A few birds from the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta.
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American Dipper:American Dipper Puyuqumaaraq The American Dipper is one of the most unusual songbirds in North America. If you've been lucky enough to find it in fast flowing clearwater creeks and rivers of the Delta, and you've taken time to watch it forage for food, you know what I'm talking about. It not only hunts for insects and aquatic larvae along the shoreline and while swimming in the water; it also often dives under the surface of the water and walks along the bottom to catch its favorite foods. It swims underwater by using powerful strokes of its wings and can "fly" down to 20 foot depths chasing prey such as water beetles and even small minnows. It can forage on the bottom of creeks in which the current is too fast and the water too deep for humans to stand. The dipper is the only songbird in North America adapted to forage like this, and does so with the help of not only a dense soft coat of feathers heavily waterproofed with preen oil (its preen gland is ten times the size of that of any other songbird), but also with a movable flap that closes over its nostrils and a well-developed white nictitating membrane (third eyelid) that is drawn across its eyes to keep them clear of dirt suspended in the water. Fascinating stuff, eh? There's more. The Yupik name for the dipper is Puyuqumaar(aq), which loosely translates as, "the little bird that looks like smoke." Take a quick look in your bird guide and you'll see what mean. The bird gets its common English name from its habit of rapidly bobbing its body up and down, some 40-60 times per minute. It has only one other common name. Water ouzel, which is derived from Old English. Understandably, this is the name they prefer in jolly old England (there is another species of the bird living there) and in Canada. Strangely, its scientific name Cinclus mexicanus means, "a kind of bird from Mexico." Some polyglot bird! As long as its sources of food, creeks and rivers, are open all year long, the dipper does not migrate. Sol courtship and nest building may take place fairly early in the Delta. Courtship begins with the male stretching his neck upward, bill vertical, wings down and partly spread. He then struts and sings directly in front of the female. Sometimes both the male and female perform together, ending in an upward jump with both their breasts touching. During these displays the male sings in a bubbling wren-like voice that rises above even the roar of nearby rapids and waterfalls. Meanwhile, a most bizarre nest is being fashioned by the female. Looking like a Hobbit hut or Indian oven, it is built of interwoven green and yellow mosses and fine grasses on the ledge of a cliff face or behind a waterfall. The one I found this summer was about a foot in diameter and had an arched opening near the bottom. It was the most unusual nest I have ever seen in Alaska. The female lays 4-5 white eggs in this little Hobbit hut and incubates them alone for 13-17 days. After the eggs hatch, the female feeds the young by herself. While she is involved in this, the male may start a family with another female not far away. About 24-25 days after hatching the young leave the nest, tended by both mom and dad while they learn to forage for themselves. Dipper young are somewhat more precocial than those of other songbirds, since they can cimb, dive, and swim on departing the nest. Dippers are among the few species that live all year round even as far north as the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge Coastal Plain where in rare places there are warm springs that sustain a few families of dippers in the middle of winter. Since this is Inupiat Eskimo country, they have a most interesting name for the bird, Arnaq kiviruq, meaning "woman sinking," probably in reference to how it looks as it submerges under the water. It is because these remarkable birds live in such wild areas as the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge that they are for me a symbol of true wilderness. May this symbol and the wilderness they represent last forever.  |
American Golden Plover:American Golden Plover Tuliigaq If I were to be reincarnated as a bird, I would want to be an American golden plover. For every fall at migration time, I would get to travel from Alaska to eastern Canada to see my mother and sister, then down to Argentina and Bolivia to visit my friends there. In spring, I could happily travel back to Alaska to see all of my friends in the Lower Yukon- Kuskokwim Delta. I could do all of this travel free of charge, and get a lot of exercise to boot. Speaking of the Delta, the Yupik people have a number of interesting names for this bird. Some are onomatopoeic (that is, they are given the name of their song or call), such as "tuusiik," "tuuyik," and "tuliigaq," but others have meanings that describe unique characteristics. "Tevatevaaq," for example, probably describes the way the bird holds its wings above its back after it lands. And since "ciilmak" also refers to the black turnstone, it possibly relates to the way both birds find their food. All of the Yupik names for the golden plover are also used to describe the black-bellied plover, which even in the western world was long ago thought to be the same bird. Today they both have separate scientific names, but if you take a close look at a color picture of the two birds, you'll see why even Yupik elders used to call both species by the same name. If you want total confusion, though, read the list of English names for the golden plover at the end of this article. No wonder, scientists decided on a universal Latin name for the bird, Pluvialis dominica, which literally means "rainy dominican." The species name, dominica, refers to Santo Domingo, which was the early name of the Caribbean island of Hispaniola, where the first specimen of this plover was collected. It must have been raining when they shot it. Interesting stuff, eh. But that's enough of names until you get to the bottom of the column. During my spring walks in the tundra at Marshall, on the Bering Sea coast, and between flights near the Bethel airport, golden plovers were yet one more sign that the warm weather was finally here to stay. Their jet black bellies and gold-flecked capes were truly a sight for sore eyes. Even their strident alarm call, "toolee, toolee," or "toosee, toosee," was a pleasure to hear after a long winter devoid of bird song other than that of chickadees, redpolls and grosbeaks (although I did appreciate these). After arriving on their spring nesting grounds in large flocks, golden plovers ardently go about the business of staking out their individual territories and playing the mating game. They build a nest in the tundra lined with mosses, lichens, leaves and grass in which the female lays four well-camouflaged cinnamon-cream colored eggs marked with dark spots. She incubates the eggs by night, and her mate keeps them warm by day. In Alaska, this means one mighty long shift for father, although mother is usually close by to help defend the nest if a hungry jaeger happens to fly by. It takes almost a month for the eggs to hatch and another one for the nestlings to fly for the first time. It is yet another month or more of serious body building for what will be one of the most strenuous migrations in the world of birds. For golden plovers are a champion long-distance migrant. Most Alaskan birds travel in large sweeping flocks to their wintering grounds in South America by first flying southeast across Canada, where they gorge themselves with crowberries, to Labrador and Nova Scotia. From there, they travel south directly over the Atlantic Ocean and Brazil, finally to the pampas of Argentina and Bolivia, where they spend the winter months. They return to Alaska by flying over western South America, Central America, the Mississippi Valley and the Canadian Prairie Provinces. Altogether, they travel nearly 20,000 miles both ways. To accomplish this marathon flight, they have to maintain a constant speed of about 60 mph, which is one fast bird. Since the golden plover travels in such large flocks, its swift speed didn't prevent it from being almost completely wiped out by market hunters during the 19th century. Thanks to conservation laws and education efforts on the part of the American Audubon Society, this lovely bird has come back from the brink of extinction, and, in spite of much habitat loss everywhere, its numbers have rebounded to where once again we can take great pleasure in watching them sail down from the sky, land with upturned wings on the greening tundra, then call "toolee, toolee," "spring, spring!" Those interested in a few other English names for the American golden plover might appreciate these: black-breast; brass- back; bull-head; common plover; field plover; field-bird; frost-bird; golden-back; greenback; green-head; green plover; hawk's eye; lesser golden plover; muddy-belly; muddy-breast; pale-belly; pale breast; pasture-bird; prairie-bird; prairie pigeon; spotted plover; squealer; three-toed plover; three-toes; toad-head; trout-bird; and whistling plover.  |
American Kestrel:American Kestrel Ak'a tamaani, many years ago, when my family and I were living in Scammon Bay, this little falcon showed up in early spring when everything was still white with snow and ice. By then we were pining to see new birds, especially those with some color on them. The kestrel, with its brilliant orange plumage, was just what the doctor ordered. I could tell by the lovely blue gray outer wing feathers that it was a male, and that he was in prime condition. I figured he had probably been blown off course during migration by one of our fierce Delta storms. Even with the possible danger of being the target of young hunters, I secretly hoped he'd hang around for a few days. He did, and we were all delighted. Once known as the Sparrow hawk, the kestrel is the smallest, most numerous and widespread of North American falcons. As farflung as maps show its range, however, non show it to venture into the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. It is has been seen on the eastern wooded margins of the Delta, and seems to be expanding its range in that direction. Probably because it has not historically been a nester in the Delta, I could not find a Yupik name for this little falcon. It does have an interesting scientific name, though, Falco sparverius, which means hook (falcate)-clawed sparrow hawk. It is partly misnamed because sparrows form only a small part of its diet, and it is not a true hawk. It is now referred to as the American kestrel because of its close relationship with the Eurasian kestrel, whose name derives from old French and refers to its "creaking" or "crackling" call. One of its common English names is killy hawk because of its call, "killy, killy, killy, killy." It also has some other interesting common names: grasshopper hawk, house hawk, rusty-crowned falcon, short-winged hawk and wind hover. The kestrel flies with rapid wingbeats and short glides over open country, or circles about, often stopping to hover above possible prey, usually a vole or large insect. It then swoops down with partly folded wings, grasps its victim, then flies up to a perch and eats it. Whatever it has eaten, about 22 hours later it will burp out a pellet consisting of undigested fur, bones and chitinous insect parts. If its victim was indeed a sparrow, the pellet would include feathers. It apparently gets enough moisture from its meat diet, because it rarely drinks water. When it comes to nesting time, males arrive first on the breeding ground. A few days later, the females arrive and courtship displays begin immediately. When the female makes her choice and becomes the resident Mrs., the relationship is final. In fact, she chases away all other females who try to intrude on her nesting territory. Monogamy reigns supreme (almost). As for copulation, yes sex, the resident pair does it a lot. One couple did it 690 times in a single season (under the watchful eye of a perverted ornithologist), all to fertilize only five eggs. This activity apparently cements the pair bond, since the two birds will usually remain together for life. Either sex will readily remate, however, if its mate disappears. Sometimes the pair may even winter together. An important part of a breeding territory is the availability of a nest site. Kestrels usually use old woodpecker holes or natural cavities in large trees. As with other falcons, they don't build nests but instead scrape a shallow depression in the base of the cavity. Who picks the site? You guessed it. Although pop offers potential cavities, it is mom who chooses among them. Four to five creamy pink, brown-blotched eggs are laid. If the first clutch is lost, a replacement clutch will be laid about 12 days later. Incubation is mostly by mom (but pop will sometimes substitute), and the eggs hatch in a month's time. During this period the male calls the female to the nest hole to feed her. For the first week after hatching, the male is the sole provider, but after that both parents bring food to the quickly growing young. Within another month the hatchlings become fledglings and begin their first awkward flight lessons. It is during this time that they are most susceptible to accident and mortality. In fact, 75% of kestrels die between fledging time and the end of the fall migration. Out of 558 recoveries of banded kestels, only 15 lived to ages 4-6 years. Taking everything into account, their average life span is about three years. And fully half of these deaths are human-related, caused by everything from pet cats to electric wires, high-rise buildings and cell phone antennae. One captive Canadian male kestrel, however, lived to 17 years old, which just goes to show how dangerous flight can be for these falcons. Lucky there are so many of them around to begin with (their numbers presently being estimated at about 1.2 million pairs). Whether it's on the edge of the Y-K Delta or in the Interior where my family and I now reside, you couldn't find a more handsome little falcon than the killy hawk. After a long white winter, the combination of their colorful plumage and aerial acrobatics give the air more personality, even a sense of spirit. Like swallows and other winged sky dancers, they represent for me an enduring source of poetry. May they live on forever.  |
American Pipit:American Pipit Pesaq This is another of those birds whose Yup’ik names are all imitative of either its song or call. Pesaq is the name I was given in Scammon Bay, but this little guy has at least two others: Pec’aqaq and Pespessaayaaq. When spoken, its common name “Pipit” also sounds like one of its calls. When I lived and taught in Scammon Bay in the 1980’s I used to find these small sparrow-sized birds every time I climbed into the Askinuk Mountains during the summer and fall. Once while camped on top for a night with my dog Sam, we were visited by a family of 7 of them that lined up on a large boulder in front of my tent and watched us for the longest time. They came so close and were so curious that I think they had never seen anyone up there since beginning to nest in late spring. They had come a long way to get there, since they had spent all winter in the southern United States and Mexico. Quickly and surely, though, they arrived in the mountain tundra regions of Alaska to begin their short nesting period when they would raise future generations of pipits that would do the same as their parents into the distant future. They are often detected first flying high overhead giving their sharp pes-pes-pes-pes calls. When they are on the ground they can be differentiated from most other songbirds because they walk or strut (similar to wagtails), constantly bobbing or wagging their tails as they go. As soon as they get back to their summer home they begin their courtship routine. They don’t have any time to waste even in the slightly longer summers caused by climate change. To defend his nesting territory and attract a mate, the male performs a spectacular song-flight display that begins on the ground with singing; then he flies straight up into the air sometimes to as high as 200 feet, floating downward with his wings open, legs extended, tail held upward at a sharp angle, and singing excitedly all the way back to earth again. It’s a lovely sight and reminds me a little of the courtship flight of the Lapland longspur, although much more dramatic. Once the female has chosen her mate, she alone builds a cup-shaped nest of grasses, sedges and feathers in a sheltered spot on the alpine tundra. She lays up to seven pale-buff colored eggs covered with brown splotches. Most of the nests I’ve found have had five or six of these eggs, with the final egg perched on top for easier brooding. A friend described this egg as a “sacrificial egg,” since it would be the first egg to be snatched by a jaeger or other predator invading the nest. The incubation period is a little over two weeks and is the mother bird’s duty alone, although her mate brings food for her during this time. He doesn’t feed her on the nest, however. To protect the location of the eggs, she sneaks away a fair distance, swallows the food, then sneaks back to the nest. When the eggs hatch, mom broods the downy nestlings for a few days while dad hunts for food for everyone, including his mate. For the remainder of the two weeks it takes for the young to fledge, both parents feed the young. They continue to feed them for another two weeks after the young leave the nest. Their daily menu is the same as their parents’: mostly insects, spiders, mites and a few seeds. However, during their migration south along the coast they eat tiny crustaceans and marine worms. Several years ago, I came across a large flock of them in Valdez doing just that. When they reach their wintering grounds, seeds become much more important in their diet. Recently their scientific name was changed to Anthus rubescens. Genetic studies included all three of what were once regarded as subspecies as a single species, thereby also resulting in a common name change from Water pipit to American pipit, to differentiate it from the other 30 pipit species of the world. Here’s a “cool” fact. In an alpine population in the Beartooth Mountains of Wyoming, a snowstorm buried 17 American pipit nests for 24 hours. All of the nestlings that were 11 days or older survived, proving this is one tough bird!  |
American Robin:American Robin Elagayuli I bet you didn't know the Robin isn't a Robin. How can that be, you ask. Let me explain. There's a bird in jolly old England that has a red breast and looks a lot like our so-called American robin. It seems the Pilgrims weren't such good bird watchers and simply misidentified our bird, which is really of an entirely different species. In fact, it is a thrush, its scientific name, Turdus migratorius, meaning "migratory or wandering thrush." It puzzles me why this particular thrush was described as "migratory," when all thrushes are migratory. A better name for the Robin might have been "Common thrush," since it is the most common of all our thrushes, nesting from Mexico almost to the Arctic Ocean. Robins don't seem to mind nesting close to humans. They especially like to be around humans who happen to have healthy lawns that grow healthy earthworms and small six- and eight-legged critters. I remember when I was a kid we always had at least one Robin nest on our property. And twice I rescued baby Robins from cats and raised them as pets, at least until they grew up and flew away. I named each of them Bobber because of the way they used to walk in a kind of bobbing motion. If the number of names given a bird by a people is any indication of how beloved it is, the Robin must take first place in this regard among the Yupik people of the Y-K Delta. In the Scammon Bay-Hooper Bay area, they call the bird Elagayuli, meaning "the one that is good at digging." Three other names, Curcurliq, Aaqcurliq, and Pitegcurliq, all relate to its wonderful spring song. There are many others, depending on where you live in the Delta, most also imitative of their song. It's hard to believe that a bird so beloved everywhere today was once killed by the thousands in the southern states for food, especially during the winter months when they gathered there in huge flocks. Uncountable numbers also died from the insecticide DDT in the 1950's. When Dutch Elm trees were sprayed for the Dutch Elm disease, the DDT-coated elm leaves dropped to the ground in fall and were subsequently eaten by earthworms which were then devoured by Robins, leading to death or reproductive failure. Rachel Carson reported this in her famous book, Silent Spring. Neither hunting of Robins nor spraying of DDT happens today, and the Robin has expanded its numbers and range perhaps more than any other bird in North America. In Alaska, this expansion has come with human deforestation of the northern forest and the clearing of land for houses. In these forest margin habitats, Robins are displacing many of their cousins, the Hermit and Swainson's thrushes. For such a common bird, the Robin certainly has some uncommon traits. To wit. After the males return to Alaska in April or May, they immediately stake out their nesting territories. When the females arrive a week or two later, you'll hear the males begin their familiar warbling, "cheer-up, cheer, cheer, cheer-up." Males now become very aggressive defenders of their territories, fighting each other and even their own reflected images in windows and the shiny parts of cars. Courting begins shortly afterward, with groups of males chasing a female, then strutting around her with tail spread, wings shaking, throat inflated, trying to entice her to follow him back to his nesting turf. After she has chosen one of her suitors, she earnestly begins building her cup- shaped nest with some help from her spouse. The nest is mostly made of twigs, mud and grasses, and lined with fine grasses. Shortly thereafter, she lays four unmarked, pastel blue ("robin's egg blue") eggs. These she incubates alone while her mate feeds her and defends their turf from intruders. Within two weeks the young hatch, and the female takes responsibility for feeding them until they leave the nest approximately two weeks hence. The male maintains a constant presence, however, as the sentinel of the fort. When the young finally fledge, their dad helps tend and feed them till they can fend for themselves. That is, unless there happens to be some kid in the neighborhood who helps out. Besides worms, the young are fed pretty much the same fare as the adults feed themselves: insects and small berries, if they happen to be ripe. When I didn't have worms for my Bobbers, I fed them morsels of bread, which they also ate eagerly. Even in Alaska, Robins will have two broods. With the warmer weather we're having these days, I suspect some may even try to have three broods. Robins have an interesting way of scratching their heads. Rather than scratch directly as most birds do, they lower their wing, reach up through their armpit, and go for it with their sharp claws. (See my drawing to get the picture.) Talk about an uncommon common bird, eh?  |
American Wigeon:American Wigeon Qatkelliq My dad used to call this duck, “Baldpate,” because the white crown on top of the male’s head looks like a bald man’s head. After consulting the Yupik dictionary, I believe the Yupik name Qatkelliq also refers to this trait. The American wigeon is a member of the so-called “dabbler” clan of ducks that usually feeds in shallow water by either dabbling for food with their bill in the muddy bottom or tipping up on end and reaching down to eat the underwater leaves, stems, buds and seeds of pondweed and other water grasses and sedges. Its diet has a higher percentage of plant matter than that of any other dabbling duck. This is possibly because its short blue bill exerts more force at the tip than other dabblers’ bills do, thereby permitting it to yank and pluck out vegetation more efficiently. But here’s a cool fact about Qatkelliq. It loves a deep-water wild celery, which it can only get by “stealing” from species of diving ducks like Canvasbacks. For this reason, it spends more time feeding out on deep water than any other dabbler. I’ve even seen them feeding right next to swans who can reach far deeper than wigeons to yank out bottom plants, and they simply grab some of the swan’s food when it floats to the surface. In spring, wigeons arrive in the Lower Yukon and other parts of Alaska already paired up, and tend to nest later in the season than most other dabblers. This applies especially to older birds who already know what the mating game is all about. On their wintering grounds experienced males strut their stuff in many different ways. In one display, they extend their neck forward with head low, bill open, while raising the tips of their folded wings to reveal their white wing patches. Other courtship displays include tail-wagging, head-turning, wing-flapping, and sudden jumps out of the water. Younger males try to match the older ones, and most eventually end up with mates by the time they arrive on their nesting grounds. Since they nest later than other ducks, the female immediately searches for just the right spot to lay her eggs. This is often on an island, usually within 100 feet of water and hidden by tall vegetation. The nest is built by the female and is a shallow depression filled with grasses and lined with down. She then lays 6-12 white eggs, which she alone broods for 23-24 days when they hatch all at once, and the downy chicks leave the nest shortly afterward. They follow their mother to water where they begin to feed by themselves mostly on insects. Their mother remains with her brood almost until they can fly 45-63 days later. If a predator approaches, she will do a broken-wing act while the young scatter. When they are hidden, she flies away. Since the attentions of the father bird were not necessary for the success of the nest, he “flew the coop” long before the eggs hatched. The males then head for a large open marsh or lake where they will remain while they go through the flightless stage of their molt. Since the color of their plumage changes from bright to dull, it is referred to as their “eclipse plumage.” This eclipse plumage is retained for only 2 months or so, at which stage they molt a second time into another brightly colored nuptial plumage, which they will use to begin the mating game all over again when they get back to their wintering grounds in the south. Their common name, wigeon, is apparently from the French vigeon, but it has other common names as well, including bald-crown, bald-head, bald wigeon, blue-billed wigeon, California wigeon, green-headed wigeon, poacher, smoking duck, southern wigeon, wheat duck, white belly, and my dad’s favorite, Baldpate. Its scientific name, Anas americana, is the least interesting name of all and translates simply as American duck.  |
Arctic Tern:Arctic Tern Teqirayuli Look out! Here they come! Gotcha, didn’t they? Well, that’s what these little terns do if you venture too close to their nests or young. Yupik people don’t call them Teqirayuli or Teqiyaaraq for nothing. Between the two names, they loosely translate as, “The dear little bird that is good at using its bottom to disadvantage others.” You know what I mean? I learned the hard way myself when I was canoeing down the John River, in the Brooks Range, a few years ago. As I came ashore I flushed a momma Arctic tern from her nest on the gravel beach. I went back for my camera, quickly took a couple of pictures of the nest and eggs, then hightailed it. As I retreated, both male and female terns swooped down on my head from behind and, you guessed it. Bullseye! Not all Yupik names for this little tern are pejorative, however. At least one, “Nacallngaaraq,” relates to its small black cap. And the Inupiaq name, “Mitkotailyaq,” means simply, “drooping feathers.” Any way you cut it, all of these names are a great deal more colorful than the English, “tern,” which derives from the Anglo Saxon word, “stearn.” Even the scientific name, Sterna paradisaea, isn’t very colorful. It simply translates as “paradise tern,” and was so named in 1763 by Eric Pontipiddan, the Danish Bishop of Bergen, Norway, who collected it from Christiansoe Island, Denmark. In its unpopulated state, he thought the island represented a form of heaven or paradise. There weren’t many places like that in Europe, even in the 1700’s. Back to Alaska and the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, which is still very much like a paradise in its wild sections. Now that it’s spring, the Arctic terns will soon be cruising along the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers and their tributaries, searching for food. Watch them as they hover 30-40 feet over the river on beating wings, then dive suddenly straight into the water with a grand splash. When they surface they shake their feathers vigorously, then fly away with their catch, which may be either a small fish or eel, or a crustacean. Like Peregrine falcons and Golden plovers, Arctic terns are world travelers, migrating from their nesting sites in the Arctic, southward across the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans to spend their “second summer” in Antarctica. Some terns, in their longest journeys, make a round trip of more than 47,000 miles in a single year! Wears me out just thinking about it. In this way, the Arctic tern probably sees more daylight in its lifetime than any other animal. That’s a lot of daylight, since these birds have been known to live more than 34 years. When they finally return to the Arctic, these terns are ready and rearing to settle down and begin the process of raising a family. To do this, they first hollow out a shallow depression in a sunny spot on the sand and gravel near a creek or river course. Here 3-4 flecked brownish-green eggs are laid, and after 3 weeks of incubation by the female, the eggs hatch. Within another 3-4 weeks, the young take their first flight. Even after they learn to fly, however, it takes a long time for them to learn to feed themselves. Since Arctic terns usually nest in colonies, their child rearing also takes place in what appear to be nurseries. And these are the very spots you’d best be wary of, for that’s where the terns earned their notorious reputation among Yupik people (and at least one other person) as “the dear little bird that is good at using its bottom to disadvantage others.”  
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Arctic Warbler:Arctic Warbler Cungakcuarnaq I was camping with one of my grandsons last week along the Denali Highway and spotted a couple of Arctic warblers. It reminded me of the Arctic warbler family I saw one August when Jennifer and I were teaching in Emmonak in 1989. I had never seen these birds before and wanted to learn more. When I saw them last year in the Anaktuvuk River Valley in northern Alaska, then last week with my grandson, I thought, I’m going to write about this little bird and share some of the new information about them. First off, it’s not really related to American warblers at all. It’s considered an “Old World Warbler” in the Silviidae family and more closely related to kinglets and gnatcatchers. You get a hint of that when you first hear their song, which is very unlike the melodious songs of true New World Warblers. Their song, in contrast, sounds to me a little like that of a locust buzzing (although with variations) in the desert of the Southwest. Although this bird is a transplant from Asia, it only nests in Alaska for three months, then heads back home to its wintering grounds in Southeast Asia, especially in the Philippines. Its favorite nesting habitat in the YK Delta, as elsewhere in Alaska, is in thickets of willow, dwarf birch and alder scrub, mostly along streams and at the edge of ponds. If you watch the birds closely, you’ll see they feed in the same way our New World Warblers and other insect-eating birds do, although they do have the habit of searching a little more carefully under the leaves of small trees for their prey. And they have the same gourmet tastes, eating everything from mosquitoes to leafhoppers, caterpillars and spiders. Food is, of course, the primary reason why this species has spread to Alaska. Since we have so much wild country here, we have a lot of bird food. When Arctic warblers first arrive on their nesting grounds in Alaska the male immediately gets down to the serious business of establishing his territory and singing furiously to defend it. In really serious encounters with other males, the property owner may flap its wings slowly while singing. During this intense period of trying to attract a mate to his important little parcel of land, the male will often vary the pitch and tone of his song to make it sweeter for his potential paramour. After she has decided on her mate, the female alone builds her nest on the ground, usually in a mossy area, or in the side of a grass tussock, under a dense canopy of mixed shrub species. The nest is so well hidden that predators, including scientists studying the bird, have an almost impossible time finding it. If you ever do find it, you’ll see that it is in the shape of a dome (a little like a dipper’s nest) with the entrance hole on the side. She builds it artfully of dead grasses, moss, and leaves, then lines it with fine grass and animal hair. She lays up to seven white brown-dotted eggs and broods them for 11-13 days. If a predator is heard or seen skulking about, the female will jump off her nest, begin scolding like a wren and even perform a “broken-wing act” to distract the skulker. As soon as the eggs hatch the male stops singing so furiously and begins to help his partner feed the youngsters. By this time there are lots of insects crawling and flying around to be caught and fed to the quickly growing baby birds, and after a couple of weeks the young are big and strong enough to step out of their little hobbit house and fly away. At that point, they learn quickly from their parents how to feed themselves and fatten up for one of the most epic migrations of any songbird on earth. Only three other songbirds that nest in Alaska migrate in the same direction (Bluethroat, Northern wheatear and Yellow wagtail), over the Bering Strait and southeast across Siberia down to the warm country of southeast Asia (and for the wheatear all the way to sub-Saharan Africa). Most Alaskan Arctic warblers end up in the Philippines. They do not migrate southward in North America. The Yup’ik name for the Arctic warbler, Cungakcuarnaq, is the same as for the Wilson’s and Yellow warblers. It literally translates as “little greenish-yellow bird.” Its Western scientific name, Phylloscopus kennicotti, refers to its habit of peering under leaves for insects.  |
