Is there a lifer dance for a dance?

Sandhill cranes dance. As mature adults, they dance to attract and bond with a mate, but the rest of the time, they just dance, probably like we do, for the fun of it.

We had never seen a dance, though, until a couple of days ago, at Reifel Island Migratory Bird Sanctuary, where we met a group of 5 young adults on the pathway. They came, as usual, for their handout, but quickly lost interest and returned to the sunny patch they had chosen as a dance floor. And, not minding us, they danced and danced.

All of our photos turned out bad, unreparable, but I have to show you the least worst, anyhow; I'm so thrilled to have seen this display!

First, a not-so-terrible photo. Just finished the dance, catching his breath in the shade. He's an adult, by the red cap, but young, not fully grown yet.

The dance:

Limbering up.

Leaping!

The dance involves neck twisting, prodigious leaps straight upward, wing displays, leg stretches, prancing and other contortions. During mating dances, the cranes call to each other; these youngsters danced in silence.

The watcher will imitate him in a minute or two.

Choreography

Again, one watches, one leaps.

Fancy footwork

Two-step.

Five minutes later, it was over. We walked out into the sunshine (we had been half-hidden in deep shade while they danced), I went to feed the mallards in the lagoon, and turned to find a sandhill a foot away, asking for his tip. I up-ended my bag of goodies, and we left them to it.

Bigfoots

Well, that was quick. I posted the photo of feet at 12:44 yesterday morning, and 10 minutes later, Paul in Powell River had the answer. The right answer; yes, it was a young sandhill crane, a colt.

Two youngsters saw us on one of the paths on Reifel Island, and came running when I rattled my bag of goodies. Laurie took photos, while I tried to tempt them to come closer. About 1 meter was their limit. I was already crouched, making myself small and non-threatening, so I looked at feet.

The pair of sandhill colts.

It's surprising how some of the most beautiful birds have such unlovely feet.

I noticed something odd about the sandhills' toes. Like most birds, there are four on each foot, arranged with three forward, one pointing back. But look at that rear toe. It's barely a stub, and I can't see any sign of a toenail.

Compare it to a Great Blue heron's rear toes:

Heron, Cougar Creek

... and his feet.

The heron has full-size rear toes, suitable for perching in trees or standing on slippery logs. The sandhill crane has to rely on those front toes only. Is this why I've never seen one in a tree?

And here's a Black Crowned Night Heron, another wader that sleeps in trees.

Long, almost prehensile toes, front and rear.

A few useful links:

• A sandhill crane's foot on Flickr. This one seems to have a rudimentary nail.
• A series of photos of fantastic bird feet, on Burdr. No sandhills or herons, though.
• A rundown of the different shapes of bird feet. Fernbank Science Center.
• Wild Turkey feet. From Hybrid Birder. They're very similar to the sandhill's feet, if a lot shorter. The hind toe is up where it does no good, and the nail is stubby. Interesting. I never would have thought to look, but for Rebecca's comment.

Talking sandhills

One of the hoped-for highlights of any visit to Reifel Island is meeting some of the sandhill cranes. This Friday, we found five, three together on the office lawn, and two near the outer edge of the Sanctuary.

In the shade of the office building. Probably the  year-round resident pair.

The Reifel Island website has a helpful, up-to-date page on the sandhills.

If there are just three birds, there is a very high probability you are looking at our resident pair and this year's young.

Laurie took this next photo between the rails of the fence:

This would be the youngster, or colt, born last May. His forehead is showing some red now, but it is still spotty. Compare it to October's photo.

By the outer path, we found another two small cranes, but these have the full red adult forehead. The young adults congregate with groups of other 1 to 5 year-olds, until it is time to find a mate.

"Is that a bag of food I see?"

By November, numbers generally drop to just our resident pair plus a select small group of visiting birds (less than 10 usually) that then spend the winter together. In the spring our pair chases out all other cranes, including their own young from the previous year, and defend the 300 hectare Sanctuary as their territory.

.

"It is! Gimme!"

These two cranes were more talkative than any I have met before. Every minute or so, one or the other would open a wide beak and let loose with a long, rattly squawk, sounding rather like a heavy barn door with very rusty hinges.

"Thank you! More, please!"

Listen to the call. (All About Birds, Cornell.) The youngsters' voices were not quite so resonant as this.

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!

Not quite wordless

Daddy Sandhill crane, just checking ...

"Well? Did you bring the food?"

We did.

Sandhills on ice

We're moving into the sixth day of this cold snap, and it's finally warming up. It's snowing again; that will help.

On Tuesday, the sun was shining, and the wind had died. We went down to Reifel Island to see how the birds were faring.

The ponds were all frozen hard. Mallards and wigeons and coots thronged around the warming cabin, where there was still some open water, but beyond that area, the ice was still and empty. A few herons stood miserably  against the banks, all puffed up, with their necks buried in the body feathers. Several redwing blackbirds and a squirrel were at a feeder in a sheltered spot. Only the chickadees and juncos went about their life as usual.

Out by the far dike, we met three young sandhill cranes standing, one-footed, on the ice.

It's their first winter; what a shock!

I scattered a large handful of bird seed on the ice for them.

And four more cranes that had been sunning themselves on a sand bar came over. I spread more seed.

Walking carefully; their feet slip backwards with each step.

Oops! Where the sun reached, colour returned. Otherwise everything was grey and cold blue.

Warm feathers, cold feet.

I gave them the rest of my bird seed and wished I had more. All their usual food is under that hard stuff.

One went over to the far bank and hurried up and down, (Oops! Slipped again.) looking for something.

Water! Right where the bank meets the ice, there is a crack big enough for a sandhill beak.

They eat (when people aren't feeding them)

Mostly grains and seeds, some insects, other invertebrates, and small vertebrates. (Cornell).

The insects, frogs and snakes will all be in hiding now. But the grasses are plentiful, and topped with seeds. On the paths, there are frozen berries and crabapples. They should be all right, once they get the hang of it.

Sandhills, revisited.

Searching my photo storage yesterday, looking for a specific coot photo for Laurie, (we found it) I discovered a series of sandhill cranes from last July 22.

Better late than never, they say. So here they are:

We saw them first, far across a lagoon in the bushes at Reifel Island. They noticed us, too, and waded over, probably because they saw me feeding the mallards.  We weren't expecting them, and had walked on down the path, but they hurried after us, and demanded goodies.

There were a pair of adults, and one youngster. The parents kept the colt, as sandhill chicks are called, protected between them the whole time. They didn't seem to mind us coming close, as long as we moved slowly and kept on dumping bird seed for them.

The young sandhill was as tall as the adults, but didn't have the red head or grey neck. And the neck was visibly thinner; its got a ways to go before it can kill its own food. The parents would feed it until it was able to fly, at about two or three months old. It will live with them for the first year.

This year, 2010, a sandhill pair at Reifel hatched two chicks the beginning of June. I don't know if this is the same family. However, the colt still has the juvenal downy crown.

Neck and head of young sandhill, still shedding down.

Adult head, grey feathers and red bald patch.

Sanctuary voices

Monday turns out to be a very good day to visit Reifel Island. After the rush of weekend visitors, there is a lull; even the clamorous mallard horde has left the begging grounds and gone about its business on the ponds and islets. We walk surrounded by birdsong, the tweets and trills and whistles that we rarely hear over the demands of the ducks. "What's that one?" we say. We don't know, and I promise myself, once again, to review the tape of bird calls "as soon as ..."; well, soon, at least.

It's spring; the business in hand is home and family. Some, like yesterday's geese, are well along with the first brood, but most are still sitting on nests, out of sight. The sandhill cranes have two eggs on an island towards the centre of the sanctuary; a notice at the gate warns us to be cautious passing their nest.

We were walking down one of the central trails, under a canopy of branches. On either side, canals separated us from bird territory, mostly brush. Overhead, suddenly there was a great hubbub of honks and calls; geese rose from the bush and wheeled away in pairs, shouting as they went. Silence again. We walked on.

A bit later, from the other side, down in the bush, something else, something big and noisy, raised a ruckus. This was a voice I'd never heard before; louder than a goose, more raucous than a great blue heron, a rattling, grating, machine-like noise; loose nuts and bolts in a washing machine drum, maybe. Angry nuts and bolts.

I tried to imitate it later, for a woman from the sanctuary office. I'm pretty good with quacks and caws, but this was beyond me; she couldn't identify the noisemaker. I think it was probably a sandhill crane, objecting to our visit, too close to those cherished eggs.

*Update: I just registered with Dendroica; I found there several recordings of the sandhill's voice. That was it; check #5 or #7, for example. "A loud, trumpeting rattle," is their description.

From an observation deck on the next leg of the trail, we looked down on a pair of Canada geese in the water. The female was interested in my bag of seeds, but the male had more important things on his mind. He followed the female about, stretching his neck out parallel to the water's surface, eyes on her, pleading. His voice was a deep growl, rather than a honk. She ignored him, no matter how intently he groaned and postured. After she looked over my offerings, she turned her back and swam away.

The abandoned male consoled himself with the seeds that, by now, had sunk to the bottom.

Silent protest.

Still not raining ...

And more Reifel Island birds ...

Little browns and a redwing blackbird waiting their turn at the feeder

Coot, not stepping on his own feet

Question: Why do great blue herons so often look so downright miserable?

Pintail

Pintail tail

Not a bird

A couple of families of sandhill cranes had taken over one of the low islets in the outer ponds. We counted four adults, or maybe five, and seven youngsters.  The adults had no interest in humans at the moment, but several of the kids were curious, and waded over to check us out.

Knee deep

Thigh deep

We were on a steep bank, and two of the cranes, arriving at a rough patch of logs and weeds, stayed in the water, watching us through the shrubbery. Another two found a bit of a trail through the blackberry canes, and climbed up, hoping for free munchies. They ended up eating most of the remainder of my seed.

Thanks! Those were delicious!

Water and sky. Microdot birds.

By the exit, one of the black crowned night herons was sitting in full view. A juvenile hid in the branches over the slough; his mottled coat blended in almost perfectly with the mixed greys of the bark and lichens.

One-legged, black-crowned, red-eyed, adult night heron.

A photographer had set up his digiscope equipment just a few metres away from the young heron; great whopper of a scope, tall tripod, camera, bag of accessories ... He was fussing around, adjusting the focus, removing and replacing the camera, making more adjustments.  He was probably going to be able to get a photo of the heron's eyelashes. I confess to a bit of envy.

But it was raining now; we took our couple of quick, iffy photos and put away the cameras before they got wet. As we left, I looked back; the photographer was busy drying his camera with a rag. The spotting scope was still standing in the rain. Maybe I wasn't so envious, after all. We got into the dry car, turned on the windshield wipers and went home.

Sandhill cranes over Reifel Island.

These were part of a group of 4 adults and 7 youngsters.

More later, including a few mystery birds.

A Skywatch post.