Fall Birding on Alaska’s St. Paul Island – Part Three
20 September – As we got dressed this morning rain
splattered against the window pane and gusts of wind shook the doors of the
hotel. Today was going to be a hard day to bird. The guides did their best, attempting
seawatches at a couple of spots but the rain was too much for our optics and
the wind made even the sturdiest tripod vibrate. It was so wet that Gavin’s new very expensive binoculars fogged up internally. Condensation coated
the windows of the bus no matter how often we passed around the squeegee.
In
spite of these challenges, birds were seen: Tufted Puffins and Horned Puffins
buffeted by updrafts along the cliffs and Northern Fulmars doing a superb job
of riding the wind up and down over the ocean waves. Offshore, at the fog line
a few Short-tailed Shearwaters pierced the gloom with their sharply pointed
long wings and short bodies. Aside from the occasional bird on the roadway, most
landbirds had sought shelter.
The combination of the foggy, fuggy bus, the
desire to see rare birds and impossibility of doing so under such wet conditions
made the tour members a little punchy. We drove to every sheltered hole on the
island like Polovina Hill, the Ammo Dump (not as exciting as it sounds), and
even the Blubber Dump. In my impatience to see birds, my mind raced with puns
and word play. Watching the handful of brave volunteers who had walked in the
rain around the Blubber Dump and returned with gear soaked to claim one bird
seen, a lowly Ruddy Turnstone, I began to hum a new version of a Paul Simon
song, Fifty Ways to Dump Your Blubber. Others in the bus pointed out that
Forrest Gump could have a fat little brother, Blubber Dump. Scott, realizing
things could get only worse, gave us a choice; continue to explore the island
in hopes that the weather would ease or return to the nice, dry hotel. I opted
for the hotel. This proved to be an unfortunate choice since the more resolute
birders got to see a pair of Orcas hunting fur seals in English Bay between Tolstoi
and Zapadni points, while a soft quitter like me got to change my socks.
In an effort to make up for my mistake, when the rain ceased
in the evening after birding was officially over I stalked Gray-crowned Rosy
Finches among the derelict vehicles and piles of unused equipment around the
hotel/airport.
21 September – More wind but no steady rain. In fact, there
were breaks in the cloud. During our usual long breakfast where I caught up on
my notes, some of the others kidded me. “Do you write down everything?” asked
Doreene Linzell from Ohio.
Kindly Doreene looked after her friend, the quiet and wise
Dan Sanders who moved with great economy of energy but always got the bird.
Doreene was friends with Laura Keene, who bore a striking resemblance to actress
Moira Teirney. Laura was our unofficial official photographer. It was she who
was able to photograph the Pacific Swift two days ago. The fourth member of
this quartet of friends was power-birder Chris Hitt, a lean, mean birding
machine, with the physique of a marathon runner. Chris kept us focused on
birding, which was good, because with goof-offs like me along, we could end up
cracking wise all day long and forgetting why we came.
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| Fifty percent of the participants - Mike Schall (black toque) and Chris Hitt (headband) are most recognizable. |
My room mate was Joe Hanfman, a youngish retiree from a
engineering/management position with UPS. Joe was among the sharpest-eyed of
us. Nothing with feathers got past Joe. He was also extremely generous and
helpful, and shared his case of Coca Cola with me so that I could have a
caffeine fix in the evening after birding was over. One can of coke before bed wasn’t
going to keep this cowboy awake after a long tramp around the putchkie.
Joe was not just a birder. We shared a common interest in
history, particularly the American Civil War and polar exploration. Joe was
particularly interested in Ernest Shackleton, the Antarctic explorer, who in
Joe’s eyes was a true leader. Joe even visited Shackleton’s grave on the South
Shetland Islands.
Across the hall from Joe and me lived Susan Jones, a
southern belle from Winston-Salem with a wonderfully quick wit and a slightly
ribald sense of humour. Beneath the humour there was a quiet wisdom based upon
her full life and widespread travels She too was a warm and generous soul and
we liked each other’s company from the get-go. Susan is a director of the ABA,
which makes me think that if the other directors are anything like her, I am
very glad I am a member of the organization.
Susan’s friend, Lynn Miller, lives in Colorado Springs and
volunteers for the ABA once a week. Originally from Georgia, she too was a
gentle Southern soul. No one listened to or appreciated us better than Lynn
did. In her own special way she was such a nurturing and encouraging presence
that I for one know the trip would have been far less enjoyable without her. I
have a mental image of her leaning in to the kitchen, thanking the cooks and
servers for their efforts in providing us with good food at Trident Seafood. This
thoughtful gesture is typical of Lynn, through and through.
Ron Clark of King’s Mountain, NC, was always ready with a
joke. He’s a quiet man so I didn’t get to know anything of him until the third
or fourth day when I shared a bench on the bus seat with him. He summed up our
morning together by saying, “You know you talk to yourself all the time? You
mumble. You’re crazy as bat shit, but you’re funny. I would have wanted you as
a teacher.” These words won my heart and we spent the rest of the trip joking
with each other.
Ann McDowell from New Orleans wasn’t on the ABA tour. She was an
independent traveler but, of course, there’s only one bird tour on the island
so she joined us and fit right in. Unfortunately for us, she was only with us
for about four day before catching the Pen Air flight to St. George Island. It
said much about her positive personality that we missed her all the rest of our
trip and kept wondering what she was up to on St. George, which is even more
isolated than St. Paul.
Four couples made up the rest of the crew. Coralee Colter
and Paul Prappas were ex-pat Americans, now happily Canadian and living only a
few hundred kilometres from me, in Nelson, a haven in southern interior B.C.
for artistic and politically active individuals.
Mike and Corinne Schall were a nice young couple from Bath,
PA. Corinne, along with Chris Hitt, was one of our constant volunteers, always
willing to help Doug and Scott march around a lake. Corinne of the coppery red
hair may have been considerably shorter than her gentlemen stompers but she
kept up, never fell behind and became a favourite of us all.
Steve and Debbie Martin of Ozark, MO, were among the
quietest of the group, though when they did have something to say, it was
always a valuable contribution to the conversation. They told us about the
natural distrust of outsiders that some of the people around Ozark displayed
toward Deb and Steve, and how there were places not far from their home where
it wasn’t wise for an outsider to go, let alone to bird.
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| Lynn Miller consults with Mike and Corinne Schnell |
Finally there were the two newcomers to birding, Robeck and
Mark Faries of Westwood, NJ. Ro, a great extrovert, had befriended everyone on
the tour by the second or third day. She’s of Indonesian-Dutch ancestry and has
a terrific sense of humour and lots of compassion to go with it. Her husband Mark,
movie star handsome with a face made for leading roles in Westerns, was quiet
until something took his interest and then the words came out in a rush, his
eyes flashed and he emphasized his points with choppy hand movements. Maybe all
that hand talk came from his heritage. As he told us, five French brothers came
to the Thirteen Colonies and helped in the Revolution by buying a ship for the
transport of goods, something the British with their monopoly on naval vessels
would have strongly disapproved of. Some of the brothers moved south and
eventually Mark’s branch became Texans, wild southern boys who just might have
ended up facing one of Joe Hanfman’s ancestors on the battlefields of the Civil
War.
Today was a very good day. After a visit to Southwest Point
where I saw my lifer Thick-billed Murres flying fast together past the rocky
shore, we were driving east toward Pavolina when a very large bird appeared low
on the horizon. I was sitting near the front of the bus and happened to see the
bird at the same time Scott and Doug spotted it. I watched as Scott shot Doug a
look and without a word between them I knew that they had a plan. Doug wheeled
the bus left at the intersection, zoomed up the grade as fast as the bus could go
and pulled over onto the shoulder while Scott, standing at the folding exit
door, ordered us out, out, out. The White-tailed Eagle, an adult with its huge
rectangular wings, wide spread pinyons, a short white tail and long head and
neck projection, passed before us in good light. Ohs and ahs competed with the
rapid fire clicking of cameras as background orchestration for the eagle’s every
wingbeat. The only way I can describe the experience is to call it dreamlike.
What must we have looked like to the eagle? The blue bus with its humans all
lined out along its side, their pale faces skyward, mouths working in wonder at
the miracle of this encounter. Gavin had explained to us on our first evening
how there was probably just one White-tailed Eagle ranging over several islands
and that the bird was seen almost every week, but days usually went by between
sightings. There was a very good chance, he said, that we would not see the
bird at all, and if we did, we had better look hard because the bird was not
known for giving close views.
Slowly the eagle banked to the east and dwindled in our
view. That’s when the backslapping, the laughter, the thank yous, the general
joy came rushing over us. We had beaten the odds and seen the lone traveler
crossing the blue and white skies above St. Paul Island.
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| From left to right: Chris Hitt, Laura Keene, Doreene Dinzell (turned away), Dan Sanders, Ron Clark, Susan Jones, Robeck Faries (turned away), Steve Martin, Debbie Martin. |
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| White-tailed Eagle - adult, St. Paul Island, 20 Sept. 2013. Photo by Chris Siddle |
After a happy lunch we surveyed Weather Bureau Pond (the
usual waterfowl and Red Phalaropes) and headed across the dunes to the
northeast passing the snowdrifts of kittiwakes on the bar across Big Lake. I
wish now that I had taken a close look to see how closely packed those small
gulls were. I got the impression that kittiwakes don’t need much personal space
when they loaf or roost or gossip or whatever it was they were doing.
Hutchinson’s Hill was much like it had been yesterday with
the nuthatch, the Brambling, and the Red Fox Sparrow still in the notch. Here I
got my first look (for the trip) at a Golden-crowned Sparrow which is an
uncommon migrant to the island. Other birds that fall into this category of
let’s-not- get-too-excited include Sooty Fox Sparrows, and Savannah Sparrows.
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| Doug Gochfeld and Gavin Bieber lead Joe Hanfman, Paul Prappas, Coralee Colter, Debbie Martin, and Steve Martin around Webster Lake. |
The rest of the day most of us got good looks at
Sharp-tailed Sandpipers, and if we were lucky some photos of the juveniles
which are attired in rich shades of brown and chestnut. Gavin had us try for the
Grey-streaked Flycatcher again. He saw it (from about 10 kms away, such are his
Superhero powers), but most of the rest of us didn’t in spite of Doug taking a
long uphill walk to try to flush the rarity back toward us.
If you have COMMENTS please send them to
chris.siddle@gmail.com
Be sure to check out Laura Keene’s photos at
http://flickr.com/gp/keeneone/c6jbV1/
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