woodpeckers and sapsuckers are hammering industriously.

A Red-naped Sapsucker is back in his favorite winter tree.

(Photos by Narca)

A Mexican Jay hopes that a picnic is in his future.

A mob of Mexican Jays shadows me, swooping silently through the streamside cypress trees. Across the creek, a large mammal shuffles unseen uphill. Bear? A clumsy deer?

Arizona Sycamore (Platanus wrightii)

Sycamore leaves are rusting into a glorious orange against the deep blue Arizona sky, then dropping quietly into the creek.

The Lemonadeberry (Rhus trilobata) shades into coral and vermilion.

Silverleaf Oak (Quercus hypoleucoides)

A Silverleaf Oak's new leaves are red, too, but they still have a life of greening and photosynthesizing before they fall.

A late-blooming Red Columbine (Aquilegia triternata)

It is mid-day and the butterflies throng to the late-season flowers. Most are Variegated Fritillaries, but they are joined by a few blues, sulphurs, Arizona Sisters, ladies, Red-spotted Purples, one giant Two-tailed Swallowtail, and one of my favorites––a Red-bordered Satyr. Backlit in the sun, the oranges of the fritillaries and the sisters burn brilliantly in a visual echo of the autumn sycamore leaves.

An Arizona Sister (Adelpha eulalia) pauses on a sunlit cypress.

A Variegated Fritillary (Euptoieta claudia) nectars on an autumn composite.

All these details––all these particulars––tie us to the canyon, with its lichen-coated rhyolitic cliffs. These specific encounters create and deepen our felt sense of this place, in this particular time of its own long life. Autumn comes, after the big fire, after the healing rains. And here we are. Rugged Chiricahua hoodoos. Gallery forest of sycamore and cypress, sheltering life, winding between the high cliffs.

The Island of Streamertails

Are you thinking it's high time for an adventure? This next spring, after winter's deep snows and deeper thoughts, why not join me in Jamaica?

Jamaica: seabreezes, sun, misty forest, calypso––and those spectacular hummingbirds, the streamertails!

Red-billed Streamertails commonly visit Jamaican gardens.

(Photos by Peg Abbott)

We will base this week-long trip at two mountain eco-lodges, both surrounded by forest and shaded coffee plantations, and both sites lively with migrants and endemic Jamaican birds. Indeed, Jamaica has the greatest number of single-island avian endemics of any island in the West Indies––even more than its much larger neighbor, Cuba. According to World Wildlife Fund, Jamaica boasts more endemic birds than any other oceanic island in the world! That number is around 28, depending on just which splits are recognized. So, conjure up visions of Crested Quail-Doves, Jamaican Owls, Jamaican Euphonias, Jamaican Todies, Jamaican Spindalis and Yellow-billed Parrots––species found nowhere else on earth.

A delightful Jamaican Tody

World Wildlife Fund lists these endemics for Jamaica: 830 flowering plants and an additional 579 ferns; 27 reptiles; 20 amphibians; and 4 mammals including the hutia and 3 bats. Jamaica has over 500 species of endemic terrestrial snails! Of all the world's islands, Jamaica ranks 5th in the total number of endemic species it harbors.

It's a puzzle: why does Jamaica have such high levels of endemism?

Biologists have advanced several possible explanations. The island's habitats span a big elevational gradient, from sea-level coastal strand to elfin forest atop the main ridge of the Blue Mountains. Basic rock types range from limestone in the John Crow Mountains and the Cockpit Country, to igneous rocks and sedimentary shales in the Blue Mountains. Some plants are endemic to just a single limestone knoll! Conditions varied enough across the island that five distinct types of forest evolved. Complexity of soils and of vegetation supports, in turn, a more complex fauna.

Tree fern in the Hardwar Gap of the Blue Mountains

Location is also paramount. Jamaica was never connected to the mainland of Central America. But during the Ice Age when sea level was lower, three other large islands were exposed, and they provided stepping stones for island-hopping organisms. Just to the north of Jamaica, the very big island of Cuba also contributed to Jamaica's richness.

When we consider species richness, we often begin with impressive lists of the numbers of organisms for a particular place. But the true richness of a place transcends mere lists. It lies partly in the complex relationships between flora and fauna and soils, and partly in the lush, vivid sensory overload that tells us we are in the tropics.

Let's explore!

A fledgling Jamaican Owl ponders a human being.