Essays

Wild On The Prairie: Temporal Observations

Christmas Bird Count
December 19, 1999

Why do people go out in all sorts of weather to count birds during Audubon Christmas Bird Counts?

An hour before sunrise, with the temperature in the twenties, the birdwatcher closes the door of the vehicle softly. Even so, the resounding click is loud in the darkness. The vehicle eases away as the birdwatcher opens and closes the ranch gate. In is a grove of soapberries and hackberries not far away, the birdwatcher finds a place out of the wind to listen for owls. As he hunkers down, a large bird nervously flaps its wings high in a nearby tree, and then settles down again. Coyotes warble, sending stories down the draw.

A pair of Great Horned Owls hoots as he waits. With the first gray light the shape of the large bird that fluttered can be seen. The birdwatcher waits, shivering. In a few more minutes, the features of a Golden Eagle materialize only 25 feet away. It glares down, refusing to become alarmed. The birdwatcher does not move, and the Eagle’s attention is diverted by a gnawing sound in a neighboring tree where a porcupine nibbles its going-to-sleep snack.

White-Crowned Sparrows begin to flit in a lotebush thicket, their plaintive songs jump-starting other birds to wakefulness. Pyrrhuloxias chip querulously, not quite ready to begin feeding. The mew of a Spotted Towhee complains at the fuss of the Sparrows from deeper in the lotebush thicket.

Not far down the draw, a caliche pit retains run-off water from the streets of town. The birdwatcher stands and walks around the Eagle tree, heading to the pit. “Don’t be bothered, Sir.” The Eagle seems to understand, and merely shakes to fluff out his feathers in an effort to retain heat against the early morning chill. The birdwatcher winds among the trees, crackling the fallen leaves.

The noise startles a Gray Fox. It scampers across an open area, then climbs one of the hackberries to a bramble of interior branches known as a witches’ broom. The fox stretches out on the biggest branch, almost completely hidden. A Bobwhite Quail begins to call from a patch of tall Kochia weeds, answered by another from the shin-oaks that blanket the sand dunes to the south of the draw.

The pink light of the rising sun glows on the oil tank battery at the end of the tree grove. The birdwatcher notices a dark shape at its top. Lifting his binoculars, he admires a Roadrunner with its back to the sun, its feathers spread and lifted so its dark skin can gather warmth from the sun. Other birds are working their way to the tops of the trees the birdwatcher just left, for the same reason. Three Mockingbirds, two Cardinals, and a Shrike soon ornament the upper branches.

In the nearest hackberry, tiny birds begin to flit. The birdwatcher backtracks, and soon is scribbling down that two Ruby-Crowned Kinglets and five Yellow-rumped Warblers were spotted. “Yank! Yank!” The birdwatcher searches his memory: “Is that the Red-breasted or the White–breasted Nuthatch?” From the pocket of his coat, the birdwatcher pulls a field guide to find the answer. In the same tree, what appears to be a piece of bark spirals up the trunk. Ah-ha! A Brown Creeper!

In winter birds of several species often flock together as they search for food. Such behavior serves partly for defense, since many eyes spot predators quicker. Also, the tiny insect eggs and larvae most are searching for are hard to find, and many eyes collaborate to find the best foraging areas.

The birdwatcher crosses several hundred yards of grassy draw bottom on the way to the caliche pit. A Jackrabbit bounces from under a large Alkali Sacaton. Meadowlarks soar off in a low arc out of his way. Vesper Sparrows flit a few feet, flashing the white edges along the sides of their tails. A Savannah Sparrow clings to a grass stalk long enough for the birdwatcher to find the yellow “lores” on the sides of its head. Several more sparrows hide quickly, eluding identification. The birdwatcher decides not to chase them, for now he can hear sounds from the caliche pit: duck whistles and quacks and chuckles and snorts, along with the rattle of a Belted Kingfisher.

Above the caliche pit, erosion has carved a half dozen six foot deep and four foot wide arroyos that snake through scattered hackberries. In some places, the trees have been undercut and now bridge the arroyos. The birdwatcher slides down into one, knowing that it will come out at a very advantageous observation post overlooking the water in the pit. Where three of the arroyos converge, a hackberry log has trapped detritus from the last flood flowing in from town. From within the brushpile, a Song Sparrow chips at a Lincoln Sparrow nervously twitching as it pecks at seeds on the ground. “Move over, little guy,” the Song Sparrow seems to be saying. Then it notices the birdwatcher, gives its warning note and both sparrows dive into the brushpile.

The alarm of the birds startles a Cotton Rat, which scurries from the open sand of the arroyo bottom to the brushpile as well. When the birdwatcher moves closer, the sparrows fly out the other side, and a Sharp-shinned Hawk swoops down from a nearby tree, neatly catching one. The movement of the Hawk causes an immediate cessation of bird noise, both from the pit and the surrounding trees. The birdwatcher sighs and sits down, knowing it will take about five minutes before the birds forget the presence of the hawk and start their morning foraging again.

Leaning back against the dirt wall of the arroyo, the birdwatcher idly scans the skies. Birdwatching is a matter of luck, sometimes. The fortuitous glance produces results. This time, circling high, several hawks are seen. One can be identified without binoculars as it turns and flashes its red tail in the sun. A hawk flying much higher up is also a Red-tail, but the dark one in between is a puzzle. The pattern on its underwings is black and white. Out comes the field guide again. Hmmm… could it be a dark form Rough-legged? Only one or two are seen each winter by local birdwatchers. Does it have a pale tail with a dark terminal band? My, my! How nice!

The birdwatcher scribbles more notes. The sighting will be exclusive in this count. At the countdown, the other birdwatchers will ask if he noted the proper fieldmarks. Sometimes the questioning is so thorough it can seem rough and rude. But the count is based on rules of science, and a birdwatcher questioned thusly should not take offense or be embarrassed to admit to not thoroughly identifying a bird. People who do take offense become known as “crackpot” birders, notorious for reporting birds never before seen in Midland County, and unlikely to ever be seen here by anyone else.

When the birdwatcher finishes his notes, he becomes aware that the birds are making noise again. From his vantage point, he can see the mesquite thicket above the opposite side of the caliche pit. Hundreds of Lark Buntings are landing in the bushes and peering down at the water. A swirl of Blackbirds also arrive – Red-winged and Brewer’s Blackbirds both, along with Cowbirds and Great-tailed Grackles. At a water hole, birds come in waves, the first wave often occurring about two hours after sunrise.

Mourning Doves also arrive in groups of five and ten, and Meadowlarks as well. From the bushes above the pit, ten or twenty birds can always be seen either coming or going to the water. The birdwatcher observes the parade for ten or more minutes, before it vanishes in a split second as a Harrier Hawk appears, seemingly out of nowhere, above the water.

The ducks in the pond panic, fifty going in fifty directions. Before all are out of view the birdwatcher is able to identify Mallards by their orange feet, Shovelers by their large bills, Wigeons by their whistle, Pintails by their long tails, Buffleheads by their whiteness, and Green-winged Teal by their white bellies and small size. He can only estimate the numbers of each, and will never know what other birds had spent the night in the pit.

Since the warp and woof of the morning had been ripped asunder, the birdwatcher strolled to the pond, not expecting to see much at all. A Great Blue Heron croaked loudly as he came into view, and launched itself skyward, voiding a white stream to lighten its load. Three Coots ran skittering to the other end of the water, squawking and fussing as their feet pitter-patted on its surface.

The birdwatcher began to hear fuss notes from several species, all still upset over the hawk’s previous disturbance and now his. In a hackberry near the pond, Bewick’s Wrens and Cactus Wrens twitched their tails with fury. A Ladder-backed Woodpecker also fussed, sounding a metallic clank. A Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher whipped the air with its tail, scolding the world at large.

After only three hours of a twelve hour day, we leave the birdwatcher to feast upon a thousand wonderful sights, marveling at the countless life stories played out unnoticed by human eyes on every other day of the year.

Participating in a Christmas Bird Count is a wonderful ritual. A person unites with and interacts with nature in a most intimate way. The natural world is a gift from powers much greater than mere humans. A birdwatcher honors that gift by learning more each and every year, becoming more and more intimate with the glories that surround our man-made environments.

A Christmas Count unites people as well. At the countdown after sundown, everyone will gather to share their stories. Fellowship within a common endeavor is one humanity’s greatest joys. All will feast as one big family, their faces flushed by the stimulus of a day spent outside.

Ornithological science will be served by the group’s endeavors. Changes in bird populations can be diagnosed from the data gathered by the 1000+ Christmas Counts performed nationwide. New birdwatchers will join each year to spread awareness and interest in conserving and preserving spaces and places for all the creatures of Creation.