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