Eagles, right on schedule

There's an eagles' nest I've been watching for a few years. In winter only; in the summer it's hidden by the leaves. I went again today to see if the owners were back. And yes, they are.

It's a big, deep nest, built and repaired over many years. If you look closely, you can see a white head just above the rim.

Zooming in. She (or he) has come out to look at me.

Keeping an eye on the nest. Planning new work?

Introspective pose.

A brochure from our Campbell River City Hall gives nesting and breeding dates for this location. (It has a couple of photos of this same tree, from the same vantage point.)

1. Mating: February to the first half of March. At this time, they also work on getting the nest ready, adding branches and moss.
2. Egg Laying: First egg, March 25, plus or minus one week. Second egg 2 or 3 days later.
3. Brooding: The male and female take turns sitting on the eggs for approximately 35 days.
4. Chicks hatch: May 1, plus or minus one week.
5. Chick development: Peeps heard June 10. Flapping wings, June 25. Flapping and jumping, July 10.
6. First flight: 85 days after hatching, about July 25.

I won't be able to see this nest by June, when the chicks start sitting on the edge of the nest; the tree will be fully leafed out by then. 

In summer, Campbell River supports a few non-breeding adults, an assortment of young birds and ~25 nesting pairs. (CR City Hall brochure)

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Hay un nido de águilas que he estado observando por algunos años. En el invierno nada más, pues en verano está totalmente escondido por las hojas. Pasé hoy para ver si los dueños han regresado. Y sí, allí están.

Fotos:

1. El árbol y el nido. Es un nido grande y hondo, construido y arreglado durante muchos años. Se ve, apenas, la cabeza blanca de un águila asomándose.
2. Más de cerca. El águila ha salido para mirarme.
3. Y mantiene la observación del nido. ¿Estará haciendo planes para nuevos arreglos?
4. Una postura introspectiva.

Un folleto publicado por la Alcadía de Campbell River, da las fechas de la cría para este lugar. (Y tiene fotos del mismo árbol, desde el mismo punto de vista.)

1. Apareamiento: Desde febrero hasta la mitad de marzo. Durante este período, también se ocupan de la reparación del nido, añadiendo más ramas y musgo.
2. Poniendo huevos: El primer huevo el 25 de marzo, con una semana más o menos. El segundo huevo se pone 2 o 3 dias más tarde.
3. Incubación: El macho y la hembra se turnan cubriendo los huevos por aproximadamente 35 dias.
4. Nacen los pollitos: El primero de mayo, con una semana más o menos.
5. El desarrollo de la cría: Se puede oir los pios el 10 de junio. Agitan las alas el 25. Saltan agitando las alas el 10 de julio.
6. El primer vuelo: 85 dias después de eclosionar.

No podré ver este nido para cuando los polluelos salen a sentarse en el borde del nido, en junio; el árbol va a tener todas sus hojas para entonces.

En el verano, la ciudad de Campbell River sostiene unos cuantos adultos no reproductores, un surtido de águilas juveniles y cerca de 25 parejas nidificadoras. (Del folleto de la Alcadía)

"All I ask ..."

 "... to the lonely sea and the sky ..."

The line from John Masefield's poem* was running through my head as I backed out of my driveway and aimed the car to the north. I have been too long peering at small things at close distances; today, I wanted to see water and space, even if the weather wasn't really good for walking on the shore, with a chill wind blowing alternate rain and snow. I headed north, to the hillside where last spring a large section of forest had been clearcut, exposing the channel between the islands. The lonely sea.

Menzies Bay to the left, Discovery Passage, due north and southwest.

Not much has changed since last April; some more of the trees along the shore have been cut, and the logging slash has been cleared away. A light dusting of snow covers the denuded forest floor. And there's Seymour Narrows leading off into the north with the hills of Quadra Island on the east, Ripple Rock lookout on the west. And a lone tug hauling a barge with tankers chugging its way north.

But why was one tall tree left standing? And is that a white speck on top? I zoomed in with the camera as far as it would go.

The white specs are two bald eagles. And there's a nest.

I went back to the car for the little pocket camera; it sees farther.

Two eagles and their nest.

So that was why the tree was left! Somehow, that makes me feel better about the rest of the devastation. Whoever cleared all this forest, whatever their plans for the space may be, at least they respected the eagles' prior claim.

I stood a long time on the side of the road, watching. One of the eagles left the nest and flew back and forth over the water, hunting for supper while his mate stood over the nest.

*Here's the entire poem:

Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

JOHN MASEFIELD, 1878 - 1967

A Skywatch post.

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"... He de ir otra vez al mar, al mar solitario y al cielo ..."

Esta linea de un poema por John Masefield corría por mi mente mientras bajaba la entrada de mi casa y orientaba el coche hacia el norte. He pasado mucho tiempo mirando cosas pequeñitas, muy de cerca; hoy quería ver agua y distancias, aunque el dia no era propicio para caminar en la playa, con un viento helado trayendo lluvia, y a veces, nieve. Me dirigí hacia el norte, hacia el lugar donde, la primavera pasada, habían tumbado toda una sección grande de bosque, dejando a la vista el estrecho que va entre las islas. ... el mar solitario ...

Foto #1: La vista. La bahía de Menzies hacia el izquierdo, el estrecho de Seymour apuntando al norte, y al lado derecho, el pasaje hacia el sur.

No mucho ha cambiado desde abril del '22; han cortado algunos árboles en la costa, y han limpiado el terreno, quitándole los restos del bosque. Una capa ligera de nieve cubre el suelo desnudado. Y ahí se ve el estrecho yendo al norte, con los cerros de la isla Quadra al oriente, y el mirador de Ripple Rock al lado del oeste. Y un barquito remolcador llevando una barcaza llena de camiones cisterna.

Pero, ¿porqué han dejado un árbol solitario todavía en pie? Y ¿es que veo un puntito blanco allí? Empujé la lente de mi cámara a lo máximo.

Foto #2: Los puntos blancos son las cabezas de dos águilas. Y hay un nido.

Foto #3: Regresé al coche para traer la camarita de bolsillo. Ve mejor a grandes distancias. Sí, son dos águilas y su nido.

Así que eso era la razón! Y me hace sentirme mejor acerca de todo lo que ha pasado, por la pérdida del bosque y sus habitantes; por lo menos respetaron el derecho primordial de los águilas.

Me quedé por largo rato en el borde de la carretera, observando. Uno de los águilas dejó el árbol y voló sobre el mar, yendo y viniendo, cazando, buscando la cena, mientras su pareja montaba guardia sobre el nido.

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Subí el poema entero, pero no me atrevo a traducirlo. En el, el autor (Masefield, 1878 - 1967) expresaba su deseo de estar en un barco en el mar solitario, "... un dia de viento con las nubes blancas volando ..."

Este fue un post de Skywatch. Haz clic para ver cielos alrededor del mundo.

Bare branch serendipity

Another reason to appreciate the winter months: driving by on the highway, en route to collect water for my aquarium, I saw an eagle's nest, usually hidden behind green stuff. I turned off at the next road, turned again, and again, and came up on the tree from the far side. From one spot, I had a clear view, without too many intervening branches.

Eagle and her nest.

She's eating something pink.

Another turn, and I found another viewpoint, from someone's driveway.

The eagle. I can't see what she's eating.

Of course the nest is empty at this time of year, but now I've found it, and the two possible spots from which to view it; I'll be back in the spring.

Recent, departed, winter

The weather's all backwards. It's still raining, and hovering around 10° C; it looks like we're going to have a soggy green Christmas this year*. And yet, three weeks ago, everything was frozen solid!

From this late fall, here's remembering recent winter:

Eagle guarding the empty nest. Westham Island

Fraser River, from Westham Island bridge.

Mountain tops to the east, dusted with new snow.

Even at 2:00 PM, the sun is low (elevation 20°) enough to give hints of sunset.

Very Cold Heron

Ice and bare shrubs, Reifel Island

Odd ice formation around stranded log.

Warmth in berries, leaves, and fat red robin breast.

Mallards, coots, and Reifel's one white duck, in the only bit of liquid water available.

Afternoon sun gives light, not heat.

*And then again, it could very well snow tomorrow. Or get warmer. One of the two. Or neither.

A Skywatch post.

Family tree

At Westham Island Bridge, a pair of eagles has maintained a nest for several years. This year, again, there are two chicks:

Two weeks ago, May 10th. One eaglet is barely visible.

Both parents and one eaglet head.

A few days ago. Eaglet head and shoulders.

The bill seems too large for the head. That will change.

Two youngsters. Plotting mischief while Mommy sleeps.

A couple of photographers were there with their massive digiscopers. I had to fight off an attack of envy.  Short-lived, fortunately.