A few birds from the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta.
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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.  |
