Yesterday we rented and watched The Big Year (2011), a movie about birders. Specifically it stars Jack Black, Steve Martin and Owen Wilson as three eccentrics competing to break the record for most species sighted in a year. Black plays a socially inept computer programmer who gets no respect from anybody except his mom (Dianne Wiest), Martin plays a CEO trying to retire in order to pursue his passion (with the profound support of his family but equivalent resistance from his vice presidents), and Wilson plays the reigning champion who will stop at practically nothing (and perhaps sacrifice all else) to defend his title.
Despite comedy star appeal, the movie flopped at the box office, unfortunately. Maybe it is too sentimental and not funny enough. This movie is about three things:
Bird geeks are a peculiar species certain never to become extinct (as long as birds survive). I swear I have met many of the characters in my own excursions around Point Pelee, Wellington County and elsewhere. We must forgive the charming arrogance of some individuals who are very good at what they know and do, and are willing to share it. I have occasionally encountered the less palatable sin of goal setters driven past common decency and respect. But on the whole birders are a humble, generous crowd.
I can’t believe this story would fail to warm hearts in alternate realms of geekhood. Anyone who feels a little bit weird should love it.
But yeah, it also makes me want to do my own Big Year.
Our house backs onto Hanlon Creek Conservation Area, so it seemed an ideal place to feed the birds this winter. We expected to wait a couple weeks for the birds to find us, but on the day we put out our new feeder chickadees showed up. Since then we have also had juncos, goldfinches, cardinals and mourning doves.
Your birdfeeder can help birds survive the winter, but once you start attracting them in the fall you have to stay committed. The feeder will influence birds’ decisions about where to camp for the winter. If it runs out of seed they may not be able to find a sufficient alternative.
Cornell Labs is conducting research on feeder birds using the same chip technology used to track lots pets. This video contains more information about it.
I retreated to the cottage for the weekend. Sunday morning I photographed these three butterfly species within five minutes and five paces along the road. I couldn’t see the jewellike Blackburnian warbler in the tall hemlock overhead, but heard his high-ptiched wheezy song. And from a remote, verdant gallery of the woods came a shimmering effervescence of music, the song of a winter wren. So much beauty! There were other, perfect tiger swallowtails, but I liked this one best.
Last night, my partner and I received a mysterious and memorable visitation. With the sun setting behind the Church of Our Lady, we walked down the hill to The Boathouse for ice cream. It was an immaculate spring evening. Sitting at a picnic table eating our treat, we gazed over the shining, shadowy river where ducks and geese restlessly approached roosting time. Across the river, verdant lacework had begun to spread across the veil of willow bows.
I wanted to stroll under those trees. Finishing our snack, we crossed Gordon Street bridge and followed the worn footpath through the darkling woods. When soggy soil dissuaded us from going further, we turned instead to stand and survey the city. Streetlights and glowing sky reflected in the water, enclosed like a stained glass window by willow branch leading. A new moon winked and tiny bats fluttered past the panes.
The corner of my eye caught another movement nearby. I took my partner’s shoulders and turned him, pointing and whispering. A gnome-like figure perched not far away, craning its neck to see us. With a soft, puzzled bark it launched on soundless wings to edge closer. From one branch to another it came, until it sat not five metres directly overhead. Then, with one quiet hoot it flew a little further off. At last the falling light illuminated its silhouette, a ghostly pale, rounded face and silver-grey streaked breast.
A few times in my life I have heard the eerie whinny of an Eastern screech-owl. Sometimes they would haunt the trees behind the house where I grew up and sit motionlessly against the moonlit sky of a Lake Erie night. But last night was the closest encounter I have ever had with a wild owl.
Eventually it drifted into the darkness. We could see it flying here and there in the dim distance on errands or reconnaissance through its woodland property, but it paid us no further heed.
I wept with happiness. I am not naive enough to think the owl spared us any sentiment. Its approach implied at best curiosity, more likely mild umbrage at our trespass. Whatever it thought, we received its visit as a soulful gift. Nature repeats itself endlessly, seldom changing drastically, especially in the heart of the city. You have to be in the right place at the time, faithfully, patiently present and aware. Sometimes you might cross the path of breathless beauty.
Over the weekend I witnessed interesting behaviour in a flock of swallows along the Speed River. Friday afternoon on the way home from work I stopped in Riverside Park and found a mixed-species flock of swallows feeding over the river just south of Woodlawn Bridge. There were approximately 200 birds of three species, predominantly tree swallows with large comparable proportions of barn and northern rough-winged swallows.
A strong breeze blew almost parallel to the current. Numerous tiny winged insects appeared to be struggling on the surface of the water. Perhaps the breeze had prevented them from escaping it, or perhaps the intense bird activity had driven them down. The swallows would fly swiftly downwind for a distance, then turn and use the headwind to slow them so they could dip close to the surface and pick up bugs on the way back upstream.
I was suprised to see so many birds of different species feeding in one place, and wondered whether it might be a co-operative strategy. Possibly they all happened to be in one place because the food was there. However, something else happened to indicate a social dynamic among the species.
While feeding they seldom vocalized. Suddenly something excited the birds. Perhaps they had detected a bird of prey. All at once they rose above the treetops and began vocalizing noisily. They continued to circle, remaining in a distinct flock. This lasted for 30 seconds, then the swallows returned to the river, resumed feeding, and became quiet again.
An article from Stanford University’s website discusses mixed species flocking. Wikipedia also offers a useful entry on this foraging behaviour. It is fairly common among insectivorous birds such as chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, warblers and vireos in North America, other species in different parts of the world. Scientists have some theories about why they do this, for example the mixed flock may protect less vigilant species from predators so they can concentrate on foraging. Research suggests it is more likely to occur when food is scarce.
Food scarcity probably brought the swallows together. When I asked Chris Earley, interpretive biologist and education direction at University of Guelph Arboretum, about what I had seen, he pointed out that cold weather has not favoured the emergence of insects. The swallows would stand the best chance of finding food close to the river.
The literature scarcely mentions swallows, indicating only that they “rarely join” mixed species foraging. Possibly the swallows appeared together only because they had found the best source of food. However, interaction within the flock suggested something more complex.
I expected it to be an isolated incident, but I was wrong. Two days later, on Sunday afternoon, I went for a walk near the covered bridge, several kilometres downstream from the first location, and again encountered dozens of swallows feeding together over the river. The numbers seemed slightly less, but the proportion of species was similar. Evidently a few individuals had parted ranks, moved to breeding territory or perished, however I believe I stumbled coincidentally on the same group of birds in a different place.
On this occasion I witnessed pairs of birds flying in close formation over the water several times, usually a tree swallow with a northern rough-winged swallow. Tree and barn swallows appeared to be slightly stronger, more agile flyers, however all three are highly competent. The formation flying appeared to be deliberate, however I can only speculate about its purpose.
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