A grey day on Reifel Island

We had a young relative from Guadalajara, Mexico, with us for the day. "If it doesn't rain, we'll take you to Reifel Island," I promised. And though the clouds hung low overhead, the rain hadn't returned by noon; we made sure she had a thick, warm, wool sweater and a tuque, and went to Reifel.

The lagoons were quiet, even empty in some places. In the absence of sunshine, all the colours were muted. .

First lagoon, around 2 PM.

The highlight of the afternoon was finding a barred owl sleeping in a tree not far from the trail.

Eagle watching the horizon.

Bufflehead, the brightest sight of the day.

Mallards sleeping on a background of swirly shadows.

Ah! Stained-glass colours. All they need is a ray of sunlight.

The male wood duck was happy to pose. His mate, not so much.

A timid towhee dashes out for a seed, then hides in the underbrush again.

A bit of warm colour, mini suns on a mossy log.

In the parking lot, I made our visitor wear that warm sweater. "I'm fine," she said, but I insisted. We compromised on the tuque: it could stay in the car. An hour later, walking in a stiff breeze on the outer trail, she admitted, reluctantly, that she was beginning to feel the cold. We headed back, and I walked her into the warm sanctuary store to recover.

Much later, after I'd posted her photos on Facebook, she commented. "Ohhhh my God, it was freezing!!!"

It's all in what you're used to. I have been complaining that it's too warm. Maybe I need to adjust my expectations.

Birding FAIL!

I've been sorting photos all evening. It's amazing how many get put aside to review later, and then buried under the newest arrivals. Some, I may never get to.

These are from our visit to Reifel Island Bird Sanctuary three weeks ago.

Sandhill crane. Last year's chick.

Dry grasses, with grumpy heron.

Redwing blackbird male, vocalizing.

I picked up this feather on the trail. Possibly from a wigeon.

And this last photo is so frustrating! On our way back to the gate, Laurie took a photo of a little brown bird in an evergreeen. The bird flew away, leaving only a blur. Reviewing the photos at home, I almost tossed this one before I saw, 'way up at the top, a large, suspiciously bird-like, dark shape behind the branches. I cropped and brightened the photo, and found this:

Two big owls (or eagles?), right over our heads, that we never even saw.

Reminder to self; go SLOW! Look behind things! Stop thinking about home and supper!

"This neighbourhood has gone to the geese," complains little owl.

Halfway across Westham Island, on our way to the Reifel Island Migratory Bird Sanctuary, our lonely road was hosting a traffic jam. All along the ditch side, wherever a car could park two wheels safely, the space was taken. In smaller flattish areas, photographers had set up digiscopes and tripods.

We saw the owl first, a tiny one, perched on a wire above the ditch. There was no place to park, so I drove on, slowly. At the corner, the field was full of snow geese. The tripods were thick here, too; there was no room for us, and I kept on going. Halfway to the next bend in the road, I found a spot where I could park without dropping Laurie in the ditch. Here, the snow goose flock was thinned out, but ahead, at the turn, the field was a solid mass of white birds, and no tripods.

I walked back, hoping to see the owl; Laurie went forward, to the closest flock of geese. Just as he got there (and about the time I arrived at the first corner) his whole flock lifted into the air, wheeled and came down to join my flock.

The first wave.

The flock in flight.

Spreading out, honking as they go.

What a din and ruckus they were making! Each goose had to announce to anyone within earshot (and a far-reaching earshot it was) why and how and where they were going. Or maybe they power the wings on sound waves. Or they're measuring their position in the flying mob like bats, with sonar. Something, anyhow.

The hullabaloo only got worse when they came in for a landing on the field my flock was using.  Cries of "Move over, I'm coming down!" vying with shouts from the land; "Not here! Over there! Hi, friend! Not you! Go away! What news? Ouch! Watch where you're going! ..."  Eventually, all were down, and the clamour subsided.

I turned back to the road. The owl had gone. A returning photographer told me he'd up and left as soon as the geese arrived with their racket. But he was "over there", sulking in a tangle of winter-bare branches high in a tree; I could barely see a dark patch against the light.

Oh, well. The geese were beautiful and well worth the walk.

One lone goose, beside the full ditch.

Geese love a muddy field. The wetter, the sloppier, the goopier, the better. These two fields are ideal, and the geese congregate around the muddiest spots, the gate and the tracks left by farm tractors. How they ever stay so white amazes me.

Sticky, mushy mud. And water, to check their white shirt fronts for spots in.

More reflections.

This reflection seems to have been attached backwards.

Afterwards, I decided to have a go at the owl; maybe the camera would do better than my eyes. Yes, it would, but not much. I had to play with the photos in Picnik, fading the branches and defining the bird, until I got something good enough to identify it as an owl, at least.

Northern hawk-owl. (Thanks, Hugh.)

A visit to O.W.L.

Sarah, the barn owl, would greet visitors to her home, if only she weren't so drowsy. While we stood in an admiring circle around her, she opened her eyes briefly, then nodded off again.  An owl needs her beauty sleep!

Sarah, off duty. She is an educator, working with children in the schoolroom.

We, Laurie and I and a couple with a young son, were in the office of O.W.L., the Orphaned WildLife Rehabilitation Society. Our guide, Rob, explained the operation of the society while Sarah slept on her perch by the window. Staff members and volunteers came and went, discussing schedules and the needs of their charges. A chart on the wall keeps track.

I counted 107 raptors presently on the site. The chart divides them into groups; 4 severely injured birds at present in Intensive Care,  some in interim cages, training cages, flight cages. There are flight training sessions in store for red-tailed hawks and a pair of great horned owls. Another section lists the birds soon to be released. The last column names the permanent residents; some are educators, trained for visits to schools and other field trips; the others are unable to be released because of some severe disability. These last are the ones we would be visiting.

Rusty, rough-legged hawk. He was hit by a car and has a broken wing.

O.W.L. takes in injured raptors, mostly from the Lower Mainland, up to 200 per year. It has full medical facilities and a variety of recovery and training cages, and is building a pool cage, where eagles and osprey can recover their fishing skills before release.

One of the outdoor cages, housing three short-eared owls. On hot, sunny days, the birds sit far back in the shade, making photography difficult.

Gunther, Ariel, and Willow. Peregrine falcons. One has been shot; another has had part of a wing amputated.

Sampson and Delilah. Great grey owls. Both hit by cars. Delilah has a blind eye.

Demon. A barred owl. Hit a window in a high-rise building. Brain damaged.

He was called Demon because when he is upset, he flies at you with his head upside down, due to his lack of muscle control, a direct result of his injury. A lot of times he sits with his head at a kind of an odd angle and he has been known to fall off his perch because his lack of balance after falling asleep. We have to put his food on the same perch all the time or he cannot find it.

That makes me worry about the occasional sparrow or chickadee that hits my windows.

Mirage, a Gyr-Peregrine falcon cross. Bred for a falconer's bird, broke her wing and never recovered.

Mirage again.

Either Kermit or Piggy, Snowy Owl. Both birds were hit by planes. I never saw a bird smile before!

Turkey vulture, one of three, Pepe, Precious, and Chuck.

It is a daytime bird with a very keen sense of smell, sight and hearing which enables them to find food by sight and also smell food (parts per trillion) from great distances. Its digestive system has the unique ability to kill any virus or bacteria it ingests. This is apparent in its droppings as there is no sign of any type of disease.

I was glad to see the turkey vultures so close, but they moved around all the time, and we couldn't get a clear photo. Rob told us to notice their nostrils; the holes in the upper part of the beak. Unlike all other birds, these nostrils have no central "wall"; from the right angle, we could see daylight on the far side. This allows a better capture of the smell of rotting meat.

He also explained the bald head; the vulture often buries his head in the rotten carcass he's found. (On the road, as we saw up the Sunshine Coast, maybe.) If he had feathers, they would come out carrying a load of bacteria and maggots. The bald head dries quickly and sheds the offending critters.

Turkey vulture, acting shy.

On our way out, in response to a question from the other couple, Rob mentioned that the BC government has cancelled their annual grant; O.W.L. is just one more of the environmental agencies that the provincial government has defunded, in their misguided "austerity" measures. They may have to shut down operations, after 25 years of caring for these beautiful birds.

"What will happen to the birds?" I asked. They will try to find adoptive homes for as many as possible, Rob says. Some will be released, as they are now when they are ready. And some, not able to survive on their own, will probably have to be euthanized.

But first, the society is trying to raise money from private individuals. There's a button on their home page for donations; if you can help, please do.

Wooden owl, guarding the entrance to the cages.

*Update: Larry, at the Birder's Report, has a post about a rehabilitation centre in California. Great photos, and more details about the operation of these organizations. Check it out.

Cook wanted?

"Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?" Someone hidden in a dark stand of evergreens really wanted to know. A barred owl! And maybe, with the voice to guide us, we could find it.

We followed the sound, slowly, stopping often to get a bearing on the call. We were about to give up, when we saw the two owlets, sitting silently far above our heads.


The pair, nicely posed.


This one was a bit more active; the greyer one stayed huddled by the trunk. But they were both very interested in us; at first, this one bounced back and forth, as if trying to get a clearer view. Finally, it just settled down to watch.

According to the Owl Foundation, the young owls begin to leave the nest around 4 weeks of age, first one, then a few days later, the next. I would imagine, by this, that the one close to the trunk is probably a bit younger, and a bit timid yet.

The neck markings (cross-wise stripes) are clearly visible, and the breast stripes (vertical stripes) are just beginning to show. The head will be the last to develop adult feathers; now it almost looks as if it were wrapped in a soft baby blanket.

The adult was no longer calling. The little wood was quiet, except for the subdued clicking of our cameras.

10 minutes went by, a quarter-hour, maybe, while we tried to focus the cameras through the branches. Then, suddenly, both owlets lost interest: something was happening off to one side.




Mommy was coming!


I thought maybe she had come to feed them, but I was mistaken. She nuzzled little Brownie's ear.

These owlets didn't scream for food, nor even open their beaks, the way other young birds do; they sat still and silent on their branch the whole time.


The nuzzling was vigorous. I had to laugh; Brownie has the same pained look that a little boy gets when his parents wash his face.

After she left, Brownie did a little exultant dance for us, flapping wings, turning on the branch and fluffing up his feathers. He still made no sound.



And now, we found the mother's perch, high on a tree behind us.


She watched us until we left.
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Owlets!

Seen in Bear Creek Park, this afternoon.

More on these later.
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So Sad! And a warning: keep a lookout for this.

I'm passing on a message from Bill of the Birds about another of those horrible "unintended consequences".

"... hole-punched sign posts could be inadvertently deadly to perching raptors.

... the owl was suspended by a single talon that had apparently gotten caught in the top hole of the post. Clearly the bird flew in and perched on top of the post. Then, when it tried to leave, found itself caught by a talon through the hole. It had struggled to free itself, and likely starved to death.

... And they asked us at BWD to help spread the word about the unintentional danger these sign posts may pose to any raptor with talons that perches on top. This style of sign post or fence post is commonly used, so how can the danger be reduced?"

Read the rest here.