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