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.  |
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Bald Eagle:The Regal Bald Eagle Bald Eagle Metervik One of the most dramatic bird moments I've ever had was many years ago while canoeing down the Charlie River in Alaska's Interior. I suddenly heard an airy buffeting sound above me and when I looked up I saw a pair of bald eagles plummeting downward toward the canoe, rolling over and over in the blue sky, their talons passionately interlocked, wings swinging around wildly, tumbling, tumbling, until almost directly in front of our bow, the lemon yellow feet unlocked and the giant birds put on the brakes, narrowly escaping a watery plunge into the river. My older son was in the bow of the canoe and asked what we had just seen. In a hushed voice, I told him it was part of the courtship or nuptial flight of the two eagles, preparatory to their mating and starting a family. We were both deeply awed by the performance and remember it vividly to this day. In spite of being adopted as our national emblem in 1782, this regal bird has been badly abused by us since then. Loss of waterside habitat and nesting trees, continued shooting, electrocution by high voltage power lines, and pollution of food have all taken their toll on their numbers. Especially during the DDT scourge of the mid 20th century, the bald eagle suffered drastic declines in its population in the Lower 48 states. Only after its inclusion on the Endangered Species list in most states, and the banning of DDT in 1972, did it begin to gradually rebound. Fortunately, in Alaska there is still ample habitat for this majestic bird. For this reason, it ranges throughout the state except north of the Brooks Range. Perhaps for this reason the northern Inupiat do not have a name for the bald eagle. The Yupik people of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, however, do have a name. Metervik is the name people gave me in Scammon Bay. This changes to metervak in Hooper Bay. It's curious, though, that during the eight years I was in both of these villages I didn't see a single bald eagle. In fact, although the bald eagle may wander as far as that stretch of the Bering Sea coast, it is found more commonly on wooded parts of the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers, where it is generically called yaqulpak, yaqulvak, or tengmiarpak, all of these meaning simply, big bird. The scientific name for the bald eagle is Haliaeetus leucocephalus, which is Greek for, "white-headed sea eagle." Its common name refers to its white head which is suggestive of a bald pate. The word bald (balde) is from the old English, meaning simply, white. Bald eagles usually eat fish which they either catch themselves or scavenge from the shore. They also may take fish away from ospreys. Road-killed mammals are another source of food for them, as are injured or shot and crippled waterfowl. They will sometimes take on larger healthy prey, however. Last spring, I watched a pair of bald eagles carry away a sandhill crane after they had knocked it down in Creamer's Field in Fairbanks. When these birds are four or five years old their tail and head finally become white. They are now full adults and can seriously start courting potential mates. By early spring, life-long pair bonds have been established and newly mated pairs either take over old nests or begin building their own new ones. They do this in the fork of a tall tree or sometimes on a cliff ledge. Their nests can be quite large, often seven to eight feet across, and very deep. They use sticks for the foundation, then line it with mosses, grasses, feathers or other soft materials. This nest may be used by the same and other pairs for more than 35 years. Between April and May in Alaska, the female usually lays two bluish-white eggs. She and her mate both incubate the eggs on their huge nest for about 35 days, after which the young begin to hatch. The egg that was laid first hatches first, so this bird has all of the advantages over its sibling. There is so much competition between them that the weaker one is sometimes killed by its stronger nest mate, or more frequently it simply starves to death. After another 75 days or so of hard work by both adults, their young take wing for the first time. For a few more weeks the young hang near the nest, learning from their parents how to feed themselves and survive in a world made more and more dangerous by human intrusions. Although numbers of bald eagles are not high in most of the Lower 48 states, they are still healthy in Alaska. In fact, if you want to see the largest concentration of bald eagles in the world, go in mid-November to Haines, Alaska, where between 3-4000 of them may gather along a 10 mile stretch of the Chilkat River to scavenge dead or spent salmon after the salmon run there.  |
Bar-tailed Godwit:Bar-tailed Godwit Teguteguaq What a surprise it was to see these birds during a recent trip to Australia and New Zealand. But there they were with Y-K Delta license plates hanging from their tails, busy gobbling up critters from the mudflats and not paying any attention to the humans watching them. Bar-tailed godwits are truly an amazing bird, but I'll tell you why a little later. First, some interesting facts about them. The bird's scientific name, Umosa Iapponica, translates loosely as "muddy Laplander" ("muddy" because of its preferred feeding habitat, and "Laplander" because of where it was first described in Europe). Its common name? godwit, is believed to derive from the old English phrase "god wicht," which means "good creature," possibly referring to its use as a gourmet dish on Old World menus of the 15th and 16th centuries. This is interesting because the Yupik name for the godwit is "teguteguaq" (Hooper Bay), or "tevateguaq" (Scammon Bay), which refers to something that is taken because of its extraordinary food value. While living in Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay I often saw godwits and other large shorebirds taken by young hunters to give as special food gifts to their elders. It's curious that the Inupiaq name for the godwit, "toratoraq," is similar and probably has a similar meaning. Remember the old expression, "you are what you eat'?" Well, some of the critters godwits eat to give them such a gourmet flavor are marine worms, crustaceans, mollusks, insects and insect larvae, among others. Yum! Of course, the birds don't think of themselves as gourmet treats. They eat to build their strength for when the time comes to set up a household and have healthy strong young progeny. And speaking of households (read "nests"), Bar-tails mostly build theirs on wet, mossy, or hummocky tundra, generally not far from the ponds and mudflats where they find their favorite foods. The nest is usually a hollow depression in lichens and mosses, but is sometimes built of grasses and hidden in a clump of grass. Four speckled green or brown eggs are laid in their nests and are incubated by both the male and female. In about three weeks the eggs hatch, and the hatchlings leave the nest very soon afterward. They learn to run, swim and hunt for themselves within only a short period after that. This is where the godwit begins to become an amazing, even awesome, bird. For just as soon as the young are beginning to stretch their wings and fly, their parents are already earnestly preparing for their farflung southward migration, first to the Aleutians, then on to Australia and New Zealand where they'll spend Alaska's long winter months. Since the young birds must first grow to adult size and put on enough fat before they can even think about such an incredibly long journey south, they are not ready to migrate with their parents. When mom and dad are well on their way south, the kids are still in the Delta fattening up -- which means when they get around to starting their own migration in September, they find themselves parentless and on their own. This also means that when they get to their final migratory staging point on the edge of the western Aleutian Islands, they are likewise without parents and must make their own way all the way to New Zealand and Australia. And this, let me tell you, is no mean feat. There is more than 7000 miles of open water between the last Aleutian island and their destination Down Under, and they must fly non-stop across this tremendous expanse. Proof now exists that they do just that, for in early September, 2007, scientists tracked a female godwit, E7, with a satellite transmitter on her, non-stop from the Y-K Delta to New Zealand, a marathon distance of 7200 miles! The previous March, they had tracked her from New Zealand to the Yellow Sea (6300 miles), then from there to the Y-K Delta (4500 miles). Wow! And we're not talking about small numbers of birds that do this every single year. Of the approximately 180-200,000 Alaskan Bar-tailed godwits, roughly half end up in New Zealand, and the other half in Australia and elsewhere. How they find their way all that distance, scientists still don't know, but they suspect that, since the young do it on their own without any form of guidance from their elders, it could have something do do with an internal magnetic gyroscope. What scientists do know is that right after these sandpipers begin their non-stop ocean journey, all of their organs that are not essential for flight shrivel up to almost nothing. Only when they finally reach their destination Down Under and begin to feed again will these organs grow back to their normal size. While we were in New Zealand, scientists and other public officials were concerned about the quality of the habitat available there and in Australia for both Alaskan and Siberian godwits. A great many of their mudflats are being polluted slowly but surely to the point that one day they many endanger all shorebirds, including godwits. So they were casting around for solutions. Since the birds actually spend more time Down Under than they do in Alaska and Siberia, hopefully public officials won't waste any time in finding the solutions necessary to allow these marvellous sandpipers to continue to live healthy lives and to be able to return safe and strong to their "real homes" in the North country. If the godwits could speak, I'm sure they would agree.  |
Belted Kingfisher:The King Belted Kingfisher Neqaiq If you've ever lived or travelled on a river almost anywhere in Alaska, you've seen or heard the King. They're fast, though, so to get a good look at them you've got to be quick. But they're also loud, and you can't confuse their tell-tale rattle-call for that of any other bird. Get out your binocs and you'll find they match their nickname, "the King." The first thing you notice about kingfishers is their bushy crest and stout bill. With such a large sharp bill they might even be mistaken for woodpeckers. You know they're kingfishers, though, when they dive headlong into a lake or river and come up with a fish in their mouth. The second thing you notice is the male's white shirt and blue bowtie. The female has two bowties, one blue, the other rusty red. Both sexes appear to be wearing blue-gray tail-coats and, for the life of me, seem like they're headed for a wedding party. Yupik people I've spoken to call the Belted kingfisher, "Neqaiq," the translation, "fish (food)-stealing bird," recognizing that the bird both eats fish and is a competitor for the same resource as the people of the Delta. It's curious this is a name that also describes the camp robber, raven, magpie and gull because of their similar habit of filching fish and other food. The kingfisher's scientific name, Megaceryle alcyon, simply means "large kingfisher." According to Greek legend, Alcyone was the daughter of Aeolus, god of the winds. After her devoted husband Ceyx drowned at sea in a storm, the gods took pity on Alcyone and transformed her into a kingfisher so she could be close to him. Almost as soon as the ice goes out in Spring the male kingfisher is back from his winter travels. He immediately stakes out a feeding territory and nesting site. When the female arrives a little later, they pair up with seemingly little fanfare and then remain together as they share all of the domestic activities of nest building and child rearing. Often this means an awful lot of work, especially if they have to construct a new nest. These nests are mostly excavated in the sides of river banks and can take up to three weeks to dig, depending on the type of soil. The tunnel to the nest is three inches in diameter and can be up to 15 feet long. It's usually only 3-7 feet long, however, and leads to a rounded chamber about 6 x 10 inches, often lined with clean white fish bones and scales from ejected food pellets. Sometimes nests are built in hollow stumps and tree cavities. Both male and female birds incubate the 6-7 white eggs for a little more than three weeks. After the young hatch, the male does double duty (compared to the female) feeding their offspring. The young are born without feathers, but within a week feathers appear in sheaths and stay unopened for two more weeks. In this state the baby birds look more like tiny porcupines. On the 17-18th day after hatching, all the feathers burst forth from their sheaths within 24 hours and the porkies suddenly turn into birds. During the fledgling stage, the kingfisher family stays within a 100 yards of each other, and the parents rattle-call constantly as they feed fish to their youngsters. Inside of a week or two after leaving the nest the young learn to catch and eat fish on their own. This is no easy task, as they awkwardly try to imitate their parents, first hovering 20-40 feet above the water, spiral diving into the water, disappearing for a few seconds under the surface as they search for and seize their prey, then quickly rising and flying back up to their perch. They next have to beat the fish to death on the limb, toss it into the air and swallow it headfirst. The young not only have to learn to catch fish. Tadpoles, frogs, insects and their larvae, other young birds, mice and even berries all require their own special hunting strategies. After eating, kingfishers disgorge pellets of fish bones and scales and other indigestible parts of their foods. Alaskan kingfishers migrate south during winter as far as they have to in order to find open water to fish. Some, however, even travel as far as Central America and the northern parts of South America where they defend small feeding territories. They return to Alaska as soon as the winter ice has melted from the creeks and sloughs. Look and listen for them in another month or so.  |
Black Turnstone:Black Turnstone Ciilmak or Qiuracetaaq Like so many other birds in spring, these rather large stubby looking sandpipers bring life and texture to the air. With their striking black and white (pied) wing pattern, the males fly round and round their nesting territory displaying for their mates. Both adults also participate in a high-speed zigzag “catch me if you can” chase, with the female returning to the same spot where her flight began. Since turnstones nest colonially, there are usually several of them displaying and chasing at the same time, and the rapid-fire whistling of the male’s wings brings an eerie but wonderful music to their nesting ground. I used to watch these fascinating birds during walks in the tundra near Scammon Bay just before school let out in May. They had just returned from many months of wintering along the Pacific coast all the way down to Mexico. There I often saw them almost constantly in motion on surf-lined black rocks hunting for crustaceans, shellfish and marine worms. When they finally arrive back on the west coast of Alaska in spring to breed and nest they feed much more on insects as well as their usual fare and some seeds and berries. One of the things that makes this sandpiper so interesting is that, not only do the adults often come back to the same nesting site each year, they also nest with the same mates, making them monogamous like most of us. Since this is the case, the adults don’t have a prolonged mating ritual, but the male does keep up his whistling circular flight throughout the incubation period except when he is helping his mate build the nest and incubate the eggs. The nest is nothing fancy, just a shallow depression on the ground lined with grasses and usually located near the edge of a brackish pond. Sure evidence that the male participates in incubation is his brood patch, which is the same as that of the female. This is the lower part of their stomach skin that has shed its down feathers and has a rich blood supply at this time of year for keeping the eggs warm. The number of eggs we’re talking about is usually four and they range in color from yellowish-green to olive with dark brown splotches on them. After a little more than three weeks of sharing the work of incubation, the first sounds are heard of little birds pecking their way out of their oval prisons. When the downy young have all hatched and fluff-dried their tiny feathers, they leave the nest with their parents and start searching for food. Both parents make sure they’re safe but do not feed them. The mother bird leaves the family after about two weeks and heads slowly south to her wintering grounds, which leaves only the dad to tend them until they finally take wing in another 10 days or so. Then dad takes off for warmer latitudes, leaving his brood to fatten up till they too are strong enough to fly to their winter habitat in the far south. A good reason to put on plenty of fat is so they can shortcut their way over the Gulf of Alaska, flying southeast directly across the water from the Alaska Peninsula rather than taking the long way around the coast as their parents did while migrating north in spring. Something I’ve noticed about turnstones over the years is their excellent eyesight. They see much better than many other bird species, spotting an incoming predator such as a jaeger far earlier than even my eyes can. As I indicated in the title, these sandpipers have two Yupik names that I’m familiar with: Ciilmak, loosely referring to their ability to turn stones, as in English; and Qiuracetaaq, meaning “the little bird with the dark (blue) color.” Its scientific name, Arenaria melanocephala, means the “dark-headed bird that likes to feed (sometimes) in sand.” Interesting, eh?  |
Black-Capped Chickadee:Black-Capped Chickadee Cikepiipiiq Most bird species in Alaska ebb and flow like the tide. In the spring they migrate up to Alaska, then, all too soon, they depart for warmer climes down south. Not so, with Black-capped chickadees. They remain ever faithful to their home in the northern forests and taiga country. I don't mean to say that the species isn't found elsewhere. In fact, it ranges from Alaska to Newfoundland, and all the way south to New Mexico and North Carolina, but, as with only a handful of other species in Alaska, individuals rarely leave the neighborhood they were born in. They are also easy to recognize, for at all times of the year both sexes wear an identical black cap and bib. They also have the same characteristic call 365 days a year. Their common name derives from the sound of their most frequent call, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee." The naming of a bird after the sound it makes is referred to as onomatapoeia, and occurs often also in the Yupik language, although in this case the chickadee's voice is translated as, "cikepiipiiq." As you might guess, the Yupik name is also, "cikepiipiiq." No matter how it's written, chickadees don't seem to care. They just go on using it the way they always have, to keep track of each other while feeding in the woods. And its not their only call. Especially in winter and spring, they have an even sweeter song that goes, "hear, hear- me...spring, com-ing." And, according to ornithologists, there are as many as 15 other calls. Black-capped chickadees belong to the Titmouse family, and their scientific name is Parus atricapillus. There are 65 other species in their family in both the Old and New World, three of which live here in Alaska, including the Boreal chickadee, Chestnut-backed chickadee, and the rare Gray-headed chickadee, also known as the Siberian Tit. Black-caps are the most "friendly" of the four Alaskan species of chickadee, which explains why they readily eat from backyard feeders. They are also among the best winter survivalists of any of the bird species who stay here year around, fattening themselves on foods rich in oils and caching much of it in locations their brains are programmed to remember. They get through the frigid Alaskan nights by not only taking refuge in tree cavities, sometimes in small groups, but by going into a state of "regulated hypothermia," dropping their body temperature more than 50 degrees Fahrenheit. This way they don't have to use as much energy from their fat reserves to heat their bodies. As you might expect for such a hardy bird, chickadees have other cold-weather adaptive strategies. By shivering their muscles, they use stored fat reserves to generate heat, thereby regulating their body temperature when cooling down at night. During winter they have denser plumage than most other birds their size, and, although this makes them less adept flyers at that time, it provides them with more insulation, which can be fluffed up for additional warmth when temperatures plummet as low as 60 below zero. Brrrrr! Black-capped chickadees usually form permanent pair-bonds in the fall between single males and females. They remain together as part of a winter flock, but with the harbingers of spring the pair establishes a nesting territory which both birds defend. At this time the male often feeds the female as a prelude to nest building and mating. Although nest sites are usually in natural tree cavities enlarged by both male and female, sometimes old woodpecker holes or nesting boxes are used. The nest itself is built by the female of mosses and other plant fiber, and is lined with feathers and animal fur. Six to ten white, brown-dotted eggs are laid. These are brooded only by the female for 12-13 days, and when the female leaves the nest she covers the eggs with soft nest material to keep them warm. The male often feeds the female during incubation. After the eggs hatch, the female remains with the young most of the time at first, while the male brings food to the nest. Later, both parents feed the hatchlings. The young leave the nest about 16 days after hatching. The pair usually raises only one brood each year, and this little family will hang around together all winter long until nesting time arrives again in spring. If you want to attract these sociable birds during winter, put out a feeder in your yard. Place it close to trees so birds can easily escape predators, and about 30 feet away from your windows to prevent fatal crashes. Also place suet or peanut butter balls in similar locations. Keep the feeders clean to prevent birds from getting sick. One final tidbit for those who wish to attract these little guys closer while walking or skiing in the woods or wherever you might run across them. Learn to "spish." Call a local Audubon Society member to learn how.  |
Blackpoll Warbler:Blackpoll Warbler Kuikaman'ayaaq For such tiny birds these little guys loom huge among warblers. They are, in fact, the champion long-distant migrants of all warblers, with a round trip by LYK Delta Blackpolls of between 11-12 thousand miles from their nesting territories in the Delta to their winter habitat in western Brazil and northern Bolivia and back again. What is remarkable about the migration of Alaskan Blackpolls, is that it is not done in a straight line from north to south. Instead, in late August most of the birds that nest in Alaska move east across the boreal forests of Canada, ending up in the Maritime provinces and the eastern seabord of the U.S. From there they wait for a strong northerly tailwind to begin a long overwater flight that takes them to northern South America. Most of these birds fly nonstop for more than 72 hours until they reach landfall along the coast of Venezuela or Guyana, an overocean trip of approximately 2000 miles, a flight with no rest, no food, no water, during which each bird will flap its wings almost three million times. Think of it this way, if one of these birds were burning gasoline, it would be getting 720,000 miles per gallon! Now, that's amazing. In spring Kuikaman'ayaaq takes its time returning to their breeding grounds in the north country, leisurely stopping in the West Indies and Florida. They then continue up through the interior of North America well behind other similar species, thus assuring they won't have to compete with them for the same insect food source on the way north. When they finally arrive on the nesting grounds, the females make up for lost time, immediately returning to their nest site of the previous year. There she mates with the male holding the territory closest to her old nest site, whether or not he is already mated. This form of polygyny happens in 10-30 percent of matings. Nest building begins later in the season than among other warblers, and the bulky open cup nest is built by the female about 2-12 feet above the ground next to the trunk of a low spruce or alder. As the name Kuikaman'ayaaq indicates, it may be near a creek or river. Four or five whitish eggs with brown and lavender spots are laid and incubated for about 12 days by the female. During this period the male brings food to the female on the nest. After the eggs hatch the young are fed insects and spiders by both parents. The fledglings leave the nest about 12 days after hatching when they begin to fend for themselves. At first, they continue to be fed by their parents, but very soon learn what it takes to feed themselves and fatten up for their long migration south. 12,000 miles is a long long way to go. If any warbler deserves a post script, it's this one. Its scientific name is Dendroica striata, meaning "striped tree dweller." Its common English moniker, Blackpoll warbler, means the warbler with a black cap. Although the name "warbler" refers to "singing with trills, runs, or quavers," this doesn’t really describe the Blackpoll's call at all. His is more like that of a sewing machine, sisisisisiSISISISISIsisisisisis. So next time you’re out on the river or in sparse woods or brushy tundra, listen for that unique sound. Then get your binocs and watch.  |
Bluethroat:Bluethroats in the Sadlerochits June 26 -- It’s misty and cold out this morning, and my wife Jen and I are inside our tent chatting about one of the most unusual birding experiences in our lives. For the past twelve days, we have been watching a Bluethroat nest. Bluethroats were once classified as part of the thrush family (Turdidae) but are now generally considered to be Old World flycatchers (Muscicapidae). They nest in western and Arctic Alaska and as far east as the northern Yukon Territory in Canada, but they winter in north Africa and southern India. They are one of Alaska’s most beautiful birds and are unique in having the most varied song repertoire of any bird in the State except for the Common raven. Thirteen days ago when we first arrived here in the Sadlerochit Mountains, located in the northwest corner of Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, I had heard the male singing at about 10:00 p.m., continuing well into the morning as the sun wheeled across the polar sky. The trouble was I didn’t recognize it as a Bluethroat because I had never heard one sing. Furthermore, even with the midnight sun sparkling in the arctic sky, I couldn’t find the bird. Much as I tried, his voice shifted like a phantom in the low willows and seemed to be another example of avian ventriloquism. It wasn’t until the next morning when Jen and her friend Cindy pointed to a little bird acting like it might have a nest nearby that I suspected their identity. Just before the bird scuttled under a willow and through a grassy veil to its nest I spotted the telltale necklace on the female. I checked my Peterson’s field guide. Of course, I exclaimed to the women, these must be Bluethroats. I was elated because, although I had seen a female Bluethroat once before in the Sadlerochits, I had never found the nest or even heard the male. Now here was a nest with eight creamy green eggs in it almost at our doorstep, and a male singing its spring song. But where was the source of all that wonderful bird song we had listened to the previous “night,” I wondered. As the female sat in her nest, the male must have been hiding somewhere. Not a peep did we hear from him again until late the same evening when we began hearing what sounded like a loud cricket on a hot night in Kansas. When the song changed to the melodious warble of an American robin, I truly questioned what I was listening to. But in an instant it went back to its cricket chirp, then to a high variable liquid twitter, back to the chirp, then to a high squealy whistle. It repeated these notes in different combinations, adding new ones like trills, buzzes, bell-like sounds and a sharp dry chak. I had never heard anything like it. Again, however, when I tried to find him, no luck. The next morning when I glassed the nest the female was faithfully incubating the eggs, but her mate was still nowhere to be found. By then I was sure the bird with the lovely midnight song was her mate because there were just too few other birds around to confuse it with. Smith’s longspurs and Common redpolls were straightforward, as were White-crowned and Savannah sparrows. And the Northern wheatear was much less melodious in its song. Even five days later, after we returned from a long trek around the east buttress of the Sadlerochit Mountains, the female seemed to be left alone during the day. The male warbled and chirped and twittered at “night,” from a distance, but he never ventured near the nest. Early June 21, it snowed, and when we awakened to two inches of snow on the ground for as far as we could see I immediately wondered what was happening at the nest. I tiptoed across the soft snow and peeked carefully through the grass entrance and found nobody home. Two tiny bird tracks in the snow on the rim of the nest told me the female was away, probably feeding. I left quickly, thinking she would soon be back to tend to the incubation of her eggs, which at the time must have been near hatching. But when she hadn’t shown up by late afternoon, we all began to worry, and almost concluded that she had abandoned ship. With so long an absence in cold weather, we didn’t think the young inside the eggs had much chance of surviving. But we were wrong on both counts. She did come back in the early evening, settling down again, head and tail in the air, to her duty of trying to keep her eight eggs warm in some very cool weather indeed. And five days later, after returning from another trek along the north slope of the Sadlerochits, we found three newly hatched chicks in the nest. Not only that, the loquacious male was now in the immediate neighborhood, flitting from nearby willow to willow, stopping for a moment on each one to sing his operetta of song. Like a miniature robin, he swelled his brilliant blue and orange throat and chest, and chirped and whistled and warbled his heart out. The only other bird I had ever heard sing such a continuous melodious combination of different notes was the Northern mockingbird, and that was far away from arctic Alaska. Jen and Cindy and I felt privileged to be able to both see and hear this rare northern bird. And there was more to come. Over the next three days of our sixteen-day visit to the Sadlerochits, we watched the pair of Bluethroats interact around the nest. Every day another egg hatched and the female was increasingly busy trying to fill the gaping mouths of the chicks with minced caterpillars, beetles and other insects and their larvae. Each time she would make a food foray away from the nest, the male would chase after her, shadowing her every movement. He stood guard as she stabbed her prey and stored them in her mouth, then when she raced back to the nest he raced back with her. He stopped abruptly, though, about two feet from the nest, sometimes landing on the ground and curiously cocking his head as though wondering what was going on in there. The male Bluethroat repeated this behavior through the remainder of our stay in the Sadlerochits, alternately bouncing and singing from willow to willow, and chasing the female back and forth in her search of food for her steadily growing family. Each day, however, he scuttled closer and closer to the scene of the action under the veil of grass. It was as though he was just aching to be more intimately involved in what was going on there. Even by the time we left our now wildflower-carpeted mountain paradise we never did see the male Bluethroat venture nearer than six inches from the mouth of the nest. But with a little imagination we surmised that, as their family became larger and all eight little mouths gaped wider and wider, he would have figured out what his role was and begun to fly off in his own direction in search of tasty insect morsels to insure that there would always be Bluethroats to return to the Sadlerochits. And not only to the Sadlerochits, since the Bluethroat also has been known to nest on the Y-K Delta. I never saw it there, and I never heard a Yupik name mentioned for it. But as an Asian bird that winters as far away as north-east Africa, it seems to be a relatively recent arrival to North America that is slowly expanding its range. Its scientific name, Luscinia svecica, means Swedish nightingale, and not only indicates its Old World origins but also the beauty of its song – which is apparently a combination of many of the different bird songs it hears along its migration route from Africa to Alaska.  |
Bohemian Waxwing:Chattering Silky Tail Bohemian Waxwing Here's a bird unlike any other. It get its English name from the red, waxy tips of the adult's secondary wing feathers and the way it travels like a Bohemian gypsy during the winter, seemingly carefree and without a permanent home. I never did run across a Yupik name for the bird, but if there is one it probably means something similar to the scientific moniker, Bombycilla garrulus, or "chattering silky-tail" because of its incessant twittering while traveling in large flocks during the winter. Even during summer while canoeing on some northern river, their sweet buzzy twitter informs me of their presence at the tiptop of a nearby spruce tree. As soon as I hear the song I know we'll soon be visited by a curious delegation of the colorful talkative birds. Then Isee them flying out over the river, bouncing in the air in their own inimitable way just above our heads, back and forth, until finally, their curiosity satisfied, they bounce back to the riverbank where they originated and sit on the top of another sentinel spruce watching us disappear down the river. They are the type of bird that makes you feel welcome in the boreal forest. As friendly as they appear, many aspects of their behavior are still a mystery. Their courtship ritual is one of these, partly because they nest so deep in the northern forest. However, a few observers have seen the male strut before the female with his tail partially spread, wings drooped, crest fully erect, and his body held bolt upright. Both birds have also been seen perching close to each other with body feathers puffed out, the male holding a berry or flower in its beak and passing it as an offering to the female. During nesting season waxwings are anything but Bohemian in their behavior. They both help in the construction of their nest, which is an open cup of twigs, grass, moss and feathers carefully placed on a horizontal branch of birch or spruce about 6-20 feet above the ground. The female lays 4-6 pale bluish-gray, black-dotted eggs and incubates them herself for about two weeks when they hatch into ugly featherless chicks. It only takes another two weeks, however, for the little beasts to become feathered beauties and to begin seriously pondering the delights of flying. Which they do shortly thereafter, although they hang around mom and dad for some time thereafter, even through the first fall and winter migration learning how to fend for themselves. At first, both parents indulge their young with a diet heavy in insects, demonstrating how to dart out from a perch and capture even dragonflies. But as raspberries, chokecherries and juniper berries begin to ripen in late summer, they also show them how to hunt for these. Especially in fall and winter the young will hang with their parents on mountain ash spangled with fruit and gorge themselves on the little orange gems. Even in late winter when this fruit is quite fermented waxwings will eat it to the point they become hopelessly inebriated. I've seen them when they could barely hold onto the branch, slipping underneath and just hanging on by a claw. They were so inebriated, in fact, they could hardly fly. What a show they put on for me. If you're ever in Anchorage or Fairbanks during the winter, head for stands of mountain ash or chokecherries and watch these mellow birds. If you're dose enough and mellow enough yourself, one may even light on your shoulder.  |
Boreal Chickadee:Boreal Chickadee Cekepipipiiq Of the four species of chickadee in Alaska, three of them are found in the Y-K Delta. These are the Black-capped, Boreal and Gray-headed, although the last one is only an accidental, probably blown in from Siberia. The Black-capped is the most common, and is sometimes spotted even out on the Bering Sea coast. Their close relative the Boreal chickadee is mostly found where there are thick stands of mature spruce trees. I've always thought of Boreals as country cousins of Black-caps. Compared to Black-caps and other chickadee species ranging far to the south, the slow almost drawling spish of a Boreal is a fascination. I love to listen to them when I encounter them in the forest, and when I spish back they immediately come over to investigate. Sometimes in the fall I've had a dozen of them around me wondering where the noise was coming from. Their Yupik name Cekepipipiiq is also the name for the other two chickadees and, as with the generic English name, is the same as the sound it makes. Another written version of the Yupik name is Cekepiipiiq. Their scientific moniker Parus hudsonicus means "Hudsonian titmouse" or "the little bird that lives in the northern forest." Like other chickadee species, Boreals feed on insects, spiders, seeds and animal fat. They are monogamous, possibly mate for life and remain together in the same general area all year. Their mating ritual usually starts from the top of a spruce tree, with the male chasing the female in a downward spiral around the tree. Mating occurs after sweet solicitation calls by the female during which she also begs for food from the male. Boreal chickadees nest in the holes of trees, usually either a natural cavity or one hacked out by woodpeckers, although they will also build their own. Both male and female help with the excavation, but only the female builds the nest inside, using moss, feathers, animal hair and plant down. As many as nine white, reddish brown dotted eggs are laid, and only the female broods them. During the 11-16 day incubation period the male feeds his mate. After the eggs hatch the female stays home to brood the young while her mate works very hard indeed bringing home the bacon. As the nestlings grow larger both adults feed them until finally at about 18 days the young fledge and learn to provide for themselves, foraging for food rich in carbohydrates and storing much of it for retrieval during the winter. But winter nights are so long in Alaska that Boreals and other chickadee species have to do more than simply get fat on rich foods. To get through these long frigid foodless nights they roost in tree cavities then go into a state of "regulated hypothermia," which means they drop their body temperature as much as 12 degrees celsius below their normal daytime body temperature. As a result, they don't have to expend as much energy, stored in fat reserves, to heat their bodies. They also have other cold-weather adaptations. By shivering their muscles, they use stored fat reserves to generate heat and to regulate their body temperature when cooling down at night. They also have denser plumage than southern birds their size, a trait that doesn't make for the most graceful flying, but provides the insulation they need to successfully survive Alaskan winters. Next time you meet these hardy brown-capped midgets on the winter trail, stop and watch them for a moment, and listen to their friendly calls. And reflect, as I do, on how wonderful it is that they stay here year around to keep us company even in our own back yard.  |
Boreal Owl:Boreal Owl Takvialnguaraq The Boreal owl is just about the tamest large bird in Alaska. Many years ago near Scammon Bay I skied so close to one I could probably have put my hands around him and taken him home. I didn't, but got some good close-up photos instead. Two other similar experiences in the Delta convinced me this owl was either fearless or blind to my approach in the bright sunlight. Or both. In fact, the Yupik name Takvialnguaraq means "one with poor eyesight." It has two other Yupik names that I know of, "qaku'urtaruaq," and "qaku'urtayaraq," both of which refer to its rapid nocturnal "nagging" call. I remember one early March in Russian Mission ten years ago while skiing at night with a friend in the slough, we heard two of these owls bantering back and forth. The owls were obviously in love, and what was certainly their courting call didn't sound anything like "nagging" at all. In fact, it was more like a rapid series of low, whistled toots: phoo phoo phoo phoo phoo phoo phoo phoo phoo. I was so touched by what I heard that I wrote a poem about it the same night. I'll include the poem at the end of the story. Meanwhile here are some facts about Takvialnguaraq. The scientific name for this friendly little owl is Aegolius funereus. Aegolius is Greek for a kind of owl, and funereus means "funereal" in Latin, referring to one of its calls which must have reminded Europeans of "wailing for the dead." Its common name, boreal, alludes to its northern range, usually in coniferous forests around the world. As with most owls, the Boreal owl eats voles, small birds and large insects, which they capture with their dagger-like talons. They also have unique wing feathers that allow them to sneak up on their prey with lethal silence. Take a close look at their first primary (flight) feathers, and you'll see they have a soft, saw-toothed leading edge that reduces the vortex noise of the air passing over the wings. This makes them one of the most efficient nocturnal hunters in the forest. Sometime between April and June, depending on the weather, the female lays 3-10 pure white eggs in a tree cavity, usually a large abandoned woodpecker hole. She alone incubates these eggs. Within a month they hatch, and in another month the fuzzy sooty-brown colored young launch themselves for the first time into a world filled with predators, such as Goshawks and Great-horned owls, which take a large toll of these little guys. Since they don't migrate, winter also claims many of them. If they're lucky, though, they might live to the ripe old age of 15 or 16. Now for the poem It was ten below, and
a million emerald stars blinked high and poignant in the raven dark dome above us, as we skied out from Russian Mission hoping for another sky show like the night before, of blood-splashed auroral curtains and amorphous sheets of flashing white light . suddenly transmuted to serpents undulating blue in an ocean cosmos .... we glided across brittle February snow on an ancient Yukon lake slashed out of the Mission hills a million years ago by Yukon River floods reticent now in the quiet of winter stars. . . . sky crystals scintillating and probing our consciousness. . . . we stopped and listened to the sounds of the dark, hoping for the visual crash of northern lights.. . . . it was then we heard them, Boreal owls, winnowing like snipes in May, back and forth, in the tall shadows of spruce standing sentinel against the black roof of night, we scanned long and deep searching the silhouette fronds on the hill above, but we couldn't find them with our eyes, only our ears heard and followed every lilted note of their quavering boreal voice so sweet at this time of year, a song of promise of warm winds coming, of spring in the still frigid air.. . . Scott and I whispered of these songs of the equinox, these musical feasts, and as we listened we wanted to edge just a little closer to those fuzzy feathers, knowing if we did we might break the spell, maybe lose the music ..... we wondered what they were singing about, those two, as they might be wondering about us standing there on sticks under the dippers and the polar star, growing colder, finally gliding on to leave them in their solitude of forest shadows and cold white silence. . . . .  |
Bristle-thighed Curlew:Ciivikaaq Bristle-thighed Curlew Once back in the mid-1990’s I was picking blueberries above Marshall and a large sickle-billed bird flew over. It was making a bee-line south, probably in migration mode, and on a whim I thought I’d try something to get its attention. So I whistled, not any old whistle, mind you, but one of those age-old wolf whistles that one usually threw at a babe sauntering somewhere in an urban setting. Next thing I knew the bird put on its brakes in mid-air, turned around, circled once, then set down on the tundra to see what I was. I continued to wolf-whistle, and the bird continued to gawk at me. At the time, I thought it was a Whimbrel, but now I am convinced it was a Bristle-thighed curlew, really curious about this two-legged creature on the ground making sounds similar to those his own species makes, especially in spring during the mating and nesting season. This past July I saw and heard others flying overhead while I was in the Lower Yukon Delta Wildlife Refuge near Chevak helping with a climate change study. In the air I couldn’t have distinguished them from a Whimbrel, but the call was remarkably different, reminding me at times of that of the Black-bellied plover. I only learned when I got home what a rare bird I had just experienced out on the Delta. According to the ornithologist John Terres, it was one of the last North American bird species whose nest and eggs remained undiscovered even into the mid-20th century. Only in 1948 did Alaskan schoolteacher and naturalist Henry Kyllingstad and David A. Allen discover the first nest, eggs and downy young close to a lake located about 20 miles north of the Yukon River community of Mountain Village. They were aided in their search by local Yupik villagers who told Kyllingstad they called it Ciivikaaq because of the sound it makes, “chiu-eet.” He also likened the call to “the well-known wolf-call heard on the city streets” and “is a close enough imitation of the call to bring the birds wheeling about your head.” So Kyllingstad had the same experience I did in Marshall. While we’re on names, the bird’s common English name comes from the hair-like feathers on its flanks and thighs. And its scientific name, Numenius tahitiensis, means loosely, “Tahitian bird with the new crescent moon-shaped bill.” Tahitian, because it was first collected by scientists on the island of Tahiti in 1769. Tahiti is just one of the south Pacific islands where these curlews spend their winters. Once they get back to Alaska from their warm winter soujourn in the South Seas, the Ciivikaat establish a nesting territory in the hilly tundra areas on the Lower Yukon River Delta. The male then begins his aerial display, flying repeatedly over the nesting area. As he soars then cruises around and around he first issues a number of wiitew notes followed by a liquid flowing almost haunting pidl WHIDyooooo whistle to let other males know about his and his mate’s claim to that part of the tundra. Their claim seems to be quite large, so it must also include the exclusive right to hunt there as well. A nesting spot is chosen by the female, usually just a shallow depression in the tundra under a dwarf willow that she adds bits of lichen, moss and leaves to. Four brown-blotched olive-buff eggs are laid in the form of a cross, and are incubated by both adults until they hatch after about 25 days. As with other shorebirds, Bristle-thighs are precocial, which means that when the young emerge from their shells they are already dressed in downy feathers and ready and rearing to leave the nest. Shortly after the last chick shucks its shells they all leave together and immediately begin feeding by themselves. Both parents continue to watch over them, however, and they all remain near the old nest site. The adults are very aggressive both in defending the nest and the young, and like other shorebirds do a sort of “broken wing act” to lure predators away. They may even attack large predators such as a fox or wolf head-on. After a few days, the new family moves away from the nest site, eventually joining with other Bristle-thighed curlew families on neighboring tundra hilltops. The mother bird usually departs the scene before the young fledge, leaving her mate to fend for the young until they take their maiden flights and are fully on their own. At the end of the nesting season, Bristle-thighs congregate on the Yukon Delta and gorge themselves on berries and insects, building up fat reserves for their long non-stop 2500 mile migratory flight to Tahiti and other south and mid-Pacific islands. Once they reach their wintering grounds, they feed on crustaceans, snails, small fish and the eggs of breeding seabirds, including boobies, frigatebirds, terns and even albatrosses. They sometimes break the eggs of the smaller seabirds by taking them aloft in their bills and dropping them on hard sand. But when they feed on the thick-shelled eggs of albatrosses, they often use rocks as tools to crack open the shell. This is a rare case of tool-using by a bird. Something else extremely rare about Numenius tahitiensis is that it is the only shorebird anywhere to have a completely flightless molt. And not only does it do this, but it does so after it reaches its wintering grounds in the South Pacific. And since humans and their pets live on these islands, the birds are at their most vulnerable stage of development. No wonder their worldwide population is less than 10,000 birds! Chiu-eet, chiu-eet, chiu-eet, chiu-eet, chiu-eet….  |
Buff-breasted Sandpiper:Wings of Magic Buff-breasted Sandpiper In June of 2002, my friend Don Ross and I trekked from the Arctic Refuge coastal plain across the Brooks Range to the headwaters of the Sheenjek River. From there we canoed down to Fort Yukon. Among our many encounters with wildlife, one of my memorable ones was with three Buff-breasted sandpipers along the Okerokovik River on the coastal plain. The best way to tell this story is to quote from my journal. June 10 --Once again we decided to camp a little early, at 3:00 p.m., on the west fork of the Okerokovik. Right away we encountered Ruddy turnstones, four of them, in action. One we saw giving chase to a jaeger, and three others pursuing a pair of gyrfalcons. They are some macho birds! A while later three buff-breasted sandpipers showed up on the tundra, the male raising one wing then both wings, hoping in this courtship display to entice the two females watching nearby to mate with him! He was so busy doing his thing that I was able to snap a good close-up of him. Later, I learned more of the details behind the courtship display of Buff-breasted sandpipers. We had inadvertently located our camp on the lekking site of these long-distance migrants who travel each year all the way from Argentina to the Arctic Refuge coastal plain to nest and raise their young. Unbeknownst to us, there were probably other competing males not far away showing their own finely marbled underwings to the same females. For it is on the lekking ground that the females examine their potential mates, then select one for copulation. The silver-white flash of underwing lining is apparently what first brings in the females and is the primary focus of their attention. Up to six females may gather around the lekking court of a single male, perhaps swapping notes about the relative qualities of his wing feathers. At first, the male makes almost no sound. In his article about these sandpipers, J.P. Myers describes what happens next: As the females approach, he first hulks over, ruffling his back feathers and starting a quickened tread. Abruptly he rears back, thrusting his head up and wings out, keeping his bill parallel to the ground while marching in place. Only now does he vocalize, a subtle tic-tic-tic timed to match the slow footsteps taken in place. As a crowning gesture he draws his neck in and throws his bill back, gazing catatonically toward the Arctic sky. The females crowd forward, inspecting minute details of his underwing.
 Then one of three things happens. Either the females in concert decide the male is a worthy suitor and they all stay to mate with him. Or they may steal away while he is still in full display to check out the underwing qualities of another male on an adjoining part of the lek. This is apparently what happens most until finally the females make their decision. Frequently, however, something happens that totally disrupts the best nuptial efforts of the displaying male. Suddenly a neighboring male may burst down upon his competitor, mounting and viciously pecking him on neck and head, thereby breaking up the courtship. The interloper then flies back to his own lekking territory followed post haste by all of the female inspectors. There the same display pattern begins again until it too may be interrupted by the original male or by yet another competitor lurking nearby. The females move back and forth from one exhibiting male to another as their wedding parties are crashed. Finally, at some point a balance is struck and the females all mate by turn with the excited male. So it is that at least one male's heroic efforts will not go unrequited. Male "buffies," as some people refer to them, may work awfully hard to curry the favor of the females, but when it comes to later responsibilities, they have it real easy compared to Spotted sandpipers, for example, who have to do serious incubation duty after the eggs are laid. In fact, buff-breasted males do none of this work. Neither do they help build the nest or rear their progeny. By the time the eggs hatch they are well on their way back to their wintering grounds in the marshes and grasslands of southern South America. In any case, within only hours after the four precocial young break through their egg casings they are on their feet and away from the nest. Having been built on the ground in a shallow depression in dry mossy or grassy tundra, their nest is too much of a liability for them to remain there any longer. In just a few more short days the young are on their own and picking insects and spiders off the surface of the tundra. Only during the very first days are they completely dependent upon their mother, and then just for warmth and protection from predators. Even before they learn to fly with complete competence their mother has departed for southern climes. This means that when they finally do master flight and build up their fat reserves the scarcely month old juvenile sandpipers must migrate south on their own, negotiating the direction, distance and dangers of the long journey without parental guidance. Buffies may have a simple nickname, but their scientific name is anything but simple. Tryngites subruficollis means "somewhat reddish-necked sandpiper-like bird." The Nunamiut Eskimo people who are its nearest human neighbors simply call it, Aklaktaq, or "spotted bird." Unfortunately, buffies have a tiny world population -- only about 15,000 birds. Their numbers were drastically reduced in the late 1800's by market hunters, and today conversion of their upland winter habitat to agriculture is a continuing problem. In addition, their nesting habitat in the Arctic is on the drier coastal terrain where oil facilities tend to be constructed. For these reasons, they have been placed on the Alaska Audubon WatchList, which includes birds that have declining populations and serves to alert land owners, industry, resource managers, and the public to take steps to prevent populations from becoming threatened or endangered with extinction. They have been identified as one of the top five species at greatest risk if there is oil development on the Arctic Refuge coastal plain. |
Bufflehead:Bufflehead Puqtaqutayagaq Take a close look at this diving duck and you'll understand how it got its names. Its most common English name, Bufflehead, is actually a corruption of "buffalo-head," because of its puffy buffalo shape. Its scientific name, Bucephala albeola, means much the same thing, "white buffalo head." And, although the Yupik moniker Puqtaqutayagaq has nothing to do with buffaloes, the shape, size and coloration of the duck's head remind even me of a "little float on a fish net." Its peculiar head, though, is not the only unique thing about this bird. When it takes off, it does so straight up in the air like dabbling ducks such as teal and mallards. Other diving ducks have to run and flap across the surface of the water before rising into the air. It is also one of the best divers, disappearing quickly underwater like a grebe and swimming only with its feet, its wings held tight against its sides. Watch, as it bobs to the surface with the suddenness of a cork. It is the smallest of all of our diving ducks and nests only North America. It is, however, less sociable than most other ducks. Since it is a late fall migrant, you will see it almost up to freeze-up. One of the most interesting aspects of the "buffy" is that it nests in tree cavities and, since it is so small, it takes full advantage of unmodified old nest holes of Northern flickers, which is why you don't find it nesting in the parts of the Y-K Delta where there are no large trees. This may also explain why there is no coastal Yupik name for the duck. I certainly didn't find one when I asked in Hooper Bay, Scammon Bay and Emmonak. Even in Marshall I didn't find one. Perhaps farther upriver on the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers there is a name for the Bufflehead? If you are lucky enough to be upriver in their nesting area during breeding season, pay attention for a few minutes and watch the courting display of the male. With their crest feathers in full show, they bob their heads, lift their wings and fly for short distances around their mates, which they had already chosen before beginning their long migration north. After the female selects her nesting site, which may be the same flicker hole she's used for many years, she lines the hole with her own feather down and soon begins laying eggs. She may lay up to 12 creamy to pale buff eggs and doesn't start incubating them until they are all laid. This means that at the end of the month-long incubation period, done only by the female, all the eggs will hatch at more or less the same time. The chicks hang out in the flicker hole for 1-2 days while the mother broods them closely then tries coaxing them out. She does this by entering and leaving the cavity until the young get the idea that they are to follow their mom, which they finally do, one by one in the morning, dropping from as far up as fifty feet in a dead birch or spruce tree. After they've all dropped to the ground they follow their mother to the safety of the closest pond or lake. The young instinctively know how to feed themselves as soon as they hit water, but their mom stands guard and will brood them at night or when it's cold. While growing to maturity the young at first eat water plants, and aquatic insects and their larvae, eventually graduating to shrimplike amphipods, some snails and small fishes such as sculpins and sticklebacks. They soon learn to dive for their food and do so in small groups, leaving at least one of their number on the surface to watch for danger from predators. 50-55 days after hatching they finally take their maiden flight. It will still be another month or so, however, until they begin their long migration south to the Lower 48 and Mexico. This small diving duck is also known for its many aliases: bumblebee duck, butterback, butterball, butterbox, butter duck, dapper, dipper duck, robin dipper, dopper, helldiver, marionette, spirit duck, woolhead and buffalo-headed duck, among many others. Talk about a unique duck.  |
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Cackling Goose:Cackling Goose Try as I might, I could never get the call of a Cackling goose just right. Don’t get me wrong, I had the best teachers, my own students. When the first cacklers arrived in spring over Marshall we all rushed to the window and gazed skyward. As we watched the birds flying overhead, the boys would imitate their call. And they were good at it. They would show me how it was done, and I would practice during my daily skis or walks in the tundra behind the village, but when I tried my own version of the call out in their presence they would politely say it sounded a little off, kind of like a sick goose. I still try imitating these familiar geese, but as my voice gets older I can’t even come close. Tuutangayak Whenever I heard or saw Cackling geese in spring or fall in their V-formations, a shiver ran through my body. For they were the true heralds of spring and fall, of the annual change of seasons that for me represented either the promise of canoeing or the suggestion of snow and the beginning of cross-country skiing. I was always aware, though, that the arrival and departure of the geese meant something different for my students. It meant a change in diet in the spring, a chance to eat something other than fish and store-bought food. In fall, for the boys it meant moose season was here and the opportunity to go out with their families to bag part of their winter food supply. And to be real hunters, just like their dads. Aside from this, cacklers are fascinating in their own right. They are among the few bird species in which the family does not separate at the end of the summer. The young stay with their parents almost all year, including both migrations and on the wintering grounds down south. They usually mate for life and are faithful to their original nesting ground, returning year after year to raise new young there. Only after the yearlings return to where they were raised in the Lower Y-K Delta do they separate from their parents. They do not nest yet, however, but usually form mixed-sex flocks with other yearlings that bounce all over the place, sometimes hundreds of miles from their nesting parents, just seeming to have fun and getting to know each other for future choice of mates and nesting themselves. Which mostly happens during the fourth summer, although some that establish early pair bonds may nest during their third summer. Young love. When these new lovers decide to get serious and raise young, there is an enchanting ritual involved. Even before arriving on their nesting ground the courting male stretches out his neck, holds his head about an inch off the ground with bill open and tongue raised, hisses loudly, shakes his quills vigorously, and slowly approaches his paramour, finally passing his neck around hers in what amounts to a caress. Who said humans had a monopoly on love? Soon after the mated pair arrives on their nesting ground, they get down to the serious business of nest building. When the female finds a good place to build her nest, usually on slightly elevated ground near water and with good visibility, she quickly scrapes a rounded depression with her bill and makes a shallow bowl-shaped nest of sticks, sedges, moss and other plants, finally lining it with down feathers she plucks from her own body. That done, mating and egg laying begin and, if you were to check the nest after the last egg was laid, you might find up to 8 eggs there. The average, though, is about 5, and you’ll see these are a creamy white color. Incubation is by the female alone while the gander stands guard nearby. He takes his job seriously and, if the nest is approached by other geese, ducks or predators, including humans, he will hiss loudly and even fly directly at them, striking them hard with his wings. Now that’s loyalty! After 25-30 days, the eggs all hatch within 24 hours. Then the precocial young are led from the nest by their parents to open water where they are relatively safe from predators. Once there, they are able to swim and feed themselves, although always guarded by their parents. If a predator approaches, the young immediately dive under the water while their father performs a distraction display. Even day-old goslings can dive and swim underwater for 30-40 feet. When swimming as a family the gander usually leads, the goslings stringing out in single file with their mother bringing up the rear. The goslings eat continuously as soon as they hit the water, feeding on a wide variety of plants, including the stems and shoots of grasses, sedges and aquatic plants, plus seeds, berries, grains and even some insects, snails, crustaceans and small fish. Even so, they take a long time to mature to where they can lift their big bodies off the water. When they finally do, they are 6-7 weeks old. In late summer it was interesting watching the young geese begin to prepare for migration. First, they flew around seemingly at random, acting like the ragtag gaggle of geese they were at this stage. After a week or so they began to get it, stringing out behind their mother, with their dad guarding the rear, the way they would do it during migration. Two weeks had them pretty well trained, after which they were joined by birds from other family groups. Together they practiced flying in the wedge formation they would use to save energy during their migration south. When they finally left the Delta in September and October, they were flying in practiced skeins. What a beautiful sight that was. Tuutangayak is the name for this goose everywhere in the Y-K Delta except in the Norton Sound region, including Kotlik, where it is called Tuutaalquciq. Both words refer to the “labret” or white chin strap under the bill. The first part of the bird’s scientific name, Branta hutchinsii, comes from the Anglo Saxon word bernan, meaning to burn. The goose was so named because of its charred dark color. The species name is after Thomas Hutchins who served as surgeon with the Hudson Bay Company in Canada in the late 1700’s. He was a keen observer and collector of birds and mammals while he was there. Note: Recent genetic work found the four smallest subspecies of the Canada goose to be very different. Hence, since 2004 these four subspecies have been renamed the Cackling goose and are now considered a completely separate species, Branta hutchinsii. In the 1970’s and 1980’s they became a bird of extreme concern, but thanks to the Hooper Bay Agreement of 1984 and cooperation by hunters in the YK Delta and elsewhere, the species has rebounded somewhat. Numbers are still below long-term averages, so they continue to have a protected status.  |
Common Eider:Sleeping Bag Bird Common Eider Aangikvak/Metraq How does the Common eider relate to a sleeping bag, you ask? Simple. You see, in the not so distant past, sleeping bags used to be filled with the soft downy feathers of this sea duck. A few still are, but most eider feathers now fill expensive pillows and bed quilts. Only in Iceland is the gathering of eider down still a lucrative business. There, large colonies of 10,000 or more of these wild ducks are closely protected and encouraged in their nesting. It is from the Icelandic language, in fact, that the name “eider” comes. While we’re on the topic of names and downy feathers, the scientific name of this bird is Somateria mollissima, a Greek-Latin combination, meaning, “very soft downy (woolly) body.” In Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, I was told the Yupik name for the male Common eider is Aangikvak, meaning something like “big two-eyed spirit” bird. This may refer to its white head patches and the way it looms like a spirit out of the foggy dark waters of the Bering Sea. But the name for the duck changes in the Kuskokwim Bay area where it is called Metraq. Many Yupik people also use the moniker Nayangaryaq to refer to the female Common eider. The word literally means, “having the quality of nodding in agreement,” and you’ll understand why she has this name when you watch her for a while (if you can find her). Of the four eider species found in North America, the Common eider is the largest of them all. It is also the most abundant of the eiders, found throughout the circumpolar north. Apart from the nesting season, it is encountered only at sea. I have been lucky enough to run across huge rafts of them while skiing on the edge of the Bering Sea ice during the winter. Once I counted nearly 700 of them near Hooper Bay cruising north on the two mph current. As they swam, they dove for food items that included marine animals, such as clams, fishes, crabs, sea stars, worms and mussels, all of which give its flesh a strong fish flavor. Eiders swallow whole mussels and other shellfish up to two inches long, and the shells are ground into bits by the bird’s powerful gizzard. They can fish deep underwater, as far down as sixty feet, and use their wings to “fly” under the surface. If alarmed while feeding there, they can fly straight out of the water into the air. Like all ducks, they have their own unique calls. While watching and listening to them from the edge of the ice, I heard croaking and groaning sounds mixed with ghostly moans. I learned later the croaks and groans were from females, and the moans were from males in love. After finding mates, Common eiders nest in colonies on the ground near saltwater. The nest is usually located in a shallow depression and is built of seaweeds, mosses, sticks and grasses, then thickly lined around, under and over the eggs with a luxurious layer of fluffy gray downy feathers plucked by the hen from her own body. Only the female incubates the 3-5 pale brown to olive-green eggs. This lasts for approximately 28 days, and as soon as they hatch, the mother duck leads the ducklings to water. When young birds can pick up and leave the nest like this, they are referred to as “precocial.” Barring any unforeseen problems, like hungry Killer whales, within 56 days after leaving the nest the young should be able to fly. Some interesting English common names for the Common eider are: canvasback, black and white coot, laying duck, looby, squam duck, wamp, and Eskimo duck.  |
Common Goldeneye:Common Goldeneye Anarnilnguq or Anarnissakaq Once while canoeing with a friend on a clear water river near Marshall, I lifted my hand and whispered, “Listen! Do you hear that whistling sound? It’s the sound of a Common goldeneye flying over.” And I explained that’s why their scientific name is Bucephala clangula, meaning, “noisy-winged buffalo-head.” Both of its Yupik names, Anarnilnguq and Anarnissakaq, have a more pejorative meaning, however, relating to the digestive process of defecation. Perhaps because of the whistling noise made by the bird’s wings, it used to be considered a bad omen by many people on the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. And it could be that, since it was a bad omen, it was given these names. Bad omen or not, this little diving duck is a fascination for me, especially during its courting period in late winter and briefly when it arrives on its nesting ground in wooded areas near the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers. For it is then that it has one of the most spectacular courtship displays of any of its waterfowl relatives. While still in its winter habitat in the Lower 48, several males may court one female with displays that include throwing their heads back with bills pointed skyward while uttering a shrill double-noted call that goes zeee-zeee, and a harsh rattling rrrrt. They also pump their heads back and forth in a ritualized dancing motion, and take off and land in short frenzied flights that stir the water to a froth and spume that sparkles in the sunlight. Since most of their courtship takes place before they migrate north, when they finally arrive on their breeding ground in Alaska the ducks are a bonded pair and soon begin what they came this far for. But what takes place next is unique to this genus of Alaskan duck. The female finds a large cavity in a dead tree between 6-60 feet above the ground that she may actually have located the year before when she was only one year old. After lining the bottom of the nest with her own pure white down feathers she starts laying her eggs, which are olive to blue green in color and usually number between 5-19. If cavities are scarce in the area, she will often lay eggs in the nests of other females, so that in some cases there have been more than 30 eggs counted in one cavity nest. She may also lay her eggs in the nests of Barrow’s goldeneyes, and vice versa. Only the female broods the eggs, and it takes a month before all of the young hatch together. The ducklings remain in the nest for a day or two or until they are strong enough to climb to the nest hole and flutter to the ground, at which point they follow their mother to a nearby freshwater pond or lake. There she protects them but does not feed them, since they instinctively know that aquatic insects and their larvae are to be their main summer dish along with a vegetable side dish of water plants, such as pondweeds. Since they are diving ducks, they will later eat small fish, marine worms, crabs, shrimp and small mollusks, including blue mussels. Some mothers abandon their broods soon after hatching, and if this happens the young will join another mother’s brood. These mixed broods are called “crèches.” This may also occur after a territorial fight with another female and the ducklings are scattered. Not all of them get back to their real mother after the turf battle and they will join the brood of the territory owner. The surrogate mother doesn’t seem to mind, however, and the ducklings all remain together until they finally take their first flight two months later. A cool fact about Common goldeneyes is the color of their eyes. Although they are gray-brown at hatching, they turn purplish-blue, then blue, then greenish blue as they age. By five months of age they are a clear pale greenish yellow, and will finally become bright yellow in adult males and pale yellow to white in females. Other common names of this duck are: American goldeneye, brass-eye, brass-eyed whistler, bull-head, copper-head, cub-head, cur, European goldeneye, garrot, goldeneyed duck, great-head, iron-head, jingler, merry-wing, spirit duck, whiffler, whistle-duck, whistler, and whistle-wing.  |
Common Loon:Common Loon Tuullek My son Steven and I were canoeing recently on the headwater lakes of the Delta Wild and Scenic River. As we approached the river, I noticed an unusual black shape on the shore. After glassing it with my binocs, I gestured for Steven to steer the canoe closer to shore so we could get a better look at what I thought might be a Common loon brooding its young. Sure enough. With her wings spread over the chicks, and her head bent down as if in prayer, the loon didn't move a muscle as we paddled closer and closer. I was even able to take out my camera and snap a few photos of her before we moved on down the river. We had heard the wild laughter and yodeling of these magnificent loons the night before and in the early morning, and we marveled at the rich variation of their calls. I had even tried to imitate them, but failed miserably compared to the boys who had taught me how to do it in Marshall, the Lower Yukon village where I taught for ten years. Steven wasn't very impressed with my attempt either. The name I learned in the Lower Yukon for Common loon was Tuullek, and when you pronounce it right you can hear why it is so called. As with many other bird names, it takes the moniker of one of the sounds it makes. The English name, however, has a much different origin, and comes from the Scandinavian, lom, meaning a lame or clumsy person, in referenceto the Common loon's clumsiness on land. Its scientific title, Gavia immer, comes from Latin gavia, meaning sea smew, and the Swedish word immer, which means dark ashes, relating to the black plumage of this loon. Tuullek is one of the most ancient of bird species, dating back more than 65 million years ago, which might explain not only its rich repertoire of calls but also the wonderful array of its other characteristics. For example, it is one of the most proficient of all the diving birds, sometimes diving to depths of up to 240 feet. Try it sometime. You won't even come close. On the surface of the water they are also powerful swimmers. But on land you are a much better walker than this loon. Here it can barely hold its body erect and shuffle along a few clumsy steps at a time. The reason they are able to dive so well is because many of their bones are solid rather than filled with air spaces, as with other birds. Their specific gravity is near that of water, and they can lower it even more by expelling air from their lungs and at the same time compressing their feathers next to their body, thus allowing them to sink slowly and ever so quietly below the surface, leaving hardly a ripple. They are able to stay underwater for up to three minutes because they have large amounts of myoglobin in their muscles. Myoglobin is a substance in the blood that allows them to store greater amounts of oxygen for underwater use. Even on water this loon must be able to run across the surface with its wings beating for all they're worth for more than 20 yards in order to take flight. That's why they take their time in Spring to return to the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta from their wintering areas on the open coastal waters of the Pacific Ocean. Their arrival is perfectly timed to the melting of ice on the large freshwater lakes in the Delta where they will make their nests and raise their families. They return to the same place where they were born, although they don't usually mate until they are two or three years old. After the male lays claim to a nesting territory by flying in circles over it and yodeling both in the air and on the water, courting begins. If you have the privilege of being present at this time, you will see some absolutely fascinating behavior, including repeated dipping of bills in the water; splash-diving; "penguin dancing," where the two birds rear into a vertical position with wings partly outspread; and racing side by side across the surface of the water. The few times I have seen this I have been spellbound. A rudimentary nest of matted grasses, rushes and twigs is built by both parents next to the water, then mating quickly takes place and usually two, brown-spotted olive-green eggs are laid and incubated by both mom and dad for almost a month. Although the eggs hatch at different intervals (asynchronously), the downy chicks leave the nest within one or two days after hatching. Amazingly, they can already dive and swim underwater by the time they are two or three days old! In any case, in order to rest and dry their downy coats, they will ride on their parents' backs. The young are tended and fed by both parents. Even a one day old chick is fed small whole fish, crustaceans, bits of water plants, etc. At night or when it's cool, small chicks may be brooded by their parents, as I saw during my recent river trip with my son Steven. By two weeks of age, the young are proficient at diving and can catch their own food, which in the Delta includes larger fish and crustaceans, snails, leeches, frogs, and aquatic plants and insects. They are not able to make their first flight, however, for up to eleven weeks after hatching, which takes them very close to winter in some parts of Alaska. This means they have to be careful not to wait too long to start their migration south. If there is a sudden freeze-up on their pond or lake, the position of their feet so far back on their body simply doesn't allow them to take off on a hard surface, so they are doomed to starve or to be shot and included in someone's next meal (half-cooked, from what my friends in Hooper Bay told me). The calls of the Common loon have always fascinated me. If you listen closely, you'll hear four basic types: the wild tremolo, or laughing call (which gave rise to the expression, "crazy as a loon"); the infinitely variable yodel, heard usually during the night or early morning; the wail, or long call; and talking calls of simple, often one-syllabled notes that seem to be equivalent to human conversation. Common loons are also found in Europe and Asia, where in English they are referred to as great northern divers. A few of their other English and American names are: big loon, black-billed loon, call-up-a-storm, ember goose, greenhead, guinea duck, imber diver, ring-necked loon, and walloon. Some of their foreign names are: polyarnaya gagara (Russian); colimbo mayor (Spanish); Ijsduiker (Dutch); plongeon huard (French); eistaucher (German); and strolaga maggiore (Italian).  |
Common Merganser:Common Merganser Payirpak Among the many fish-eating ducks of the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta this one is by far the most handsome. It is the largest of all inland ducks in North America, and its black back and dark green head are in striking contrast to its mostly white body. If you look at its spikelike red bill closely, it has backward projecting "teeth with which it grasps and hangs on to its slippery prey. Its streamlined body allows it to swim and dive swiftly in hot pursuit of a variety of fishes living in shallow but clear freshwater lakes and rivers in wild forested country. It propels itself underwater with both feet stroking together. Since it avoids dense marshes and muddy waters, it is found mostly on the inner reaches of the Y-K Delta from early spring to late fall. I often saw it near Marshall while I canoed on clearwater lakes, rivers and sloughs. Payirpak is one of three species of merganser found in the Delta, including the Red-breasted merganser and the Smew, which I've seen off the coast of Hooper Bay in winter. During a recent trip to Mongolia I also saw the Common merganser there. A number of years ago I came across it in many different parts of Europe, including northern Scandinavia. In European and Asian bird books it is referred to as the "Goosander," because of its large gooselike size. Its scientific name, Mergus merganser, means "plunging gooselike diver," and its English name follows from that. The Yupik name, Payirpak, derives from Payiq, meaning, Red-breasted merganser. Payiq probably refers to the croaking sound made by both birds, plus "pak," meaning, big. Since it is a fish-eating bird, it arrives on its nesting ground in the Delta as soon as there is open water, and it remains in the area until just before freezeup. When its hormones start kicking in the male courts a mate by swimming very rapidly in circles around her, suddenly stretching its neck upward pointing its bill skyward, and giving a soft "uig-a" sound "reminiscent of the twanging of a guitar string," according to one observer. The female selects the nest site and builds the nest, usually near water in some sort of large tree or other cavity. She constructs the nest of weeds, grasses, rootlets and down from her own breast. She is a prolific mother and may lay up to 13 buff-colored eggs. If a suitable nest site is not available, she may lay her eggs in another female's nest. If you've ever wondered why there are so many young mergansers scurrying along the top of the water with their mom in the lead, this may be part of the reason. Incubation is by the female only and sometimes lasts as long as 35 days. Unlike other species of duck that leave the nest almost immediately after they hatch, merganser young may remain in the nest for a day or two after hatching. Young hatched in tree cavities then climb to the edge of the entrance and jump to the ground. Like so many other duck species, the male Common merganser leaves the scene as soon as his mate begins incubating the eggs. He never knows his offspring. The female tends her own young, and sometimes those of other females who have deserted their brood, for several weeks. Since the young learn to feed themselves soon after they leave the nest, even if abandoned early by their mother they may survive quite well. In any case, they learn early how to scurry across the surface of the water and to dive underwater when necessary, either to feed or to escape a predator. It's good they're fast learners because it takes them usually 65-70 days before they're big enough and strong enough to finally take their first flight. They're a little clumsy at this in the beginning, but eventually they get it together and use the advantage of their streamlined body to power themselves at breakneck speeds above the rivers and lakes of the Y-K Delta. The Common merganser is another of those unique birds that has so many common names: American goosander, American sheldrake, big sheldrake, buff-breasted merganser, buff-breasted sheldrake, dun diver, fish-duck, fishing duck, freshwater sheldrake, goosander, greater merganser, morocco- head, pond sheldrake, sawbill, winter sheldrake and break horn. When you see this handsome duck swimming on a river or lake or clearwater slough, watch it closely for a while and you may be lucky enough to witness it do something very odd. Like a submarine, it might begin to sink slowly and quietly into the water before it finally disappears from view. It is one of the few ducks that does this. I only know of two other species on the Delta that can, the Horned and Red-necked grebes. More about them later.  |
Common Raven:Common Raven Tulukaruq Ever wondered why the Raven is called Tulukaruq in Yupik? Well, all it takes is a little imagination and a little twisting and turning of your tongue, mouth and vocal cords, and presto, you’ve got it. The Greek word for the idea is onomatopoeia, that is, the bird takes its name from the sound it makes. In Yupik, they say, “Tulukaruut kayanguit neryuitaput,” which is a warning against eating Raven’s eggs. There is good reason for this because, as is also said, “Yugnun ciuliaqniluku qanruteklaraat tulukaruq,” or “They say the Raven is the ancestor of human beings.” In this way, the Raven is also regarded as the creator of all things, including humans, much like the Christian God is said to be the creator. Unlike God, however, Raven had a real sense of humor and when he made the first man and woman, gave them this attribute, which explains why Yupik people have such a great sense of humor. I think that’s what I enjoyed most about the people during the twenty years I lived in the Delta. But let’s learn some more about this really very uncommon Raven. The Raven is known to scientists as Corvus corax, a Latin-Greek combination, meaning “the croaking raven.” It is found from Central America to Barrow, Alaska, and is the largest of all of our songbirds. Yes, it is a songbird. In fact, it is the most verbal of all songbirds on the planet, having more than 200 different vocalizations and many dialects. Ravens are not only smart when it comes to talking, they are the most intelligent bird on Earth, smarter even than the African gray parrot. They have been described as crafty, resourceful, quick to learn and to profit from experience. When elder Yupik speakers refer to them, they say, “Umyuartuut,” i.e., “They are wise.” They are also thought to have a higher awareness, “cella,” relating them to “Cellamyua,” meaning The Great Spirit, or God, which brings us full circle again to the idea of Creator. Interesting, eh? As with all great birds, the Raven has more than one name. He is also referred to as neqaiq (“food stealer,” also the name of the camp robber); tengmialleraq (“shabby old bird”); qer’qaalleraq (“shabby old croaker”); and Ernerculria, which means “the bearer of daylight,” and is the term of respect the elders used when telling legends of the Raven. Speaking of legends, there are so many old Yupik (and other Native American) stories about Raven, they could fill a book. My favorite legend is the one about how Raven created the Milky Way, which was told to me by Alexander Isaac of Marshall. Alexander now lives in the old folks home in Bethel. If you’d like to hear the story, pay him a visit there. I’m sure he’d appreciate the visit, too. One of the things I enjoy watching in the spring of the year is the courtship behavior of birds. As it turns out, the Raven has some of the most fascinating rituals of courtship. Watch carefully in early spring (it’s right around the corner), and you’ll see the male fly wingtip to wingtip with the female, then peel off and dive like a peregrine falcon, often tumbling over and over in the air, not unlike humans who “fall head over heels in love.” When perched on a tree limb, Raven couples are also very “lovey dovey” (to borrow a term from the doves), touching shoulders and often “kissing” (“beaking,” in Raven parlance) each other. Before they get to this point, however, they go through a 3-4 year socialization period when they get to know each other, a lot like we do during our teens and 20’s. Then when the right bird comes along, Ravens mate for life. After the ritual aerobatics comes the serious business of nest building and raising a family. They usually locate their bulky nests on a sheltered cliff ledge, constructing them of broken branches and lining them carefully with leaves, grass, moss, fur and feathers, in that order. Climb up to one sometime and check out how comfortably they’re made. If you’re lucky, you may even find 4 or 5 light green brown-spotted eggs in the nest. Watch out for the adults, though. They can be aggressive defenders of their home turf. You may find the mother bird on the nest because she is the one who incubates the eggs. The male helps out by feeding her while she’s on the nest, and twenty days later, after the young hatch, he contributes his share in the feeding of the hatchlings. Both of them also bring water to the young in their throats. It takes about 40 days to raise them to where they’re ready to take wing, although like most birds, they still have to be fed after they fledge and to learn how to hunt for themselves. If they learn well, however, they can expect to live a long and happy life of up to 25 years. Learn more about the Raven by asking an elder in your town or village. You’ll enjoy every minute of the visit.   | |
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Common Redpoll:Common Redpoll Uqviicaraq The word "common" definitely doesn't fit this tiny Alaskan bird. All you have to do is watch its behavior on a really cold winter day, and you'll decide it's really a most uncommon bird. It and its very close relative, the Hoary redpoll, qualify for Ripley's Believe it or Not as two of the hardiest bird species on earth, able to survive colder temperatures than any other songbird. Yupik people know redpolls by various names. Generally, they call them "uqviicar(aq)," which refers to their tendency to hang around willows and other trees ("uqvik or "uqviaq," mean willow or tree). In Hooper Bay they call the redpoll, "puyiitaar(aq)," and in Scammon Bay, "puyiir(aq)," both names referring to the smoky color of the feathers on its topside. Redpolls not only have smoke, they have fire. Get out your binocs and look at their flaming red caps and the flaming red chests of the male, especially in spring. Their scientific name, Carduelis flammea, recognizes its claim to flame, since "flammea" means exactly that in Latin. Carduelis is the more common half of its name, meaning "thistle seed eater." We don't have thistles in most of Alaska, so redpolls eat other foods, such as seeds from willows, alders and birch trees. Particularly during the short cold days of midwinter, they eat these seeds voraciously, storing them temporarily in a pocket-like pouch within their esophagus. During the long cold nights, this pouch serves as a lunchbox from which they slowly eat and digest their surplus seeds, thereby getting enough energy to maintain their regular daytime body temperatures. The way redpolls spend their nights also helps them survive Alaska's frigid winters. Some hide in tree cavities while others perch in protected nooks and crannies of spruce. During extremely cold nights they may burrow into the snow, as ptarmigan and grouse do. Another fascinating survival adaptation of redpolls is their dense winter plumage. Before winter begins they add 30 percent more down feathers to their body cover. These feathers insulate them so well that even at 60 degrees below zero (F) their core body temperature remains at 105 degrees (F). All of this makes for a very uncommon bird, wouldn't you agree? But, as with all unique birds, there are many things they have in common with the rest of their feathered friends. Their nests are rather ordinary little cups made by the female of twigs, grasses, mosses and feathers. They are built about 3-6 feet above ground in willows, alders and spruce trees. Four or five spotted bluish-green eggs are layed in these nests and incubated by the female. But here's something uncommon about them again. They are one of the earliest of Alaskan nesters, quite often even before the end of the freezing weather. It's like they've had enough of the cold and want to push spring to its limits. I remember in Marshall a few years ago showing my students a nest that had young in it even in mid-April. It was still frigidly cold out and we wondered if they would make it. We were amazed to see two of the young live to fledge. We often had immature redpolls awkwardly flying around by the time school ended in Marshall. Later in the summer it was interesting to watch the young birds as they flew in and out of their old nests. Sort of like some of my students after they graduated from high school. I'm watching redpolls around my bird feeders now. And they're living up to their name, eating voraciously from the thistles we recently put out for them.  |
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Dark-eyed Junco:Dark-eyed Junco I never saw this little gray and white sparrow in the treeless parts of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, so that could explain why I didn't find a Yupik name for it. But upriver where there are tall trees on both the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers you might see it, that is, if you look hard enough, for this bird is so nondescript you may not notice it. Even in winter, you might see a junco or two around your feeder, if you have one. The scientific name of the Dark-eyed junco is Junco hyemalis, meaning "winter juncus reed bird," which I think says something of its ability to stick around during the winter. I know from personal experience that there are always a few of these juncos that frequent feeders here in Fairbanks all winter long. In fact, we recently had one in our own back yard for a few cold snowy weeks in October. We saw it even in the darkness of the early morning and evening. Unlike chickadees and redpolls, they don't have the same efficient strategies of surviving the cold winter temperatures of the Alaskan Interior and must eat almost continuously. Which made us wonder if they ate all night long? Most juncos are migratory birds, however, and in early spring return to Alaska for two reasons, to feed and breed. They are, in fact, one of our earliest sparrows to arrive back in Alaska in Spring, often before the snow disappears. And when they do return, they arrive in flocks on their old nesting grounds, probably the same ones their ancestors used for countless generations. On arrival, the males immediately proclaim their territories by singing from the tops of the tallest trees. You'll recognize the male's territorial song by its jingling trill, which sort of reminds me of the call notes of the first cell phones. During courtship both male and female hop around on the ground with wings drooped and tail fanned wide, showing off their white outer tail feathers. As he perches on a low limb, the male performs similar behavior while singing softly to the female. After the female makes her choice, she selects a well hidden nest site on the ground and builds an open cup of grass, leaves and other plant material, lines it with fine grass, hair or feathers. Meanwhile mating takes place and lickety split 3-5 splotchy pale bluish-white eggs are laid and incubated solely by the mother bird for 11-13 days. Although both parents feed the nestlings, mom broods them. Meanwhile they are growing like gangbusters and in less than two weeks are out of the nest and into the air. An interesting tidbit about baby juncos is that their feet grow more quickly than those of tree nesters, thus allowing them to run from their nest if they are threatened before they can fly. Once the young have fledged, the mother bird does not usually remain with her young. That's dad's job as mom heads back to the nest to lay another smaller clutch of eggs to better ensure the survival of the species. Like he did when the young were still in the nest, the father bird makes sure his progeny fatten up on insects. As Autumn draws near, however, and there are fewer insects to eat, the juvenile juncos eat more and more seeds and even a few berries. By this stage they have learned most of the tricks of the trade and are fat enough to begin their migration south to warmer climes. That is, except for a few hardy individuals who hang around all winter at someone's feeder. Our Alaskan Dark-eyed junco has many cousins in other parts of North America, some of them actually quite colorful compared to our slate-colored variety. To best appreciate them, go to your Sibley's bird guide. My favorite of the six is the Oregon junco. With his rufous jacket and black hood, he almost looks like a Spotted towhee. Some of our slate-coloreds up here also have a black hood. I've had one nesting in my yard for three summers now. If the number of pet names a bird has is any indication of how endeared humans are to it, juncos must be well-loved. Here are just a few: Black chipping bird; black snowbird; blue snowbird; Carolina junco; Cassiar junco; common snowbird; eastern junco; gray snowbird; slate- colored snowbird; snowbird; and white-bill. What a bird!  |
Downy Woodpecker:Downy Woodpecker Puugtuyuli Although this little guy with the soft downy feathers is almost a deadringer for his cousin Hairy, he is not closely related at all. He is actually closer kin to the Ladder-backed woodpecker of the western part of the U.S. As with all woodpeckers in the LYK Delta, his Yupik name, Puugtulyuli, means "the one who is good at diving through the air and banging its head against something." Especially in late winter when their hormones start to kick in, listen to both male and female as they bang out their long, unbroken drum roll, trrrrrrrrrrrrrr, against a hollow tree with their small sharp beaks. They do this 9-16 times a minute, with only a few seconds pause between drums. This is a declaration of territorial ownership, similar to a no trespassing sign, for other Downy woodpeckers, and it's also an invitation to bring members of the opposite sex together in courtship. Quite often it is to restore a mating bond from the year before. Sometimes Downies have been known to remain paired for four successive years. Either member of the pair may do the drumming or tapping to attract the other to a potential nest site. Some of the ways besides drumming that the male uses to entice the female to be his mate have been described as "dancing," bill waving, "duetting" and a rather stilted floating flight around the female. When he is finally successful, search for a good nesting tree begins in earnest, especially by the female, who usually selects the site. Once just the right dead tree stub has been located, a small entrance hole is hammered out by both sexes. The nest cavity that is excavated is gourd-shaped, about 10 inches deep, and the pair leaves fine chips at the bottom on which the female lays her eggs. In order to camouflage the entrance to the cavity, the pair often dig it next to a tree fungus or lichen. Once their new home is ready, mating takes place and four or five white eggs are layed. If you've ever wondered why all cavity nesters lay white eggs, well, there just isn't any need for color camouflage, is there. So tens of millions of years of evolution have selected for the non-color, white, for their eggs. Both sexes incubate these white eggs, although it has been reported that the majority of the brooding is done by the male bird, most of it during the twilight night hours of Alaska's sun-filled spring. Brooding doesn't last for long with Downies, though, only about 12days. After that the really serious business begins, and, if you watch closely, you'll see both parents hurriedly bringing back beakfuls of insects to feed the ravenous hatchlings. They bring food to the nest every two to three minutes, and on their way back out of the cavity they carry away fecal sacs so the nest doesn't become fouled and smelly and so attract predators. In the evenings everything slows down and it is reported that the male does night duty in the nest with the young until the sun warms everything up and insects again become more available. Finally after about 23 very busy days the young have enough feathers and confidence to jump from the edge of the tree hole and start to fend for themselves. They continue to follow their parents around for a few weeks, however, until they learn the art of woodpecker subsistence. Then, voila, the adults are free to go their own way again, and they separate until the next year. I enjoy watching these little elves of the forest. Sometimes while skiing in winter I'll surprise one of them climbing about acrobatically on a tree limb or aggressively tapping on the bark of a dead tree. As I approach more closely, the bird will attempt to hide by slipping behind the other side of the tree, but eventually it will move out into the open again where I can watch it in full view. At the feeders my wife and I put out we often see the male or female hanging upside down on the suet they so much love to eat. Before they come in they announce themselves with a long whinny like that of a small horse. As they feed they utter a short, gentle, flat pik, similar to the call of a Hairy woodpecker but not so wild and ringing. As with all birds, the Downy also has a few other names: Batchelder's woodpecker; Black and white driller; Gairdner's woodpecker; Little guinea woodpecker; Little sapsucker; and Tommy woodpecker. Next time you meet these little guys in the forest, stop and watch them for a spell. You may be surprised by some of their behavior.  |
Dunlin:Dunlin Ceremraq The Ceremraq brings back some powerful memories of my years out on the fringes of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. For this humble sandpiper is so much more than the sum of its parts, if you know what I mean. During late summer and early fall when Dunlins stage for migration, their flocks are so huge and perform such perfectly synchronized movements in the air that from a distance they look like swarms of insects. No one fully understands this phenomenon, but it is truly a wonder to behold. In addition to the beauty of its collective flight pattern, the Dunlin's many names are also fascinating. Its common name is a shortened form of "dunling," a small dun-colored (brown) bird. Its scientific name, Calidris alpina, is a Greek-Latin combination, meaning "alpine speckled water bird," which indeed it is. It has two Yupik names. The first and most common is "ceremraq," which relates to its song, a series of harsh rolling trills, jrrre jrre jrrrijijijijijiji jijrr jrrr. (The Yupik word, "ceryuq," by the way, describes the sound of breakers on the beach.) The second Yupik name, "cenairpak," means "big shore bird," (from "cena," for shore). The Western sandpiper has a similar name, "cenairaq," but isn't as large as the Dunlin, so doesn't take the "pak at the end. Other English names for this sandpiper are: Black-bellied sandpiper; blackbreast; blackcrop; black-heart plover; brantbird; crooked-bill snipe; fall snipe; lead-bird; little black- breast; ox-bird; red-back; red-backed dunlin; red-backed sandpiper; stib; winter snipe; and simpleton. With all of these English names, you can see the need for just one scientific name used by scientists world wide. Here are a few scientific tidbits about the bird's life history. The Dunlin probes with its bill into the shore for sand fleas and other crustaceans, marine worms, mollusks and insects. In wet tundra, it will also eat the larvae of mosquitoes and mosquitoes themselves. I love them for this. If you have the good fortune to find their nest in spring, you will see it is made of grass and leaves on a dry hummock on the tundra. Be careful where you step, because there may be four brown-spotted olive-green eggs in it. Both male and female incubate these eggs, and it takes about 21 days for them to hatch. 21 days after hatching, the young take their maiden flights and are more or less on their own. If they are very lucky, they may live for more than 14 years. In Alaska we have two different populations of this little black-bellied sandpiper. One nests on the coastal tundra of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, and the other on the North Slope. Both are found on the Y-K Delta in late summer and early fall fattening up for their long migration south. For Alaskan birders who may find themselves down south in winter, the Y-K Delta nesters can be seen from S.E. Alaska to Baja, California. The North Slope nesters will not be found so easily, however. After gorging themselves in the Y-K Delta on small insects and crustaceans, they head for Asia where they spend the winter along the coast of Japan and around the Yellow Sea in China and North and South Korea. Dunlins that nest in the Canadian North will be waiting for you from southern Florida to the Caribbean coast of Mexico and Central America. If you happen to be in Europe, look for the European birds in their winter habitat along the Mediterranean coast. During migration Dunlins have been clocked by airplane at 45-110 mph. Closing my eyes, I have visions of the wild frenetic flight of the Dunlins Iused to watch in Hooper Bay. Here's a poem I wrote many years ago, which I hope helps conjure up the same wonderful images for you. My nerves quivered electrically
as I sat on a sand-dusted log on the fringe of a sedge marsh watching a cloud of charcoal-bellied Dunlins billow up in a wavering swarm, then surge and twist in crystal salt air above the mud flats near Hooper Bay. Their frenetic frog chatter surged excitedly when a cackling family of Emperor geese slowly commanded their way across the darting fleeing shadow, now reflecting black like the black mud, now silver like a mirror in the silver sun, speckling the late summer sky with the vibrant ricochet and bounce of shimmering tufts of dancing feathers. Soon they drifted down again to the green grass shore, scurried around fretfully for a moment, then finally stopped, tucked their little down-bent bills under tired gray wings, and rested.  |
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Emperor Goose:The Emperor Emperor Goose Nacaullek This goose is truly deserving of its English common name. With its handsome blue cape and white hood, it is one of the most beautiful of our Alaskan waterfowl. It is also uniquely Alaskan in that it both winters and nests in Southwest Alaska near the Bering Sea. Not in exactly the same area, mind you, but within a thousand miles, more or less, the way the goose flies. In spite of its regal English name, its new scientific moniker, Chen canagica, is rather dull, meaning only "Kanaga Island goose," referring to its Aleutian Island winter habitat. Chen is the generic Greek word for goose. I liked the old scientific name, Philacte canagica, better. It meant, "Kanaga Island shorelover." The Yupik name, nacaullek, loosely means, "the one having a parka hood," and is a colorful term in its own right. Something especially interesting about the Emperor goose is that it likes being close to the sea, not unlike many humans in Alaska. In fact, most of its diet consists of seaweed, mussels and other shellfish, which gives its meat a disagreeable flavor. During my first couple of years in Hooper Bay, as a teacher, I often wondered why nacaulleks weren't hunted during the summer. Only in September when crowberries became a significant part of their diet were they finally hunted for food. Emperor geese are now off-limits to hunters at any time of the year because of their extremely low population numbers. In the year 2000, only 62,600 were counted by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Up from 55,000 birds in 1999, this number is still far short of the historic 1960's high of nearly 150,000. Until the Emperor's population rises again to this number, hunting will continue to be disallowed. Sorry guys. Back to the bird itself and to some other interesting tidbits about its life history. If you happen to be out in the Hooper Bay area during the nesting and post nesting season, watch carefully as the geese fly and you'll see that when the Emperor flies, it shows a proportionately shorter neck and heavier body than other geese. It has short rapid wing strokes and usually flies close to the ground. While flying it utters a hoarse "kla-ha, kla-ha, kla-ha," and "u-lugh, u-lugh," unlike the calls of any other goose. They are also a very social goose, often muttering in low-toned, cackling conversational notes that rise in pitch to welcome new arrivals. They are much less noisy, however, than White-fronted or Cackling Canada geese. By the first week of June, Emperors return from their winter quarters in the Aleutians to their main breeding grounds in the Kokechik Bay area, near Hooper Bay. Since they have already chosen mates (geese mate for life, remember), they get right to work and start their family. By the second week of June, 3-8 large white eggs have been laid and are being incubated by the female alone, although the male remains nearby guarding the nest. In 24 days, the eggs hatch, and soon afterward the goslings leave the nest. 14-21 days later a fascinating thing happens. The adults shed their flight feathers and are completely unable to fly. New flight feathers are grown, and the adults are again able to fly at about the same time as the young begin to fly, in early August. After an intense fattening up period by both goslings and adults, families of Emperor geese begin to migrate in early fall from their nesting areas in the Lower Yukon Delta to their wintering grounds in the Aleutian Islands. During their migration, a few range as far south as central California and Hawaii and as far west (east) as the Kamchatka Peninsula in Russia. I wonder if these Russian birds have an accent when they return in Spring?  |
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Fox Sparrow:Fox Sparrow Elagayuli Everyone has pet names for their favorite critters. Whenever I meet this chunky little bird I find myself calling him Foxy Loxy (from the story, The Sky is Falling). It's hard to say whether it's a him or a her because both sexes are the same color. But since I'm a guy, well you know the story. And what a foxy color they both have, matching the rufous fur of the red fox, hence its common name. Although the population found in the Y-K Delta isn't as red as others, you ought to see them in the Interior. They are so bright red as to make your eyes burn. Another unique characteristic of this sparrow is the way it scratches in the leaf litter of the woods, kicking backward with both feet at the same time so vigorously as to dig a hole in the ground right down to the humus layer, which is so rich in the tiny insects it loves to eat and feed its young. Except for its beautiful song, the way the bird digs with both feet is one of the best ways to identify it from a distance. It is such a powerful digger you can hear it in the quiet of the woods before you actually see it. Which leads us to its Yupik name, Elagayuli, meaning "the one who's really good at digging." Appropriately, the Fox sparrow shares its name with the American robin. I mentioned his song (and it is "his" song). I agree with John Torres, who described the bird as probably the best singer of all the sparrows, with "clear, exultant, melodious flutelike notes." Every time I come across a Fox sparrow singing, I stop and listen to him for a long long time. (This can be trying for my non-birding friends.) Next time you think you hear this sparrow singing, stop and listen for yourself, and you'll see what I mean. Listen more closely, and you'll hear him as he sings each song repertoire completely through to the end when he begins anew. Elagayuli sings, of course, mostly to demonstrate his claim to his nesting territory, which both attracts his mate and keeps other males away. Since I've never noticed any mating displays (and neither have others I've consulted) of the male, my Keim theory is that the male doesn't need to display because his song is enough to win over any available female who happens to be first in the neighborhood. It's simply Mother Nature's way, especially in Alaska where the nesting period is so brief, of allowing the parents to get down to the serious business of raising a family ASAP. And the female does just that by building a cup-shaped nest, usually on dry ground under a shrubby thicket, of twigs, mosses, dried grasses, and lined with feathers and animal hair. She lays up to five very pretty pale blue to pale green eggs that are thickly splotched with russet browns. Incubation is by the female alone and lasts for up to two weeks. When the hatchlings first peck their way out of the eggs, Mama may not be proud of their ugly little naked bodies, but after another 9-11 days of frenzied feeding by both parents the chicks become quite the handsome young teenagers, taking on many of the same colors of their parents. Perhaps the heavy protein diet of insects and worms has something to do with this. At 11 days, the hatchlings become fledglings and are ready to "fly the coop," so to speak, and to prepare themselves to seek their own fortunes -- that is, after a little more feeding and TLC from their parents in the general vicinity of their home turf. A couple more weeks of that, though, and they're ready to go. Quite fast, compared to our own lives, eh? Although Foxy Loxy is my own moniker for this melodious sparrow, there are others: Fox-colored sparrow, Ferruginous finch, Foxy finch and Fox-tail. Scientists reduce everything to: Passerella iliaca, very loosely translated as, little sparrow with the fancy pantaloons. Be aware that this loquacious sparrow has many dialects, all equally as melodious, and the stuff of poetry. Hmmm, maybe I should write a poem about this bird someday.  |
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Glaucous Gull:Glaucous Gull Qukisvak Of all the Alaskan gulls, this guy is the biggest. Measuring 27 inches from beak to tail, it has a wingspan of five feet. No wonder, all the Yupik names I've found include the ending "vak" (big) on them. As to the meaning of the name Qukisvak and its variants, Kukisvak, Kukusvak, and Narusvak, the closest I can come is "big loud-mouthed bird or gull." The scientific name of the gull is Larus hyperboreus, which means "extreme northern seabird." And the common name derives from the Greek, glaukos, for the color, blue gray. Like many of its cousins, Qukisvak is an omnivorous scavenger and predator, eating small fish, sea stars, carrion, sea-bird eggs and young, small mammals such as lemmings, insects and berries. They often pirate their food from other birds, especially eiders, by chasing them until they disgorge their own food. They take small seabirds, especially young fledging from their nests for the first time. Since these birds live in colonies, sometimes with other birds such as murres, you may have noticed them at the end of Cape Romanzof or on beaches or small islets on tundra lakes or large rivers such as the Yukon or Kuskokwim. To my mind, Glaucous gulls are not attractive birds. However, they do have redeeming characteristics, especially during their courtship period. To attract the female, the male tosses his head back, then stretches it as far as he can and calls to her sweetly. After the pair bond has been established; he feeds the female by choking up regurgitated food for her. This not only strengthens the relationship during the honeymoon, it also helps nourish the female after mating occurs and assures that her eggs will be healthy. Both parents build the nest, which is a shallow depression on top of a mound of grasses, moss, seaweed, and feathers located on a cliff ledge, flat rocky ground or outcrop, and sometimes on ice or snow! Three brown-blotched olive to buff colored eggs are laid, and both parents help incubate them for about a month. The downy hatchlings are born with their eyes open, and just a few days after pecking their way out of their calcium enclosures they are ready to walk out of the nest. Even so, after they leave the nest the young hang around the immediate area while both parents help feed them regurgitated meals of the half-digested flesh of baby murres or lemmings or maybe the scavenged remains of a smelly walrus carcass washed up on a Bering Sea beach somewhere. To get their parents to choke up their food the chicks peck at a red "target" spot located on the bottom part of their bill. The food is then either held in the tip of the bill for the chicks to peck at or it is regurgitated on the ground in front of the young birds. After almost two months of this the young are ready to take wing and become masters of their own fate. We hope. Sometimes fate takes an interesting turn with Glaucous gulls, however. When they finally have the urge to mate at age three they may take a shine to a gull of a different species, such as a Glaucous-winged gull (look it up in your bird guide), and actually nest and produce young from this mixed marriage. It's not unusual for gulls of all species to do this, except the hybrids that result can be downright confusing for the likes of us bird watchers. Take heart, though, the gulls themselves also have problems sorting each other out, and when the next generations of hybrids breed they may even look more odd than their parents. That's why gulls are about the most challenging family of birds to identify. A few other interesting tidbits about Glaucous gulls and gulls in general are that: they can drink either salt or fresh water, and eliminate excess salt through a pair of glands on the top of the head above the eyes; they are gregarious and roost together in flocks on water or land and breed together in colonies; they spit up 2 inch-long, loose pellets of harder indigestible parts of their food; like crows and ravens, they will grab a hard-shelled crab or sea urchin, carry it aloft and drop it on a hard surface to crack it open; and they can swim well with their webbed feet but will not swim underwater like loons and some ducks. A few other common names of this giant gull are: blue gull, burgomaster gull, harbor gull, ice gull, owl gull, white-winged gull and white minister! One of these white ministers, banded in the Netherlands, lived to be 21 years old.  |
Glaucous-winged Gull:Glaucous-winged Gull Naruyaq Although this is the same gull that those who live in coastal villages on the L-K Delta will probably see scavenging in your dumps, it is also one of those birds that is the stuff of legend. When I was a teacher in Hooper Bay back in the early 1980’s an elder told my students a story about the gull. It went like this: “One time our great grandfather, whose name was Qillerravialeq, was lost out in the ocean. He got confused and thought he was paddling toward the land. There was a lot of ice in the ocean. He was paddling all afternoon until he came to another kayak, and that kayak was at the edge of the ice. He was glad to see a person out in the sea, and he paddled toward him. The person was only a young man, just then growing a mustache. He was sitting inside his kayak. My great grandfather had never seen this young man before. And right behind his kayak he saw some smoke and a cooking pot. When he got out of his kayak the young man asked him why he was paddling around here and told him that he wasn’t going toward the land but in the wrong direction. Then my great grandfather asked him if he had a dipper. Men always carried a dipper with them when they went out in their kayaks. They wore a seal gut raincoat tied around the rim of the kayak and if the water got heavy around their waist they would use the wooden dipper to dip the water out of their raincoat. The young man gave him his dipper and told him to go to the pot and drink some soup. When my great grandfather went up to the boiling pot he saw only one tomcod in it. It was already cooked so he dipped some soup out and drank it. He dipped into the pot again and it tasted really good. Then the young man told my great grandfather to go in a certain direction so that he would head for land. When great grandfather got into his kayak the young told him, “Now go straight toward the land until you reach your destination. A long time ago when I was small you used to really care for me well and now I care for you by letting you drink some of my soup. You might think I’m lying, so paddle for a short distance and then look back at me.” When grandfather left he was relieved from hunger and felt stronger paddling. Then he looked back as he had been told, but all he saw was a seagull standing at the edge of the ice calling at him, and this made him think: That seagull is the young man who let me drink some of his soup and didn’t let me starve. He cared for me out here in the ocean. But when did I care for him, he asked himself? He finally remembered that when he was young he had a pet baby seagull and never let him go hungry, and when the seagull could fly he freed him. That happened a long time ago when he was young, and he was surprised that his own pet had appeared to him like this out here in the ocean. Then he started on his journey again, and after long hours of paddling he finally reached the land, relieved and glad to be home.” Naruyaq was a hero for this elder, and his story was remembered through the generations. It is perhaps also one of the reasons why this famous bird is the most numerous of all the four species of gulls in the L-K Delta. But let me tell you a little more about them. Although you will probably see them scavenging for food at your dump, they also help the ravens and other birds clean up the remains of dead animals in the ocean and on the beaches. They are large gulls and can be aggressive when hungry with sea ducks such as eiders in harassing them to the point they give up their food. They are also smart, and will catch barnacles, shellfish (mollusks), and sea urchins from near shore, then drop them on rocks from high in the air to crack them open. They may have figured this strategy out from ravens who do the same thing. Another part of their diet is small animals, baby birds and eggs. Naruyaq may stick around the coasts of the Delta all year, especially nowadays with Climate Change when there is much less sea ice. Even if they move south during the winter months, though, they usually return in the spring to nest in the same large breeding colonies on the ledges of rocky promontories like Cape Romanzof and low flat islands above the high tide line. They are gregarious birds at that time and often pair up again with the same mate they had the previous year. Like ravens also, they usually breed for the first time during their 4th year. After a brief courting period, both sexes help build their nest, which is a shallow scrape lined with grass, seaweed, moss and whatever other soft debris they find. They might begin to build several nests, but only complete one. An average of three blotchy yellowish-green eggs are laid, although the third egg is smaller than the other two. Both mother and father birds also incubate the eggs for 26-29 days when their downy chicks hatch, then leave the nest just two days later. But the young remain in the area, and are fed by both parents right up to when they take their first flight between 37-53 days after hatching. They catch on fast after that, though, and about two weeks later feel confident enough to leave the colony. If they were captured and cared for, then freed by a youth like the one in the legend, they might even help guide him back to shore if he strayed in the wrong direction in his boat. Could this power be why shamen sometimes incorporated them in their ceremonial masks? For the record, the scientific name of Naruyaq is Larus glaucescens, which is Latin and Greek for, “a bluish-gray seabird that has a fierce appetite.” Birds have been around far longer than we humans have, and so have deep roots in our human experience. Naruyaq is one of these.  |
Golden Eagle:Golden Eagle Yaqulpak Once while climbing a mountain in the northwestern part of the Brooks Range, my nephew and I stopped to rest for a few minutes on an overhanging crag. I noticed a lone Golden eagle spiraling lazily in the thermals about a thousand feet above us. Watching him with my binocs, I saw him suddenly fold his wings, drop from his spiral, and dive straight down the side of the mountain toward... us! He must have been traveling at more than 150 mph when right in front of us he abruptly put on his brakes, swooped around us once, then glided off towards the backside of the mountain. Talk about a moment of inspiration for my young nephew...and for me! The Golden eagle is called yaqulpak and tengmiarpak (both meaning big bird) in Yup’ik for good reason. It has a wingspread of up to 7 1/2 feet and weighs up to 13 pounds. It also builds a big nest, up to 10 feet across and 4 feet deep. Yaqulpak dives at almost 200 mph. And it can live for a long time, one bird surviving for 46 years in captivity. After mating, their pair bond can last a lifetime. Another Yup’ik name for this eagle, tengmiarrluk appreciates all of these superlative traits. It means good old bird. When I lived in Scammon Bay I used to keep track of the eagles there. During some winters I noticed they left very late in the autumn and returned early in the spring. This undoubtedly had to do with the availability of hares, since this is their preferred menu. Once on the trail to Chevak I watched an eagle nail a snowshoe hare. It happened almost as quick as lightning. In spring I watched the eagles as they prepared for nesting. The male would spiral upward, then fold his wings, take a nosedive, brake by half-opening his wings, glide up, dive again, and repeat the maneuver many times. Somewhere off in the distance his spouse was judging him with her telescopic eagle eyes. He had to do it well to keep her attention. Before the female lays her eggs, both eagles spruce up one of their old nests (also called aeries or eyries). They usually have a number of them (up to 10) to choose from, most constructed and added to by related generations of eagles. They often alternate from year to year in the use of these nests, which are usually built on cliffs and made of sticks, twigs, roots, mosses, down and fur and whatever other building materials may be available. After laying usually two freckled dull white eggs, incubation is shared by both male and female. When the young hatch separately 43-45 days later, the male again takes part in the feeding of the hatchlings. In fact, during both periods, the male actually hunts and captures more food than the female, bringing it back to the nest to both feed his mate and the young. He rarely feeds the young directly or broods, however, leaving that to the female. Often during this time, the older, stronger eaglet will kill its younger, smaller nest mate. The parents do nothing to prevent this from happening. More than once, when visiting an aerie I know of in the Alaska Range, I have seen the dead sibling hanging over the edge of the nest. About 70 days after hatching, the eaglets fledge from the nest. But they still have much to learn and won’t be on their own for at least another month. Because of their size, Golden eagles are one of our most altricial bird species, meaning the young remain a long time in the care of their parents. During this month-long period they will learn subsistence skills that include how to hunt for everything from hares, parky squirrels and marmots to large insects, sandhill cranes, ptarmigan and caribou calves. When they finally do leave their parents, the young eagles travel a rough road before they become adults. Biologists estimate that 75 percent of them die before reaching sexual maturity at 4-5 years of age. The scientific name for the golden eagle is Aquila chrysaetos, which derives from Latin aquila, meaning eagle, and Greek chrysos and aetos, meaning Golden eagle. Both its scientific and common names derive from the wonderful golden hue of its feathers, especially those of the adult bird. If the number of common names a bird has is any indication of how revered it is by people, this eagle must be close to the top. Here are some of them: royal eagle, mountain eagle, king of birds, Canadian eagle, brown eagle, black eagle, calumet bird, calumet eagle, bird of Jupiter, gray eagle, jackrabbit eagle, ringtail, ring-tailed eagle, war bird, American war bird, bird of Jupiter, white-tailed eagle, and tengmiarrluk (good old bird). P.S. The following is a poem I wrote in the spring of 1986 in Scammon Bay to celebrate the return of the Golden eagles to the Askinuk Mountains. Spring Eagles I’d seen them back in February on the other side of the mountains just cruising round and round and lifting lazily in the high thermals above us when the sun’s time was short in the sky and there were still long shadows cast by surrounding rocky spires... but as I was turning near Talittarsullrat (Sheltering Rocks) there they were again, both of them, perched up on a hanging ledge just watching, and feeling with dark golden feathers the silent warmth of the clear April sky, and listening to the sounds of the breezing snow dust down below... then seeing me or the raven bell-croaking across the midday sun, they lurched out, dropped ever so slightly, caught the upwelling winds, flapped and d r i f t e d and flapped and d r i f t e d again, then g l i d i n g, as eagles do, slipped silently up across the far flanks of smooth tundra snows, catching rising thermals from somewhere, soaring higher and higher and fading finally beyond my ken into the bleached verge of the mountain top where the snow meets the sky. It’s nice to see you again.  |
Gray Jay:Gray Jay (The Cinerous Crow) Kisirallerr Chances are you've never heard of the "cinerous crow," at least by that name. But I know you've seen it time after time at your fish sites, hunting camps, or even in your own backyard. It was called "whiska-zhon-shish" by the Cree Indians, and although the translation is "the little one that works at a fire," the English simply called it, "whiskey jack." Yes, you guessed it, the Canada jay. "Cinerous" comes from the Latin word, "cinereus," meaning "ashes," and refers to the black and gray plumage of the jay. It's scientific name is Perisoreus canadensis, which, loosely translated, means "the Canadian who stores food.'' Thus, its common names, Canada jay and camp robber, since it often participates in unpremeditated (and, I'm sure, some premeditated) robberies of unguarded food scraps from campfires or even from inside tents in both Canada and Alaska. Not many years ago, however, the bird was renamed by the American Ornithological Union, and is now officially referred to by the colorless moniker of Gray jay. I've heard it said by some Alaskans, and at least one Canadian, that the person who suggested this name should have been tarred and feathered. He or she certainly wasn't familiar with the lore surrounding this fascinating bird which, as a member of the Corvid or crow family, has one of the largest brains per body size in the animal world. I remember a story a Yupik friend once told me about how they never used to call a grizzly bear by its proper name when hunting it. Instead, they referred to it as "Kisirallerr," which translates as "camp robber," the name they also give to the Canada (whoops, I mean Gray) jay. This was so the bear's ambulant spirit wouldn't hear its own name being spoken and thus allow the bear to escape the hunters. I've also heard this jay referred to as Neqaiq, meaning "food- or fish-stealer;" qupanuar(aq), possibly referring to its habit of using its sticky saliva to store tidbits of food; and finally, nunaniryuk, or "happy bird;" and two others: keggapatayuk and tapaktayaq, both of which I have no idea as to the meaning. Gray jays weigh less than three ounces (thus disqualifying them as a crow), and have long, soft and silky plumage, especially in winter, so they can keep warm in places where temperatures plummet to lower than sixty degrees below zero. They are provident birds, which means they store large quantities of food during the warmer months to use in winter. In fact, they cache food year round, using their gluey saliva to help stick pieces of food in bark crevices and other hiding places. They can even carry food with their feet, a trait that is rare among song birds. Like so many other of their Corvid cousins, Gray jays are monogamous and mated pairs stay together year round and defend permanent territories. You'll see them even in winter usually accompanied by their most dominant young. The parents drive this young bird away in early spring, however, when the urge to nest takes over. Since Gray jays are permanently bonded they don't have much of a courting ritual, and about all you'll see is some feeding of the female by the male. Not even any billing as with the Raven. Seems like a very pragmatic relationship. But as soon as you see the courtship feeding, you know the pair is building a nest somewhere on the branch of a dense spruce, close to the trunk. The nest is bulky and well woven of small sticks, bark, moss and grass, is fastened together with spider silk, and is well insulated with a lining of grass, fur and feather down. Believe it or not, the female sometimes begins incubation when the breeding grounds are still snow-covered and the temperatures are as low as 30 degrees below zero! She lays 3-4 grayish white eggs that are finely dotted with brown, olive or reddish. Mom does the incubation by herself for 18-22 days, but dad provides the food for her on the nest. After hatching, the mother bird broods the young most of the time at first while her mate brings the food to the nest. Later, when the young have a few more feathers on them and are less vulnerable to the cold, both parents will forage for food and bring it back to the nestlings. The young leave the nest when they are about 22-24 days old, and most of them remain with their parents, learning the survival tricks of the trade, for at least another month. Then they are theoretically on their own, although as I mentioned earlier, the most dominant of the offspring usually hangs around all winter with its parents. Like their close cousin the Raven, Kisirallerat are said to be conscious of the world around them, and I guess that's more than can be said about those who gave them the lackluster name, Gray jay.  |
Gray-headed Chickadee:Gray-headed Chickadee Cekepipipiiq Seeing the Gray-headed chickadee for the first time in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge was one of the most exciting parts of a trip I took up there in the summer of 2004. I'm 62 years old and I do occasionally get excited about a bird sighting. Many years ago in northeast Bolivia when I first saw Hoatzin birds, eleven of them, on the leafy margin of a jungle lake in Madidi National Park, I was elated. In Tikal, Guatemala, when I saw a flock of noisy toucans called Collared aricaris I felt the same way. And in southeast Arizona after a long search one early Spring morning I felt, well, as happy as a lark, to finally find my first Elegant trogon. Those three exotic birds were highlights of trips to three special places on Earth. Although the Gray-headed chickadee in no way compares to the other birds in size, shape or color, I was still excited about seeing it - for many reasons, foremost among them, its location, the stunningly beautiful valley of the Marsh Fork of the Canning River on the western fringe of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. But for the story of how found the chickadees, let me quote from my journal: June 27-- "I wanted to check out three small stands of balsam poplar (cottonwood) I noticed yesterday from the top of the mountain. They were located in the alluvial fan made by a creek issuing from one of the valleys on the east side of the Marsh Fork. I thought that just possibly there might be some Gray-headed chickadees nesting there. It would depend on how old the trees were, since these birds were cavity nesters and needed a big enough tree to find a hole sufficiently large to lay their eggs in. To get to the cottonwood trees, my two friends Fran and Phil and I had to wade through a thick willow jungle punctuated every now and then by an open stretch of gravel outwash deposited by the creek during periods of high water. We checked first one grove of trees, then another. Nothing. We had almost given up, and were pushing our way through the willow thicket towards the third stand of cottonwood when I heard a definite chickadee spish. But it wasn't like either of the calls I was familiar with in the Interior. It was slower, more deliberate and lower pitched than those of both the Boreal and Black-capped chickadees. It sounded an awful lot like the call of the Gray-headed chickadee I had listened to on Leonard Peyton's CD before leaving Fairbanks. I spished the bird, and immediately there it was in the willows, poking around for insect tidbits, probably to feed to its young. I glassed it to inspect its topknot and face, comparing it to the pictures of the chickadees in my bird guide. It did, in fact, have a grayer head than any of the Boreals I'd ever seen, and its white cheek patch was larger than that of the Boreal or Black-cap. Finally, I thought, after hearing so much about this bird for so long, and dearly wanting to see it in my lifetime, I was now observing it up close and personal. When I spished again, it came down right in front of me and ogled me as though I might have something to offer it. And not only one, but another chickadee, probably its mate, began calling nearby. It didn't show itself, but its slow and easy spish was identical to the one 1 was trailing through the willows. I followed the one bird for as far as I could without totally alienating my friends with my enthusiasm. It was hot in that breezeless jungle, about 90 degrees hot, and they soon headed out into the open. Reluctantly, I followed, listening closely as I pushed the last willows away from my face. Tsiti ti ti jeew...jeew jeew. Then it stopped, and that was the last I heard its call. My friends were waiting." When I returned home to Fairbanks, I did a little research on this unusual bird, finding that it is the rarest and least understood of our North American chickadees. It is, in fact, an Old World chickadee, known as Siberian tit in northern Russia and Europe, that crossed the Bering Strait during one of the last glaciations and established itself in the northern part of this continent to about as far as the Mackenzie River Valley in Canada. It is mostly a permanent resident, found close to treeline where stunted spruces, poplars and willows grow along remote Arctic creeks. Like other chickadee species, it feeds in small flocks or family groups on insects, insect eggs and pupae, larvae, spiders, seeds and the fat of dead animals. Its foraging strategies, too, are similar to those of other chickadees, including the storage of food for later retrieval. Gray-headed chickadees nest in holes, usually in dead or dieing spruce or poplar trees. The mated pair remain together throughout the year on a large permanent territory which may be shared by one other mated pair. The nest is built by the female and has a base of decaying wood, then a layer of grass or moss, and finally a cup of animal hair. The male feeds the female as part of their mating ritual and continues to do so throughout the incubation period and until the nestlings are about half-grown. Between four and fifteen white, reddish-brown spotted eggs are laid, and incubation is done totally by the female for 14-18 days. After the eggs hatch, the female broods the young most of the time at first, while the male brings food. Later, both parents share these duties. The young leave the nest when they are about 19-20 days old. All of this just goes to prove what excitement about a bird did to me. Before leaving for the Marsh Fork of the Canning I hadn't done my homework on the Gray-headed chickadee. I guess I really hadn't expected to see it. Now, however, my whole view of this rare bird has changed. And, if the truth were known, I might be just as excited the next time I see one.  |
Great Gray Owl:Great Gray Owl Tukutukuar(aq) The Great Gray Owl is a rare bird in the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, so consider yourself very lucky if you see it. I do. One day while cross-country skiing in the maze of Yukon River sloughs near Emmonak I remember seeing this giant owl. I couldn't believe my eyes because none of the range maps I'd ever seen showed it as living in the Delta. And yet there are a number of Yupik names for the big owl, among them: Tukutukuar(aq) which is imitative of the sound the male makes, a long series of deep muffled hoots. It's curious that a much smaller bird, the Pectoral sandpiper, also has the same name, because it makes a similar sound when it displays during mating season. Another name for the owl is Takvialnguaraq, meaning a bird with poor eyesight, probably in reference to the quality of its daytime vision as opposed to its nighttime vision which is so much better. Other names are variations of Atkulirraq, which has to do with its feather coat appearing like an atkuk, Yupik for pullover parka. Take a look at its picture in any bird guide, and you'll see what I mean. While we're on names, its scientific name, Strix nebulosa, is a combination of Greek and Latin, meaning screeching owl with dark cloud-colored plumage. Definitely true, if you check the picture in your guide. The English name speaks for itself but isn't very creative. Although Tukutukuar seems to have an angry countenance, it can actually be quite a gentle bird, especially in spring with its mate. If you're lucky enough, you might see the male do his aerial displays, then light next to his mate and feed her a vole or red squirrel. Both members of the pair also gently preen each other's feathers. Does this remind you of similar behavior in our own human world? Not that we eat voles, mind you, but ... use your imagination. Something interesting about this owl is that it does not construct its own nest. It reuses an old abandoned nest of another large bird such as a goshawk, raven, osprey or eagle. Once I found a nest in the hollow top of a large broken birch snag. The pair may use the same nest site for several years. After laying between 2-5 white eggs, the female incubates them for about a month. The male does not incubate the eggs, but brings food to the female while she is on the nest. After the eggs hatch, the mom broods the hatchlings for 2-3 weeks while dad continues to bring food to the nest. Only she feeds it to the young, however. In another week or two the young begin venturing out of the nest and perch on limbs near the nest or in neighboring trees. Within two more weeks they are fluttering like big moths in the void of air around their home. Even after officially leaving home the young return at night to roost and sometimes even during the day if they are alarmed. Their parents usually remain fairly close to them and feed them at the same time they show them how to hunt the small mammals that will become the mainstay of their adult diet. In some areas, the mother bird departs completely after her young fledge, while the father remains with them and feeds them for up to three months by which time they should be on their own. The Great gray owl, like other owls, raptors and gulls, does what human children are warned against, swallowing their food whole, or almost so. When they eat a vole or squirrel, they digest all but the bones and fur, after which they regurgitate the remains in the form of a hard, felted pellet. These pellets last a long time in dry climates and, if soaked in warm water and dissected, the identity of vertebrate prey often can be determined from the bones. I can remember in Hooper Bay when my wife and I examined a big Snowy owl pellet with her fourth grade class and found the remains of ten voles and lemmings. Back to my original encounter with the Great gray owl near Emmonak. I came home that afternoon so energized after seeing it that I wrote a short poem about the experience. Here it is: Great Gray Owl Skiing again, where the Yukon verges to the sea, I caught him out of the corner of my eye as I rounded the bend of a wrap-around slough not far from the Bering just when he pushed off and the bald branch of a hoary cottonwood bent heavily down as he lifted into the wind sailing close and gray across my winter trajectory in the snow, his round head tilted towards mine staring at me so near with those feathery-eyed disks, so intent on knowing what I was, till he was too soon on the other bank perched in a crowd of alders and willows, for only an instant, then he was off again back further into the willows and away like a giant moth escaping in the night....  |
Great Horned Owl:Great Horned Owl Iggiayuli Not long ago I was watching a male Great horned owl hoot. Yes, hoot. It was at dusk in the evening, and each time he called his deep, resonant five-noted hoot, hoo, hoodoo hoooo hoo, he leaned forward, vibrated his throat feathers and lifted his short tail. I had never noticed these movements before and was struck by how they characterized this particular species of owl. No other owl called in exactly this way. All birds, of course, have their own unique traits. But the Great horned owl is in a family that is particularly interesting because most can hunt at night. This is probably the reason why Yupiks call this bird Iggiayuli, which translates loosely as "the one who is good at eyeballing." In fact, the horned owl can see at night many times better than we humans can. It's almost as though it has infrared vision. Not only does the owl see well, it has extremely sensitive hearing which is enhanced by its facial ruff. This concave surface of stiff dark-tipped feathers functions as a reflector, channeling sounds into the ears. Once a sound is detected, the owl can accurately pinpoint its location. The biology of both its ear openings and its brain help them do this. The unique structure of its wings takes over from there. The forward edge of the first primary feather on each wing is toothed rather than smooth, which disrupts the flow of air over the wings in flight and eliminates all noise. This makes horned owls formidable silent hunters at night. The list of prey species that this large owl feeds on is enormous, including everything from tiny shrews to Canada geese and swans. In Alaska, however, most of its diet consists of snowshoe hares. Since hare populations are cyclic, the owls are most numerous when the population of the snowshoe is high. When the rabbit's numbers crash, the owls disperse and/or eat more birds. An interesting characteristic of our Alaskan horned owls, which are often around for part of the winter, is that after they kill an animal on a freezing cold day they may cache some of what they don't eat. When they return to the frozen carcass they defrost the frozen cache by "incubating" it, something ornithologists call "prey thawing." In a reverse manner, the idea of "incubation" (of eggs, not prey) leads us to courting and mating. I remember a few years ago listening to a pair of horned owls call back and forth in the woods across the river from Marshall where I taught school. It was March, and since I couldn't see the birds I didn't know what other sort of behavior Iwas listening to at the time. I do now. Even though it seemed too early for it, those two owls were courting. The male was performing his noisy hooting aerial display, and ritually feeding the female who thanked him with a low, nasal, barking guwaay. They touched bills, bobbed heads, hooted and clicked and hooted and clicked, and repeated the ritual all over again. Pretty interesting stuff, eh? There's more. Horned owls don't get serious about nesting until they are two years old. When they finally decide to tie the knot, so to speak, the female (who else?) usually lays 2-3 white eggs. Both sexes incubate the eggs for 26-35 days, and after the eggs hatch both parents also feed the young birds. Since the young quickly become too big for the nest, they jump to the ground where they continue to be fed by their parents. At this stage they look like light brown fuzz balls. Once in the Yukon Territory in Canada I found one on a river bank and was able to get so close I could gently touch its soft jacket of downy feathers. Between 63-70 days after hatching, these fuzz balls eventually do spread their by now huge wings and begin to fly. The Great horned owl, which is so-named because it has two feathers atop its head that look like horns, also has some other interesting names. It is called, hoot owl, big hoot owl, cat owl, chicken owl, eagle owl, king owl and Virginia horned owl. The last refers to its scientific name, Bubo virginianus, which translates literally as, "owl from Virginia," where it was first collected and described by scientists. One final caveat for those who like to try imitating bird calls. I was once informed by Bill Manumik, a friend from Marshall, that if you annoy a Great horned owl by hooting at him, be aware that he will fly down next to you and start telling you your life story, including all of the things you've done wrong. He may even tell you something unpleasant about your future. Now, if you don't want to hear those things, you know what not to do.  |
Greater Scaup:Greater Scaup Kep’alek Take a close look at this duck’s bill and you’ll see why some people call it “blue bill.” But take an even closer look at its plumage and you’ll see why the duck’s Yup’ik name is Kep’alek. Where the black joins the white, it is such a clean line that it looks as though the two colors were cut with an uluaq and perfectly spliced together. The Greater scaup, like its slightly smaller cousin, the Lesser scaup, is a diving duck. Most of the year it feeds underwater, using its feet to dive in saltwater bays and estuaries for shellfish (mussels, clams, etc.). During summer, however, it acts more like a dabbling duck (mallard, wigeon) because it nests near the shallow water shores of lakes, ponds and marshes. Then its diet changes to freshwater snails, aquatic insects and crustaceans, tadpoles, small fishes and plant foods, such as pondweeds, wild celery, sedges and other grasses and their seeds. Scaups begin courting mostly in late winter and early spring while still wintering down south and during migration north to their nesting grounds. I saw some of that behavior this spring in Fairbanks on the Chena River during our cold spring when thousands of migrating ducks were dammed up here waiting for the snow on their nesting grounds to melt. Often several males courted one female, sharply throwing their heads back, bowing with the tip of their bill lowered to the water, then raised high, and flicking their wings and tail while uttering a soft, fast whistling, weew-weew-whew. The female responded each time with a low, arrrrr. Since most blue bills already have mates by the time they reach the YK Delta, they get right down to the business of nesting. The female chooses the site and builds the nest in a shallow depression and lines it with dead plant material and her own down. Several females may nest close together in a loose colony. As soon as his mate has laid the last of her 5-11 olive-buff colored eggs and begins to brood them the male duck takes off never to return for large freshwater lakes or saltwater estuaries. After the mother duck incubates the eggs for almost a month, they all hatch at pretty much the same time and the ducklings follow her to water shortly afterward. Two or more families may join together, tended by one or more females. The young feed themselves and take their first flight a month and a half after hatching. There are three families of 24 baby blue bills living on one of my favorite ponds just down the road, and I’ve enjoyed watching them slowly grow bigger each day I stop by. It’s especially been fun seeing them suddenly dive underwater, then pop up like little brown bubbles while the wigeon and mallard babies keep on paddling placidly across the surface of the water. The Greater scaup is one of those birds that has many common names, such as: blackhead, big blackhead, big bluebill, black-neck, blue-billed wigeon, broadbill, bullhead, common scaup, floating fowl, flock duck, gray-back, greater bluebill, green-head, mussel-duck, raft duck, shuffler, and troop-fowl. The name “scaup” probably comes from the English term that alludes to ducks that feed on scaups or scalps – beds of shellfishes. Or it may have come from one of the duck’s characteristic calls, scaup! Its scientific name, Aythya marila, means “seabird of charcoal embers,” referring to its black head (with a green iridescence in the sun), neck, breast and tail. A cool fact about this bird is that, as a diving duck, it has small, pointed wings that make it easier for underwater swimming. But its heavy wing-loading (ratio of small wings to big body) requires it to run across the top of the water to build momentum before taking off. Dabblers like wigeons and mallards have larger wing areas relative to their body weight, and can therefore leap directly from the water into the air.  |
Green-winged Teal:Green-winged Teal Tengesqaaraq Don’t shoot yet! This little duck doesn’t have much meat on him, and he’s only a pocket duck, something you could stuff in your coat pocket. So, unless you’re really hungry, take a pass and just appreciate it for its beautiful colors and interesting behavior, especially in spring during the mating game. Take a careful look at one of its Yup’ik names, Tengesqaaraq, used by Scammon Bay, Hooper Bay and Chevak people. Think of why it might have this name. Maybe because of its wonderful flying abilities. If you’ve ever flushed him in a pond or on a river, he is like a missile out of water, a bullet through the air, and an impossible target to hit once airborne. The green-winged teal is our smallest dabbling (or “puddle”) duck, and one of our most numerous. It is also one of the earliest migrants in spring and shows up on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta in early May, sometimes even sooner. When they arrive on their nesting grounds they are usually already paired up and, after only a short period of ritual courtship displays, get right down to the business of mating and laying eggs. In one of their courtship performances, the male pushes his chest up out of the water, arches his head forward and down, then shakes his bill rapidly in the water while giving a whistle similar to a slow cricket chirp. Especially on their wintering grounds there can be intense competition among males for a female, including provocation by the female, possibly to see which male would be the strongest mate. Only the female builds the nest, which is a shallow depression on the ground filled with small twigs, grass, leaves, and lined with down plucked from her brood patch. It is near water and well hidden by small willows and grass that often form a canopy over it. She lays 6-11, sometimes many more, cream to olive-buff colored eggs, and incubates them alone for about three weeks. During the egg-laying period the male will guard the female and nest, but as incubation begins he leaves for other parts and does not participate in any child rearing. When the mother bird leaves the nest to eat she covers the eggs with her down to conceal them and keep them warm. The young all hatch at about the same time and leave the nest together only hours after hatching. Their mother guards the ducklings, who might return to the nest for a few nights after they hatch. The ducklings have to find all their own food, and they must do a good job of it because they have the fastest growth rate of all North American ducks, fledging about 35 days after hatching. Like their mother, they dabble for food – wading or swimming in shallow water, filtering mud with their bills, picking edible items such as grass and sedge seeds from the surface, and when they’re a little older, upending and feeding on the aquatic roots of bottom plants such as pondweed. They also take aquatic insects, crustaceans, mollusks, tadpoles, fish eggs, and even the rotting remains of dead spawned-out salmon lying in creeks and rivers in late summer. After breeding, the male goes into hiding where he sheds his feathers in what is called a “post-nuptial” or “eclipse” molt. At that time his breeding feathers are replaced by drabber ones like those of the female to make him less conspicuous to predators. He will molt again in time to migrate south in fall. By then he will be back in prime color and ready to begin courting in his winter habitat. Females molt after their young have fledged. I know of two other Yup’ik names for the green-winged teal: Cikiutnaar(aq), used in the Yukon River area; and Kemek’ungiaraq, used in the Norton Sound and Kuskokwim areas. If I were to make an intelligent guess, Cikiutnaar(aq) refers to the gift of food that the duck provides the Yup’ik people, especially in spring. Probably Kemek’ungiaraq does the same, but specifies the food as kemek, or meat. Finally, its scientific name is now Anas carolinensis (“Carolina duck,” possibly because it was first seen by westerners in the Carolinas during the winter), as distinct from its Eurasian cousin, Anas crecca (“duck that makes a creak-like call”). Some ornithologists, however, still consider these two ducks subspecies.  |
Gyrfalcon:Gyrfalcon Eskaviaq Have you ever wanted to be a bird? Or after you die, come back as one? I have, and my choice is the Gyrfalcon. I used to watch these raptors a lot when I lived in Scammon Bay. Especially in spring I would search them out, skiing or walking over to their aeries in the tors on top of the Askinuk Mountains behind Scammon Bay. It was there I found them in the middle of their magnificent aerial displays, the male and female flying round and round each other in the sparkling clear air above the greening mountains. The male seemed to be the real show-off in this mating game, first gaining elevation with rapid wing beats, then circling and diving, wings slightly tucked, at high speed towards the female who was gliding slowly above the craggy rock towers where they would make their home. At the last minute he would put on the brakes and careen upward in a mighty swoop within just inches of her, then come back around again and again, hoping to impress her enough to land below and...you guessed it. With aerial displays like the above performed by such large majestic falcons, little wonder the bird has the name it does, Gyrfalcon, which derives from the Latin "hierofalco," meaning "sacred falcon." Little wonder, also, that down through the ages it was the hawk that was most revered by falconers. While we're on names, I should mention that the falcon's scientific name is Falco rusticolus, which means "hawk that lives in the country." And then there are the Yupik names, Eskaviaq, which they use in Hooper Bay, and Cekaviaq, which they use in Scammon Bay and along the Yukon River. Both Eskaviaq and Cekaviaq probably have to do with the way the falcons scatter the ptarmigan's and other birds' feathers in every direction when they hit them full force in the air. Speaking of feathers, the feather color of gyrs varies according to its color phase. And there are three of these: dark, gray, and the magnificent white phase. In the Askinuk Mountains above Scammon Bay I saw all of these phases during the five years I travelled up there counting nests. My favorite was the white gyr, although I saw fewer of these than the others. One of the things I noticed right off the bat while watching the aerial displays of these falcons in springtime was how much bigger the female was than the male. According to one source, the female can be 30-40 percent heavier than the male. For good reason, because it is the female who does the egg laying and also must do most of the incubation, which can last for more than a month. It's interesting that gyrs, like other falcons, do not actually build nests. They simply occupy a raven's or rough-legged hawk's old nest, or lay their eggs in a scrape on a protected ledge near the top of a rocky crag or cliff, just like Peregrine falcons do. Once I found a gyr pair had located in the middle of an abandoned Golden eagle aerie. The female looked tiny in that giant nest. Wherever she makes her home she usually lays four pale (yellow, white or buff, finely spotted with dark red) colored eggs there and incubates them for between 29-36 days. Sometimes the male will help her out in this, but mostly he stands or flies guard nearby and provides the female with her food needs. He does this through the early nestling period, since the young hatch at different times. After that both birds hunt for and feed the young. Since the young first fly between 49-56 days after hatching, this is a long time. And it doesn't stop then, for the young are still dependent on their parents for a month or more after fledging. Most of the food the parents feed their young is ptarmigan. In fact, studies have shown that in Alaska up to 89 percent of all gyr food by weight is Alaska's state bird, although they will mix this with seabirds, shorebirds, grouse and small mammals when available. While hunting, gyrs usually fly low and fast, "contour hugging" to surprise their prey. Once I saw a gyr perch in a copse of willows and alders near Scammon Bay where a ptarmigan had taken cover in the deep snow, then dive into the snow to flush the ptarmigan into the open. It then followed the ptarmigan up the mountain, climbing sharply above it and plummeting down on it. That's when it earns its Yupik name Eskaviaq, or Cekaviaq, depending on where you're watching it do its feather-scattering thing. When the parents bring back prey for their young, it's interesting to watch how the young share the dead animal. The older and bigger hatchlings have the first stab at it, then the younger smaller ones get their share. If there is plenty of ptarmigan in the area, all of the young should have the opportunity to fledge and learn how to hunt for their own food. After the young start flying, it's also fascinating to watch how their parents teach them to hunt. The adult presents itself as the target and encourages the young to dive on it, which they do clumsily at first, but over time with more and more grace, until finally they can practice on the real thing and earn their Yupik name. I consider myself privileged to have been able to watch gyrs as much as I have, especially in the Askinuk Mountains near Scammon Bay. For the Gyrfalcon is a rare bird indeed, there being only between 200-300 pairs in all of Alaska and fewer than 5000 individuals in all of North America. Next time you catch a glimpse of a gyr remember that statistic and join the ranks of the privileged few who have even seen them.  |
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Hairy Woodpecker:Hairy Woodpecker Puugtuyuli I call this guy Harry, and his mate Harriet, and I see them quite a bit these Autumn days, especially during afternoon walks in the woods above my house. I often hear one of them yelp at me from behind a birch or aspen as it pecks at the bark for its favorite food, wood borers and bark beetles. The Hairy woodpecker is much shyer than its smaller cousins, the Downy and Three-toed woodpeckers. It doesn't usually allow close approach by humans, and dodges around the tree trunk to hide, or it takes off in a graceful bounding flight for trees farther away. I didn't see these big woodpeckers much on the Yukon Delta coast when I taught out there, but when I moved up to Marshall where there were more trees every once in awhile I'd come across them during my daily walks or skis in the area. When I asked for their Yupik name I was told it was Puugtuyuli, meaning "the one who is good at diving through the air and banging its head against something." It's the same Yupik name used for all the woodpeckers that hang around the YK Delta during the winter. They were given the common English name "hairy" because of their hairy appearance. Their scientific name, Picoides villosus, means basically the same thing, "woodpecker with shaggy plumage." Sometimes, if I was really lucky during my walks, I might catch a glimpse of the bird striking its beak on the wood and holding it there. In this way, it detects, by feeling, the vibrations and locations of its prey. It also listens intently for the sounds of insect jaws crunching wood on the inside of the bark. Here in Fairbanks, I've noticed over the years that Harry and Harriet have a loose association during the onset of winter, but that as the season progresses they forage more and more closely together. By midwinter they have paired up again in preparation for nesting in spring. This occurs rather early and is accompanied by a courtship ritual of intense drumming by both sexes. The drumming is usually done during flight and involves beating the wings against the bird's flank to produce a long, loud rolling tattoo. Other rituals include tapping at real or false nest sites by the female, and a quivering, fluttering flight by the female to attract the male. These courtship rituals are all performed within the female's original winter territory, since it is here that nesting will take place. When warmer weather finally rolls around in late March, the pair begin to excavate a nest in the dead or dying branch of a live aspen, birch or spruce tree. The male usually selects the actual nest site, then does most of the work in hollowing out a hole adequate for them to set up their household in. The nest cavity is usually about a foot deep and located from 5-60 feet above the ground. It takes the birds three weeks to do the digging and when they're finished they line the nest with a soft bed of fine wood chips. Harriet lays four white eggs on these chips and shares duty with Harry in their incubation. She does daytime duty while her hubby does the night shift. The eggs hatch in two weeks at which time both parents also cooperate in feeding the nestlings. Harry hunts farther away from the nest but brings back more food for the new family. Harriet forages nearby so she can be within hearing distance of her young. They do this for about a month when finally the brood is ready to take their first leap from the edge of the tree hole and fly free as a, well ..., free as a bird, and begin to fend for themselves in life. As the young are learning the art of flight, their parents help transition them into their new more dangerous life by feeding them for a while. At the same time they show them how to forage for themselves. Part of this learning process involves the use of their specialized tongue. Over the one hundred million or more years of their evolution, they and other woodpeckers have acquired a tongue unlike that of other birds. Exceptionally long, it wraps around the skull and is anchored at the base of their upper beak. They extend it into a hole in tree bark by a complex system which includes very long hyoid (tongue-base) bones. The tips of their tongues are barbed to extract insects from holes, and the tongue is coated with sticky saliva which helps them hold on to their prey as it is extracted from the hole. Interesting, eh?  |
Hawk Owl:Hawk Owl Mengqucivak This is one owl you don't have to look for during the night, for it hunts mostly during the daytime. In Alaska, this means you might see it anytime over the course of our long summer days. If you are lucky enough to come across one of these interesting birds, watch it closely and you'll see why it's called Hawk owl. Notice how it flies Goshawklike, straight and rapid on short, pointed wings, and the way it hunts low to the ground, flapping and gliding like a Northern harrier. Watch the way it hovers like an American kestrel, and even perches and jerks its long tail like one. But, no doubt about it, it is an owl. It is actually one of our smallest owls, and might be confused with the Boreal owl, which is also found in many parts of Alaska. But look closer and you'll see that the Hawk owl's underparts and tail are cross-barred and that it is several inches taller than the Boreal because of its unusually long tail. The Yupik people also recognize this owl's similarity to hawks. One of its names, Eskaviaq, is also the name they give to Gyrfalcon, Goshawk and Sharp-shinned hawk. Two other names, Mengqucivak (Yukon area) and Qaku'urtaq (Scammon Bay) relate more to one of the owl's loud screeching calls, although Qaku'urtaq is the name Scammon Bay people also give to the Goshawk and Northern harrier. For those interested in the scientific name, Surnia ulula, the origin of Surnia has been lost, but ulula is a Latin term used to describe another of the owl's calls. This is actually an unusual species name, since normally in the western tradition scientific monikers are not imitative of birds' calls. Whoever named it must have been a poet. So much for names. Let me tell you about its love life. Like many other birds, a part of Mengqucivak's courtship involves ritual feeding of the female by the male, especially toward the end of the courtship period. The two owls also engage in a duet of song, including a rolling, trilling whistle or ululation, similar to that of the Boreal owl, but much faster. By this stage the couple have already found a good nesting spot, which is usually in the hollow tops of dead spruce and birch trees, as well as in natural tree hollows, abandoned woodpecker holes and deserted nests of ravens and birds or prey. In this nest they lay 3-9 glossy white eggs, the number varying with the abundance of rodents. Incubation is done mainly by the female, although the male feeds the female during the entire time she is on the eggs. He is also fearless in defense of the nest against would-be intruders. The young hatch about 28 days later, and both adults cooperate in feeding them. Their daily fare is the same as for the adults, which includes voles, lemmings, shrews, young snowshoe hares, ground squirrels, weasels, ptarmigan, grouse, small birds and insects. Rather than swallow these animals whole as their parents do, however, they eat them piecemeal, at least until they're old enough to handle the increased roughage and burp the bones, etc., back up as pellets. With their ravenous appetites, the young grow quickly and fledge from their nest in about a month. Soon thereafter they have learned how to hunt and do as their parents do. If you're observant, you might find one of the pellets I mentioned above. Owls, unlike hawks, swallow their food whole, or mostly so. When they eat a small animal, they digest all but the bones, fur and feathers. They then regurgitate the remains as hard, felted or feathered pellets. Where they have eaten insects, the pellets also contain the indigestible parts of the insect exoskeletons. If you do find a pellet, take it home or to your classroom, soak it in warm water, carefully dissect it and examine the remains under a magnifying glass to try to identify some of the owl's prey. Summer is gone all too soon here in Alaska, and when the snows of winter begin to accumulate, the weather becomes much colder, and prey is scarce these owls start heading for warmer climes. Whether they stay in Alaska or go farther south to Canada and the Lower 48, their family bonds are strong. The young remain with their parents during the winter months, and the following spring even migrate together as a family unit back to their nesting territory. Once here, however, the family separates and the young search for their own niche where they will begin the cycle of courting, ululation, incubation, feeding and fledging all over again. Which is the way it should be.  |
Hermit Thrush:Hermit Thrush Ciitaarayuli Even for those who live near a forest the "hermit," as I call this thrush, is hard to find (therefore, its English common name). But if you are quiet and sit and wait awhile, it's possible you'll hear its clear flute-like song during spring. If you are really lucky, you may even see this spotted russet-brown bird as it furtively flits along on the forest floor searching for insects, larvae and maybe a few berries. But listen for its ethereal song first, as it rises and falls up and down the scale, sometimes sounding like small muttered bells and at others like a drawn-out silvery tinkle. Indeed, its pure song is what gives the bird its scientific name, Catharus guttatus, meaning "pure-singing spotted bird." The Yupik people have two names for the Hermit thrush that I'm familiar with, Ciitaarayuli and Elagayuli. Ciitaarayuli, means, the one who is good at making the sound "ciitaar," which is yet another example of onometopoeia (remember, the name of the critter sounds like its call). Elagayuli, is a name shared with the Robin, and means "the one who is good at digging." Watch it for a while in its forest setting and you'll understand why it was given that name probably thousands of years ago. But on to the bird itself. Shhhhh! It's spring, and the male hermit is courting his mate. Watch, as wide-eyed he flicks his wings, then raises his small crest and assumes a sleek erect posture with his bill pointed upward. This guy means business, no doubt about that. Soon after business is consummated, 4 greenish-blue eggs are laid in a nest built by the female usually on the ground in a natural depression under spruce or birch trees. After two weeks of incubation by the female, during which she is fed by her mate, the young hatch into ugly chicks with gaping mouths which constantly demand stuffing. This is done first by the male, as the female does the brooding, then by both parents, for at least 12 more days when the now feathered young at last fledge from the nest and begin to fend for themselves. Since it takes a little practice to hunt mosquitoes and other winged insect quarry, however, it will be several more days till the young are completely on their own. Of course, the little hunters quite often become the hunted by such predators as sharp-shinned hawks and Goshawks. Thanks to their camouflage and furtive behavior, however, they are able to survive and flourish to produce more generations of "pure-singing spotted birds." The hermit has spread into more of North America than any other American thrush except for the Robin. Its secret may be that, like the Myrtle warbler, its diet includes not only meat but fruit. In addition to its preferred fare of grasshoppers, caterpillars, spiders, bees, beetles and ants, it has learned to get by during lean months on the fruit of dogwood, elderberry, raspberry, blueberry, cranberry and others. Ants are not only eaten by this remarkable bird. They are also used in a process called "anting," which involves picking up single ants or small groups of them and rubbing them on their feathers. This seems to be a way for the thrush (and many other birds) to acquire the defensive secretions (formic acid) of ants, primarily for their insecticidal, fungicidal and bactericidal properties. Speaking of feathers, have you ever wondered why thrushes and other birds bathe in water or saturate themselves in dust? By doing this, they are actively maintaining their plumage. Frequent dusting, in fact, helps to maintain an optimum amount of oil on the feathers. Excess plumage lipids and preen oil are absorbed by the dust and expelled along with dry skin and other debris. The amount of time and effort birds put into bathing and dusting indicates how important feather maintenance is. Shhhhh! There it is again ...that pure fluting trill ...repeated three times, sounding maybe like, Oh, holy holy,. .. ah, purity purity, ... eeh, sweetly sweetly. No doubt about it, spring is here.  |
Horned Puffin:Horned Puffin Qengacuar(aq) Can you imagine a bird that flies underwater? Well, this one does, and even better than it flies in the air. I've never watched them do this in the wild, but two years ago when I was at the Sea Life Center in Seward I watched them for a long time as they used their wings to propel themselves around and around, twisting and turning only with the movement of their webbed feet. They're pretty nimble walkers, too, but when it comes to flying in the air, they are just plain awkward. Even getting up from the top of the water is a challenge, requiring a run along the surface, which may include an occasional crash through a wave or two before they finally push aloft. This is why puffins choose to dig their burrows into steep hillsides or on rocky slopes or cliff faces, so they can dive off the edge to get enough speed for flight. I've watched their eastern cousins, the Atlantic Puffin, as they took to the air, kicking their feet back and forth to change direction. Horned puffins belong to the family Alcidae, which includes murres and guillemots. Like other alcids, they spend most of their lives on the open sea and visit land only to breed in the late spring and summer. When I lived in Scammon Bay in the 1980's I learned these birds nested on the westernmost headland of the Askinuk Mountains called Cape Romanzof. From a recent trip to Alakanuk I was told they still nest there. Early sailors dubbed puffins "sea parrots" because of their large upright parrot-like bodies and colorful bills. In Scammon Bay the people perhaps humorously dub the bird Qengacuar(aq), meaning "little nose." Another name for them in that part of the Lower Yukon Delta is Qilangaq. I have also read that some Yupik people refer to them as "Qategarpak" because of their big white breast. Their scientific name, Fratercula corniculata, translates as "horned little brother." And, while I'm at it, their common English name derives from both its puffy shape (Coues) and the small fleshy "horn" that projects just above their eyes. In spring, hormones tell these pelagic birds to start heading for shore where both sexes excavate 3-4 foot long burrows into steep hillsides with their sharp claws. Only a single white egg is layed then incubated by both parents, who take turns, for 42-47 days. When the egg hatches in July the chick remains in the burrow for another 45-55 days while its parents take turns feeding it and standing guard. By late summer the parents have finished with their duties and leave for the north Pacific Ocean. After fledging and fattening up, the young follow suit, spending the next year far offshore on the open ocean. Only when they are fully two years old do they return to visit the colony during the summer. At three they come back again, sometimes to breed, but it is mostly at 4 years old that they return to find mates and raise families. It's fascinating watching puffins dive straight into the water from the air and continue flying underwater by flapping half-folded wings and using their brightly colored feet as paddles. They feed in flocks on fish and zooplankton, and when they catch fish for their young they line them up crosswise in their bills, without losing the first one when they add another to their catch. They also manage to take off from a choppy ocean and deliver the fish to their young in the same way. In late summer puffins shed the outer layer of their zany bills, leaving a much smaller drab-colored bill to get them through the winter. Their body plumage also becomes a dusky gray color. In the Hooper Bay-Scammon Bay area Qengacuaraq was once hunted for food and clothing, and the eggs were collected for food. A method used by hunters was with a net on the end of a long pole. When the puffin flew in towards its burrow the hunter suddenly thrust the net in its flight path, making the bird an instant candidate for the next soup pot. Some other English names of the Horned puffin are: Ice bird, Razor-billed auk, Sea crow and Tinker.  |
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King Eider:King Eider Qengallek One of the great pleasures of my three years in Hooper Bay was watching the King eider migration in spring. Toward the middle of April, as soon as school was out, I used to race down to the beach on my skis and position myself on a tall iceberg where I had a good view of the open water of the Bering Sea. I strained my eyes seaward till I could see the distant movement of flocks of ducks flying just above the surface of the water. On closer examination with my binocs, I knew they were what I was searching for, King eiders. Their skeins of hundreds of birds at a time went on and on, one flock after the other, sometimes in ragged lines, sometimes in tight fists, bouncing up and down across the restless waves of the Bering. After counting 10,000 birds in a half-hour, they kept on coming and coming and coming. They were definitely on a mission, no doubt about that, a mission that would eventually take them to their breeding grounds north of the Seward Peninsula and far beyond to the high Canadian Arctic. As the ducks streamed relentlessly north I was left speechless and could only watch with tears in my eyes as they flew on toward their destination. The birds weren’t close enough to see their colors, but my bird book told the story. Check your own guide, and if you count the colors on the head of the male you’ll find seven, including the yellowish-orange bump above its red and yellow bill. This is the bill-with-a-bump that gets the duck one of the names, “Qengallek,” I’ve heard the male referred to on the Delta. It means something like “duck with a nose.” The generic name I learned in Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, though, was Metraq, possibly having to do with the absorbent quality of the down feathers. It’s this knobby feature on its nose that for some reason gave it the English name “king,” maybe because some kings had knobby noses. The “eider” part of the common name is an Icelandic word for the bird. Somateria spectabilis is its scientific name, which liberally translates as, “spectacular downy-bodied duck.” Spectacular is the best word to describe its diving ability, too. It feeds in deeper water (up to 200 feet) and can remain under longer than any other duck except the Long-tailed duck (Oldsquaw). Mollusks and crustaceans are its favorite foods, but it also eats sea stars, sea urchins, sand dollars and plant foods such as eelgrass. After King eiders reach their breeding grounds in the high Arctic, they get right down to the business of courting, mating and nesting. Some of the courting ritual has probably already started down in their wintering waters in the Aleutian Islands and farther south. While pushing out its chest, the courting male utters a low, hollow, quavering moan in crescendoing series: broo broooo brOOOOO broo. The nearby female responds with a low, wooden gogogogogo. If she likes what she hears and sees (and how could she refuse a kingly mate with such a handsome knobby nose), she mates and lays 4-5 olive-buff colored eggs in a nest she alone has scratched out of the tundra and lined with her own downy feathers. Nests are located well back from the coast and about 10-50 feet from tundra ponds, and they are not found in colonies as among Common eiders. Soon after the female begins incubation of the eggs, the male takes off and joins large flocks of other males on their traditional molting grounds. From that point on she is in charge of the eggs and young. Within 24 days the eggs hatch and the downy young quickly follow their mom away from the nest in search of food. As with some other species of ducks, the young join with broods from other nests to form what are known as crèches, where several adult females share babysitting duties while the young are still small. They don’t remain small for very long, though, and after a month and a half are able to fly on their own. Then the seasonal cycle starts all over again. After watching these ducks migrate past Hooper Bay in the spring of 1980, I wrote a short poem, which I hope captures the emotion I felt during this event.  Eider Ducks They're back, the eider ducks, and pushing north, irresistibly and inflexibly north. From the beach dunes we can see the grey motes of racing silouettes all soundlessly and endlessly beating their eternal wing pace to tundra nesting grounds below the wideness and wildness of Alaska's spring dawn skies. In long silent prayer strings, then in bunches, like frenetic fists of nervous mosquitoes, they pulsate headlong, miniature arrowheads, across the blackness and bleakness of the fretful Bering Sea, hugging the dancing waterline, and always distantly wary of the stretching muzzles of man's impetuous steel cannons that here and there punctuate the steady ocean rhythm with violent rumbles of hungry human stomachs. |
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Lapland Longspur:Lapland Longspur Mararmiutaq If you like sexy “little brown birds,” this is the one for you. It is known in English as a Lapland longspur because of its unusually long rear toenail and the area of Europe, Lapland, where it was first described. Lapland is located in the northernmost region of the Scandinavian Peninsula, and is inhabited by Lapps (who actually call themselves Saami, by the way). Its scientific name, Calcarius lapponicus, means much the same as the English, although some might be tempted to translate it as, “long-nailed Laplander.” Longspurs (not Laplanders) are members of the finch family, which is the largest of all bird families in North America, with 83 species. Names are fascinating, aren’t they? So while I’m on the topic, let me tell you what I’ve learned about the Yupik names for this little brown bird. As far as I know, “Mararmiutaq” is the name most commonly used to refer to the Lapland longspur in the Yukon Delta region, although in Hooper Bay I was told the name was “Nacaukuparaq.” “Mararmiutaq” translates as “lowland tundra dweller,” which perfectly describes its nesting habitat. During my spring walks on the open tundra, both in Marshall and on the coast, I always found these handsome birds showing off their colorful plumage. This is where the Hooper Bay version of the name comes in. “Nacaukuparaq” refers to the male’s attractive “parka hood” outlined by the flowing shape of a river. Look at it closely in a bird guide, or through a pair of binoculars, and you’ll see what I mean and also why I’m partial to this poetic name. Now that you’ve seen a picture of the male longspur (or the real thing), you’ll have to agree that he is absolutely the sexiest of all the little brown birds in the neighborhood. Check out the rusty-red and black and white colors of his hood, and also his black apron while you’re at it. Even the much drabber female has prettier coloring than most of her cousins. But I don’t want to mislead you. As soon as the breeding season is over, the male becomes a Cinderella and loses his sexy plumage, eventually taking on the camouflage colors of his mate. Let’s not end this tale so soon, though. In the spring, as the males arrive and quickly stake out their territories on the tundra, the females take note as potential suitors tear after each other and feathers begin to fly in the establishment of nesting boundaries. After territorial ownership has been established and successfully defended, the feisty males, their testosterone flowing, begin their courting. This is when I most like to watch them. The male repeatedly flies up into the air for about 100 feet or more, tucks his wings in like a falcon in a dive, then gently sails down to the ground, landing in the same spot each time. As he begins his downward trajectory, he sings his musical courtship song, a sweet tinkling sound that often continues after he lands on his tundra home. Once the female has been impressed enough to accept his overtures and finds a good hiding place for a nest, the male starts the second phase of his courtship and offers her nest materials in his bill. If she accepts, he knows he’s got it made, and the third phase of courtship I leave to your vivid imagination. The nest is made comfortable by the female with materials like grasses and mosses; hairs of lemmings, voles, dogs, caribou and rabbits; and feathers of raven, ptarmigan and other birds found in the tundra. Things now begin to move especially fast, since summers in the north are brief. In short order, Mrs. Longspur lays 4-6 pale green-white eggs marked with what look like hieroglyphic black scrawls, which she broods for only 13 days, when, presto!, little featherless beasties with bulging skin-covered eyes break out of the shells and begin gobbling a never ending feast of mosquitoes, caterpillars, spiders and other insects supplied by both mother and father. Within ten days, the young have left the nest, and two days later they stretch their wings and take their first flight. What a great feeling it must be for them to defy gravity -- and so rapidly, compared to larger birds like cranes or geese. Finally, after another week or so of intense coaching, the longspurs are on their own. At this stage, both male and female young resemble their mother, except for her more anorexic shape. Having been so busy feeding and tending her fledglings, she hasn’t paid much attention to her figure. She must now gain back all of her lost weight, however, so she can soon make the long migration south to warmer climes, where she and the rest of her species will enjoy the winter months ahead.   |
Lesser Sandhill Crane:Dancing Birds Lesser Sandhill Crane Qucillgaq You're wondering about the title, aren't you? Birds don't dance, you say. Well, guess again. The Lesser sandhill crane could compete with the best of you waltzers or Eskimo dancers out there. I had my first introduction to these dancing birds many years ago when my wife and I lived in the Yupik Eskimo village of Hooper Bay. One spring we slogged several miles across the wet tundra over to Kokechik Bay where we set up our tent in the middle of their nesting grounds. We were rewarded for our efforts with a weekend full of the most spirited bird dancing we had ever seen. Later, when I lived in both Scammon Bay and Emmonak, Iwas sometimes lucky enough during a walk to surprise a pair of cranes as they gracefully spread their long rusty gray-brown wings, bowed to one another, then bounced like rubber balls sometimes six feet in the air, all the while joyously uttering loud trumpetlike counterpoint calls that resounded for miles in every direction. It is this characteristic call that gives the bird its Yupik name, "qut’raaq," along the Yukon river, and "qucillgaq,'' in the Hooper Bay-Nunivak Island area. "Lesser sandhill crane" is only the bird's common English name. It also has a name that ornithologists and birders like myself from all over the world use when we get together at international conferences and festivals to discuss and celebrate the enigmatic habits of this amazing creature of the northern tundra. We refer to it as, Grus canadensis,which in Latin translates simply as "Canadian crane." The word "grus" originally derived from its call. In spite of the "Canadian" in its name, the sandhill crane is very much an American. Even those that nest on the Canadian tundra migrate south to spend the long winter months in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California. Some even go south of the American border and probably return with a Mexican accent. Whatever its nationality or language idiosyncrasies, the sandhill crane is a fascinating animal. It is one of 15 similar species worldwide of the bird family Gruidae, and one of two native species in North America. The other is the whooping crane, which is among the most endangered species on our planet. Besides their dramatic and graceful courtship dances, there are other things about sandhills that make them unique among birds. For one, their family, Gruidae, has a very long lineage, dating back to the Eocene Period, 40-60 million years ago. They are among the tallest birds in the world, and when they migrate they sometimes fly at an elevation of more than 10,000 feet. They are also among the longest living animals, one having lived to the ripe old age of 61 in the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. With their long spindly legs, they walk great distances when feeding, and have an immensely varied diet, which includes roots, tubers, seeds, grains, berries, mice, lemmings, small birds, snakes, lizards, frogs, crayfish, earthworms, crickets, grasshoppers, beetles, ad nauseum. In between dancing and eating, both the female sandhill crane and her loyal consort build a moundlike nest out of marsh plants, grasses and other organic materials (no plastic, thanks). This perch may end up to be 4-5 feet across, and soon has 1-3 large olive colored eggs spotted with lavender and brown. Both mom and pop incubate the eggs, in turns, which is certainly unique among birds. The eggs hatch in 28-30 days, and the young first fly about 90 days after hatching. That's why you see them wandering around the tundra for so long with their parents. Size has its disadvantages, especially when there are hunters lurking nearby. It's curious that even after the cranes return in the spring, the young continue to hang around their parents' nesting ground. I often saw gangly teenagers strutting awkwardly back and forth, probably wondering what their next move should be. Very quickly the parents decide for them as they unceremoniously chase their progeny off so they can get down to the business of setting up house for yet another season. While living in the lower Yukon River village of Marshall, I didn't see the cranes dance like I did down on the coast because few of them actually nested in the immediate area. In the fall, however, I saw a lot of other interesting crane behavior, since more than a hundred of them converged on the tundra near the village to graze and gorge themselves on the many blueberries and blackberries there. The cranes grew so accustomed to me picking with them, I became privy to some very intimate scenes. A number of years ago, I watched an Eskimo dance I will never forget. Leota Hill from Hooper Bay performed her crane dance for us at the Marshall School. She did it so well that, in my mind's eye, I could visualize those cranes dancing down there next to Kokechik Bay. First, spreading their wings, then bowing to each other, suddenly bouncing like rubber balls high into the air, and landing light as a feather next to each other - beginning once again another cycle of Mother Nature's ever renewing miracle.  | |
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Lesser Yellowlegs:Lesser Yellowlegs Nayangkayuli The Yup’ik name I learned in the Lower Yukon River village of Marshall says a great deal about this little sandpiper. Nayangkayuli means, “the one that is really good at greeting you.” And I take it this is when you stumble into their nesting area and they begin to let the whole neighborhood know about it with their high-pitched scolding call, tew, tew, tew, repeated over and over again. When the birds are perched on tall snags, you can hear these chiding cries for a quarter-mile or more. They do have another much sweeter call, though, that is used in early spring on their breeding grounds, and it sounds much like that of a killdeer, kidl-deer, kidl-deer, kidl-deer. When you hear this telltale sound you know spring has truly arrived. And one good reason is that the marshes where the birds find most of their food must have open water. It is there the yellowlegs wade in the shallow water and forage for aquatic insects, including water beetles, dragonfly nymphs and crane fly larvae. They also feed on various crustaceans and small minnows. They mostly pick their food from on or just below the surface of the water, but they sometimes swing their bills back and forth to stir up the prey from the bottom. They will wade up to their breasts and even swim for short distances to snag their prey. I’ve also often seen them feeding on land insects. This large assortment of feeding strategies is probably one reason they are such a numerous sandpiper. But there are other reasons, which have much to do with their nesting behavior. After a rousing display flight by the male where he rapidly rises and falls above a watching female while loudly singing his kidl-deer, kidl-deer song, the female indicates her acceptance of him as her mate by making a shallow scrape on dry ground near a log or pile of brush and lining it with leaves and grass. There she lays four tawny-gray brown-blotched eggs in the shape of a cross with their narrow ends facing toward the center. Both parents help brood the eggs, which all hatch at the same time about 22 days later. As with all sandpipers, the downy young are precocial and leave the nest right after hatching to escape possible predators. Although the chicks are able to feed themselves from the get-go, both parents tend them by day and brood them by cool night, especially when they are very young. Their mother is the first to leave them, even before they fledge, but when they finally take their first flight about 20 days after they step out of the nest, their father says goodbye, too, and they are completely on their own. Unlike humans, the young grow up fast, taking maximum advantage of the ample food supply during the summer in preparation for an early fall departure for southern climes where they will spend the next seven months. If the number of common English names is any indication of the success of the Lesser yellowlegs in today’s difficult world with so much habitat destruction everywhere, this bird is truly successful. Here are some: Common yellowlegs, Lesser long-legged tattler, Lesser tell-tale, Lesser yellow-shanks, Little stone-bird, Little stone snipe, Little tell-tale, Little yelper, Summer yellowlegs, Yellow-legged plover, and my favorite, Small cucu. In Yup’ik, there are also several names for the bird: Cenairaq (referring to its sandy beach habitat), Pipipiaq (imitative of its call), Sugg’erpak (probably referring to its bigger cousin, the Greater yellowlegs, because of its longer bill), Tuntussiik, Tuntussiikaq, and Tuntussuliangalek. The meaning of the last three is a riddle for me. Do they refer to the long legs of a caribou (tuntu)? Finally, its scientific name, Tringa flavipes, is also interesting. The name may be as ancient as the Yup’ik names above. “Tryngas” is a Greek word used by Artistotle 2300 years ago to describe any white-rumped waterbird. Flavipes is a combination of the Latin words, flavus, yellow, and pes, foot. And there you have it. A pretty cool bird, eh?  |
Long-tailed Duck:Long-tailed Duck Aarrangyar(aq) Listening to this noisy sea duck during its migration north is probably one of the most unique listening experiences I’ve ever had in the YK Delta. The Hooper Bay Yupik name, Aarrangyar, describes the sound perfectly, although the names given the bird by Lower Yukon (Allgiaraq) and Nunavak Island speakers (aarraangiiq) also give you a pretty good idea of their call. Their old English name Oldsquaw, now regarded as politically incorrect, refers to this talkative behavior, although it is the male that actually makes most of the noise. Scientists, too, must have been impressed when they first gave the bird its scientific name, Clangula hyemalis, since it translates loosely as “noisy winter duck.” Aarrangyar is unique for other reasons. Unlike most ducks, which molt twice annually, this one has four different plumages each year. These are achieved in a series of overlapping partial molts, making it seem as though the plumage change is continuous, especially from April to October. What’s more, the male wears its “breeding” plumage only during the winter months. It gets its “non-breeding” plumages in the spring and wears them through the nesting season all the way to October. This is different from most other ducks that molt to their non-breeding plumage (“eclipse plumage”) only for a short period beginning in early summer, followed by a molt in autumn back to bright breeding plumage. Winter is the best time for any duck to have its breeding plumage, since it is then that they actively court and form pair bonds that lead to immediate nesting in the spring. Nesting for the Long-tailed duck doesn’t actually begin until the third summer, or when the bird is two years old. The courtship displays of the male, however, begin during the previous winter, so that by early spring the pair bonds are already formed and the two birds can migrate north together. I was amazed to learn of the number of courtship displays of the male, which are so necessary in the attraction of his mate. I have watched some of them, but never dreamed there were so many more. Ornithologist, Robert Alison, distinguished a dozen distinct performances by courting males, including: shaking its head from side to side, tossing its head back with bill pointed up while calling, raising its long tail high in the air, porpoising, wing-flapping, body-shaking, bill-dipping, and others. Unique calls accompany some of these. Females have their own displays: chin-lifting, soliciting, and hunching. The female builds her nest in a hidden depression close to water out of plant material. She adds large amounts of her own down to the nest after she lays her eggs and begins incubation. She lays 6-8 olive-buff to olive-gray eggs, which she incubates herself for almost 4 weeks. Shortly after they hatch, the young leave the nest and head for water. Although they already know how to feed themselves, they are tended by their mother who may facilitate their feeding by dislodging food to the surface after diving. Their food is the same as their mother’s: small crustaceans, insects and their larvae, pond weeds, grasses, and fish eggs, although as they grow larger they will include small mollusks and fish. Long-tails forage by diving and swimming underwater, with their wings partly open but propelled mainly by their feet. Most feeding is within 30 feet of the surface, but they are able to dive as deep as 200 feet, making them one of the deepest diving ducks in the world. Also, of all diving ducks, Aarrangyar spends the most time underwater relative to time on the surface. When foraging it is submerged 3-4 times as much as it is on top of the water. At between 35-40 days, young Long-tailed ducks are ready for flight and spend until late in fall fattening up for their migration south. They also tend to migrate north early in spring, and travel in flocks of hundreds of birds. Most migrate around coastlines rather than flying overland, and immense numbers fly north through the Bering Strait in spring. Most of those fly close to Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, so if you’re out in a boat at that time of year, look for these truly awesome birds. Something tells me, though, their diet may give them a rather “off taste,” so they probably aren’t worth trying to hunt unless you’re very hungry. I hate to burden you with additional names, but these are a few more common ones of this duck: Calloo; cockawee; coween; hound; old Billy; old granny; old injun; old molly; old wife; quandy; scoldenore; scolder; south-southerly; long-tail; squeaking duck; swallow-tailed duck; uncle Huldy; John Connolly; and winter duck.  |
Long-tailed Jaeger:Long-tailed Jaeger Melugyuli Some of you may ask why I write about the birds I do. I wonder, myself, but I can tell you it has a lot to do with characteristics that I admire about these birds. The Long-tailed jaeger is no exception. The word jaeger is German for "hunter," and perfectly describes the nature of this predatory, hawk-like bird. I say only "hawk-like" because it is actually more closely related to the gulls we have here in Alaska. Ornithologists include it in the family Laridae, which also includes gulls, terns, skimmers and skuas. It is one of three species of jaeger found in Alaska and on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, the other two being the Parasitic and Pomarine jaeger. Its Latin scientific name is Stercorarius longicaudus, which means "long-tailed scavenger." It seems Latin-speaking scientists did not appreciate the finer hunting characteristics of the jaeger as fully as German speakers did. In the names they gave this bird, Yupik speakers seem to have appreciated many more of the qualities that make this bird unique than even the Germans did. One of the Yupik names for the bird, melugyuli, means "the one who sucks (birds eggs)," referring to one of its less appreciated predatory characteristics, since in this way it competes with the Yupik people for the eggs of ducks and geese and other birds in the spring. Another name that specifically describes the Long-tailed jaeger, cungarrlutaq, loosely translates as "good old shrimplike, hawk-like bird," referring to both its shrimp-like tail and its hawk-like hunting strategies. The term of endearment, "rrlutaq," attached at the end, is probably an indication of admiration for the bird after watching it behave for countless generations in its hunting habitat. There is little wonder why Yupik people seem to both scorn and admire Long-tailed jaegers, for the birds, like the people, are extremely aggressive hunters, often chasing other birds as large as themselves with such tenacity that the pursued regurgitates its recent meal in the air. The jaeger then swiftly swoops down and picks the tidbit up in mid-flight. They may also chase down and kill young song birds and shorebirds in flight on their nesting grounds, which is the dry circumboreal tundra of Alaska, Canada, Siberia, Scandinavia and Greenland. From another point of view, no one can help but marvel at the speed and grace of jaegers as they glide and wheel and pirouette like swallows over their breeding territories. I have watched their mating flight display in both Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, and always stood transfixed by their aerial gymnastics. Their hunting flight is equally as buoyant and graceful, as they course over the grasses and moss and wild flower-studded tundra, searching for lemmings and voles. In addition to these animals, they will eat the contents of birds eggs, as well as the young from the nests. During my summer hikes in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, I have often seen them circling low over the tundra, trying to locate the eggs or young of birds recently flushed from their nests. Insects, spiders and small fish are also a part of their menu, as are crowberries and other berries, which they fatten up on just prior to their migration to the southern hemisphere over an ocean route that is still mostly a mystery. A little about the family life of these fascinating nomadic hunters. After arriving on the Alaskan tundra in late May, the males quickly establish territories and patrol them vigilantly with the slow wing beat of an Arctic tern. The female seems to be attracted by the grace of the male's aerial displays and the fierceness of his defense of the nesting grounds. Once the mating bond is sealed, however, the two birds form a life-long monogamous relationship like that of geese, swans and cranes, rejoining each other year after year at the nest site to procreate and raise their young. While hunting either for themselves or their young, Long-tails hover like kestrels, dropping to the ground and chasing their prey on foot. When they catch a lemming or vole, they first peck it to death, then grab the belly with their claw-like beak, shaking it until the skin rips open. They then eat it, or, if they have young in the nest, take it back and regurgitate the partially digested food for the chicks to eat. Like gulls and terns, jaegers continue to feed their young even after they learn to fly. Although we know much about Long-tailed jaeger behavior during the three short months they spend in their breeding grounds in Alaska and other parts of the North, their habits for the other nine months of their lives are almost a total mystery. Which is another reason why I'm attracted to this intriguing bird. I like mysteries.  |
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Mallard Duck:Mallard Duck Ukulkatagpak Have you ever wondered where domestic ducks originated? Well, the Mallard is the answer. This common duck is the ancestor of all breeds of domestic ducks except the Muscovy. It is probably the best known and most abundant wild duck in the northern hemisphere, including Alaska. It is also one of the few duck species that will remain here all winter if it has a dependable source of open water and food. If you ever visited the Chena River near Pioneer Park in Fairbanks during the midwinter months, you've seen these ducks. The same in Anchorage at Westchester Lagoon. When I lived on the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta I never saw them winter over, but I imagine somewhere somebody has observed them there. The Mallard is one hardy bird. For hunters everywhere, they are also a very tasty bird. That's why they have the Yupik name they do. Ukulkatagpak, the Yukon name for Mallard, means something like "really fatty big duck." It has many other names from other areas in the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta that relate to both its fatness and its usefulness to humans. In Hooper Bay they call the duck Yuukaq and Yuukarpak, and in Norton Sound they use these terms plus lyukarpak and Uqsurtaq. Kuskokwim villages use the terms Uqsuqaq and Uqsuqerpak. Undoubtedly there are others I haven't mentioned. All of which goes to show how universal and well known the duck is in southwest Alaska. While we're on names, the scientific name for the Mallard is Anas platyrhynchos, meaning flat-nosed duck. The common name Mallard comes from the Old French word, maslard, relating to "maleness." Masle means "male." With its glossy green head and chestnut breast, the male Mallard is notably different from other male duck species. Although the female is a plain brown color, her loud quack, quack-quack, quack, quack-quack while swimming makes her unmistakable from other species. Mallards are dabbling ducks, which means they feed in shallow ponds and rivers by reaching below the surface and grabbing vegetation off the bottom with their bills. You've probably seen them tipping up their tails to further extend their range. When necessary, they can also dive for food in deeper water. In addition to bottom plants, they will eat snails, crustaceans, aquatic insects, tadpoles, small fish and fish eggs. They also forage on grass and grain seed, and some of you may even have seen them scavenging on dead salmon. Something you've probably noticed about Mallards is that when they take off they fly up vertically from the water or land. This is a trait other dabbling ducks like pintails and teal have. They also favor fresh water at all seasons. Rarely will you see them on salt water. Males and females do their courting and form pair bonds during fall and winter, so they are already paired by the time they reach their nesting grounds in spring. Courting displays by the male include dipping his bill in the water and then rearing up, whistling and grunting as he settles back on the water; raising his head and tail while giving sharp calls; and plunging the front of his body deep in the water and then flinging up water with his bill. All very dramatic. Once on the breeding ground, the male accompanies the female as she seeks and chooses a site for her nest. The site may be more than a mile from fresh water, but is usually closer to water and on the ground among concealing vegetation. The nest is a shallow bowl of leaves and grasses, lined with down plucked by the female from her own body. The female lays 7-15 whitish to olive buff-colored eggs and incubates them by herself for almost a month. A week or so after all the eggs have been laid and incubation begins in earnest the male leaves the nesting territory and joins other male flocks. Since Mallards are only seasonally monogamous, this is the last the male and female will see of each other. They will find new mates in the coming year. Within a day after hatching, the downy young leave the nest and are led to the nearest water by their mother. Although they are tended by her, she does not feed them. They are already programmed to feed themselves. As they grow older and bigger they become more independent, until finally two months after hatching they take their first clumsy flight. They are now completely on their own. Since Mallards are bottom feeders, they sometimes pick up spent lead shot. Even one of these shot will poison them and probably end up killing them. In any case, they are still one of the most abundant duck species in the world. There is a long list of other duck species with which the Mallard has crossbred and produced hybrids, including pintails and captive domestic ducks. When you find an odd-looking specimen that doesn't quite fit the pattern you're used to, go to your bird book and check it out for its mixed parentage. Then report it to the Audubon Society in Bethel or Anchorage.  |
Marbled Murrelet:Weather Bird Marbled Murrelet Ciguraq Back in the early 1980’s when my wife Jennifer and I taught in Scammon Bay I came to know an elder named Dan Akerelrea. He was a wonderful man and taught me so much about the Yupik way of life and about the birds the people depended upon for their livelihood. One of these birds was the Marbled murrelet, which he called Ciguraq. Kenn Kaufman in his book, Lives of North American Birds, referred to this murrelet as a “strange, mysterious little seabird.” If only Mr. Kaufman knew how strange and mysterious this seabird really was. For Dan told me it had been a favorite of the shamen on the Bering Sea coast for predicting the weather – akin to a crystal ball. Shortly after telling me this he began to sing the murrelet song, which he said had been sung by shamen to get an accurate weather prediction. I sat there spellbound as he chanted the whole song, finally coming to the end and chuckling to himself, “shaman song!” I wished I had taped him because it was probably the first time he had sung it in many years, since there was such a stigma attached to the shaman after the coming of the missionaries. I wonder to this day if anyone still knows that song. Ciguraq is a small chunky member of the auk family, and in its core range along the S.E. coast of Alaska nests high in the branches of giant old growth fir and spruce trees. In S.W. Alaska, however, where there are no tall trees on the coast, they nest in mossy depressions on the ground or in rock cavities on the sides of mountains. They do not breed until they are at least two years old, but not much is known about their courting behavior. They nest from mid-April until July or August in their northern range and lay only one very beautiful egg variably colored from olive-yellow to blue-green marked with brown, black and lavender. The egg is incubated by both adults for about 30 days. After the egg hatches both parents fly from their ocean feeding areas to their nest sites on land (sometimes up to 15 miles inland in their southern range) at dusk and dawn with their catch of small fish such as capelin, herring and sand lance. After about 40 days of this non-stop feeding, the fledgling finally lurches into the air and flies alone to the sea where it will have to fend for itself. Conditions are harsh out there and for this reason the mortality rate of juveniles is high. Marbled murrelets have seriously declined in their numbers in their southern Alaskan range, since logging operations have destroyed most of their old growth forest nesting habitat. This unfortunate situation has made it a flagship species in the movement to preserve the old growth fir and spruce areas of S.E. Alaska. Its habit of feeding near shore in relatively shallow water made it especially vulnerable to the Exxon Valdez oil spill in 1989. I became aware of the decline of this curious little auk a few years ago while helping out in a murrelet survey in S.E. Alaska. I remember how close we could get to the birds as they foraged in pairs or small groups of pairs, and how they would take off so suddenly, often with a little silver fish hanging from both sides of their mouths, and make a beeline for shore. They flew with extremely rapid wingbeats, and someone told me that they fly underwater the same way with 2-3 wingbeats per second. The origin of the Yupik name Ciguraq may have something to do with the shape of the ornamental bead that Yupik hunters traditionally used to dangle from their nose on a short piece of sinew. Its scientific name, Brachyramphus marmoratus, is Greek and Latin for “very short-billed seabird with marbled plumage.” If you’re out on the ocean and you see one of these birds, remember the old story about the shaman’s crystal ball.  |
Merlin:Merlin Qiirayuli  This hawk may not look as sexy as its cousins the Peregrine falcon and Gyrfalcon, and it certainly isn't the speeding bullet they are. You also won't see it except during the summer in the taiga forest of the YK Delta. But it is a fascinating bird in its own right. It takes the scientific name Falco columbarius because it has hook-shaped (falcate) claws, and because in Europe where it was given this name its prey included pigeons (columbarius). This is why seven of its common English monikers include pigeon hawk as part of the name. There is no question why it's not called pigeon hawk in the YK Delta. There are no pigeons there, unless someone has recently imported a few into Bethel. In the Delta this falcon takes the same name as the Peregrine falcon, Qiirayuli, because of the sound it makes, qi qi qi qi qee, when it rushes to meet an intruder. Its new common English name Merlin comes straight out of Arthurian legends from the Middle Ages of jolly old England. Remember Merlin the magician and prophet who advised Arthur from his home in the woods? Whoever named this bird Merlin was right on. For starters, it likes open woodland like the taiga of the YK Delta, and what's more I believe some of its behavior is truly magical. Watch it fly low over the ground toward a dead tree or stump, suddenly spread its tail and wings, then bound straight up to perch and light on top. Watch it as it hunts low over the ground, then when it spots a smaller bird, veers, picks up speed, swiftly overtakes it and plucks it out of midair with its talons. It will do the same with dragonflies, which it eats on the wing. Although the male falcon returns to the nesting ground before the female, usually the same pair comes back to the same general area to breed each year. And though they are already bonded from previous years, they still go through the same courtship mating dance. In this, the male verges on being magical when he performs his spectacular flight displays, with steep dives, slipping glides, powerful twists and tight rolls from side to side, finally fluttering with shallow wingbeats like a moth at night. During this performance the female watches him as she wings lazily round and round in the thin air or perches on a nearby dead tree or rock outcrop. Quite often these aerial acrobatics end up with the male lighting beside his mate and feeding her some tasty morsel he just caught. She never refuses. All this sounds familiar, doesn't it? -a little like some of our own human antics. Mating and nesting occur very soon after the acrobatics since the pair simply take over an abandoned nest of a raven, hawk or owl in a tree, on a cliff ledge or even on the ground. Sometimes the female relines the nest with twigs and feathers before she lays her eggs, but Merlins mostly focus on the pragmatic rather than the pretty. After laying 4-5 reddish brown spotted eggs, the female is helped by the male during the month long incubation period. After bringing his mate the food, he incubates the eggs while she eats. Even after the eggs hatch the female remains with the young, brooding them when they are small while her mate hunts for the whole family. When he flies in with the food, the female takes it from him near the nest and feeds it to the young. Only when the nestlings are older will their mother leave them and help hunt for their food. Because females are bigger than males they usually bring back more to eat for the young. A final unique quality of the Merlin is that yearling birds, especially males, occasionally help their parents the following year defend their nesting territory, and sometimes even help feed their mothers while they are incubating eggs on the nest. Now, that's magic, don't you think? |
Mew Gull:Mew Gull Arliaq Have you ever thought you heard a kitten mewing and the sound came from above you? And when you glanced up it wasn't a kitten at all, but a small white and gray gull flying around in lazy circles. Then you looked it up in your bird guide, and you found it was called a Mew gull. Well, the Mew gull is one of the few birds whose English name imitates its call (remember "onomatopoeia"?). There are a handful of others, like the chickadee, killdeer and whimbrel, but you'll be hard pressed to find many more. This isn't true of Yupik bird names, though. Probably half of those I've written about so far are imitative of their calls. But the Y-K Delta Yupik name for the Mew gull, "Arliaq," is another story. According to the Yupik Eskimo Dictionary, its origin is from the Aleut, "agligax," their name for the same bird. It's a mystery to me how that happened, and if anyone has an idea, let me know. Bristol Bay Yupik people have another name for the bird, Egiaq. And then there is the generic name for gull, Naruyaq, which many Yupiks use to describe the Mew gull, probably because it's such a friendly gull, willing to share your food right from your hand (which is the meaning of "naruyaq"). And we cant forget the scientific name, Larus canus, from the Latin meaning "hoary-white seabird." Not a very imaginative name, but such are scientific names. I simply call this friendly little gull "mewy." Mewies have some fascinating behavior, by the way, among which is their courtship display. The female assumes a hunched posture and slowly approaches the male, flagging her head as she moves forward. When she is directly in front of her mate she begs for food by pecking on his bill. He then regurgitates food for her. Mating follows. This display is repeated during the period of egg laying. Speaking of eggs, Arliaq lays three buff-brown or olive-brown eggs in a grass-lined scrape on a river bar, or in a shallow cup on a platform of twigs, seaweed, grass and moss in the top of a low-growing spruce next to a lake. But you might find a mewy's nest anywhere, as long as there is water nearby. And there may or may not be a colony of them nesting fairly close together. The incubation period for the eggs is about 25 days. During this period the male is especially protective of his brooding mate. You do not want to even get close to the nest. If you do, heaven help the crown of your head. And after the eggs hatch, it's double trouble for any human approaching the nest or chicks. Both adults will be on you lickety split, and if you werent bald before they attacked, you certainly will be after they finish with you. As with other species of gulls, the chicks are semiprecocial. That is, they are born with their eyes open, are covered with downy feathers and are able to walk. But unlike fully precocial chicks, they remain in or near the nest for the first two or three weeks after hatching. Adults feed their hatchlings by regurgitating food, especially fish, then holding it in the tip of their bill for the chick to peck at. They may also regurgitate the food completely in the nest or on the ground in front of the young birds. Feeding of the chicks is done through the fledging period, which usually takes place about a month after hatching. Slowly but surely the quickly growing fledglings then learn to feed themselves, and they become omnivores like their parents, eating everything from insects and earthworms to fish, mollusks, crustaceans, young birds, mice, and grains. They also learn some interesting feeding strategies from their parents, like dropping sea urchins from the air onto rocks or other hard surfaces to crack them open. They become useful scavengers around harbors and beaches, cleaning up dead fish, crabs, and other sea animals cast up after a tide or storm. I've seen them doing this clean-up work on the Hooper Bay beach after tides and storms there. Another interesting feeding behavior mewies learn over time is to drink salt water. Like all gulls, they can do this by eliminating excess salt through a pair of glands located on top of the skull above the eyes. When juvenile gulls fledge they do not resemble their parents. They instead have a distinctive streaked brown plumage which continues to change until the third year when their feather color becomes like that of their parents and is finally worthy of the scientific name, canus, which means "hoary-white." They are then fully mature birds who can have families of their own and peck the pates of humans bold enough to approach their nests. Be careful!  |
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Northern Goshawk:Northern Goshawk Qaku'urtaq I did a lot of cross-country skiing when I lived on the Delta, even on the windy days. When the wind started blowing hard I headed for the woods. And it was there I sometimes encountered the Northern goshawk. I never saw him, at first. I only heard a fast luffing of wings through the trees. Then I'd spot a small bird, maybe a grosbeak, streak past me, followed close behind by this jumbo phantom of feathers, dodging and darting through the tangle of trees, paying no attention to me as it gave chase to what would probably be its next meal. The goshawk is able to fly with such agility through the forest because of its rounded wings and long tail. Especially acute eyesight helps it twist and turn, narrowly avoiding tree branches and other obstacles that would probably maim and kill it if it made the slightest miscalculation. Finally, just at the right moment after overtaking its prey, the hawk thrusts its long legs and feet forward, strikes its victim, drives its sharp talons into the smaller bird's body and quickly dispatches it with a powerful grip of its feet. Accipiter gentilis is the goshawk's scientific name, and translates loosely as "belonging to the noble hawk clan." Its common name, from German, simply means, "goose hawk," probably because in Europe the hawk was known to occasionally attack farmers' geese. The Yupik name Qaku'urtaq translates as "scolding" or "nagging bird," probably because of the nature of its harsh alarm call, cac, cac, cac or cuk, cuk, cuk. My guess is that there's also some onomatopoeia involved here. Perhaps the Yupik verb, "qak'urte," even stems from the sound of a scolding goshawk. This sort of thing has happened before in language. There is another colorful Yupik name for this bird, "Eskaviaq," and probably derives from the way its prey's feathers are scattered when hit in midair. Goshawks, of course, don't hunt and feed in a vacuum. As with all other animals, the ultimate purpose of much of its behavior is to perpetuate the species. All of us must eat a healthy diet so we can have healthy kids. That said, let's fast forward to springtime, when skiing conditions, by the way, are even better in the Delta. After a brief period of diving and swooping with slow wingbeats by both male and female over their nesting territory, the pair soon gets down to business and builds a bulky nest of sticks and twigs on a horizontal branch next to the trunk of a birch, aspen or spruce tree. After lining it with bark strips, evergreen sprigs, grass and feathers, the nest is ready for momma to lay her eggs. Which she does lickety split, about 3-4 of them, large (2.3") and bluish-white in color. Then momma spends the next 36-38 days incubating the eggs, turning them over every half-hour or so to expose them to her warm skin. Her mate, meanwhile, hunts for both of them and feeds her on the nest. He does this even through the first 10 days or so of the nestling stage when the hatched birds are brooded by their mother. After this critical period, the female begins helping with the hunting chores. Finally, when the young are about 42 days old they venture out on the branches of the nest tree and begin ruffling their wings in anticipation of their first flight. This happens about three days later. Even after fledging, however, they are dependent on their parents for at least another month or more. By the time they are fully on their own the first moist snowflakes may already have fallen, and some of their prey, such as the Willow ptarmigan, may have started to turn color in preparation for yet another winter in the far North. Usually goshawks winter over their summer breeding range, but if their staple prey of lemmings, hares and various species of grouse become scarce they will move southward until they find a food supply ample enough to sustain them till Spring when they will once again head north to their nesting grounds in Alaska.  |
Northern Harrier:Northern Harrier Qaku'urtaq A few days ago, I was watching a Northern harrier as it hovered above a nearby marsh, and my thoughts drifted back to the Yukon Delta where I sometimes saw these large raptors hunting on the tundra. While hiking behind Marshall I was able to identify a harrier from a mile away as it flew low across the tundra, making a few wingbeats, then gliding with its long wings held slightly in the form of a V. Stopping in midair to hover for a moment, it might drop suddenly to the ground and come up with its prize, a small vole or bird or even a young snowshoe hare. I wondered how they detected their prey, since they don't have telescopic vision as other hawks do. On watching this special hawk closely with my binocs I noticed that its face looked very much like that of an owl, having a curved facial disk. I later learned that, as with owls, this feathered ruff reflects sound, thereby allowing the bird to better locate its prey. This is unique among hawks. The Northern harrier is unique in other ways. It is the western hemisphere's only harrier, and it is farflung in its range, stretching from the eastern seabord to the Pacific coast and all the way north to the Arctic Ocean and west to the Bering Sea. It is also found throughout Asia and Europe. During a recent trip to Mongolia I saw a few of them in the grassy steppe country there. Another feature which distinguishes Northern harriers from other hawks is that the male and female are unlike in their coloration. Where the male is a pale gray with black wingtips, the female is predominantly brown. This is for camouflage purposes, since the female must sit on a nest located in a mostly brown context. As with many other hawks, she is larger than her mate. Both, however, have a conspicuous white rump patch, which is one of the traits I look for when I first spot them. On the Lower Yukon Delta, while observing spring rituals of the many different raptors found there I have three favorites: the Gyrfalcon, Long-tailed jaeger, and the Northern harrier. Like the other two, the courtship flight of the male harrier is spectacular. To demonstrate his prowess he flies up in the air, then dives in roller-coaster ups and downs, barrel-rolling as he plummets earthward, doing this over and over again. Simply watching him makes me dizzy. Quite often the male performs well enough to attract more than one mate. Whether one or many, the female selects a nesting site on a dry knoll in a marsh, bog or on the tundra and gets down to work, building her nest of small sticks, grass, soft vegetation and feathers. The male only helps by bringing her some of the materials. When the nest is ready, mating takes place and up to nine eggs are laid in as many days. The average number of eggs is five, first appearing as pale blue, later fading to dull white with pale brown spotting on some of them. Incubation is by the female alone and it takes one month until the hatchlings successfully peck their way through the egg shells and emerge into the bright of day. During the first two weeks after hatching, the mother bird remains with the young most of the time while her mate does the hunting and delivers the food to the female who then feeds it to the chicks. After about two weeks, mother takes over much of the responsibility of both hunting and feeding the by now quite large young. Within two more weeks or so these birds are feathery enough to take wing and begin to learn to feed themselves. The Yupik name for the Northern harrier is Qaku'urtaq, which probably relates to the scolding quality of its call when the bird is upset. Since its call sounds something like, kee- kee-kee or kek, kek, kek, I suspect the name could also be somewhat onomatopoeic. The Northern harrier's scientific name, Circus cyaneus, means dark blue circling hawk. Its common English name relates to the way this northern raptor harries its prey. Other English names are: blue hawk (male), frog hawk, harrier, hen-harrier, marsh harrier, mouse hawk, marsh hawk and white-rumped hawk. All of which goes to show how special this hawk really is.  |
Northern Pintail:Northern Pintail Yuukaq Now that it's spring, there's bound to be open water on or near the tundra somewhere. Chances are that where you find it, you'll hear a mellow flute-like whistle, followed by a kluk or pruk. Stop for a while, and take a gander with your binocs, and I'll bet you see a drake Pintail duck consorting with his mate. They both probably just arrived from points far to the south where they spent the long winter. They are one of the first duck species you'll see in spring on freshwater sloughs, lakes and ponds. It's possible for that reason the Yupik people in the Hooper Bay area gave them the name "yuukaq," which loosely means, "raw material needed to stay alive or be a person." Mallard ducks, which arrive about the same time as Pintails, are named "yuukarpak," which means "big raw material needed to stay alive." "Pak" means big in Yup'ik, and refers to the larger size of the mallard. The Pintail has other Yupik names. In Scammon Bay, some call it "uqulegaq," which means "one having oil or fat," probably relating to the fat on its body in fall, which must make it a tasty morsel indeed. On the Kuskokwim, it is called "uqsuqaq," which may also relate to its body fat content. Along the Yukon, and also in Scammon Bay, they call the Pintail, "uutkaaq," which derives from the Russian, "utka," for duck. The Pintail, whose scientific name is Anas acuta, or "pointed duck," has the longest neck of all the dabblers or puddle ducks. This trait, along with its slender build, and the male's sharp upward-pointed tail, makes it the most streamlined of waterfowl. After takeoff, watch it cleave gracefully through the sky with its long narrow wings, and you'll wish you were a pintail. The male's unique head coloration, I think, also qualifies him as one of the most handsome of northern ducks. Rivaling the Lesser scaup and Mallard duck in numbers, the Pintail comes a close second or third as the most abundant North American duck. It frequents shallow lakes, tundra ponds, sloughs and marshes and, because of its longer neck generally feeds in deeper water than other dabblers. As a dabbler or puddle duck, it doesn't dive completely under the water for its food. It simply tips its head, neck and most of its body vertically into the water, leaving its tail straight up in the air, and picks vegetal materials off the bottom. It will only dive to escape predators, although normally it escapes by springing directly upward from the water like a teal. As with all female dabblers, her call is a quack and can be hard to differentiate from that of other female puddle ducks. Although in spring during nesting season you don't hear much quacking from the female, you do hear a lot of it in fall and winter, especially if you happen to be in the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge, California, where more than a million Pintails congregate during the winter months. Some Pintails must think they're ocean birds, however, for every fall there are always a few flocks that cross the Pacific from California 2000 miles to winter in the Hawaiian Islands. In spring, when they return to their nesting grounds in the north, Pintails have already formed pair bonds and almost immediately get down to the serious business of building their nests. These are mostly constructed by the female near ponds and lakes of sticks, leaves, grasses, mosses and her own downy feathers in a simple depression or hollow in the tundra. Between 6-12 yellow-green or cream colored eggs are layed, one per day, usually in June, and incubated by the female for about 3 1/2weeks. It's interesting that she doesn't begin incubating until she lays the last egg in her clutch. In this way, she assures that all of her young will hatch at more or less the same time. She stays on the nest during the first day after they hatch so they become "imprinted on her and will thereafter follow only her wherever she goes. On cue, the fuzzy little ducklings then do follow their mom out of the nest and head for the nearest body of water. As with most ducks, Pintails are single parent households in that only the female cares for the eggs and young. The drake leaves his mate early in her incubation period, when he begins to molt into his so-called eclipse plumage, which looks very much like that of the female and is worn throughout the winter months. Meanwhile, after another 3 weeks or so, the ducklings have grown their flight feathers and begin to try their wings. They're soon taking off with their mother and visiting other ponds and lakes, and putting on the fat that later makes them good raw material for somebody's stew pot or allows them to successfully find their way south to the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge and maybe even as far afield as a crater lake in Hawaii.  |
Northern Shoveler: Northern Shoveler Sugg'erpak If you ever find yourself on a placid lake or pond somewhere, take a look around and you might see one of the strangest species of ducks on earth, the Northern shoveler. Watch it for awhile and I guarantee you'll smile as this duck "shovels" its way, head half submerged, across the surface of the water. You've probably already guessed that it's feeding as it does this. But among ducks it is the species that is best equipped to feed in this way. For on the edge of both upper and lower bill it has special comblike "teeth" called lamellae that allow it to sieve tiny plants and animals such as diatoms and copepods from both the surface and muddy bottom of the lake. If you watch long enough you may even hear them murmur as they swim sedately along in pursuit of their miniscule quarry. During migration you will find scores of these birds swimming side by side, combing the water in unison, trying to fatten up for the long haul south to their wintering grounds in the southwest or Mexico. Down there I've seen them by the hundreds doing the same thing. On one memorable occasion a few years ago in Arizona, the sun was just setting, presenting me with silouettes of what must have been close to a thousand of these ducks on a large lake. A shimmering wake trailed each bird on the mirror surface of the water, making this sighting almost poetic (I say almost because I didn't write a poem about it). The shoveler's scientific name is Anas clypeata, which liberally translates as "shield-billed duck.'' The Yupik people have two names for the duck that I know about, Sugg'erpak, meaning simply "big-billed duck," and Curcurpak, meaning "big duck that goes cuq cuq." "Cuq Cuq" is actually only one of several of its calls and is made by the male during courtship. He also calls, "woh, woh, woh," when trying to entice his mate. When the pair finally arrives on their nesting ground his calls are mixed with an aggressive pumping of his head up and down as if to say "stay away from my mate, my nest and my feeding territory!" Shortly after reaching their nesting spot, the female builds her nest on grassy high ground near the boggy edge of water. She finds a concealed depression, lines it with dry grass and her own downy feathers, then starts laying her eggs, a lot of them. She has been known to lay as many as 14, ranging in color from pale olive-buff to greenish-gray. Unlike other male ducks, which usually take off after the last egg is laid, the shoveler male is more loyal and defends their nesting territory sometimes up to the time of hatching of the eggs. At that time, however, he does fly off to join other males on nearby sloughs and ponds, leaving the raising of the young to his mate. Imagine raising 14 kids, or even ten or twelve, all the same age, by yourself! But that's her daunting task. And it starts 22 days or so after incubation begins and all of the ducklings hatch and promptly follow their mom to the nearest slough or pond. If they manage to escape the likes of northern pike and other predators, they take their first wobbly-winged flights about 45 days later. At this point they officially join the ranks of one of the most abundant ducks in North America, numbering close to a million birds. Only pintails, mallards and American wigeons are more numerous. For those who are on the placid lake I mentioned above for the purpose of hunting these beautiful and unique ducks, hold your fire for a few minutes and watch them with your binoculars. Who knows, unless you're really hungry, maybe you won't pull the trigger.  |
Northern Shrike:Northern Shrike Kanguruaq "Butcher bird" is a name that would be hard for any bird to live with. But it's what many of us humans commonly call the Northern shrike, because of its habit of impaling larger prey on barbed wire, thorns or sharp twigs as it eats them or stores them for future meals. The Northern shrike gets its English name from "shriek," because of its shrill call when dodging goshawks or large falcons that prey on them. It nests farther north than its southern cousin the Loggerhead shrike and, although it migrates south in winter, will remain in the north until extreme cold and darkness set in. It belongs to the scientific family, Laniidae, from Latin lanius, meaning "butcher." Its full scientific name is Lanius excubitor, which literally means "watchful butcher." The name was given to the bird by the great Swedish scientist Carl Linnaeus, in the 1760's. Excubitor, by the way, actually means "sentinel" and refers to its habit of perching conspicuously on top of trees or utility poles and wires from where it can easily swoop down on its prey, usually consisting of insects, rodents, frogs and small birds such as chickadees and redpolls. Like many men in Southwest Alaska, the shrike is a true hunter. It usually strikes from above, sometimes hovering before dropping on ground-dwelling prey. When attacking birds in the air, Ianius is as fierce as a goshawk, either knocking its victim to the earth with a powerful blow from its bill or seizing it with its strong feet and sharp claws, then carrying it down to the ground where it kills it with a series of sharp bites to the neck with its hooked beak. It then impales the bird on a sharp branch or thorn where it proceeds to pluck and devour it piecemeal, starting with the head. It hunts voles and lemmings on the ground by first harassing them, then, when it sees an opening, seizing them by the neck with its beak and, as with birds, deftly piercing the spinal cord and severing the neck vertebrae. Small insects are usually caught in the air and swallowed in one gulp, but larger insects are held by the shrike's feet as it reaches down in mid-air or from its perch in a tree and tears off bite-size pieces. While living in the Delta, I only came across one Yupik name for the Northern shrike, 'kanguruaq," which is also one of the names used for snow buntings. It loosely translates as "frosty-looking bird" because of its white belly, which is the only color you see when you look up at them from the ground. They do have gray shoulders, however, and black mask, wings and tail, all of which you may see from the top if you happen to be flying overhead. Some of my best memories of the "kanguruaq" were in mid-August after returning to the village (Emmonak and Marshall, in particular) to resume my teaching duties, and hearing a gentle warbling song above me. On looking up, I would see three or four young shrikes perched on the electric wires, either being fed by their parents or being taught how to hunt simple things like insects. It was a good introduction to the onset of my own teaching season. These young were hatched from brown- or lavender-spotted gray-white eggs in a nest hidden somewhere in a nearby thicket of willows and alders. Twenty days later they left the nest, and ten days after that they could fly well enough to perch on the utility lines where I found them beginning to learn to feed themselves. As a species, these young shrikes have some built-in advantages which allow them to become extremely efficient daytime predators. They have remarkable eyesight, for one, comparable to that of hawks and eagles. They can spot a vole running on the ground or a flying bumblebee from more than 300 feet away. They can also fly very fast, having been clocked at up to 45 mph. They are able to hover over their prey before striking them. And finally, like falcons, they have a sharp toothlike structure (called "tomial teeth) on the cutting edge of their upper beak that allows for a piercingly quick death of their victims. All of these traits make the Northern shrike a mean killing machine. On the other hand, I have seen the adults lovingly feed one another while courting in the spring, and, of course, you couldn't ask for more doting parents. In both spring and mid to late summer, watch for them and you'll see what I mean.  | |
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Northern Wheatear:Northern Wheatear Mecaqcukaq Every year some friends and I hike to the top of a small mountain near Fairbanks named Wickersham Dome in search of migrating Northern wheatears, small thrush-like birds that have recently been placed in the Old World flycatcher family. Two years ago we found 26 of them on one of the rocky ridges, bobbing and bouncing in the air and landing only feet away to see who we were. Most of them were probably young birds and were following their elders on a migration that would finally take them through eastern Asia all the way to sub-Saharan Africa, more than 9000 miles away. In the spring they would follow a similar route back to Alaska for a total of 18640 miles! To do this they travel about 180 miles per day. They are the world champion songbird migrants, traveling farther than any other songbird in one year. But wheatears are champions in another way. They have the largest range of any other songbird in the world, nesting in alpine parts of Eurasia, in Greenland and the northeastern Arctic islands of Canada as well as throughout Alaska, including the uplands of the Lower Yukon Delta. When I first saw them in the Askinuk Mountains in the early 1980’s, I never in my wildest dreams imagined that they were such an amazing bird. Neither did anyone else, for that matter. No one knew precisely where they wintered until only two years ago after installing miniature tracking devices on them. These trackers finally established that the birds ended up in the northern parts of sub-Saharan Africa – incredible new knowledge for those who are passionate about birds. I should have suspected they were special birds when I learned their scientific name, Oenanthe oenanthe, means “vine blossom,” and was given to the bird by the Greek philosopher Aristotle more than 2000 years ago because the birds arrived on their breeding grounds in Greece just at the time the grape vines began to flower in Spring. It is a very poetic name, don’t you agree? The English common name is anything but poetic. “Wheatear” has nothing to do with wheat or ear. It is really just a euphemism for the Anglo Saxon, “white arse,” referring to its white rump, which is actually a very important part of his equipment, as you shall see in a bit. The Yup’ik name I have for the Northern wheatear, Mecaqcukaq, is a puzzle. It literally means, “ready to splash or splat,” and may relate to its courtship flight high in the air with a dizzying glide back to earth (as it sings) that makes it look like it’s going to slam headlong into the ground – a lot like the mating flight of the Lapland longspur, which has a similar Yup’ik name in the Nunivak Island area: Mecaqtaq (although one source says this is only the name for the female longspur). Another explanation for the name may be the way it hunts for its food, mainly insects and berries. It both runs and flutters in hot pursuit of active insects, or watches from a rocky perch, then plunges down to take the food on the ground. But let’s get back to some Spring basics, like when they first arrive in the uplands of the Lower Yukon Delta in May, or even earlier, depending on the snow conditions in the mountains. The courtship flight of the male is, like I said, up, up and up into the air to a dizzying height, then a slow glide back to the ground with his tail spread while sweetly warbling to his heart’s content, trying his hardest to impress his lady love who is watching far below. After landing on a high perch on the ground, he continues singing songs that often include imitations of other birds, then jumps down and hops and bows around her with his tail fanned to show off that lovely, you guessed it, white arse. As she crouches on the ground, he also may spring back and forth animatedly and then prostrate himself in front of her for several seconds with his wings and tail fully spread like a Japanese fan. This show is to prove he is the right guy for her, and when she is convinced of that she settles into building a nest in a nearby rock crevice or a deserted rodent hole. She builds it in the shape of a cup composed of grasses, twigs and small roots, and lines it with finer materials like moss and feathers. She will lay up to eight pale blue eggs (for the most part unmarked, but sometimes flecked with reddish brown dots at the larger end), then usually she alone will incubate them for two weeks until they hatch. Both parents will feed the nestlings (insects and berries are their main menu) for two additional weeks until fledging time when the parents divide the brood and continue to feed their respective groups for another two weeks. Then it’s up to the fledglings themselves to fatten up and prepare for the longest journey ever made by a songbird anywhere on earth.  |
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Osprey:Osprey Angllurayuli I remember the first time I saw one of these so-called "fish eagles" near Marshall back in the mid-1990's. He was hovering above a clearwater creek just off the Yukon River, searching for grayling or whitefish. Suddenly, with his wings above his body, tail outspread, and legs and head craned forward, he plunged down from about 40 feet into the water with a tremendous splash. Almost disappearing from view, and with only the tips of his wings showing, he struggled under water for about 15 seconds until finally he rose to the surface with a huge fish gripped in his talons. With a mighty effort he thrust his wings down, then up and down again, lifting himself and his prey into the air. Pausing for an instant in midair, he shook the water from his plumage, turned the fish around in his talons so the head pointed forward to reduce wind resistance, then flew off probably to feed his mate who was incubating eggs on her nest. What a show that was, and as the Yupik name, Angllurayuli, attests, this fish eagle is indeed "very good at diving under water" to catch its food. The reason the Osprey can hunt in this manner is because of its compact body feathers and its oily plumage. Barely a drop of water soaks into its feathers and, since oil is lighter than water, it allows the Osprey to easily bob back to the surface and, prey in talons, resume flying. Another unique trait evolved over millions of years of adapting to hunting for fish in lakes, rivers and estuaries, are the spines it has on the pads of the soles of its toes for holding on to slippery fishes. Watch the way an Osprey turns a fish around in midair, and you'll appreciate this adaptation. I wish I had a few of these spines on my fingers when I handle slimey fish. The Osprey is actually not an eagle at all. It is a distinct kind of fish-eating hawk that is often placed in its own separate family, Pandionidae. Its scientific name is Pandion haliaetus. Pandion was a Greek king of Athens and the father of Philomela and Procne, two tragic daughters who at their deaths were turned into birds. Found nearly worldwide, Angllurayuli nests almost everywhere in Alaska. This wasn't always so. It was seriously endangered by the effects of DDT and related pesticides from the 1950's through the 1970's. Only since the ban of these pesticides in 1972 has the Osprey made a comeback, especially in Alaska. Now wherever fish are plentiful you'll see a lot of these birds. This includes the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. As soon as the ice melts in Spring and fish can be hunted, Ospreys return from their wintering grounds and enter into courtship displays, which include soaring and circling together high in the sky, swift pursuit of the female by the male, dodging and turning and rapid swooping, and the male diving repeatedly in the vicinity of the nest site, often carrying a fish or stick in its beak. From the onset of the mating game the male feeds the female to cement the pair bond. Feeding continues during construction of the nest (by both sexes), which is usually located on the dead or broken top of a large tree not far from water. It is built of sticks and other materials, and over many years of continual use by the same pair can become quite bulky and huge, sometimes weighing as much as 1000 pounds. Feeding of the female by the male goes on during egg laying when the female lays up to four brown-blotched, creamy white-cinnamon pink eggs. She begins brooding immediately after the first egg is laid and does most of the incubation. The male occasionally helps out, and about 38 days later when the eggs have hatched he hunts for both his mate and hatchlings while she protects them from sun, rain and predators. After bringing a fish to the nest, the male presents it first to his mate who feeds it in turn to the young. They follow the same routine, more or less, for just shy of two months, when the big nestlings finally fluff up their oily-smelling plumage and prepare to leap from their nests into the great unknown. During the summer of 2006, while canoeing down the Kobuk River in N.W. Alaska, I watched scores of young Ospreys practicing their newfound skill of soaring round and round in the air with their parents. For a few days the parents would continue feeding these newly fledged birds, but soon the time would come when they, too, would have to take the plunge into cold water to learn to become angllurayulis, thus continuing the eternal quest to survive and carry on their own kind into the indeterminate future.  |
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Pacific Loon:Pacific Loon Tunucellek Go to your bird books and take a good look at this magnificent bird. Check the shape of the neck and you’ll understand why the bird’s Yupik name is Tunucellek, which loosely translates as, “the one that has the (occipital) bump in the back of its head.” This is the name I learned in Hooper Bay. In Scammon Bay and the Yukon, the variation Tunutellek is used. In other parts of the Delta, Yaqulekpak, meaning “big thing with wings,” is heard. The English name loon has an equally interesting root. It is thought to have derived from an old Scandinavian term, lom, meaning a lame or bumbling person, in reference to the loon’s clumsiness on land. Its legs are located so far back on its body that it virtually has to drag itself across the land. When the loon is in the water, however, it is all grace. Under the water, it is a miracle of nature, flying as well there as it does in the air. Among diving birds it is one of the best divers, and has been known to dive as deep as 240 feet below the surface. It can remain underwater for several minutes, and is able to swim for many hundreds of yards without surfacing for air. For that reason one of the other common names of the loon is diver, in this case, Pacific diver. According to Dan Akerelrea, an elder I once knew in Scammon Bay, when the loon dives for fish offshore in the Bering Sea it swims parallel to the land, and if hunters in kayaks were caught out at sea in dense fog they used to find their way back to land by watching the direction the loons swam while they hunted. Like other loons, Tunucellek can’t fly from land, and when it flies from water it needs a long running start before it becomes airborne. But once aloft, it is a swift, powerful flier with speeds clocked at more than 60 mph. In flight, it thrusts its neck forward and down, making it look like it’s flying upside down. The Pacific loon is one of the most beautiful of loons, having a black and white striped chin strap and necklace, deep purple throat patch, ruby red eyes (adapted for both above and below water vision), and a striking gray mane. Part of its beauty is in its wonderful repertoire of calls, which includes a guttural kwuk-kwuk-kwuk-kwuk, a rapid qua-qua-qua like the quack of a duck, growls and croaks, plaintive wails, as well as falsetto shrieks, squeals and yelps. I remember listening to these calls for most of the night as I camped in the fall of the year at Castle Rocks near Scammon Bay back in the early and mid-eighties. While listening to this wild, almost maniacal, “laughter” of the loons, I could easily relate to the expressions, “crazy as a loon,” and “loony.” With all these fascinating characteristics, it’s no wonder that in Yupik oral tradition the loon is considered a magical creature, part of the spirit world. It is often the familiar spirit (yua) of shamans who make it their business not only to heal people, but to communicate with the spirit world. There is a story told about a grandmother and her young grandson who walked everyday along the beach looking for food. One day the grandson saw a loon diving for food, and it looked so easy for the loon he told his grandmother, “I wish I could be a loon because they get food anytime they need it.” A shaman heard this through the loon’s yua and, deciding to help the boy and his grandmother, he turned the grandson into a loon. Also, in Ann Fienup Riordan’s book, Rule and Ritual in Yupik Oral Tradition, Thomas Chikigak tells a story about the creation when Raven the creator worked with loon in painting all of the birds he had made. But they had a falling out over what colors they should paint them, and in Raven’s anger he threw ash at the back (tunu) of loon’s head, thus painting it ash gray. Another wonderful thing about this loon is its courting behavior. If you are very lucky, you will see the mated pair facing off and dipping their bills at each other, then with a lot of commotion, splashing the water and diving under its surface. If you happen to be diving yourself, you might see the pair rushing at each other underwater. Reminds me of modern dance. I’ll bet that sometime over the thousands of years of Yupik song and dance there was at least one song dedicated to Tunucellek courting behavior. While all of this courting is taking place, both the male and female are building their nest, which they usually locate on aquatic vegetation at the edge of a shallow freshwater lake. It is composed of a wet mass of roots, stems and accompanying mud torn from the ground. The nest varies from only a scrape or depression to a mound of earth and plants. It is not completed until after the first egg is laid. Only two eggs are laid, and they vary in color from greenish olive to dark brown with some black spots or blotches. Both male and female share incubation duty, which lasts for almost a month. The chicks hatch asynchronously, or at intervals of a day or two, and shortly after the second chick has hatched they both slip over the edge of the nest into the water and follow their parents who at first feed and protect them, then teach them to feed and fend for themselves. When they are very young the chicks stay close to their parents, sometimes even climbing atop their mother’s back for protection from predators such as northern pike. I remember seeing this near Emmonak while teaching there in the late 1980’s. It was one of the most heart-warming vignettes of bird behavior I guess I’ve ever seen. By the end of two more long months the young have finally fledged, which for this lom, or stumblebum of a bird, is no mean feat, since it takes such a great distance for it to take off on water, and only on water. After they learn to fly, at the end of summer the young loons follow their parents to salt water. Here they continue feeding on small fish, crustaceans, mollusks, and even a few insects. In the fall, when the tundra turns a screaming red and yellow, these loons gather in small screaming flocks and begin their migration south to the northwestern shores of Mexico’s Pacific Ocean. When I find them down there, the color of their plumage has changed to a dark gray, and it is hard to distinguish them from other species of loons. The earliest fossils of these and other loons go back to the Paleocene, about 65 million years ago. Their scientific name is Gavia pacifica, which simply means Pacific sea smew, a form of Old World diving duck. Until recently Pacific and Arctic loons were regarded as one species. After studies of breeding biology in Russia, however, the single species was split into two. Now, bird listers who have the wherewithal and determination can add yet another bird to their life list. Good luck.  |
Parasitic Jaeger:Parasitic Jaeger Yungaq Every time I see these hawkish birds, I remember the first ones I ever saw just outside of Hooper Bay in the spring of 1980.They were performing their aerial mating dance, and I marvelled at how gracefully they wheeled and glided and pirouetted like oversize swallows above their breeding territory. I wished I could fly like that. The name I was given in Scammon Bay for the Parasitic jaeger is Yungaq, which refers to its hawk-like qualities. All over the Y-K Delta there is also a generic word, melugyuli, for jaeger. Meaning "the one that sucks," the name refers to the way it preys on the eggs of other birds it finds on the tundra. Where its hawkishness may be admired, this egg-sucking trait is definitely not appreciated, since it competes with the Yupik custom of hunting for the eggs of ducks and geese and other birds in the spring. The common English name for this predatory bird is not English at all. It is German and was taken from the German word "hunter," which originally referred to the wild huntsmen living along the Rhine River who were regarded by the king as plunderers and robbers. Although it may have some hawk-like characteristics, the jaeger is not a hawk at all. Ornithologists place it in the family Laridae, which also includes gulls, terns, skimmers and skuas. The Parasitic jaeger is one of three species of jaeger found in Alaska and on the Y-K Delta, the other two being the Pomarine and Long-tailed jaeger. Its scientific name, Stercorarius parasiticus simply means "parasitic scavenger." Which just goes to show that the scientists who named the bird didn't really appreciate its finer qualities. Not that Yungaq doesn't scavenge, mind you. It does, but in a very special way, aggressively flying after the likes of terns and gulls and causing them to drop fishes or disgorge the contents of their gullets. They then swiftly swoop down and pick up their prize in mid-flight. Got to admire them for that. Most of the scavenging of these jaegers takes place in winter as they follow their Arctic tern and gull cousins south along the coasts of the Pacific and other oceans. During the summer while on their nesting grounds they deftly hover and swoop over the wildflowers of the circumboreal tundra in search of small birds, eggs and rodents, although the Parasitic jaeger is less dependent on lemmings and voles than other species of jaeger. They also hunt on foot, and often I've watched them walk on the tundra pecking at spiders and insects and swallowing berries. As with other large birds, they seem to prefer blueberries and crowberries, which they fatten up on just prior to their migration south. Let's return to that graceful mating dance I referred to above. This is just part of their courtship ritual, which for the male also includes standing as erectly as he can on his nesting ground and calling softly to try to entice the female close enough to feed her a small six- or eight-legged gourmet tidbit. Once feeding takes place a pair bond is cemented that may last many years. In the Arctic, the nesting season is only three months long, so after a brief courting period the pair must quickly get down to business and begin their family. Before anything serious takes place, however, the male selects a nest site on a low mossy hummock, or other slight rise in the open. After his mate scrapes out a shallow depression and lines it sparsely with plant materials such as leaves, lichen and grass, the inevitable happens, and she lays two large spotted olive-green to brown eggs. Unlike the other species of jaegers, Parasitics often nest in small colonies. Whether in colonies or alone, the male vigilantly stands sentinel on the nesting ground while also sharing incubation duty when his mate needs to get a bite to eat. When a predator ventures near, the birds at first vigorously flap their wings, jump around and whimper loudly to try to distract the intruder. If that doesn't do the trick, both birds will aggressively dive bomb him until he leaves the scene. This includes any human intruder, such as me. After almost four weeks of brooding by both parents, the two eggs finally begin to hatch. They do so, however, within two or three days of each other, depending upon when they were laid. This means that one chick is bigger than the other. Since the Arctic is a sparse place to find food, it also means that the smaller chick may be attacked and killed by the older one shortly after hatching. Within a few days after hatching, the remaining chick leaves the nest in search of food with its parents. Both help feed the chick by regurgitation, but it takes almost another month for the young bird to grow enough in size, feathers and muscle to where it can make its first flight. For a few more weeks the young remains with its parents, until finally summer has come to an end and it is time to head for warmer climes. The Pacific Ocean beckons and they heed the call. For those interested in more names, some of the other common English ones for this hunter are: Arctic hawk gull, Arctic skua, black-toed gull, boatswain, gull-chaser, jiddy hawk, man-o'-war, marlinespike, Richardson's jaeger, skait bird, teaser, whip-tail and dung hunter.  |
Peregrine Falcon:Fast as a Bullet! Peregrine Falcon Qiirayuli Have you ever wondered what it might be like being a Peregrine falcon? Imagine hurtling towards the ground at more than 200 mph in pursuit of a duck or ptarmigan or even one of your mortal enemies, a golden eagle. Imagine how it would feel at that speed hitting your prey with fist-clenched talons, then sommersaulting in mid-air to come around and grab it. Pretty amazing picture, isn't it? Well, Peregrine falcons are amazing birds. Let me tell you a little about them. I learned first-hand about peregrines when I volunteered several years ago to help a friend band peregrine nestlings for two weeks along the Porcupine River. The Porcupine is a tributary of the Yukon River located in northeast Alaska, and probably has more of these falcons than any other Yukon tributary in Alaska. It was our job to census and band every fledgling peregrine on the river. As you can imagine, I learned more about these fascinating birds in two weeks than I had in fifty years before that. Biologists like my banding partner Fran Mauer refer to this bird as Falco peregrinus, which is Latin for "wandering falcon," since it will sometimes travel half-way around the world during its migration journey. It has many common names, the most common of these being, "duck hawk," because it often feeds on small ducks. Closer to home, on the YK Delta, the peregrine is known as "qiirayuli," which in Yupik means "the one who calls qee qee qee qee" when disturbed. The peregrine was until fairly recently one of the most widespread of all bird species, reaching to the ends of the Earth except Antarctica. Since the widespread use of the insecticide DDT in the 1950’s, however, the species became almost extinct in many parts of the world, including the United States. Only since the Endangered Species Act of 1973 has it made a comeback, mostly through captive breeding programs and protection offered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Thanks to them and concerned citizens, the return of the American peregrine is a success story we can all be proud of. But more about the bird itself. Adult males and females both look about the same, with a mostly dark gray back and head and a black-speckled white belly. They both have the tell-tale sideburns, or "whiskers," as some refer to them. But the female is larger than the male- for good reason, since she is the one who produces the eggs and does the brooding. Before that happens, however, there is a long courtship period, with cooperative hunting trips, along with absolutely spectacular ritual courtship flights when the male dives and pirouettes and sommersaults in every direction around the female, literally falling head over heals in love with her. The male even feeds his mate at this time, uttering a repeated "witchew witchew" of recognition and a chittering call during the actual feeding itself. After taking their marital vows, the pair quickly sets up their household on a convenient cliff or bluff overhanging a food source. As with all falcons, they never build their own nest. An inward sloping ledge seems to be sufficient for their needs. Usually 3-4 reddish-brown spotted cream colored eggs are laid, which hatch a month later into little white fuzz balls that quickly grow into large white fuzz balls with blue faces and yellow feet that have very sharp black talons. Several times I found out just how sharp they were while holding them as Fran Mauer gently placed bands around their spindly legs. About five weeks after hatching, the now sleek young falcons make their maiden flights, earnestly prompted by their parents, of course. Then, like all teenagers, they have to learn the art of hunting and independent living, which their parents teach them by first diving on each other, then on different species, including even the wise old trickster, Raven himself. To observe this learning process is as fascinating as watching a child grow, except it happens twenty times faster. Where do these birds nest in the Lower Yukon Delta, you ask? In my experience, mostly on the tall bluffs between Marshall and Russian Mission, although I have seen a pair at the bluffs near the old village site of Takchak. Word has it that they are now back in the neighborhood, but when a friend and I skied down there last weekend we couldn't locate them. Sooner or later, though, I know I'll see them, fluttering pigeon-like across the river, or, if I'm lucky, shooting as fast as a bullet after some hapless ptarmigan or unsuspecting spring robin.  |
Pine Grosbeak:Alaska Parrot Pine Grosbeak Puyiiraq This bird should have been a parrot. Its beak size alone makes it look like one, as do its shape, size and color, and maybe even its sweet song. But it most definitely is not a parrot. It is the largest member of the family of finches known to birdwatchers like me as Fringillidae. It's scientific name is Pinicola enucleator, which can be loosely translated as "pine dwelling seed eater.'' And let me tell you, they do live up to their name! At this moment, there are some of these colorful birds right outside my window, eating sunflower seeds that my wife spread on the snow early this morning. One after the other, the seed hulls are ground off and spit out by their thick (gros) beaks, the kernel tongued out, then ground up and swallowed. It takes about two seconds per seed. The parts of the kernel that escape grinding by the beak are ground further by the grosbeak's muscular stomach, called a gizzard. The birds eat particles of grit to help in this phase of the digestive process. The pine grosbeak is my favorite finch, especially in winter, because of its superb coloration. The males are a smoky shade of red, and the females a smoky yellow, but in winter, with snow everywhere, they appear a vivid rose red and mustard yellow. I remember while cross-country skiing once with a friend in Emmonak just after Christmas, when we came across a large alder bush completely filled with Pine grosbeaks. It reminded us of a Christmas tree brightly decorated with beautiful ornaments. I was so impressed that I wrote a poem about them after returning home. Here are a couple of verses: Red and white flashes of black wings on yellow feathers, thick bills smacking searching for alder cones to crunch and grind the diminutive nuts in gizzard grit picked from river beaches torn bare by Yukon devil winds. Watching them, their nervous tails bounced from branch to branch puffing snow at each push and hit of naked toes, dropping to snow snatching a morsel here and there, then darting off again, the whole noisy crowd of them together. In Emmonak, and all along the Yukon River, the Yupik people call the Pine grosbeak, "puyiiq," or "puyiiraq," the same name they use to refer to the common redpoll, a smaller member of the finch family. This is because of the smoky coloration of both of these species, since "puyiq" means "to be smoky" in their language. In Bristol Bay, the Yupik name is "ayugiugiq." I don't know its meaning. Do you? In addition to its gizzard, the puyiiraq has what is called a gular pouch (similar to a crop) to store extra food as its eats (the pelican also has one of these, although much larger). This is a northern adaptation, which allows it to get through the long cold winter nights. Another interesting food tidbit is that during courtship the male feeds some of its seeds to the female. He also sings to her with a short musical warble to try to lure her into that very special relationship that guarantees the survival of their species. If you search closely through the branches of a spruce tree, you may find their nest which looks a little like a bulky robin's nest. In it the female usually lays four blue green, brown-speckled eggs, which she alone incubates for about two weeks. During this critical period the male helps out by feeding the female. After three more tiring weeks of feeding their growing nestlings, the young finally leave the confines of their now very small home. They still have to learn how to forage for seeds, but very soon they are completely on their own, flying free through the forest singing their sweet clear whistling song, If you're like me and my wife and enjoy hearing their song close to home, throw some sunflower seeds out in your backyard and wait for the grosbeaks to find them. I guarantee you, you won't regret it.  |
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Red Breasted Merganser:Red Breasted Merganser Payii or Payiq My son Steven and I were canoeing in late August on one of the clear water rivers near Marshall when he spotted a couple of ducks taking off. “Those look like loons, dad.” I checked with my binocs and identified them as Red-breasted mergansers. They take off almost exactly like loons with rapid wing beats, and it takes them a long time to get into the air compared to most other ducks because of their narrow wings (something referred to as high wing-loading). Farther down the river we came across a large flock of 8 young still with their mother. I told Steven she would soon leave them, however, because by now they were able to fend for themselves. But I’m ahead of myself. The story of the Red-breasted merganser begins in the second year of the female when she finds a mate on her wintering territory in North American Pacific coastal waters. During their migration flight north their pair bond strengthens and by the time they arrive in Alaska in late spring they are soon ready to settle down and begin nesting. Not before a very curious courtship ritual, however, when the male stretches his neck forward and upward, then abruptly dips it and the front of his body under the water. He then angles his head up out of the water with his bill wide open, exposing his handsome serrated orange bill and uttering a soft catlike yeeow. I have to smile at the impossibility of trying this pose myself, along with the call. This posturing doesn’t last for long, though, because the female by now has already selected and begun to build her nest in a sheltered spot on the ground usually near freshwater ponds or rivers. Her nest is a scooped out hole or simple depression, which she lines with vegetation and her own downy feathers. After a few more days you might find up to 13 olive-buff-colored eggs in her nest, and sometimes some of them may not be her own because females have been known to lay eggs in other merganser nests or even in the nests of other species of ducks. Their semi-colonial nesting behavior probably facilitates this. As soon as incubation begins the male makes himself scarce, meaning the female does all of the tedious work of brooding and protection of the nest from predators. And this lasts for 28-35 days! But within a day after all of the eggs hatch (and they hatch almost all at once) the young follow their mother to water where they begin to feed themselves. Quite often, in areas of high nest density, two or more broods will join and form a crèche, which is something akin to our day care where one or more females will tend all of the little ducks. When you see long strings of newly hatched downy young swimming in a line behind one of these females it’s just about the cutest thing you could ever experience during a canoe trip on a river. After a few weeks when the little downy ducklings begin to look more like their mother she takes off never to return, leaving them to finish growing to where they too can take flight, which is usually when they are about two months old. During their duckling stage they feed mostly on insects, although when they begin to mature they change to a diet that consists mostly of fish, plus some crustaceans, aquatic insects, worms, tadpoles and even frogs. Fishing is facilitated by the serrated edges of both upper and lower bill. They feed by diving and swimming underwater like loons. Sometimes they hunt cooperatively, with several birds lining up and driving schools of small fish into shallow water where they easily catch them without diving. That kind of cooperative behavior you don’t find among other duck species. Since mature mergansers are mostly fish eaters, they can hang around the rivers in the fall until they freeze over, which these days could be as late as October. The two Yupik names I have for the Red-breasted merganser are Payiq or Payii, which could be related to the sound the male makes during courtship. The scientific name Mergus serrator, means “the diver that saws,” referring to the backward-pointing serrations on the cutting edges of the bill (the “saw-teeth”). Its common name translates as “diving goose.” Other common names are: Common saw-bill, fish duck, Long Island Sheldrake, pheasant duck, red-breasted goosander, red breasted Sheldrake, saltwater Sheldrake, saw-bill, spring Sheldrake, shellbird, shelduck, sea robin, and fuzzyhead.  |
Red-breasted Nuthatch:Red-breasted Nuthatch (Qaneksuartuli) You're scratching your head? Never heard this Yupik bird name? Well, that's because it's my invention. If you've ever listened to this little bird talk, though, you'd swear it was murmuring -- which, to the best of my knowledge, is what qaneksuartuli means, i.e., the one that murmurs or mumbles. Mind you, you don't see the Red-breasted nuthatch very often in the Y-K Delta. I have only seen two of them, and that was back in the mid-1990's in Marshall. One afternoon while walking down by the old airport, I heard their tell-tale high-pitched nasal ank, ank, ank, ank. Their relative rarity in the Delta might explain why I've never run across a real Yupik name for them. Now that I live near Fairbanks, however, I see these birds fairly often at feeders, and am constantly amazed at how aggressive they are, both with other species and with their own kind. This chickadee-size bird receives its common name from its color and the fact that it often hacks (hatches) open nuts and seeds with its long narrow bill. Its scientific name, Sitta canadensis, means the "Canadian bark pecker." It is curious that the Greek philosopher Aristotle gave the family name, Sittidae, to nuthatches. Just goes to show you how observant he was. Nuthatches don't actually peck at the bark, but rather at the seed or nut that they've wedged into a bark crevice with their bill. Unlike chickadees that hold the seeds with their feet as they peck them apart, nuthatches use the bark itself as a gripper. The Red-breasted nuthatch and its cousins are the only tree-trunk foraging birds that regularly feed moving head downward on the tree. In this way, descending nuthatches may find food (usually insects) in bark crevices overlooked by "up the trunk" feeding tree creepers and small woodpeckers. Like so many of its other characteristics, the male's courtship display is also unique. He raises his head and tail as he droops his wings and fluffs up his back feathers. Then he sings his high-pitched wa-wa-wa-wa-wa penny trumpet song and sways from side to side with his back turned towards his future mate. If men were as talented as nuthatches in this department, we'd never have a problem finding a good aipaq. After nuthatches have paired they may remain together on their feeding territory throughout the winter if food resources are adequate. Otherwise they will probably go their separate ways. In any case, they do remain faithful to each other during the nesting and fledging period, sharing in both incubation of the eggs and the feeding and raising of the chicks. As with most birds, the female alone excavates the nest to suit her fancy in the cavity of a rotten tree stump or branch. She lines the bed of the nest with shredded bark, small roots, mosses and grass. When she's finished she uses her bill to smear pitch from spruce trees around the entrance to the nest cavity. This is probably to guard against larger predators like ravens. She lays five or six white to pinkish-white eggs that are peppered with brown spots. Both male and female brood the eggs for 12 days, after which the young hack their way out of the shells (good practice for later). For the next three weeks both dad and mom have their hands full feeding their family in the nest. After fledging, however, the young slowly but surely learn to feed and care for themselves. It is during this period they learn to forage "upside down" and to hack seeds and nuts into edible bits and pieces in the crevices of tree bark. Two other interesting common names of this small bird are: devil-down-head and topsy-turvy-bird. Anyone for climbing down a tree head first?  |
Red-necked Phalarope:Red-necked Phalarope Talegcaaraq When I first saw Red-necked phalaropes I thought they were birds gone crazy. Spinning like tops on the surface of the water, they absolutely captivated me. I later learned they do this to stir the bottom to cause food items to rise to the surface so they can eat them there. This is because their dense breast plumage traps so much air that it makes them too buoyant to dabble or dive for their food, which usually consists of the larvae of small insects like mosquitoes. The Yupik name I found in Hooper Bay that describes their frenetic behavior well is, Talegcaaraq, meaning “trying really hard to scratch or scour something.” I was recently (May, 2010) in Hooper Bay walking in the sand dunes near the ocean and I saw these little whirling dervishes again. And again I was captivated as I watched them do their little dance on the top of the water. I noticed the red color of the male was lighter than that of the female. This is because phalaropes (including the two other species in North America) practice something called sequential polyandry, meaning that after the female mates with a male and lays her eggs, she ends the relationship and leaves him to incubate the eggs and care for the young while she goes off to repeat her actions with another male. Since the male is responsible for brooding the eggs, he has to be less visible to predators while on the nest, hence his duller coloration. This role reversal also means that the female is the one who competes with other females for the attentions of a male. I remember watching one do this a few summers ago in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge where a lot of these birds nest. She flew around the male with whirring of wings, then settled on the water and swam circles around him, calling him in a low voice, trying to make him follow her to mate. At first, he was reluctant, but eventually, after she aggressively drove other rival females away, the temptress had her way. Before she lays her eggs, though, both male and female clear shallow scrapes on the ground in low vegetation near water. The female chooses the actual nest site, then the male, sometimes with the help of the female, lines the scrape with grass, leaves and moss. She lays four, brown-blotched, olive-colored eggs, then he settles in to brood them for about 19 days. The eggs all hatch at about the same time, then the downy young leave the scrape within 24 hours and find the nearest body of water to swim on. Although they know how to feed themselves from the get-go, their father watches over them and broods them for the next two weeks. During this period of day care, he sometimes will adopt orphans from someone else’s brood where the father was grabbed by a predator. At the end of the third week the young take to the sky for their first flight and prepare for the fall migration. During their fall migration phalaropes go to sea, and that’s where they remain for the entire winter. This makes them the most pelagic of all the shorebirds. And they are able to do this because they have salt glands that separate the salt from the seawater they drink to sustain themselves. Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim birds winter in the Pacific Ocean, mainly south of the Equator off the coast of western South America. Let’s finish off with some names. Their scientific name is Phalaropus lobatus, meaning “lobe-footed coot,” although this bird is most definitely a shorebird and not a coot. It has other Yupik names, including Imarcaaraq, meaning “really trying hard to get what’s in the water,” and Ceqcaaq, which means “being excitedly active and noisy.” This last moniker describes best what this bird represents to me. Finally, as with all birds, this phalarope has other common English names: bank bird, gale bird, hyperborean phalarope, mackerel-goose, sea-goose, sea-snipe, northern phalarope, web-footed peep, whale-bird, and white bank-bird.  |
Red-Tailed Hawk:Red-Tailed Hawk Eskaviaq So, what do you think Red-tailed hawks and humans have in common? The nose, no, although we have heard of people referred to as “hawk-nosed.” Wings, definitely not, although many of us have tried to fly with artificial wings. Fingers, no, but our fingernails sometimes do look like talons. What about, yes, you guessed it, our eyes are located on the front of our heads, like the eyes of hawks. Look at a picture of a hawk head-on, and you’ll see what I mean. There is a reason for this. Early in our human evolutionary history this “binocular vision” came in very handy for us. Our distant ancestors, small tree-dwelling primates, had to be able to leap from limb to limb and snatch insect prey with their hands. Not an easy task unless you had sharp visual acuity, part of which derives from binocular vision. It was the same with the Red-tailed hawk and its broad-winged cousins. They needed these visual abilities to precisely estimate ever-changing distances to their constantly moving prey. Voila! Over the course of eons Mother Nature finally rotated their eyes toward the front of their head, so that the visual fields of the eyes overlapped; not as much as they do with us humans, but almost. I confess to never having seen this remarkable hawk out on the coast of the Y-K Delta, but inland I sometimes spotted one soaring low over the wooded hills. They were not common, possibly because of other hawk-eyed predators they had to compete with, such as Rough-legs, Gyrfalcons, Peregrines and Golden and Bald eagles. They are much more common in Interior Alaska, although the form usually found there has dark plumage, including its tail, and is often referred to as the Harlan’s hawk. I see them a lot during the summer, especially in the eastern Interior. The Red-tail is not only the commonest of all the broad-winged or buteo hawks, it is also the most variable, having at least 26 different forms. But they are all Red-tails, which means the behavior of Harlan’s hawks in Interior Alaska is the same as that of their red-tailed cousins on the Y-K Delta. In spring, after migrating back from as far away as Central America and Mexico, the male and female, who are thought to mate for life, find their original nesting territory, and immediately begin their aerial mating game, with the smaller male spiraling round and round the female, then suddenly stooping down like a falcon on her. She just as suddenly turns over in midair and presents her claws to his in mock combat. Then they’re off again soaring and circling about and screaming their shrill raspy cries at each other. During his spectacular maneuvering the male might even catch a prey animal and pass it to the female in midflight. They finally end this lovely aerial display by swooping to a perch in a tree and mating. Meanwhile, both birds have been building a nest in a tall tree higher than all the others. They usually construct it in the crotch of the tree in the form of a bulky bowl of sticks and twigs lined with finer materials such as green leaves, evergreen sprigs and strips of inner bark. The pair alternately may use one of several nests from previous years. 2-3 brown-spotted whitish eggs are laid and, although both parents incubate them, the female does most of this work while the male hunts for food and feeds her on the nest. The eggs hatch asynchronously (one per day or so) between 30-35 days later. The mother bird remains with the nestlings most of the time over the next few weeks while the male hunts for food (including small mammals, birds and large insects), which he brings to the nest, where the female tears it into small pieces to feed the young. After 4-5 weeks, food is simply dropped into the nest by both adults and the young feed themselves. The young finally fledge about 6-7 weeks after hatching and remain with their parents for several more weeks to learn some of their survival strategies. To be successful hunters themselves, the young Red-tails will be able to take advantage of the same hawk-eyed visual acuity their parents have. In addition to binocular vision, an important aspect of that acuity is the large size of their eyes; another is their telescopic vision, allowing them to see things many times closer than humans can. A Red-tail’s eye has a somewhat flattened lens placed rather far from the retina, giving it a long focal length, thus producing a larger image. Yet another reason these hawks are able to see better than we do is that their retina is packed tightly with “cone” receptors, which produce an exceptionally fine-grained image. Finally, Red-tails and other buteos have keen color vision, thus allowing them to distinguish their prey even better. With all of these advantages for survival, it’s no wonder Red-tailed hawks are the most common buteo in North America. Let’s finish with a few names for this amazing bird. Its Yupik name is Eskaviaq, which probably relates to the way the hawk scatters the remnants of its prey, especially smaller birds. The scientific moniker is Buteo jamaicensis, and takes its species name from Jamaica where the first specimens were collected (probably while they were wintering down there). In addition to the name we know it by, it has other common names: buzzard; buzzard hawk; eastern redtail; hen hawk; mouse hawk; red hawk; redtail; red-tailed buzzard; and western redtail. You usually hear this hawk before you see it. Listen for that shrill raspy cry you hear in the movies, and look up. Then grab your binocs and check it out.  |
Red-throated Loon:Red-throated Loon Qaqataq Have you ever listened to Red-throated loons call at night? If you have, you'll understand why we have expressions like "crazy as a loon," and "loony." The calls can only be described as weird and run the gamut from deep groans, growls, clucks, cackles, prolonged wails and shrieks, and something that sounds to me like a series of big burps. Their Yupik names Qaqataq, Qaqaq and Qucuuniq describe some of these sounds well. Listen for yourself to see what I mean. You'll find these loons (known as Gavia stellata to those who study them) during summer on rivers and lakes in much of Alaska where they are distinguished from other loon species by their small size, upturned slender bill, and handsome red throat. They are by far the most numerous and widely distributed of Alaska's loons, and also nest farther north than any other species, reaching the northernmost coast of Greenland. Although other loons require a running start on water, Red-throated loons can leap directly into flight, and it is the only species of loon that can take off from land. On a recent canoe trip down the Kobuk River I found the Red-throated loon to be one of the signature species of that river. I had never seen or heard so many of them before, even on the Lower Yukon Delta where it is also a summer resident. Their wailing, shrieking and burping often kept me listening past midnight and into the wee hours of the morning. They are truly a fascinating bird. So what else makes them fascinating, you ask. Although they are clumsy on land, they are like speeding bullets under the water. They also have a special physiology which allows them to remain there for up to 90 seconds. The reason they present such a low profile to the water when they swim is because their specific gravity is near that of water. By simply expelling air from their lungs and compressing their feathers they are able to sink slowly and ever so quietly under the water without a whisper, leaving scarcely a ripple. In this way, too, they can alter their buoyancy so they float with only their eyes and bill above the water. They are also powerful fliers, with speeds of 60 mph or more. And, like other loons, when they fly they have a streamlined upsidedown appearance, which is one of the reasons why they fly so fast. Although these loons are generally fish eaters, easily catching small trout, salmon, char, grayling and sticklebacks, they also eat aquatic insects and larvae, leeches, snails, frogs and even some plant material. Qaqataq may mate for life and their courtship displays are a wonder to behold. Both birds dip their bills rapidly up and down in the water, then splash noisily as they dive under the surface and rush rapidly back and forth past each other. Once courtship is ended, the couple both defend the nesting territory and help in the construction of the nest, which is located on shore or in shallow water. The nest is either a depression on top of a hummock of vegetation or simply a scrape on bare ground. Usually two brown-spotted olive-green to dark brown eggs are laid. Both male and female also help brood the eggs during their 24-29 day incubation period. Although the eggs do not hatch at the same time as among ducks and geese, when both young are finally shuck of the eggs and all fluffed up they leave the nest and follow their parents to water about 24 hours later. Both parents feed the young mainly insects and crustaceans for the first few days after hatching, then begin feeding them minnows. Rarely do they carry their young on their backs as do other loon species, possibly because of their smaller size. Within seven weeks after hatching the young can not only feed themselves, they are also ready for their maiden flights: They are clumsy at first, but in just a few more days they will easily match the dexterity of their parents. It is no wonder that Red-throated loons and their cousins have been around for so long. According to paleontologists, scientists who study the evolution of animals, the earliest fossils of loons go back to the Paleocene Epoch, about 65 million years ago. So they've been around for more than ten times longer than we have. Which may make them one of the oldest original forms of life still living on Earth. That's fascinating!  |
Rock Ptarmigan:Rock Ptarmigan Elciayuli The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced the Rock Ptarmigan, and not the Ruffed grouse, deserves the Yupik name Elciayuli, which translates as "the one who is really good at belching or burping." If you've ever happened upon one of these little fellas as you're climbing or skiing in the mountains above the treeline, you'll know what I mean. There are times when I was just rounding the comer of a big rock and suddenly one flew up right in front of my face, making the most god-awful belching noise and scaring me half out of my wits. In fact, the sound to me was more like the surprised growl of a grizzly bear, which added even more terror to the incident. Elciayuli is anything but a grizzly bear, however. If you follow the flight path of the bird, you'll see that it lands within a long stone's throw from where it originally flew up. If you're curious, and careful enough, you should be able to sneak very close to it. Then, depending on the time of year, and the sex of the bird, notice its coloring. In winter, white for both sexes. In summer, a lovely muted brown for the hen, and a mottled gray-brown and white for the male. In spring, however, the male has splotches of brown on its yellowish-brown tinged white feathers -- not as striking as the Willow ptarmigan's rufous head and neck feathers, but still very handsome. Which leads us into some of their interesting spring courting behavior. The first thing you'll notice is the male's sexy red eyebrows. These become swollen towards the end of winter as he looks for a hummock above what he hopes to be an adequate nesting territory for his future mate and family. From this hummock he advertises his availability to any prospective hen within visual and listening range. He does this by stretching his head out, raising and spreading his tail, and drooping his wings, all the while uttering a guttural croaking rattle (the "burping" of Elciayuli) followed by a quiet hiss, something like this: krrrr-karrrrr, wsshhh. He may even slide off the hummock on his breast, then roll over and leap into the air as he tries to impress the hen. Most of the time it works, although it is extremely rare for any human to ever witness either the courtship display or what follows, namely, the scratching out of a shallow hollow by the hen among the rocky debris on the mountain or in any tundra that might be present. She lines the hollow with grasses, mosses and feathers, then quickly gets down to the serious business of mating and egg laying. As many as 13 brown-splotched buff-colored eggs may be layed and, although the hen does all of the incubation, the male may stick around for the three weeks it takes for the eggs to hatch. He is definitely not as patient and dedicated a dad as his cousin the Willow ptarmigan, however, and often goes AWOL before hatching begins. As with all grouse, the hatchlings are precocial, that is, they are able to follow their mom away from the nest soon after pecking themselves out of their egg cases. They follow her everywhere among the talus and scree of mountain slopes and over the now greening tundra in search of wild berries, insects and spiders. She never feeds them, but shows them what to eat by eating the foods herself. The chicks are quick learners, and within two weeks are able to make short flights to escape any would-be predators lurking on the mountainside. In 10-12 weeks they are fully independent of their mother and must now fend for themselves. There is another Yupik name for the Rock ptarmigan, Elciayagaq, meaning "the dear little (or baby) burper," which perhaps is used to describe the Rock ptarmigan at this early stage of their development. I haven't mentioned it yet, but, yes, the Rock ptarmigan does have a scientific name, Lagopus mutus. Mutus means "silent," which it is at any time of the year outside of the breeding season (unless, of course, you happen to surprise it on a mountainside somewhere). Lagopus means "hare-footed," referring to the dense feathers that grow on its feet during the winter, similar to the fur on the paws of snowshoe hares. Of all the birds that must walk on snow to survive in winter, only ptarmigan and other grouse have evolved structures that make it easier to do this. Just before the onset of winter, most grouse acquire a fringe of scales along each toe, which enlarges the surface area of the foot. Ptarmigan have evolved a step further. They have developed highly modified dense feathering that covers both surfaces of their feet, and their claws grow much longer. In this way, winter foot feathering not only makes walking easier on snow, but also probably provides the bird with thermal insulation, much as bunny boots on snowshoes would do for us humans. Here's another interesting tidbit, and something you may have already suspected from what I mentioned earlier about feather coloring. You know that all birds molt. Well, all ptarmigan have three molts every year: a complete molt in fall to all-white plumage; a partial molt in spring to breeding plumage; and another partial molt later in the summer. Take a look in a good bird book and check these differences out.  |
Rough-legged Hawk:Rough-legged Hawk Qiirayuli Watch this hawk hunt for one hour, and I guarantee you that your sense of wonder will come back like a shock. That's what I did regularly when I lived in Scammon Bay during the early 1980's. Almost daily on my walks in late summer and fall and on my skis in spring, I would see these amazing hawks flying somewhere on the mountain behind the village. That was their home, and when I found them they were either courting, building their nest, hunting or training their young to hunt. Watch them as they soar like an eagle, then swoop down after their diminutive mammalian prey on the ground. Or as they cruise low over the tundra like a harrier, then abruptly stop to hover in mid-air like a kestrel, and as suddenly plunge to the surface and grab a red-backed vole. Or, best of all, watch them catch the thermals buffeting off a hilly or craggy landscape and ride them in place with no wing flapping. It's as if they're dangling there from some hidden thread, completely motionless, their underwings fully exposed, waiting for someone to point and say, "I knew it was a Rough-leg. I could tell by its black wrists." Of course, in Scammon Bay, the Rough-leg (named for the feathers that extend to their toes) is the only hawk of its kind. By this, I mean it's the only buteo, or broad-winged, hawk in the area. Not in the entire Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta, mind you, because its cousin the Red-tailed hawk also lives farther to the east in the more wooded areas. The Rough-leg prefers the tundra, or what is sometimes called the "periglacial" region of Alaska, i.e., any habitat similar to that found near glaciers. In the periglacial zone around Scammon Bay, Hooper Bay and Chevak, the Yupik people call these hawks, "Qiirayuli," because of the squalling nature of one of their calls. The Yupik name literally translates as "the one who is expert at making a squalling call." They make this particular call on the nesting grounds in spring when they are either perched near their nest on a narrow rock ledge or flying in the immediate vicinity of the nest. They also have another call which they utter in spring while circling in the sky. This one is more of a plaintive whistle like that of the Red-tailed hawk and is intimately associated with their short courting period. Since Rough-legs nest in an arctic environment, they don't have long to perform their aerial mating displays in spring. But if you are there on the nesting grounds and you are lucky enough to see these displays, I promise you will be dazzled. In spring I used to go up to nearby Castle Rock and watch these birds do their "sky dance." Both male and female would be spiraling and soaring and whistling close to each other when all of a sudden the male would fold his wings and drop out of the sky in a spectacular dive, then as suddenly pull up in the air again, making the form of a U. He did this time after time, certainly to impress the female with his prowess, but probably also because it felt so good. She must have been duly impressed because nest building began shortly thereafter on a cliff ledge selected by the male. He delivered all of the nest materials and she did the actual construction, starting with sticks and plant stalks, then lining the nest with grasses, feathers and down. She, of course, laid the eggs -three to five of them colored pale bluish-white, splotched with brown and violet. She also did 99 percent of the 31 day incubation duty, but her mate brought her food regularly every day while she was on the nest. The eggs hatch asynchronously, that is, one a day for as many days as there are eggs, so the chicks are stairstepped in size. Mom stays home at first to take care of her young, but once again dad brings home the bacon which mom then feeds to the young. As the nestlings grow larger, both parents hunt and feed their young. After 5-6 weeks of a menu filled with voles and lemmings, mixed with a few insect and bird tidbits from time to time, the young are ready to fly on their own. They don't fly very far, however, and remain near the nesting territory for another 3-6 weeks where they learn to hunt from their parents. They also learn how to do some of that awesome soaring and swooping and hovering and hang-gliding I mentioned above. Too soon, however, the Alaskan periglacial winter starts kicking in and it's time for the Rough-leg family to migrate to warmer climes. Anything else the young need to know before they become bona fide adults they'll have to learn along the way south and in their winter home in the Lower 48 states. While in Scammon Bay I sometimes took my young son Steven out to watch the Rough-legs. Once after returning to the house I wrote a poem about it to remember our time together. We were searching for them
in the hard winds blowing from the south and the closing mists of spring, my young son Steven and I, knowing they were around somewhere, hoping to see them somehow... so we stopped at Castle Rock and hid and waited in a cave made of great hinged rocks on the leeward where Steven crawled around on the green lichen-mats inside while I wondered if the hinge would break... so we crawled out to throw snowballs downhill sidling into the wind trying to avoid its bite but finally facing it, Steven loving it, going back for more. Suddenly we saw them stepping off a near sheltered ledge into a flat lifting glide in the mists, just hanging there, tilting their tails between the uplifting of two rocky spires, holding fast there, in the buffet and play and silent rush surrounding and forcing them up and out, till the mists quietly grasped and pulled them away from our ken and reach. Then Steven and I too departed to find our way back to Scammon Bay and home.  |
Ruby-crowned Kinglet:The Little King Ruby-crowned Kinglet What a delight to hear this tiny bird as it sings its heart out in the spring. It should be arriving right about now, especially in the spruce taiga parts of the LK Delta. And what an energetic bird it is, frenetically moving and feeding through the lower branches of spruce and other shrubs and trees in the northern forest. Notice it flicking its wings almost constantly searching for insects and spiders there and often hovering as it searches. Sometimes it will fly out to catch its insect quarry in midair. And in spring after it first arrives from as far south as the pine forests of western Guatemala, if you are very lucky, you will see it flash its ruby-red crest every time it sings its lovely long bubbling song starting with a lisp and a warble and ending in peter peter peter pete! As soon as they arrive, male Ruby-crowns fly from treetop to treetop, proclaiming their nesting territories to other males that do the same nearby. When the females come in they notice right away that red fire on top of its crown, and when their hormones begin to kick in they take even more notice of the way the male crouches and flutters its wings in a courtship gesture designed to tempt even the most coquettish of females. It doesn’t take long after she makes her choice and selects her nest site 40-90 feet up in a spruce tree that she begins to build one of the oddest of nests in the north. Gathering moss, lichens, strips of bark, twigs, rootlets and gossamer from spider webs, she weaves a deep, hanging globe-shaped nest that she then lines with feathers, plant down and animal fur. She builds this nest near the tree trunk or suspended from a branchlet below a larger horizontal branch that is well protected from above. Inside, the nest measures three inches wide by two inches deep. It has an elastic quality so that it can stretch as the brood grows. To keep it from disintegrating, though, the female has to constantly maintain it. As soon as the nest is complete she lays up to nine creamy-white, brown-splotched eggs, a surprisingly large clutch for such a tiny bird. Incubation is by her alone for about two weeks when all of the eggs hatch at approximately the same time. The male defends the territory and the nest and will sometimes feed his mate on the nest. Both parents feed the naked hatchlings who grow to adult size within 16 days, then fly the coop, and are virtually on their own from then on. These birds are late fall migrants and some years don’t leave till October, depending on the availability of food. Climate change has prolonged the onset of their migration because of warmer weather. I don’t know if the Ruby-crowned kinglet has a Yup’ik name, but its binomial or scientific name is, Regulus calendula, meaning, “glowing little king.” If you watch it flit and flutter about like a king in its kingdom, and the way it flashes its crown when it sings, you’ll understand how it got its name in 1766. It has a few other names, including Ruby-crown, Ruby-crowned warbler, and Ruby-crowned wren. Since it winters in Mexico and Guatemala, it has several Spanish names also: Reyezuelo, Reyezuelo de Rojo, Reyezuelo Monicolorado, and Reyezuelo de Coronilla Colorado. Cool facts: In addition to its hanging globe-shaped nest, which is unique in the north, its clutch of eggs is also unique. Imagine a tiny mite of a bird that only weighs about a third of an ounce, laying up to nine eggs (and up to 12 farther south) in a single nest. And although each egg weighs only about a 50th of an ounce, the entire clutch can weigh as much as the mother bird herself.  |
Ruddy Turnstone:Ruddy Turnstone Uyarr’uyaq The Ruddy turnstone is a bird to remember. In fact, I can recall the very first time I saw this striking sandpiper. During the spring migration of 1980 my wife and I were ambling along the beach near Hooper Bay when a mixed flock of turnstones and other shorebirds landed near us and began feeding. A number of the turnstones had rusty-red markings on their back and wings and reminded me a little of the stunning color pattern of the Harlequin duck. I quickly reached into my pack for my bird book and identified them as Ruddy turnstones. What an appropriate place to find these birds, since their scientific name is Arenarius interpres, which liberally translates as, “the bird that warns others of danger in sandy places.” We watched them as they dashed on their stumpy legs after the retreating waves, flipping over pebbles and shells and snagging the invertebrates that tried to scurry away. Since then I have also seen Ruddy turnstones on their breeding ground, which is usually in open tundra near stone-studded creeks and rivers. Here they continue to live up to their name and turn over stones in search of insects and their larvae, worms and anything else that may be hiding underneath. They will successfully dislodge even quite large stones, straining against them with what has been described as a crowbar-like bill, eventually rolling them over by pushing against them with their barrel chest. If a stone is too firmly embedded to be removed with its bill or chest, it will try digging out the supporting sand or even enlist the aid of its mate or neighbor to accomplish its purpose. This bullish little sandpiper especially lives up to its reputation while nesting, flying aggressively at intruders either winged or otherwise, and always turning back any would-be advances on its nest. In the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge I’ve seen gyrfalcons, ravens and jaegers try to fly within 500 feet of a Ruddy turnstone’s nesting territory and be quickly and energetically forced to take another route. Look in your bird book and you’ll see why two Yupik names for the bird are Uyarr’uyaq and Uyarruyuaq. These names both refer to its unique bib-like necklace, unlike the markings on any other North American bird. The Ruddy turnstone has another rather unique characteristic. Just before the eggs are laid in spring both male and female develop a brood patch, which is the featherless part of their underbelly that during the breeding season develops a rich supply of blood vessels, thus assuring an adequate source of heat for incubating the eggs. The fact that the male has a brood patch, too, means that he shares in the responsibility of incubation. Only the female builds the nest, though, which is a shallow depression sparsely lined with leaves and grasses. She lays four black-splotched olive-green eggs, and in a little over three weeks they are all ready to hatch together. The downy hatchlings almost immediately leave the nest and follow their father to food. Both parents help care for the young but they feed themselves and quickly grow in size and feathers to where in three more weeks they are able to finally take flight. Before this happens, however, their mother leaves special guard duty entirely up to her mate and she takes off for southern climes. Seems unmotherly, even unusual, but such are the customs of the Ruddy turnstone. Another unique aspect of this sandpiper is the number of common English names it has. To wit: Bishop plover, brant-bird, bead-bird, calico bird, calico jacket, checkered snipe, chicken, chicken plover, common turnstone, horsefoot snipe, jinny, king-crab bird, red-legged plover, red-legs, rock bird, rock plover, sand runner, sea dotterel, sea quail, sparked-back, stone-pecker, streaked-back, chuckatuck and creddock. The last two are names that derive from their call. Another Yupik name for the bird that I gathered in Hooper Bay is Kiuk’aq and probably also relates to the sound of its call.  |
Ruffed Grouse:Ruffed Grouse Elciayuli Elciayuli aren't found everywhere in the Y-K Delta, but if you live near a spruce forest, chances are you'll see one strutting slowly along on the ground somewhere in the neighborhood. In the spring time you're more than likely to hear a male off in the distance trying to entice a female onto its territory with a drumming sound unlike anything you've ever experienced before. I can remember the first time I heard this sound back in the early 1960's along Birch Creek. I thought it was an ailing outboard motor, the way it would putt putt along fine at first, then slowly die. Time after time it would do this, and it had me baffled for a long time. I was just a teenager and new to Alaska, so I guess I had a good excuse, eh? I've found two Yupik names for these fascinating fowl: Elciayuli, which means "one who is really good at making a burping (drumming) sound;" and Egelruciayuli, meaning something like "one who is really good at moving fast," undoubtedly referring to its fast take- off from ground level when approached too close. The concept of burping is interesting, because the Ruffed grouse does not accomplish its drumming by burping. The other bird that takes the same name in Yupik, the Rock ptarmigan, does make a very loud burp-like call, loud enough, in fact, to scare a person out of his wits if he suddenly surprises one. The drumming noise is actually produced by the male as he perches crosswise on a log, tail bracing him as he leans slightly backward, and brings his cupped wings forward and upward in quick beats. The wing strokes are slow at first, making a measured thumping, but they increase in speed until the sound becomes a rapid whir. Suddenly the beating ends and the noise stops. The drumming sound itself results from the cupped wings striking against, believe it or not, nothing more than the air. Ruffed grouse have been known to drum at any time of the year, but the really intensive drumming takes place in early spring to announce territory, attract females, and to repel other males. The name scientists give the Ruffed grouse is Bonasaumbellus. Bonasa refers to the good taste of the meat when roasted, and umbellus refers to the umbrella-like ruffs around its neck that are raised when the bird is excited. Males raise them to special prominence in spring when a female happens by. They also raise their crests, fan their rusty black-tipped tails, and flaunt their bright orange eye combs in an attempt to draw females near enough to their territorial logs to copulate with them. And I do mean "them," since the males are promiscuous and will mate with more than one female. After breeding, the hen scrapes out a slight hollow in the forest floor, usually near a tree, stump or log, and lines it with leaves or spruce needles, twigs and its own molted feathers. She then lays up to 14 buff-colored, often brown-spotted eggs, which she incubates by herself for more than three weeks while her mate stands sentinel not far away. Shortly after hatching, the chicks all walk away from their nest. Within a week after that they can already fly to a perch a foot above the ground. Two weeks later they can fly well enough to roost with their mom in the trees. During this early period they eat spiders, caterpillars, beetles, grasshoppers, ants, wasps and other insects. Later they augment their diet with wild berries, plant seeds, flower blossoms and buds and leaves of aspen, birch, cottonwood, willow, alder and spruce trees. Yes, omnivorous is the key word. In fact, adults have been known to eat even small frogs. The young hang around their mothers for a long time, and when approached by a possible predator, such as the writer and his black dog, the mom does her tried and true "crippled bird act' until she is sure all of her squealing chicks have fled the scene. Then she takes to the trees herself and watches us until we leave the area. The Ruffed grouse is hunted in more American states and Canadian provinces than any other grouse. And more are shot and eaten by hunters than any other grouse. In Alaska, the ptarmigan is more popular as a game bird because it's easier to hunt, but for taste no one will dispute the Ruffed grouse is tops. Back to names. I've not run across a bird with more unusual names. To wit: birch partridge, carpenter bird, moor fowl, mountain pheasant, partridge, pine hen, ruffed heathcock, shoulder-knot grouse, tippet, white-flesher, wood grouse, wood hen, woodpile quarker, woods pheasant, drumming grouse, and drumming pheasant.  |
Rusty Blackbird:Rusty Blackbird Cukcugli What a coincidence. Just moments before starting to write this article, guess what flew over? Yep, Rusty blackbirds, a small troupe of them, headed south for the winter. I used the word "troupe" because it refers to their behavior of gathering in usually quite large flocks, or troupes. In fact, they are a part of the Troupial Family of songbirds that is made up of 91 species and only exists in the New World. For some reason, the scientific name for this family is Icteridae, from the Greek "ikteros," meaning jaundice (yellowish-green). The Rusty blackbird is anything but jaundiced in color, however. It has a glossy black plumage in spring, which turns rusty brown in fall. Its scientific name, Euphagus carolinus, which loosely translates as "well-fed Carolinian," is not nearly as descriptive of its habits as the Yupik name, Cukcugli, which means, "the one that goes chuck ... chuck," referring to a call that it makes. It is yet another of the many birds of the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta that has a name like the sound it makes --onomatapoeia, right? Curiously, the Inupiat moniker for the bird, Tulungiksyauraq, means "little raven." No mystery why it has that name, if you check the illustration. Even one of its common English names, rusty crow, claims a similar relationship to these much larger distant cousins. Cukcugli is an early migrant to Alaska and the Y-K Delta, arriving at roughly the same time as the spring peepers (wood frogs) start calling. I remember in Marshall, I used to see them for the first time between mid-April and mid-May down by Wilson Creek where they liked to nest. There was just the right combination of marshy spruce woods, alders and willows, and shallow pools along the creek to be ideal for setting up a household and having young. Especially while canoeing in the creek in late summer and early fall I would see these blackbirds and their young, stepping deliberately along the shoreline in search of sustenance, such as water bugs, larvae of caddisflies, dragonflies and mosquitoes, wayward ants, spiders and caterpillars, snails and even small fish. They don't limit themselves only to meat, however. They are omnivores and will eat other things like wildflower and tree seeds, bunchberries, cranberries and blueberries. (Have you ever noticed their blue tongues?) But I'm ahead of myself. Let's go back to spring when the blueberries are just beginning to green up and only the giant mosquitoes are quietly lumbering about the countryside. After returning from southern climes, establishing his home territory and attracting a lovely brown mate, this sleek black bird gurgles and whistles his sentinel song while she constructs a cup-shaped nest in a nearby spruce or alder. She usually builds the nest close to water out of twigs, lichens, mud and fine green grasses. She alone also incubates her 4 or 5 brown-blotched pale blue-green eggs, although her mate feeds her while she broods on the nest. Like other songbirds, Cukcugli lays one egg per day, and after the final egg is laid incubates her eggs with the help of her brood patch. This is an oval-shaped patch of bare skin on her belly which during this period develops a rich supply of blood vessels just under the skin. By pressing the brood patch against the eggs, body heat is transferred to them and their embryos begin to grow. Quickly. Only 14 days after the last egg is laid, the young hatch. Within another1 4 days the young test their new wing feathers and fly for the first time. During these two intense weeks and a couple more that follow, both parents devotedly feed and tend their young. And then after the young start feeding for themselves .....Well, this is when I saw them most, foraging by Wilson Creek. I'd stop my canoe on the placid black water and just watch them and listen to their lazy "chuck ... chuck... chuck." They'd be there every weekend . until one day when the willow leaves began to turn a serious yellow, I'd see their little troupes flying over just like I did today. "Chuck, ... chuck... chuck," they'd say, "see you next year."  |
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Sabine’s Gull:Sabine’s Gull Nacallngaq Last summer (2011) while participating in a climate change study near Old Chevak in the Lower Yukon Delta I finally discovered where Sabine’s gulls nest and raise their young. When I was teaching in Hooper Bay back in the early 1980’s, I had only seen them migrating through there in the spring. So, one more riddle solved in my life. The Sabine’s gull is probably the handsomest gull I’ve ever laid eyes on. With its striking pied open-wing pattern in the shape of a dark M, its notched tail, graceful tern-like flight, and its dark gray hood, there is no other gull quite like it. Its long dark hood is so remarkable that Yupik people have named it, Nacallngaq (or, Nacallngaaraq), “the bird that wears a parka hood”. When I saw the gulls in July the young were already feeding on their own in the many shallow ponds and pothole lakes in the area where we were conducting our studies. They were so intent on fattening up for their long migration to the South Pacific*, they barely paid us any attention. But back to spring. After the adults arrive from their southern wintering grounds, they don’t even wait for the snow to completely disappear before beginning their mating game. The male selects a territory, then tries to entice a female by giving a long high-pitched call, arching his neck and bowing to her. If he does it just right, and adds a tidbit of food or two to the equation, she selects him to be her mate, quickly scrapes out a shallow depression on open tundra near water, lines it with a bit of seaweed, moss and feathers, and begins laying her eggs. Frequently the nest is a part of a small colony of both Sabine’s gulls and Arctic terns. She lays up to three olive-colored brown-spotted eggs that are incubated by both sexes for 23-25 days. During that period parents defend their nest from predators such as jaegers by dive-bombing them or with a variety of distraction displays like those used by shorebirds. No other gull uses these displays. As with other gull species, the young are precocial, and shortly after the eggs hatch, they are led by their parents to a nearby pond or small lake. However, unlike other species of gull young whose parents feed them for long periods of time, they begin to mostly feed themselves. Their food is the same fare as that of their parents, and includes insects, insect larvae, small fish, crustaceans and marine worms. Sometimes you may see them using a favorite phalarope trick, spinning in circles in shallow water to stir up food items from the bottom. The young are similar to tern young in that they take their first flight even before they are fully feathered, 3-4 weeks after leaving the nest. Their scientific name, Xema sabini, is a combination of the Latin nonsense word, Xema, and the name Sabine, after a British astronomer. I prefer the first part of the name. In fact, the bird is so unique, if I were to rename it, I would call it Xema xema. *Sabine’s gulls that nest in Greenland and Iceland winter off the southern coast of Africa. In 2007 Iain Stenhouse and two colleagues used geolocators to track these gulls from their Arctic nesting sites to their wintering grounds, then back again in spring. The return trip totaled almost 25,000 miles, the longest migration known for any gull.  |
Semipalmated Plover:Semipalmated Plover Uyarruyuaq Watch this little plover with a black necklace as it flies round and round above you in spring, calling chu ee, chu ee, chu ee. Notice its slow, exaggerated wing beats. Continue watching and you may see it land on the ground, then crouch with tail spread, wings open, feathers fluffed up, and still calling excitedly, chu ee, chu ee, chu ee. If you look around carefully, you’ll see the reason why he’s so excited. There is a female plover watching him, too, judging whether or not his mating display matches her expectations. If it does, it won’t be long till they do mate and she lays four eggs in a shallow scrape on bare gravel or sand sometimes next to a large rock. The eggs are olive-buff in color with dark brown blotches, and are placed in the nest with their tapered ends facing inward, in the shape of a cross. As with other plover species, both parents incubate the eggs until they hatch about 25 days later. Almost immediately the downy young leave the nest. Both parents also tend the young, but do not feed them. They are instinctively able to do this by themselves, feeding on the same fare their parents do: small insects and their eggs and larvae, worms and crustaceans. They quickly pick up their parents’ habit of finding their food by sight, typically running a few steps, pausing abruptly, then running again, pecking at the ground whenever they see something appetizing, then running again, in a jerky start-and-stop fashion. If danger approaches, the parent bird reacts with a pathetic broken-wing act, fluttering along the ground with wings down-stretched as if injured, thus luring the would-be predator away. The parents are finally in the clear when their young take their first flight at 23-31 days old. When that happens you can almost hear them breathe a deep sigh of relief! The “Semipalmated” plover gets its name from the partial webbing between its three toes. It has no hind toe (hallux), which is a trait typical of almost all plovers. Its scientific name, Charadrius semipalmatus, is a Greek-Latin combination meaning “half-handed” plover. The Yupik name refers to the black necklace it wears around its neck. I like this name the best. By now these little plovers are long gone from the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. They leave in August for warmer weather and a more bountiful storehouse of food far to the south. I was amazed last winter to find them on the beaches of Ecuador when I was down there with my son Steven exploring for winter birds. That’s one long migration.  |
Short-eared Owl:Short-eared Owl Kenriiq “Flaming Owl” was the original English name for this wonderful bird, which is now referred to as the Short-eared owl. Its old name came directly from the Latin, Asio flammeus, and was given to it back in 1763 by the Danish naturalist Erik Pontappidan. Little did he know that many centuries earlier the Yupik people had dubbed the owl with a similar name, “keneqpataq,” the base, “keneq,” meaning “fire.” In all three languages, it seems it was the fiery texture and color of its plumage that got the bird its unique name. Take a good look at a color photograph of the owl and you’ll see what I mean. Its present English name, by the way, derives from two small clusters of feathers that protrude directly above its eye disks. The naming game doesn’t end there. Not only does the owl have other names in English (bog owl, flat-faced owl, marsh owl and prairie owl), but Yupik people also have different names for the bird. In Scammon Bay, they refer to it as “kenriiq,” and to the south, over the Askinuk Mountains, Hooper Bay folks call it “aniiparsugaq.” Again, “kenriiq” derives from “fire,” and the Hooper Bay name refers to a smaller version of “aniipaq,” or snowy owl. A memorable sighting of this friendly raptor was in Hooper Bay one autumn many years ago while my wife and I were dozing in the tundra. A shadow crossed my closed eyes and when I opened them a pair of young short-ears were flying directly over our heads, probably curious as to what we were. Another was a few years later in Scammon Bay, also in the fall, while I was camped at the top of the Askinuk Mountains. One evening, I was writing in my journal inside my tent when I heard the soft wuffing of wings nearby. I parted the tent fly and cautiously peered outside in the dim twilight where I saw, first, one, then two, and finally, six immature “flaming owls” perched on a rock outcropping not more than ten feet away and directly in front of the tent opening. They were all staring intently in my direction, and I could plainly see the yellow rings around their black pupils. They remained as still as the rocks they were standing on long enough for me to write a short poem about them. Even my white husky, Sam, must have been impressed since he stayed put at the entrance to my tent all that time with his eyes keenly fixed on the six birds. My most recent sighting was this summer as I was hiking with two young friends down the Kongakut River in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge next to the Canadian border. I spotted a large round-headed raptor flying close above the tundra, and by its buoyant moth-like wing beats recognized it immediately as a Short-eared owl. Once again, it flew directly over our heads, curious as to our presence so far out in his wilderness domain. Short-ears are not only found all over Alaska, but on every continent except Australia and Antarctica. They are migrants here and only stay during the summer when food is most abundant. A list of their favorite Alaskan foods includes voles, lemmings, shrews, rabbits, a wide variety of insects, small birds, and, along rivers, even bats. They hunt mostly at night, but also during the day, which explains why they are frequently seen by us humans. Their courtship flight is spectacular and reminds me of two giant moths cavorting in the sky like peregrines or gyrfalcons. After courting, the female often lays its eggs in exactly the same nesting spot on the tundra that it did the previous summer. Sometimes they nest in colonies of several birds, which marks them as a unique owl indeed. As many as 14 white eggs have been reported in a nest, although the average is about six. The female will perform a “crippled-bird act” to lead away an intruder, and in defense of their nest both owls will aggressively attack birds and animals much larger than themselves, including man. While courting and nesting, the short-eared owl utters a high-pitched rasping “wak, wak, wak,” like the barking of a small dog, or a rapid-fire “toot-toot-toot-toot-toot,” about 15-20 times. They are reported to live as long as twelve years, which is quite a respectable age for an owl that looks like it’s on fire.   | |
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Snow Bunting:Snow Bunting Uksullaraq It's time for the snowbirds to be moving south again. If you're out hunting or walking on the tundra, you may see large flocks of what are really called Snow buntings drifting like giant snowflakes over open country. If you're lucky and you stay completely still, they may land nearby and begin feeding on the grass and sedge seeds that are found everywhere at this time of the year. You will see also that they have changed color from their bright black and white spring suit to a more cinnamon and white winter coat. And, in truth, unless the temperatures remain very cold for a long time, snow buntings won't travel very far south of their summer nesting grounds in western Alaska. That's why I've often wondered about the comparison of Alaskan retirees to snowbirds. But let's get to some facts. First, names. Their scientific name is Plectrophenax nivalis, which comes from the Greek, plektron, meaning a clawlike tool for striking the lyre (a Greek stringed instrument), in this case referring to the snow bunting's long straight hind claw. Phenax is Greek for false, because the claw isn't really used to play the lyre (at least, no one has ever seen it used this way). Nivalis, is the Latin word for snowy, which refers to its color and Arctic home range. Now for some Yupik names. In Scammon Bay, both words I learned there, "uksullaraq" and "uksurtaq," refer to some quality of winter, where in Hooper Bay and Marshall, the word, "kanguruaq" refers to something that resembles a snow goose, "kanguq," which in turn means something that has a frosty appearance. There is yet another name that they use on Nunivak Island, "cilumcuksugaq." which I'm not familiar with, but may figuratively mean, "the one who has an icy shirt on.'' Anyway you cut it, all of these Yupik names have to do with winter. And why not? This tough little bird nests farther north than any other songbird, including the raven, then spends the winter in cold country as well. It can stand temperatures of minus 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and burrows in the snow to keep warm. In spring, when their plumage has turned back to black and white again, the male puts on a mating display that reminds me a little of the Lapland longspur's. While fluttering in the air or perched on a rock or tundra "nunapik," he sings forthrightly in a broken twittering warble, hoping to attract a lady-love who will continue his family line into the distant future. After he finds his heart's desire, she builds their nest on the grassy tundra or a rocky beach and lays up to nine streaked pale blue eggs, which she also incubates alone. After two weeks or so, the eggs hatch, and two weeks later the young fly for the first time. Meanwhile, the male remains nearby, doing his best to guard his family against attacks from the likes of jaegers and other predators. If the young make it through their crazy teen months, they might, if they're lucky, live as many as eight or nine years, which is a long time for a small bird. In the Arctic regions of Canada and Alaska, snow buntings are regarded with such respect by the Inuit people that they build nest boxes for them. It is apparently a traditional practice that stems from the belief that these birds have spiritual significance and bring good fortune to those who build them. The nest boxes are scrupulously maintained and cleaned regularly, and, as a result, the birds reuse them year after year. According to Inuit elders, before construction wood was commonly available, families heaped stones together and fashioned special cavities to attract nesting birds. Interesting, eh?  |
Snowy Owl:Phantom of the Tundra Snowy Owl Anipaq Once while cross-country skiing in the high tundra near Hooper Bay, I heard hooting in the distance. It was early May and the tidal fog from the Bering Sea was just beginning to thin out. I continued skiing across the now patchy snow and into the receding fog. Somewhere in front of me there was the sudden luffing sound of great wings. At first, I couldn’t see what it was, and I stopped and peered into the grayness. Then I saw it, moving with long smooth downward strokes of its wings, gliding for a few seconds across the exposed tundra tussocks, then stroking again. It looked more like a phantom than an owl. But an owl it was, and one of the largest snowy owls I had ever seen. I watched the bird fly until it disappeared in the mist, then I skied in the direction of a tall tussock called a nunapik, where I suspected the owl had been standing. I knew that at this time of year the males were setting up their territories and often stood on these oversize tussocks and loudly hooted their mating song across the tundra, trying to attract potential spouses. Sure enough, when I reached the nunapik there was owl junk everywhere – some scat, but mostly pellets composed of hair and bones. One of the pellets, or “owl burps,” as I call them, was huge and, when later dissected by my wife’s students at the school, was found to have the remains of ten voles and lemmings in it. We counted at least ten complete miniature skulls in the tangle of hair and bone, and constantly “oohed” and “awed” as we examined its contents. It turned the morning into a special memory for all of us. While in Hooper Bay, I learned that they called the Snowy owl by the names, anipa, or anipaq. The names apparently derive from the Norton Sound Yup’ik word for ground snow and probably mean “big snow bird.” They may also relate to the Yup’ik verb “anirtur,” which means to “rescue” or “save one’s life or soul,” since the meat is said to be so tasty. I remember an admonition on the part of Hooper Bay elders not to kill Snowy owls unless you’re very hungry, for they could save your life if you’re desperately in need of food. There is an interesting saying in Yupik, “ak’a tamaani anguyiit anipaunguatullruut,” which translates as, “long ago warriors used to pretend to be owls.” Because of their unique qualities of strength, silence and stealth, their yua or spirit was regarded as very powerful. They were respected equally by the Iñupiat, who called them, ookpik, and used them in stories as a way to keep their young children from wandering too far away from home. Anipaq has a scientific name, Nyctea scandiaca, which in English means, “nocturnal Scandinavian.” This doesn’t have anything to do with what Scandinavians do at night. It simply refers to the way the owl hunts during the night (although it also hunts by day), and the fact that the first specimen described by scientists was from Lapland, in northern Scandinavia. While “watching like a hawk” from its favorite tundra nunapik, the owl swivels its head from side to side, appearing to move it in almost a complete circle (ouch!). Along with its night vision and excellent visual acuity, no vole or lemming within miles dares to surface above the snow for fear of becoming one of those hairy pellets. When rodents are scarce in the Arctic, Snowy owls head south in large numbers and entertain bird watchers who otherwise wouldn’t get the chance to view them. Some hungry Snowies have been reported to attack and kill young peregrine falcons on their nest, but often have been killed themselves by the adult peregrines. Speaking of nests, both adult Snowy owls build theirs on a high spot in dry tundra. They simply scoop out a hollow on the ground and line it with moss and feathers. In extremely good lemming years, up to 13 eggs may be laid over the space of several days. The female alone incubates the eggs and, after a month or so, the young hatch at different times. Within 16 days they begin leaving the nest, according to the order in which they hatched. When they leave they scatter over the nearby tundra where the adult male feeds them. When all have left the nest both parents feed and protect the brood. Since Snowy owl young are so big, it takes them a long time to make their first flight – from hatching, 43 days for the quick learners, and up to 55 days for those who are, let us say, slow learners. During this time the adults will use the “crippled bird act” to lead intruders away, and especially the male actively defends his mate and young against enemies as big as foxes and wolves. When humans approach the nest or young, the adult owls will swoop low and strike with very sharp talons. Men, beware!  |
Spectacled Eider:Spectacled Eider Qaugeq During the 21 years I spent teaching on the Lower Yukon Delta I never saw a Spectacled eider that I could identify with 100% accuracy. But this past summer I saw a few of them while helping researcher Torre Jorgensen do his climate studies near Old Chevak. Needless to say, I was pretty excited to see them at such close quarters. The Spectacled eider is still poorly understood, but I can tell you that it is found in the Bering Sea year around, and mainly in areas where travel is difficult for humans. Summer is about the only time that even the Yupik people see it, since it is then that the bird must come ashore to nest. During nesting season it feeds mostly on small crustaceans, aquatic insect larvae, pondweed, grasses, seeds and berries. When swimming at sea, which is most of the year, it dives and swims underwater mainly in search of mollusks. According to Kenn Kaufmann in his book, Lives of North American Birds, these eiders are able to remain submerged longer than most diving ducks. Kaufmann also says that male and female Spectacled eiders form bonded pairs during the winter before spring migration to the nesting grounds. The male’s displays are much like those of the other eider species, and include rearing out of the water, flapping their wings, rapid shaking of their head, stretching their neck toward the sky and then quickly jerking it back. I watched a King eider do this once, and his displays were almost the same. In a shallow depression on a hummock close to the edge of a tundra pond, the female lines what is to become her nest with grasses and sedges and large amounts of down. She mates and lays up to eight olive-buff eggs, then incubates them alone for about 24 days. As soon as incubation begins, the male leaves the female and she and her eggs (and later her young) are on their own. When the eggs hatch, the chicks leave the nest almost immediately and are led to water by their mother. While her hatchlings are still young she tends to them but does not feed them. They are already programmed to feed themselves. An interesting difference between the Spectacled eider and its close relatives is that the mother does not farm out her babies to a day care, called a “crèche” by ornithologists. After about 53 days the young take wing for the first time. If they all live to do this, their mother breathes a deep sigh of relief and bids them goodbye. The Yupik name for the Spectacled eider is Qaugeq, although it also has another less used one, Ackiilek, which comes from the Russian, “ochki,” meaning “eyeglasses.” Its scientific name, Somateria fischeri means Fischer’s “woolly-or downy-bodied” duck. Recently someone from Hooper Bay told me they don’t see many of these eiders anymore. This is because their breeding population in Western Alaska declined by more than 90 percent between the 1970’s and early 1990’s. The federal government finally listed them as threatened in 1993, and since then their numbers have slowly been increasing. Almost the entire global population winters in Alaska’s Bering Sea, and tens of thousands of the ducks congregate during this time in ice-free waters south of St. Lawrence Island.  |
Spotted Sandpiper:Spotted Sandpiper Ikigcaqaq One of the Yupik names I’ve come across for Spotted sandpiper is Ikigcaqaq, loosely meaning “the one that bends forward with its buttocks stuck out.” The name perfectly describes the way this sandpiper hunts for food along the edges of rivers, lakes, ponds and seashores. As it walks or stands, it bobs its tail up and down in a constant teetering motion. Even when it flies, it seems to continue this motion as it skims low over the water with bursts of shallow wingbeats (“vibrating like taut wire,” someone once observed) and short stiff-winged glides. As it flutters, it utters a sharp, clear, whistled peet-weet, a call that brings back many memories for me of this small sandpiper while canoeing on the Lower Yukon Delta. These memories widen to include the rest of Alaska, the Lower 48 and even Mexico and Central America where I’ve seen them in winter. They are not only North America’s most widespread sandpiper, but also one of the farthest ranging sandpipers in its migration, wintering as far away as southern South America. But, you ask, what happens after they get back to Alaska and the Lower Yukon Delta from their vacation in the south? Unlike most other bird species, the females migrate north first, arriving on their breeding grounds a week ahead of the males. They immediately find and defend a nesting territory, and when the guys arrive they try to attract them with aggressive flight and ground displays. The females are polyandrous and have been known to mate with up to five males in a season. After she and her mate build their nest in a cup- or saucer-shaped depression lined with grasses, mosses and sometimes feathers, she lays her clutch of four eggs (buff, blotched with brown) with the narrow ends pointing toward the center. Then the male takes over and begins incubating the eggs, while she searches for another consort and begins the process all over again. Only in the case of her last clutch of the season might she help the male incubate the eggs. With all the others it is up to the males to remain on the eggs for more than three weeks till the eggs hatch. As soon as they hatch the downy young leave the nest, running over the ground bobbing and teetering their tail just like dad. They are able to feed themselves but dad stays near them, brooding them if it’s rainy or cold, and coaching them in nutrition. As he feeds on insects, worms, crustaceans, snails and even small crabs and fish, the kids take note and do the same. He also does his best to protect them from predators. Since the young know how to swim from the get-go, one of their escape strategies is to dive under the surface of the water. This has saved more than one little fluffy hide from the talons of a hungry hawk or falcon. When the young learn to fly about three weeks later, dad is at last finished from his parental duties and free to think about migration. Even before they’ve taken their first flight, though, their wayward mom is long gone from the scene and moving south. Dad is close behind. But the young have to stay put for another month or more to fatten up and body-build until they feel strong enough to go, too. Then they follow their instincts and the food trail south to warmer climes. Both old and young migrate at night. Their ability to navigate over such long distances in the dark is truly remarkable, especially since they migrate all the way from the Arctic to Central and South America. Remember also that the young are able to find their way alone without any help from the adults. Scientists say they do this by using the earth’s magnetic field as a guide, as though they had a compass built into their brains. And they aren’t the only species that operates this way. One of the most fascinating of them is the Bar-tailed godwit that flies non-stop all the way from the Lower Yukon Delta to Australia – almost 8000 miles! Finally, a few more names for this little shore bird: I have found two other Yupik names: Elagayuli and Elagtertayuli, both meaning “one who really knows how to dig.” Some common English names are: gutter snipe, peep, peet-weet, river snipe, sand lark, sand peep, sand snipe, tilt-up, tip-up, teeter-tail, teeterer, seesaw and teeter peep. Their scientific name is Actitis macularia, which are Greek and Latin words that translate as “shore-dweller with spots.”  |
Spruce Grouse:Spruce Grouse Egtuuk A few years ago I remember skiing above Marshall and stopping in the woods out of the wind to enjoy the warm sunny spring day. I sat down in the glistening snow, poured a cup of creamy tea and took a deep breath. As my gaze came down from the liquid blue sky, it landed on the needled frond of a nearby spruce tree. But where there should have been a regular pattern of needles on the spruce branch, it seemed ragged and torn. On closer examination, I found it was exactly that. It looked like something had randomly bitten off hundreds of the needles, leaving the branch denuded of its normally green coat. I took a gulp of tea, scratched my head and wondered what could have done it. It had to be a bird, I thought, and my brain buzzed through bird names faster than a computer. Pine grosbeak, redpoll, chickadee, buzz, buzz, Willow ptarmigan, Ruffed grouse...ah ha ... Spruce grouse! Gotcha! Because spruce needles and buds are what Spruce grouse eat in winter. And that's why the common name of this northern forest-dwelling bird. I have found three scientific names for the Spruce grouse. The one I like best is Canachites canadensis, which means simply, the "Canadian noisemaker." This is because of the noise the male (who may also be an American) makes during his mating display in spring. On the nesting territory, usually alongside a fallen tree that has been used over many years for protection, he rapidly beats his wings together above his back while rising in the air and landing on the ground. In the Franklin's subspecies (which lives south of Alaska) the wing beating becomes a loud clapping sound. Remember not to confuse this noisemaking with the wing drumming of the male Ruffed grouse, which is actually done while he is perched on a log. The only two Yupik names I've come up with for this noisemaker are Egtuk and Egtuuk. I don't know for sure, but the names could have something to do with the clucking noise both sexes make when disturbed, or maybe even with the low hooting sound the male makes during its mating display in spring. Spring hormones also bring out some other interesting behavior. The male partially spreads his handsome orange-tipped tail feathers and raises his sexy red eyebrows, trying his hardest to command the attention of the female who is looking on nearby. The eyebrow trick usually works, because soon afterward the female scratches out a shallow depression in the ground under the branches of a fallen spruce free, then lines it with dry grasses, leaves, twigs and a few feathers. In this nest she usually lays six or seven of the handsomest eggs of any North American grouse: cinnamon to pink-buff or cream-buff, usually marked with large blotches and spots of rich brown. After the eggs are laid, the male leaves in search of other females to court. The female is left with all of the chores from that moment on. She incubates the eggs for 17-24 days, then after the eggs hatch cares for the chicks. The chicks are precodal, that is, they leave the nest soon after they are born. This means that momma has a lot of work to do to teach her hatchlings how to survive. But that she does, and within only one week her young are able not only to feed themselves, but also to flutter up from the ground to low branches to escape predators such as foxes. In order to distract any four-legged animals or even a certain two-legged predator we know, the mother bird performs a distraction display similar to the "broken-wing" act of many other species. Before the young leave the care of their mother they have learned all of the ropes, including which foods to eat in the forest, such as wild berries, grass and wildflower seeds, mushrooms, leaves, ferns, insects and, of course, spruce buds and needles. Like some other bird species, this grouse has many common English names: Franklin's grouse (referring to a separate species), Canada grouse, Black grouse, Cedar partridge, Spotted grouse, Spruce partridge, Swamp partridge, Wood grouse, Wood partridge, Spruce hen and fool hen. The last name comes from their habit of "freezing" in a low spruce tree limb as they are approached by the likes of the two-legged predator I mentioned above. Of course, they don't stand a chance and all to often become the dinner of this predator. Unless they've been eating a lot of spruce needles, however, they do taste mighty good.  |
Steller's Eider:Steller’s Eider Caqiar Although the Steller’s eider has only been spotted as a visitor to the YK Delta over the past few years and no nest has been found for a decade, I’m writing about the bird in hopes that someone does find a nest and that once again we can call it a Yup’ik bird. Let’s start with names for this smallest of all the eiders. In all of my bird guides it is known as Steller’s eider (an Icelandic name for sea duck), after Georg M. Steller, the German zoologist who accompanied Vitus Bering on his second voyage into Alaskan waters in 1741. Steller was the first person to describe the bird for Western science on the coast of the Kamchatka Peninsula in N.E. Russia. The Yup’ik name, Caqiar(aq), probably has to do with its habit of suddenly turning from one side to the other searching for possible predators (from the verb “caqir-”). Its scientific name, Polysticta stelleri. means, “Steller’s many spotted” sea duck. Okay, on to some cool facts about this diving duck. It is not only the smallest of the eiders, it is much trimmer than the others, and is shaped more like a mallard. The male has a black eye and a green bump on the back of its head (neither of which has anything to do with fighting). Its wings whistle in flight like a goldeneye’s. The male utters low crooning notes and the female a harsh growl. They spend the winter in large flocks that dive in unison (often causing a large spray) and also surface all at once. When they were still common nesters in the Hooper Bay region in the 1950’s and 60’s, they were the last eider to appear there in spring, usually by the end of May, flying about tundra ponds. (Since I didn’t get there till the late 1970’s, I never saw them.) Pair bonds are formed by the birds while in their winter flocks even before they arrive on their nesting ground. Many males may surround one female and display ostentatiously by rearing up out of the water, turning their heads rapidly from side to side, and tossing their heads back in a rapid to and fro motion. This leads to a courtship flight, with the males in hot pursuit of the female. In the end, the female chooses her mate, then settles down to build her nest in a shallow depression on open tundra near water, sometimes surrounded by low willows. She alone constructs the nest, lining it with bits of plant material and down feathers that she pulls from her brood patch. Then she lays 7-8 olive-buff eggs that only she broods for an unknown period. As soon as she has laid her eggs and starts incubating them, her mate moves south again to his feeding grounds in the Bering Sea. As incubation advances, the female plucks more and more of her breast feathers to keep the eggs warm. Shortly after hatching, the young leave the nest and go to water. Their mother tends them but does not feed them. Their diet at this time is essentially the same as their mother’s: mostly aquatic insects, plus some plant food such as pondweeds and crowberries. They feed by wading in clear shallow water or swimming with head submerged or dabbling at the surface. Two or more broods of young may combine under the care of one or more females, something known as “creching.” The age at first flight is unknown, but after they do fledge and fly to the open ocean to feed, they will eat mostly mollusks and crustaceans as well as sand dollars, marine worms and small fish. When they dive for these foods underwater they open their wings as though flying, similar to the underwater flight of penguins. In a recent article in the Delta Discovery, Brian McCaffery reported that the number of Steller’s eiders nesting in the YK Delta has declined to almost zero, perhaps because of lead poisoning from lead shot used by hunters. Thankfully, this practice has changed, and perhaps now this small sea duck has a chance to make a comeback. I hope so.  |
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Three-toed Woodpecker:Tappity Tap Tap Three-toed Woodpecker Puugtuyuli On Saturdays and Sundays I walk or ski a little farther than usual on the many trails around Marshall. About a month ago, just before the snow began to fly, I hiked up the Russian Mission trail to check on one of my favorite beaver ponds. I'd been watching the dam and lodge grow bigger over the past several seasons, and I wondered how it would look this year. The Russian Mission trail is studded with tall willows mixed with deep spongy tundra, and dozens of ptarmigan dressed in their fall suits of mottled brown and white were feeding on both sides of me. When they suddenly dashed for cover I sensed it wasn't only me they were afraid of. Glancing at the sky, I watched a Peregrine falcon cruise overhead, no doubt eyeing one of those fluffy ptarmigan for a tasty meal. I was soon at the beaver pond and saw that it was almost twice the size it was last year. Since it was laden with a thick layer of ice, I thought I'd venture out on it to take a closer look at the beaver lodge and dam, both of which appeared much larger than they were in spring. Remembering what I had been told in Hooper Bay by old Kurt Bell, I grabbed a sturdy pole to use as an "ayagaluq," or staff, for probing the ice, just in case there were any thin areas to contend with. Quite often in the fall these exist dose to the lodge where the beaver have been swimming in and out of their various entrances. As I shuffled slowly across the ice with my staff, I heard a knocking noise somewhere in the distance. Stopping to listen, the sound of a woodpecker tappity tap tapping came from a stand of spruce on the other side of the beaver lodge. I wondered which of the five Alaskan species it might be, but when it remained hidden in the branches I figured I'd use an old trick to get it to come closer to me. Breaking a small twig from one of the dead trees in the middle of the pond, I began tap tap tapping, too, until the woodpecker became so curious it flew over and landed on the dead tree directly opposite the one I was tapping on. He was less than an arm's length away from my face, and as I continued to tap and scrape the twig on the tree bark he peered at me so intently I could see a little spark of light reflecting from his left eyeball. I stared back at him and kept tapping, and he curiously cocked his head back and forth, as if to say, "Who the devil are you, and what do you think you're doing tapping on my tree?" He did this for almost a minute, then fluttered off into a thicket of dead trees about twenty feet away. Before he flew, though, I clearly saw the tell- tale markings that revealed him to be a male Three-toed woodpecker. Three-toed woodpeckers (Picoides tridactylus) are unique among woodpeckers because, as their name suggests, they only have three toes for grasping. How and why this trait evolved is a good question, but for whatever reason it distinguishes them and their dose cousin, the Black-backed woodpecker (Picoides arcticus) from the other three Alaskan woodpeckers that all have four toes. Something else that makes Three-toed woodpeckers unique is the way they peck and flake the bark off both live and dead spruce trees to get at any insects that may be hiding underneath. They prefer areas with a lot of standing dead trees, especially where there has been a recent forest fire, since it is in these trees where they find their favorite food, wood-boring beetle larvae. Both sexes of a mated pair often forage close to one another except during the nesting season when they hunt separately. In fact, a pair may remain together for more than one year, using the same feeding and breeding territory during that period. In early spring, when sunlight increases and the days grow warmer, the male and female begin hunting even more closely together. As nesting time draws nigh the male attracts the female to him by drumming on a hard surface, swaying his head back and forth and calling to her sweetly. In spite of an enduring tenacity to their breeding site, they both excavate a new nesting cavity, usually in the same dead spruce the old one was in. The mated birds are quite tolerant of humans around their nest and, if you're quiet, you may observe some very intimate behavior. Once while in my canoe from not more than 8 feet away I watched them feed their young without even a hint of fear. After laying three or more white eggs, both female and male are dedicated parents and take turns incubating, the male taking the "night" shift (which in Alaska includes a part of the day). In two weeks the eggs hatch and both parents feed the nestlings until three and a half weeks later they are ready to leave their by now extremely confined quarters. Then they stand on the woody edge of their round hole, lift their wings and push off into the open air. They don't leave their parents just yet, though; they hang around for another 4-8 weeks, learning what we humans call the "tricks of the trade." One of these tricks is colorfully described in the bird's Yupik name, "puugtuyuli," which means, "the one who is good at diving through the air with the intention of banging its head against something." Think of it, right out of the nest and banging your head against a tree for the first time. What a surprise, what a wakeup call to life? Tappity tap tap!  |
Tree Swallow:Darting Wings Tree Swallow Egugmelnguq A bird we truly look forward to seeing return in spring is the Tree swallow. This is because it's the one species that tells us the warm weather is here to stay. Think about why. Tree swallows consume a lot, and I mean a lot, of insects, and won't survive for long without them. That's why they usually show up when the first batch of mosquitoes begins to buzz around and bother you and me. Then, all of a sudden, you'll see these little blue and white buzz bombs darting back and forth as fast as lightning and as light as air itself to help thin the population of our worst enemies. Tachycineta bicolor is how scientists refer to the Tree swallow. This Latin name literally means "swift moving two-colored bird," which describes them perfectly as they sprint through the warm air in their relentless search for diminutive winged protein. There are many Yupik names for the tree swallow. One is "kauturyaraq," which means, "one that nests in a small cavity." The name also refers to the bank swallow who lives in a similar manner, but in the steep sides of river banks. The Yupik name I like the best, however, refers to the Tree swallow alone, and that is "equgmelnguq" (or "qugmelnguq" and "qungmelnguyaaq"), which loosely translates as the bird that "carries a beetle on its shoulder," possibly referring to the iridescent color of its shoulders, which is the same color as that of some beetles. During normal years Tree swallows have plenty of insects to carry home on the their shoulders, but I remember last spring just after they returned to Marshall in late April the weather turned very cold for several days and all the insects went into hiding, thus depriving the swallows of their usual food supply. But, as with wild animals everywhere, the swallows proved resilient and adapted to the change. I found out how during one of my evening walks. It was then that I stumbled on more than a hundred of the shiny blue and white birds divebombing off the edge of the spring river ice into an open slough adjoining the Yukon River. The swallows were apparently making the best of a bad situation by flying in sorties one after the other from their perch on the ice and dipping suddenly into the slowly moving water to pick up their prize of tiny crustaceans which are abundant near the ice in spring. The birds did this for hours, day after day, and the strategy must have worked because I found no dead birds, and when the warmer weather came back the swallows returned to the village and resumed their normal lives. As anyone knows who has watched these handsome birds in spring, the males are extremely aggressive about their nesting territories, and once they have claimed them they begin actively courting their fair ladies with fancy aerial acrobatics. The lady makes her choice based on the dazzling quality of his display. When the feathered couple settles down to serious homemaking, the new wife builds the nest in a tree cavity or nest box on the side of your house (or even in an open mailbox at the edge of the road), sometimes helped by her consort. She lays four to six white eggs that hatch about 15 days later. Then for 16-24 days both parents work themselves anorexic trying to keep up with the noisy hunger of their altricial young, at which time the young birds fly off and begin to fend for themselves. If they are lucky they stand the chance of surviving for perhaps nine years. If they are lucky. And so it goes with Tachycineta bicolor alias equgmelnguq. And, as always, I've just scratched the surface. There's so much more to be said about the life and times of this "swift moving two-colored bird that "carries a beetle on its shoulder." And soon, very soon now, we'll all be able to watch these wee winged wonders for ourselves as they dash to and fro over our heads and suddenly, perhaps, dart down right in front of our eyes and pick a mosquito off the end of our nose!  |
Tundra Swan:Tundra Swan Qugyuk They're memories now, but some of the best ones of birds I ever had in the Lower Yukon Delta were of watching Tundra swans. Once during the fall near Scammon Bay I remember sneaking up on a lake full of these beautiful waterfowl early in the morning to take their pictures. Then I counted more than a hundred of them floating majestically on the water. Another time while visiting some friends in Black River on the Bering Sea coast I watched in awe as a skein of 50 of the stately birds flew close overhead, their white feathers luminously reflecting the rays of the late afternoon sun. And yet, everytime I marvelled at these birds I realized they served as an important food supply for the people of the Delta, who call the species Qugyuk or Qugsuk, depending on whether you're from Hooper Bay or the Lower Yukon, respectively. On so many occasions while walking in the tundra and in the village I encountered men returning from a hunt with two or three dead swans hanging around their necks. That night their womenfolk would pluck them and freeze them for later use as a most delectable dinner meal. Everyone jokingly referred to them as "1000 dollar dinners," because that was the cost of the fine in those days if hunters were caught in the act. In any case, I prefer to see this wondrous bird alive, for I regard it as one of the most handsome large birds on the North American continent. So, let me tell you about live swans before you take aim and fire. Lewis and Clark were the first white men to discover and scientifically describe this swan. They dubbed it Olor columbianus because they first encountered it on the Columbia River. Olor simply means swan in Latin. Lewis and Clark also gave it its original common name of "whistling" because they thought it made a "kind of whistling sound." It was recently renamed because nobody since Lewis and Clark has heard that whistling sound made by adult birds. The Yupik names more accurately represent at least some of its calls, which one author describes as, "loud, melodious, high-pitched,. ..like distant baying of hounds, but also more like soft, musical laughter .... " Its new common name describes its nesting preference, in the subarctic or arctic tundra. Speaking of which, Tundra swans are usually on their nesting grounds in the Delta by May. It's then that the male selects the actual nest site and the mating game begins. Since swans have already formed their sometimes lifelong pair bond by the previous autumn, they very soon get down to the business of having a family. Before the final act, however, there is first some ritual. With his neck lifted in an arch and wings proudly outstretched, the male does a high-stepping walk in front of his mate. Both sexes bow to each other during this display and constantly call back and forth. As the summer season is short in the Delta, courtship doesn't last long and the pair quickly consummate their bond. Not, however, until they've finished building their nest, which is usually a large mound of mosses, dried grasses and sedges on a small island in a shallow tundra pond. The female lays 4-5 creamy-white eggs in this ample nest and, while the male stands guard, she incubates them for about 35 days. Within two days after hatching, the pure white downy chicks, called cignets, leave the nest, and their parents lead them to water where they will be taught to feed on small thin-shelled mollusks as well as aquatic plants, grasses and sedges. When their necks are long enough they will imitate their parents and vigorously dig and root underwater at the bottom of their home ponds for these foods. As a result of this dabbling, their head and neck feathers will develop a tint of rust on them. If all goes well, after 60-70 days of fattening and fledging, the cignets will try their first flight, which is no easy matter for a bird that can weigh as much as 18 pounds. To finally become airborne, they must run on the surface of the water into the wind for up to 20 feet. Non too soon, because by now winter is fast approaching and most other birds have either already left or are preparing to leave for warmer climes. It won't be until mid-October, though, that the young swans will be ready to fly south with their parents. Meanwhile, they must eat hearty and practice flying in formation with the adults who now have a new suit of feathers as a result of their molt. This complete change of flight feathers began about the same time they first led their hatchlings away from the nest and down to the water's edge. Sometime towards the end of October, just before freeze-up, the Tundra swans of the Y-K Delta begin their long migration south to California. On a clear crisp autumn day while picking cranberries near Marshall, I remember hearing the adult swans, high-pitched laughing barks as they led their young through the shortcut by Pilcher Mountain on their way up the Yukon River. They were flying high, long necks outstretched, in V-shaped wedges, and I waved at them as they went over. They were the last large waterfowl to migrate, and I knew winter would be close behind. You've heard the expression, "singing his swan song." According to many who have heard this most beautiful of waterfowl utterances, it is actually the departure song of the Tundra swan as it takes flight from a lake. It is described as "a melodious, soft, muted series of notes that always precedes its takeoff into the air," and as "the swan song of legend, for when a swan is shot and falls crippled to the water, it utters this call as it tries in vain to rejoin its fellows in the sky." I imagine many hunters in the Delta have heard this "swan song."  |
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Varied Thrush:Ciitaarayuli Varied Thrush Ciitaarayuli means, “The bird that’s really good at squashing something.” And I imagine the “something” refers to insects or insect larvae they feed on during the summer when they nest in the spruce forests of the eastern LYK Delta. But that’s not the only thing they’re good at. They’re also virtuoso singers. Just listen to their eerie prolonged high-pitched ringing-bell song that slowly fades into the forest. For those living on the coast of the Delta, it’s worth taking a trip inland to experience this almost unearthly sound. Like their cousin, the American robin, Varied thrushes are fairly early arrivals to the Delta in the spring. The males come in first, and after choosing their nesting ground immediately begin to sing from perches high in the spruce to let other males know it has already been taken. In defending their territories, they can be quite combative. They threaten potential rivals by first cocking their tail and turning it toward the intruder while crouching with their head held out, wings lowered and their body feathers sleeked back. If that doesn’t work, they fan their cocked tail, then spread their wings and rotate them forward. Sometimes the males may even peck at each other or lock bills, followed by a high-speed chase and noisy squabbling calls. All of this is to eventually attract the later-arriving females to their sweet spot in the woods, thereby assuring the perpetuation of their species. After the female makes her choice, she sticks with her mate for the rest of the season. She chooses a spot for her nest, usually in a spruce tree at the base of a branch against the trunk, about 10 feet above the ground. She builds her nest in the form of a bulky open cup made of twigs, moss, leaves and bark fibers. She lines it with fine grass and moss, then drapes pieces of green moss over the rim and outside the nest to camouflage it. All is now ready for egg laying, which could lead to a clutch of between 1-6 pale blue, brown-dotted eggs. She alone broods the eggs for just shy of two weeks, then both parents feed the nestlings until they fledge about two weeks later. After flying the coop, so to speak, the young continue to be fed by both parents until they finally learn to feed on their own. At which point, if the season is warm enough and there is enough food the pair might decide to have a second brood. Food is the determining factor, and this means insects, including beetles, ants, caterpillars, worms, spiders and millipedes. From the middle of summer till they leave in fall, both adult and young birds will also eat wild berries. They are mostly ground feeders, which is why you seldom see them. The scientific name of the Varied thrush is Ixoreus naevius, Latin words meaning, “spotted mistletoe berry-eating mountain bird.” According to the Cornell Bird Laboratory, these beautiful birds don’t usually live in patches of forest of less than 40 acres. Although their populations normally tend to go up and down every two years, habitat fragmentation in Alaska and the Lower 48 states has resulted in continually declining numbers. This is cause for concern, as it is for so many other species of birds that are experiencing even more severe population declines.  |
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Western Sandpiper:Western Sandpiper Iisuraar(aq) Have you ever wondered about the word "sandpiper?" I did, and when I finally looked it up I found one of the meanings of the word "pipe" is to chirp, peep or cheep. Thus, a "sandpiper', is a bird that chirps or peeps in the sand. Since Western, Semi-palmated, Least and a few other sandpipers make this sound, and also look very much alike, these species are all referred to as "peeps." In Yupik, there is a parallel to the English usage. Iisuraar(aq) is the name the people in Scammon Bay use for this shorebird. Hooper Bay and Chevak use the variation Iiyuraar(aq), since the sound "s" becomes "y" in that area. So what do you think those words mean? Well, look at them closely and you'll probably come up with something like, "the dear little one that makes the sound "iisur," or "iiyur," as the case may be. And if you've ever listened to this bird, you'll have to agree that they do make a sound you could write this way. Anyway, there is yet another Yupik name for the Western sandpiper, cenair(aq), which means "bird that lives (and eats) along the shore." For all I know, it is a word that refers to all shorebirds. More names, but I must give you one more because it is the bird's western scientific name, Calidris mauri, meaning Mauri's speckled water bird. It was bestowed in 1838 by the famous naturalist Charles Bonaparte for his friend Ernesto Mauri. But that's another story. Enough names. Let's go to some interesting behavior. Where migrant and wintering Westerns are found on open shorelines, tidal mudflats and sandy beaches, during the breeding season these birds are mostly found on tundra slopes where they eat insects, such as flies and beetles, plus a few spiders and crustaceans here and there. During migration they have a much larger menu, including insects, crustaceans, mollusks, marine worms and a few seeds every now and then. Most of the time they forage for their food by walking in shallow water or on wet mud or sand, probing below the surface with their sensitive bills. Being opportunists, they also pick up food items from the surface. After returning from their long migration to as far away as northern Peru and Surinam in South America, Western sandpipers seek out their old breeding grounds in the dry tundra of western Alaska and eastern Siberia. The male immediately establishes his nesting territory and chirrs (probably the Yupik sound "iisur") vigorously while performing his display flight over this coveted area. Once an interested female alights nearby, he lands too and tries to dazzle her with his charm. He slowly approaches her in a hunched posture, tail raised over his back, repeatedly uttering his sexiest trilled call. If she likes what she sees and hears, well, you know what happens next. With sandpipers that breed in the north the courting period is fleeting, since they don't have any time to spare in the short window of warm weather up here. Even with global warming the nesting pair has to worry about climatic time constraints. While the male was doing his display flight, trying to attract a female, he was also scraping out several nest sites on the ground for his potential mate to choose from once she decided he was the one-and-only. It doesn't take him long to do this, since the scrapes are only shallow depressions on slightly elevated shrubby tundra near a water source such as a marsh or pothole lake. Each is lined with grass, tiny leaves and moss, and is sometimes domed with sedges and grasses. After choosing the site, she adds a little to what her paramour has already placed there. And then it is time to be extremely serious and prepare for the future. Yes, eggs, incubation and child care. She lays four brown-splotched whitish-brown eggs, which are incubated by both parents for about three weeks. At first, the female broods the eggs from late afternoon to midmorning the next day, at which time the male takes over for a few hours. But gradually the male increases his share of the time. Sometimes the female departs from the nest and her mate even before the eggs hatch. Then it is up to him to finish the job. When the eggs hatch they do so almost simultaneously, and the already downy-feathered young leave the nest within hours after hatching. This is called a precocial behavior and is necessary for survival reasons. If you've ever found a sandpiper nest, you've probably noticed how large the eggs are in comparison to the size of eggs belonging to non-sandpipers. This is so the chicks can develop inside the eggs to a size where they are able to trot away from the nest right after they are born. Sometimes both parents care for the young, but often the female deserts them after a few days, thus leaving the male alone to care for the young. He really doesn't have much responsibility, however, since the chicks already instinctively know how to feed themselves, just watching the old man to learn about the variability of foods that are available in the area. After almost three weeks of feverish, almost constant feeding, the young are mature enough to take wing for the first time, and then they are completely on their own. Soon afterward, both father and mother (wherever she is) depart the breeding area for more southerly dimes. The fledglings hang around, though, for another two to three weeks, frenetically feeding to fatten up for their long migration south. Listen to these birds at this time of year as they move and whistle constantly along the water's edge, digging with their specialized bill, and you will hear why they are called peeps and pipers.  |
Whimbrel:Whimbrel Kikikiaq What a bird this one is! With its long, down-curved bill and bluish stilt-like legs, it almost looks extraterrestrial. But I assure you, it is an earthling, and an Alaskan through and through, at least for part of the year. Kikikiaq is also quite a world traveller. I've seen this bird from the Lower Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge all the way to South America, including the Galapagos Islands. One of the most fascinating encounters I've had with it was on the lower Yukon River near Marshall many years ago. I was out walking on the tundra when a lone Whimbrel flew directly over me, making its flight call, a quick, loud and liquid kikikikikiki. I instantly called back to it, using the sound it makes on its nesting grounds, a sort of kur-leeou, kur-leeou (which, by the way, gives this bird another of its names, curlew).The Whimbrel immediately changed course, circled me, and landed on the tundra. As I continued to call, the bird began circling me and approaching closer and closer. I watched him through my binocs, and at one point even thought I saw a sparkle in his eye, but finally when he was within fifty feet of me the sparkle faded and he flew away. I guess I wasn't his cup of tea. The Whimbrel, which is a member of the sandpiper family, was so-named in England from one of its calls which the British apparently thought sounded like whim, to which the suffix brel was added. This suffix means something like "dear little one" in old English. It has two Yupik names I'm familiar with, Kikikiaq, which I learned in Hooper Bay, and Pipipiaq in Scammon Bay. Both of these are onomatopoeic, that is, they take the name of a sound the bird makes. In this case, the sound is of its flight call, mentioned above. While living in Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, I remember young hunters taking whimbrels and other large shorebirds to give as food gifts to their elders. Then, of course, there is its scientific name, Numenius phaeopus. Numenius is Greek for "new moon," and refers to the crescent shape of the bird's bill. Phaeopus is Greek for "gray-foot," and relates to the whimbrel's bluish-gray colored legs. It's curious that in northern Alaska, the Inupiat name of the bird, Sigoktuvak, also describes its anatomy and loosely means, "big, long-billed shorebird." For the record, some of the Whimbrel's other common English names are: blue- legs, crooked-bill marlin, foolish curlew, Hudsonian curlew, jack, jack curlew, short-billed curlew, and striped-head. So much for names. In spring on his nesting grounds, the male Whimbrel puts on quite an aerial courtship show for his mate. After taking off from the tundra, he flies low, then circles higher and higher until suddenly he begins gliding down to earth again, uttering his rapid, trill-like kikikikikiki. This is a precursor to, you guessed it, copulation and egg-laying in a quickly built nest that isn't much more than a saucer-shaped depression in dry tundra and lined with bits of dry grass, moss and lichen. Four olive-colored, brown-spotted eggs are usually laid, then incubated by both parents for about a month. After the young hatch, they leave the nest quickly. At first, both parents feed and protect them, but gradually they learn the tricks of the trade, and a little more than a month after they've hatched the birds are on their own. By then they have learned to both feed themselves and to defy the force of gravity by flying. The diet of the young is the same as that of their parents: aquatic invertebrates, including small crustaceans, worms, small mollusks, spiders, sand fleas, and, in late summer, wild berries, especially crowberries which provide them with ample fat for their migration to southern climes in fall. When it finally comes time for the migration to take place, the young stick around Alaska for at least a week longer than their parents to build up their fat wads and to learn a little Spanish for their long trip to South America. Buen viaje.  |
White-crowned Sparrow:Uipinipaaq White-crowned Sparrow Ever heard the bird that sings, “Don’t wanna go to school no more”? If you haven’t, spring is the time of year to start listening. The male White-crowned sparrows return first, so that’s all you’ll be hearing or seeing for about two weeks, and since they sing even at night in Alaska, you’ll be happy when the females arrive and begin to settle in with their paramours. One of the reasons the females arrive later is that they winter further south in Mexico than the males. When the girls do arrive, they put on quite a display for the male, especially in a nesting territory where there aren’t enough males to go around. This is referred to as polygyny, and happens in some human cultures, too. Sometimes among the White-crowns it gets so complicated that the females divide up the male’s territory and even sing to show possession of their little part of the realm. That seems to explain why the female does the courting, by fluttering her wings and trilling to attract the male’s attention. Sounds strange, but think of some of the things we humans do! Once the female has found a mate and a nesting territory, she sets about selecting a nest site, then building a cup-shaped nest on the ground by herself of materials such as grass, leaves and hair. This done, she begins the serious business of laying 4-5 brown-spotted creamy-white to pale-green eggs. Only she incubates the eggs, which hatch about 12 days later. Both parents feed the young in the nest until they fledge after about 10 days. If there is enough time left in the season and the female decides to try for a second brood, the male will continue feeding the fledglings until they are on their own. While the adults feed mostly on wildflower and grass seeds and some insects, they feed their young a high protein diet of mostly insects. The Yupik name Uipinipaaq is probably onomatopoeic, that is, it sounds similar to the bird’s song. This is not the case for either the common name (perfectly descriptive) or the scientific (Greek) name, Zonotrichia leucophrys, which loosely means, “white striped feathers over the eyebrow.” Which leads me into a short discussion about their white crowns. Researchers refer to these white crowns as badges, and have shown that they indicate relative status among adult male and female birds, those with the brightest white striping having the highest dominance status. This is apparently important in finding genetically worthy mates, not unlike the role of hair in humans, although there’s no guarantee of the genetic quality in the latter. Something else fairly unique among these sparrows is that they have many local dialects. These have also been widely studied by scientists, but have not been found to have any evolutionary significance. They have arisen simply as a result of the young males (and females) hearing the songs sung in their local territories by their fathers and neighboring males. “Don’t wanna go to school no more!”  |
White-fronted Goose:White-fronted Goose Leqleq Listen to these amazing geese and you will hear honest to goodness laughter and chuckling. As they fly overhead, it could be they're laughing at the way we build our houses, or the way we're so confined to the earth, or perhaps the way people point up at them and say "leqleq," or "neqleq," or "neqlepik"! Now it's time for you to laugh because these are names that were given probably many thousands of years ago by hunters who thought the sound these geese made reminded them of someone passing gas. You don't believe me? Well listen again. One person's laughter is another's, how can I put it delicately, "flatus." On to other things, such as their scientific name, Anser albifrons, meaning, "goose with the white forehead," which is where the big goose also gets its official English common name. In the Y-K Delta, however, the goose is called "Yellow legs," because of its brilliant orange-yellow legs. Some of my friends also call it "Speckle belly," because of its, yes, speckled belly. After migrating north from their wintering grounds in California and Mexico, these laughing geese fly in to the Y-K Delta in large numbers. Three year olds have by now already found mates and immediately prepare to nest, even if there is still snow on the ground. Both during the winter and on their way north the two newly mated birds have strengthened their pair bond with what is called the "triumph display," where the male briefly attacks another adult bird, then returns to its mate with its neck outstretched and its wings partly spread. While he does this, both male and female call loudly back and forth. Since, in this case, it is no laughing matter, they don't laugh. Mother goose builds her nest by herself in a shallow depression in the tundra near water out of dried grasses and small sticks and then lines it with her own down. Father goose meanwhile remains nearby, calling loudly, and hissing and flying at any other White-fronts that may approach too close for comfort. This may happen fairly often, since White-fronts nest in loose colonies of 15-20 pairs. The female usually lays 5-6 large cream-colored eggs and incubates them by herself while the gander stands guard. It takes almost a month for the young to begin to peck their way out of their shells, but when they finally make it into the light of day they are already quite big and strong, and within a day can walk and swim without any help from mom or dad. Both parents tend the young after they leave the nest, leading them to feeding areas. They do not feed them, however. Feeding close by, the hatchlings eat pretty much the same fare as their parents: marsh and tundra plants, aquatic insects and their larvae and, especially during migration, crowberries and blueberries. After fattening up on these foods for about a month and a half, the young are ready to push into the air and fly, fly, fly. They don't seem to be in any hurry to leave the company of their parents, though, and remain with them for the first year of life, and often are loosely associated with them for several years. When it comes time to migrate in Fall, the young follow their parents, thereby learning the skills needed for long-distance migration. They fly with them by day or night, using well established routes flown by countless generations of White-fronted and other geese, and relying on traditional stopover points to recharge for the next leg of their journey. My favorite migration memory of these handsome geese was during a walk one late Autumn day on the mountain above the village of Marshall. Snow was falling and, well, let me tell the story in the form of a poem I wrote about them: It was an opaque sky with early snow falling when I heard them gabbling somewhere out there in those hoary flakes dropping leaden on green birch woods and bleaching red tundra frosty white with winter. Further along the trail I spotted their tracks, a stampede of webbed feet chasing blueberries across yellowing tufts of splayed cotton grass on wet snow, lightly squashing confetti leaves of dwarf birch cast away by galing September winds. Then I heard them again, above me, their noisy gabble warning of some amorphous imminence. Suddenly, there they were, like giant wings flapping, first one flock, then another, and another, scudding off in different directions, splitting their numbers, flying higher on the mountain where no one will bother them, to fatten some more on blueberries and crowberries, just biding their time till the weather breaks and they can see the grey snake braids of the Yukon river once again. Then they'll be gone, heading across the pass to Russian Mission, over to the Kuskokwim and south to warmer climes and another winter of respite from the blood and broken feathers inflicted by the greedy cannonfire of hungry hunters. Good luck to you, my friends. P.S. The White-front has many other common names: Gray brant, gray wavey, harlequin brant, laughing goose, marble-belly, pied brant, prairie brant, speckled brant, tiger brant, tule white-fronted goose, yellow-legged brant, and yellow-legged goose.  |
Willow Ptarmigan:Willow Ptarmigan Aqesgiq Aqezaqezaqezaqezqzqzqzqzqz.... Ever heard that sound? Sure you have. Just walk out in the tundra in Spring, and I guarantee, if you listen hard enough, you'll hear it. Enter, two aspiring bird watchers. "Okay, now we're in the tundra, and we hear it. So, what are we hearing?" "Did you remember your binoculars? No. Well, go back and get them." Pause.... ''You're back. Good. Now take your binocs and scan the horizon. Stop! See them...like little white snowballs skittering across the tundra." "Yah, tundra chickens." "Right, except those aren't any old chickens. Those are willow ptarmigan, what they call around here, aqesgiq, because of the sound of their spring mating call (that word, "onomatopoeia" again). That's what you're hearing right now." "Alright, what next?" "Well, watch them for a while and you might see some interesting action out there." If our new bird watching friends really did take the time, they probably saw some remarkable behavior between the male ptarmigan and a few passionately curious females (ptarmigan) that came around to check him out. They also might have witnessed some very aggressive behavior on the part of the male if any other males happened to venture near the little bare patch on the tundra that he called his own. What they saw might have reminded them of a bloody cock fight they'd been to in Mexico. If the bird watchers return the following day, they might see the ptarmigan mating game unfold even further. Read on.... After frightening off his rivals, and with bright red nuptial "eyebrows" (also called combs) flashing at high speed, the male aqesgiq begins to strut his stuff and flutter his brown-stained wings, chuckling for all he's worth to attract the woman of his dreams over to his little bare patch on the tundra so he can, you guessed it, make babies and quickly settle down to married life and all that means to a male ptarmigan. Unlike the other two species of Alaska ptarmigan, the aqesgiq is actually a pretty good husband and sticks around while his new wife builds her nest, then lays and incubates her 15 (or more) eggs. Hiding in a thicket near the nest, he will do whatever it takes to defend his spouse from attacks by gulls and jaegers. He flies viciously at them, sometimes even knocking them over, to prevent them from getting the eggs of his future progeny. One was once even seen frontally attacking a grizzly bear that stumbled on his mate's nest. If you chase after the chicks and try to pick them up, prepare for a fierce flying attack yourself. This almost happened to me in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. I escaped just in time. Here's something else. If his mate is somehow killed while still brooding her eggs, the male will take over the responsibility of not only incubating the eggs, but also of feeding the young until they're old enough to care for themselves. I wonder how many humans would do that? Okay, that's enough for now about aqesgiq. Except for two things, two important things, the scientific name, which ...(you look it up), and, what else? You tell me. But I'll give you a hint ....It has to do only with Alaska.  | |
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Wilson's Snipe:Wilson’s Snipe Kukukuaq Listen carefully this fall and you may hear the sound of spring. The Wilson’s snipe sometimes makes its weird winnowing call, woo-woo-woo-woo, even during its fall migration. You won’t mistake this sound for that of any other bird. It is unearthly, and is produced by air vibrating the bird’s two outer tail feathers. When the snipe dives at between 24-53 mph, the winnowing sound can be heard for up to a half-mile away. The noise is mostly a part of the male’s mating display over the nesting territory to warn other males to stay away, but is also directed toward his beloved below both while courting her favors and later while she is incubating the eggs on the nest. Interestingly, it may be made by either sex during the early part of the breeding season and sometimes by both sexes at once. This unusual sound is also the source of one of its Yup’ik names, kukukuaq (which is simply imitative of the sound), and even of its Iñupiaq name, avikiak, which means, “sounds like a walrus.” The Nunivak Island name for the bird, cen’aq, translates loosely as “sandy beach bird.” The snipe’s scientific name, Capella gallinago, also relates to the sound of its territorial winnowing call. Both words are Latin and mean “little nanny goat-like chicken,” probably in allusion to this goat-like noise. At one time the snipe was very abundant in North America, especially on its wintering ground in the southern U.S. where it was slaughtered in the late 19th century by market hunters. One hunter in Louisiana killed almost 70,000 snipe in a 20 year period. They are still hunted each fall, but with a strict bag limit. When I taught in Hooper Bay and Scammon Bay, I remember them being hunted by Yup’ik young people and then presented to their elders as gourmet treats. After finding her prince charming, the female quickly goes to work and selects a nest site. With her bill, she scrapes a spot in soft dry ground, then crouches and turns in the scrape with her body to mold mosses and grasses to a cup shape, adding grass or sedge for lining. She then lays four dark, spotted olive-buff eggs, which she alone incubates for 18-20 days. Soon after hatching, both parents lead the chicks from the nest and feed and brood them. If a fox or man appears, both adults flutter about like wounded birds to distract the enemy from the chicks. Within ten days the chicks can fend for themselves and by their 15th day can even fly short distances. Like their parents, the young get most of their food by plunging their bill straight down into soft earth or mud. The bill is soft and flexible and the upper mandible can be raised and curved to seize earthworms and larvae and pull them out of the ground. The bird works its food up the length of its bill with its spiny tongue and backward-projecting serrations on the inside of the upper mandible. Insects, including their larvae, are about 50 percent of their food, but they also eat small frogs, crabs, snails, earthworms, leeches, spiders, centipedes, and even seeds of sedges and grasses. They chase this daily fare with large amounts of water. Any indigestible parts of the food are burped out in the form of pellets. The Wilson’s snipe was named after the “father of American ornithology,” Alexander Wilson (1766-1813). It has also been called the Alewife bird, American snipe, bleater, bog snipe, English snipe, gutter snipe, jacksnipe, marsh snipe, meadow snipe, shad bird and shad spirit. Many years ago, while a teacher in Scammon Bay, I remember walking over to Castle Rocks after an early snowfall in October when suddenly a snipe flew out of the snow in front of me, swiftly zigzagged away for a few hundred feet, then dived back into the snow, probably to keep warm. I’ve observed this behavior a few times since then – which prompts me to call this bird by yet another name, the snow snipe.  |
Wilson's Warbler:Wilson’s Warbler Cungakcuarnaq This tiny warbler is a real gem, and when flitting through the bushes on a cloudy day looks like a golden ray of sunshine. No wonder it is graced with so many names everywhere it’s found. Let’s begin with Yup’ik names. I’ve found three of them so far, and they cover all the bases of what the bird is: Cungakcuarnaq means “the little bird that is the color of greenish-yellow bile;” Ciivcivciuk is imitative of its call (the male sings a quick rolling chitter, drooping in pitch at the end: t’le t’le t’le t’le chee chee chee; and Ciugciugciaq describes its behavior of tilting its head up while either singing or searching for edible tidbits. And that’s only the beginning. In English, the Wilson’s warbler was named after the 19th century ornithologist, Alexander Wilson. So was its scientific name, which means, “Wilson’s very small warbler.” Other English names for this rolly polly little bird are: Pileolated warbler; Golden pileolated warbler; Green black-capped warbler; Northern pileolated warbler; Wilson’s black-cap; Wilson’s black-capped flycatching warbler; and Wilson’s pileolated warbler. Finally, for those who speak French: Fauvette jaune, Paruline à calotte noire, and Paruline jaune; and Spanish: Chipe amarillo, Chipe corona negra, Reinita gorrinegra, Reinita de Wilson, Chipe careto, Reinita de capucha, Chipe Coroninegro and Verdin amarillo. If you’re searching for Ciivcivciuk, check out thickets of second growth saplings, black spruce and tamarack in sphagnum bogs, or stands of willows, alders and birches near creeks and ponds. You won’t find them deep in the forest. While feeding they usually stay within 10 feet of the ground. They are lively little birds, jerking their tails as they glean insects, caterpillars and spiders from the leaves of bushes, especially near water. You’ll also frequently see them darting into the air to catch flying insects. Or sometimes you may see the little guys hopping on the ground, probing among fallen leaves, then, as I mentioned above for Ciugciugciaq, tilting its head upward and fluttering into the air to take prey from the undersides of leaves and branches. In spring, male Wilson’s warblers migrate north to Alaska ahead of females and arrive first on their nesting grounds to establish their breeding territories. After the arrival of the females the mating game begins. During courting the male flits about restlessly trying to dazzle his paramour with an exhibition of color and dance and a spirited repertoire of song, t’le t’le t’le t’e chee chee chee. It doesn’t take long for the female to decide on her soul mate and she quickly settles into the serious business of building her nest, usually on the ground in a secluded nook in the grass or tundra, often at the base of a small willow or other shrub. The nest is a bulky open cup, made of grass, moss and dead leaves, and lined with finer grass and animal hair. She lays 4-7 creamy white, brown-speckled eggs that she incubates by herself for 10-13 days. The nestlings are fed by both parents, but only the mother bird broods them. The young fledge between 8-13 days after hatching. Both parents feed the fledglings for a short period after they leave the nest, but very soon the young learn to feed themselves. For the next few weeks, however, one or both parents tend them, with some of the young staying with one parent while the rest accompany the other. Together they now hurriedly fatten up for their long fall migration to places as far away as southern Mexico and Central America. In March, 2013, during a 10 day birding hike across the tropical Sierra Madre mountains in Chiapas, Mexico (located next to Guatemala), I was privileged to see them in their winter homes. What a treat that was. A cool fact is that the color and size of Wilson’s warblers depends on where they nest. Those that nest along the Pacific coast have the brightest yellow, even orangish, foreheads and faces. And birds that nest in Alaska and the western-central part of the Lower 48 are larger than eastern and Pacific coast populations. A cool bird, eh?  |
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Yellow Wagtail:Yellow Wagtail Ikigcaqaq Here’s a mouthful for you: Motacilla tschutschensis. That’s the new scientific name for this bird, and it’s almost as long as the bird itself. It means, “the bird that bobs its tail up and down.” None of the Yup’ik names I‘ve found are that long, and the one I was given from Scammon Bay, Ikigcaqaq, I think better describes this wagtail than the scientific or English common names do. Ikigcaqaq translates as, “the bird that bends over, sticking his butt in the air.” Watch it sometime and you’ll see what I mean. What some authors describe as simultaneous head nodding and tail bobbing is what I liken to the “dude strut,” a form of walking you find especially among “cool dudes” in the inner city. Whether it’s in willow thickets of the Lower Yukon Delta or the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (where I’ve seen most of these birds), the Yellow wagtail is a songbird that’s hard to miss. The bright yellow coloring of the male, its nodding head and bobbing tail with flashing white outer feathers, its loud sharp ple, ple, ple, ple song while flying or perched on top of tall willows, its pursuit of insects in midair, and the way a nesting pair (joined by other males) will aggressively mob an intruding predator (or bird watcher), are only some of its remarkable behaviors. Another is its aerial courtship flight. As soon as the birds reach their nesting territory the male begins courting the female. He flies up in the air about 60-90 feet, then floats back to earth on stiff down-turned wings, singing and slowly spreading and elevating his tail. Close to the ground, he glides over to a bush or high rock, sings, then repeats the ritual. The female is watching his display somewhere nearby on the ground or in the air. Sometimes the male may land near his paramour on the ground and crouch low with drooped wings and tail, body feathers all fluffed up, then run around her like a madman. He may also hover over her with his tail feathers spread wide. It’s an amazing spectacle, and soon accomplishes its purpose, and the pair seriously settles into a nesting mode. The female alone builds the nest on the ground in a well-hidden spot at the grassy base of a shrub, or at the edge of a tundra tussock. She carefully constructs it in the shape of a cup, using leaves, moss, lichens and grass, then lines it with feathers and animal hair. She lays as many as six buffy-gray eggs dotted with brown. Both parents help incubate the eggs, although the female carries more of the load, and after the eggs hatch in 11-13 days, both parents also feed the nestlings until they’re ready to depart the crowded nest about 13 days later. Since the young are not able to fly for another 3-6 days after they leave, the parents keep close eye on them and brood them during the cool hours of the Arctic twilight. During this period the young learn to hunt insects, small worms, snails, seeds and berries on the ground or along the edge of shallow water. Later they will become adept at hunting insects by hovering near foliage or chasing them in midair. As with other Arctic nesting species, they have only a short window of opportunity to fatten up for their long migration, which will take them all the way to Australia and parts of south Asia. There are several other Asian species of Yellow wagtail, but only the Eastern Yellow wagtail (tschutschensis) nests in Alaska. Even the Alaskan species originated in Asia, and only recently did it separate from its cousins and begin to nest in Alaska. It began doing this in the Bering Land Bridge area about 18,000 thousand years ago during the Pleistocene glaciation when earth’s climate was much cooler and the emerging land mass supported a tundra-steppe vegetation, a lot like what much of the Lower Yukon Delta looks like today. Later, as the climate warmed and the Bering Land Bridge was covered with water again (about 10,000 years ago), the continental land connection was broken, forcing the Alaskan species to breed primarily on the western and northern coasts of Alaska. Concentrations of spring and fall migrants on St. Lawrence Island and the Seward Peninsula are an indication of the age-old ancestral migration routes that had developed before the most recent flooding of the area that is now known as the Bering Sea.  |
Yellow Warbler:Yellow Warbler Ciivcivciuk Oh what a beauty this little bird is. If you're traveling close to the edge of a river or creek or marsh, you may see him darting around in the willows and alders. If you do, quick grab your binocs and focus on him for a moment, and you'll see the male's vivid golden jacket lined with rusty-red chest streaks. The female is the same bright yellow, but without the streaking. If it's May or June, watch them further, and you may see some interesting courtship behavior. The male might be doing a little flutter-dance in the air to try to attract the favor of a potential mate watching in the branches of a nearby tree. He most assuredly will be singing at the top of his lungs something like: sweet, sweet, sweet, I'm so sweet, or a variation on that theme. By the way, that's what the name ciivcivciuk is all about in Yupik, which indicates it's one of those onomatopoeic names I've already mentioned in other articles. Ciiv, civ, ciuk is the counterpart of the English sweet, sweet, sweet, but there's something more. Civ also seems to relate to the color yellow. To top it all off, for a couple of days or so the male races around after the female as though his life depended on it, something that reminds me of how boys pursue girls among us humans. Actually the lives of future generations of Yellow warblers do depend on this spirited chase, since it ends in the mating of the two birds, and a family bond that lasts from nest building till the young are reared and fledged about a month and a half later. The nest is a remarkable little thing: cup-shaped, compact, strong, neat and made of grass, pieces of bark and dried weeds, and lined with fur and plant down. The female builds it by herself, although the male accompanies the female to the nest every time she carries material to it, and sometimes pitches in to help her. She has been known to filch a few strands of nesting material from a neighbor who may be off doing some shopping for her own nest. When the nest is ready, the mother bird lays between 2-6 greenish- white, brown-speckled eggs and broods them for 11-12 days. While his mate is on the nest he feeds her their usual fare: caterpillars, mosquitoes, mayflies, moths, beetles, spiders and maybe even a few berries. All of this translates into heat through her brood patch and finally into little blind babies that soon try to eat their parents out of house and home. Then it takes both parents working full time 24 hours a day for 9-12 days to provide the nestlings with sufficient high quality protein to allow them to quickly grow big and strong enough to stand on the edge of their nest and take a leap of faith into thin air. Finally they fly up into what must at first seem a dizzying vault of space filled with all sorts of dangerous impediments like branches, frondy tree trunks, lurking goshawks and gawking birdwatchers. It's no wonder that the mortality rate is so high among fledgling birds. Eventually, by July, the fledglings are on their own, and by August they are just about ready to follow the adult birds in their migration south. It's interesting that in Canada and parts of the U.S. where cowbirds exist, Yellow warblers are often parasitized by these much bigger birds. Cowbirds do this by laying eggs in the warbler's nest, expecting the warbler to raise the young with its own. But the Yellow warbler recognizes the bad eggs right away and builds another layer on top of its nest to make sure the cowbird eggs don't hatch; then she lays a new clutch of her own eggs. In one case a cowbird returned five times to lay eggs in a Yellow warbler nest, and the warbler built six layers of nest floors to cover up the cowbird eggs. Back to names. There are more Yupik names for this bird, all of them being a version of cungakcuarnaq, meaning something like, "bile colored (greenish-yellow) little thing." The scientific name, Dendroica petechia, means "red-spotted tree dweller." The common English name is self-explanatory and, as in Yupik, there are several other names that are variations on the same theme, yellow: Blue-eyed yellow warbler, Golden warbler, Summer warbler, Summer yellowbird, Wild canary, Yellowbird, Yellow poll and Yellow titmouse.  |
Yellow-rumped Warbler:Yellow-rumped Warbler Ussukasscengiiraq (?) Birders don't call this little guy "butter butt" for nothing. The bright patches of butter yellow under its wings, on its topknot and especially on its rump earn it both its common name and its nickname. Although it is Alaska's most numerous wood warbler, it only nests in the wooded areas of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. I saw it often when I taught in the lower Yukon village of Marshall between 1990-2000. The scientific name for this handsome warbler is Dendroica coronata, meaning, "crowned tree dweller," but in those ten years in Marshall, I never came up with more than the Yupik name, Ussukaascengiiraq, which translates loosely as "one having a little nail-like beak." This also happens to be the name I found for Townsend's warbler, so if anyone has the final answer I would appreciate knowing. In any case, my dad's favorite moniker for this little bird was Myrtle warbler. It was given this name because of its fondness for berries of the eastern wax myrtle and other northern berries, including cranberries, bunchberries and blueberries. I still refer to it by this name. Myrtles are actually unique among warblers in their ability to eat berries. Where most other warblers are strictly insect eaters, Myrtles are more flexible in their diet since they can digest the wax coatings on berries. This allows them to stay later in the fall and arrive earlier in spring than their Alaskan cousins. When the Myrtles do arrive here, they come in waves, the males in the vanguard, drifting through the treetops of spruce and still leafless aspens, birch and poplar. If you listen closely, you might hear the males singing their weak juncolike trill as they move through the area. After a male sets up his home territory and the females begin to arrive, he changes his tune and sings a high-pitched, sidl sidl sidl sidl sidl seedl seedl seedl seedl, trying to attract an eligible female to be his mate. When a female enters his claimed nesting ground, he follows her everywhere, fluffing up his side feathers, raising his wings and colorful crown feathers, fluttering and calling sweetly. This usually does the trick, and soon afterward mom builds their nest high on a horizontal limb of a spruce or deciduous tree. She shapes it in the form of an open cup using bark, twigs and wildflowers, then lines it with hair and feathers in such a way as to curve over and partially cover the top of the nest. Since Myrtles are early nesters in the north, they must protect their eggs as much as possible from the elements. Four or five creamy white, brown-splotched eggs are laid, then incubated mostly by the mother bird, although dad may sometimes help out. In 12-13 days the young peck their way out of the eggs, and both parents then begin to feed them in earnest. They are nestlings for only another 10-12 days, at which time they leave the nest. Two or three days later they are able to fly short distances and follow dad around to be fed while mom begins brooding a second clutch of eggs. In winter I have seen these migrant warblers in Mexico and Central America where they are known as "chipes" (after their winter call) and "reinitas" ("little queens"). They also have other common English names: Golden-crowned flycatcher, Golden-crowned warbler, Myrtle-bird, and Yellow-rump. Since they can live for about six years, the male birds you feast your eyes on in your backyard may be the same ones for at least that long. Happy birding.  |
