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