The compulsion to rise before dawn...
Somewhere many years ago I read that birdwatching, as it was commonly called prior to the mid-1970s, was the compulsion to rise before dawn to sit in a bog. Although I may not have remembered the wording exactly, I still like the ideas expressed very much. In this blog I will stress the necessity of rising very, very early to maximise your potential for connecting with nature in a non-consumptive way.
My idea is an old one. The early bird, or in this case, birder, catches the worm. It was already a proverb, and probably an old one, when the great English naturalist John Ray included it in his "A Collection of English Proverbs" in 1670. Today, if you google the expression you will find, among much else, nine reasons why the early risers among us are more efficient at life. You may also find a rant against early risers making noise and disturbing the sleep of normal people. I will restrict my thesis to the pre-dawn practises of naturalists and birders. The early birder catches unexpected and sometimes wonderful experiences by being out as night ends and the fresh day is about to begin. This is the "prairie chicken" hour (1) when most non-naturalists are elsewhere, mostly home asleep, people are very few and far between, and you are fresh and completely receptive to the strange and fascinating world at the end of night and the beginning of day, a period First World humanity has largely shunned lately, a world where nature is free to reveal itself on its own terms.
What Time Are You Getting Up?
A few days ago my wife and I were staying overnight at her sister's condo in White Rock, B.C. British Columbia readers will probably know that White Rock is about as close to a truly temperate winter climate as we have in our province. This lovely seaside town is located about a kilometre north of the 49th Parallel on a shallow bay in the Straits of Juan de Fuca. It is ringed with stunning but distant mountains and protected from the open Pacific by both the Olympic Peninsula to the southwest and Vancouver Island to the northwest. Thus it's situated within the weak rain shadows of both the Olympics and the mountain ranges of southern Vancouver Island, depending upon which way the wind carries storms. It is far enough south that it even misses some of the nastiness blowing west out of the Fraser Valley during periods of winter high pressure. Thus while White Rock does occasionally get temperatures cold enough for the puddles to freeze and for a skim of snow to fall, true Canadian winter weather is not the norm, even in these crazy times of unstable seasons.
So there I was having finished supper with relatives just before Christmas when the lady of the house asked what time I was going out in the morning. Those at table were used to me having a schedule often separate from everyone else.
Without thinking I replied, "About seven."
Later as I climbed into bed, I thought wait a minute. It's late December. It won't be light when I leave. And since I was driving only a few kilometres to Blackie Spit, north of White Rock, it won't be light when I arrive. Oh, well, I'm an early riser and I don't want to stooge around the apartment waiting for dawn. I would just get in everyone's way, everyone getting up at a more "sensible" hour.
The Spit Before Dawn
When I left the Crescent Beach side street and crunched and cracked my car through the virgin ice on the parking lot puddles, I realised that I was the first person on Blackie Spit this morning, or I would be in about 30 minutes when morning arrived. There was no one here. Not even any dog walkers. You know you're ahead of the wave when you've beaten the ubiquitous canine perambulators.
It was just beginning to think about getting light as I walked through the gate onto the spit. The tide was in full. The waters were calm, but the air was chilly, and a winter wind cut through my coat. Fifty or so American Wigeon hardly lifted their bills from their grazing on grass above the beach, the white crowns of the adult males the most visible mark in the darkness. Among them there had to be one or two Eurasian Wigeons. There always are. Blackie Spit is a great spot to find this uncommon species which usually breeds in far eastern Siberia. A few hundred Euros split from the species' main Old World migration paths to cross the Bering Sea and follow flocks of their North American relatives down the West Coast. In the pre-dawn murk the light-gathering abilities of my binoculars were severely tested as I could just make out the distinguishing colours of no fewer than 17 Eurasian Wigeons among the strung out flock. Among the wigeons were a few Green-winged Teals, each identifiable by its small size and the vivid short white line at the top of the flank.
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| Even in the semidarkness, the solid chestnut of a Eurasian Wigeon's head is easily distinguished from an American Wigeon's green mask and pale cheek. Photo - Chris Siddle. |
Low over the lightening bay a tightly packed flock of small birds flashed on and off, off when they simultaneously showed their dark backs and on when they all suddenly turned to show white underparts. Even in the dull light their flocking behaviour identified them as Dunlin, the most abundant wintering shorebird in southwest BC. The flock divided and landed in two parties seconds apart. In the pre-dawn they had landed close to me, covering their few feet of the beach black with packed birds. Most tucked their bills into the feathers on their backs and apparently went to sleep, or at least assume sleeping positions. As much as I wanted to stalk the flock for better look, I desisted knowing that in a few minutes times walkers and joggers oblivious to Dunlins would be accidentally disturbing them from the beach despite the sign at the entrance to the spit that warns people to give wildlife plenty of personal space.
On a beach log at the tip of the spit perched a dark coastal-type Merlin that had also noticed the arrival of the Dunlins. I hung back, content to watch this small, swift falcon that was very likely looking for his first meal of the day, a meal that was Dunlin-grey and Dunlin-warm. Like all falcons, the Merlin has large highly efficient eyes that take in lots of light to help it hunt under dim conditions. If he came in low and fast out of any direction but the south-east his prey would find him very hard to see against the low contrast of the clouds and sea. The sandpiper flock would flush, but any sandpiper slightly slow off the beach would be among his potential targets. Instantly he would make his choice and fly the Dunlin down.
But the Merlin didn't have a chance to hunt. The first jogger of the day run up behind me, swerved around me and did an arc around the tip of the spit. In his oblivious self-absorption he didn't even notice the little falcon spook into the approaching dawn.
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| The Merlin has big eyes compared to many other diurnal raptors, enabling it to spot prey even under low light levels. Photo by Chris Siddle |
After Other People Start To Arrive
Clearly it was now time to get off the spit and explore the bay's little inlets on the east side of Blackie Spit. Dawn was forcing me away from the routes most popular with runners and the soon to arrive walkers. I took to less popular trails to catch wildlife before it retired into the shrubs and blackberries for the day. Sparrows and towhees began to appear on the paths. Like sparrows, the shyer thrushes like Varied Thrush and Hermit Thrush also take advantage of twilight conditions to forage in more open locations than usual and are easier to spot at these times than at any other. However, this dawn was thrushless except for an American Robin stationed in a poplar.
Black-capped Chickadees explored the shrubbery right beside to path's edge. A quick pish on my part brought out Sooty Fox Sparrows and more Spotted Towhees of the largely unspotted coastal subspecies. Grouped on an isolated muddy fringe where neither joggers nor birders could disturb them were forty-five Greater Yellowlegs, two Long-billed Curlews, and two Marbled Godwits, most of them roosting with their bills, no matter how long, tucked into their back feathers. Dabbling ducks in numbers lined the quiet estuarine inlets and if I walked by them quietly enough without stopping, many did not flush.
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| Long-billed Curlew - Blackie Spit is probably the best single site in the Greater Vancouver area to find this species which is a rare spring and fall migrant and a casual winter resident to coastal Southwest B.C. Photo by Chris Siddle. |
By now other vehicles were arriving at the parking lot. The fenced dog park was filling up with excited mutts and their dotting owners. Joggers were now passing me every five minutes. The busyness of the day was here. It was clearly time for me to go.
However, though I had used up my time, the thought remained with me that by arriving at the Spit before dawn I had managed to squeeze over an hour of solitary time with nature all on my own, even here on the edge of a large city, amidst fairly dense human settlement. Getting up ridiculously early had paid off handsomely. My message: beat the crowds and even other early risers, meet nature as early as you can. You won't be disappointed.
