California Dreamin’ …

Two Cackling Geese, right, along with a Greater White-fronted Goose

California—that land of opportunity and promise, if not the Promised Land.
Last week, in part to escape the stifling heat of northeast Ohio and in part to visit relatives, Susan and I headed west for some much-needed rest and relaxation. Being retired is not a job for sissies.
And did I mention California held potential for me to find three birds for my life list, catapulting me to the 600 mark for birds seen in North America without a trip to Alaska or on the ocean?
Beautiful Santa Barbara offered much this year—rain, fog, along with temperatures in the forties and fifties for example, the kinds of things we expect in northeast Ohio, not southern California.
But ya gotta love the people out there. Where else would you find a kid skateboarding on a remote, treacherous mountain road so steep and pock-marked that you’re afraid your car won’t make it?
I’m trying to be philosophical about this self-imposed goal to hit 600 life birds by mid April. For example, we went off the second day, having crapped out the first looking for the Cackling Goose, in search of the Varied Thrush, a bird more likely found further north, but reported in a nearby park. After a multi-hour, thorough hunt by three keen-eyed birders, we opted to pack it in at lunch time. At precisely the moment when the camera gear was out of sight, Susan alerted us to a Red-breasted Sapsucker—a bird not even on the radar for this search. ChaaChing! Number 598 in the bag, proving that even when the arrow misses the target it will still hit something. Something like that.

Western Winter Wrens livened the forests

The rest of the week was a grim reminder of how tough finding some birds can be. I thought the Cackling Goose would be a slam dunk. Not so. Nearing the end of our stay we decided to go back to where the Cackling Goose had been reported—on a local golf course, perfect habitat for geese. We scanned a burgeoning flock of Canada Geese and found several Greater White-fronted Geese—good birds but not what we were looking for.
About the time I opening my mouth to say, “Oh well,” Susan said, “Aaaawaitaminute! Look at that white ring at the base of the neck on the smaller birds!”
Sure enough! She found Number 599, eight of them in fact, mixed in with the Canadas. These were the Aleutian race of the Cackling Goose that we do not get here in the eastern parts of the country. Big score. High-fives all ‘round.

White-tailed Kite is always a welcome diversion

Now, with three weeks left, the search continues. Early spring arrivals might be the key. The car has a full tank of gas, camera gear is packed, backpack loaded with a change of underwear in case it’s more than a week-long chase. I’m pumped!
Stay tuned, folks. And thanks for your support.

Surprise, Surprise!

A quite uncommon-in-March Common Redpoll

If nothing else, birding provides a never-ending supply of surprises. As we anticipate and chase spring birds at this time of the year, you can imagine my shock (while on the way to the coffee pot for a refill) this morning when I glanced at the feeder and saw two prime Arctic winter birds.
I could hardly believe my eyes. There sat two (count ‘em, two!) Common Redpolls. This is a species that shows up in our area on rare occasions in the depths of winter. Only once in more than 11 years at this address have we had redpolls.
After losing a brief wrestling match with Susan over the “table” binoculars, I ran for the camera. Fortunately the birds sat still long enough for a portrait shot, then were off.
Where did they come from and where were they going? The latter is easier to answer: The far reaches of Canada, totally unconcerned about the brief thrills they provided.

What Ya Hear Is What Ya Get

Sandhill Cranes

It was a loud, resonant rattling; an almost wooden tonal quality honk. As author David Sibley describes it, a rolling bugle sound. My first thought was that I was about to take a spot between the dead deer and the two squashed raccoons along Ohio Route 95 in Wayne County. I was birding the Funk Bottoms Wildlife Area in hopes of finding the elusive Cackling Goose (or geese) recently reported in the area.
Yesterday I contacted birder Su Snyder who knows the area as well as anyone. She said she’d not seen the geese, however, there were plenty of birds in the area … Okay, that was incentive enough. I was off.
So, there I was, shivering in the 34 degrees, snow swirling all around, wind dancing with my anemometer to the tune of 40 miles per hour in gusts, in the middle of the highway because there was no place else to stand and now some truck driver wants me to move? Couldn’t he see I was laden with binoculars, spotting scope and camera? Some people!
I looked in the direction of honking and saw nothing. Then I looked up. Four Sandhill Cranes, landing gear extended, were right over my head! Fortunately, no one was there to see me fumbling with my binoculars trying to take a photo, realizing that in my excitement I’d grabbed the wrong gadget, then stumbling to get out of the road in case a truck did come along, nearly strangle myself with the multitude of straps around my neck, trying to stop laughing long enough to make a photo. Birding ain’t for sissies.

I avoided stepping on the already flat raccoon and managed to get the spotting scope into a secure spot. The cranes (Were they laughing?) circled and landed in a huge flock of Northern Pintail ducks about 200 yards away. The ducks exploded in a roiling dark cloud and burst of high-pitched whiney quacking.
Then my world went black! Oh shit, I’d forgotten to take the lens cap off. Probably the first time I’ve ever done that trick. Right.
Two of the four cranes took off about as quickly as they landed. The other pair danced around a bit and also left, heading north, into the snowy afternoon.
I was left with the deafening silence created by hundreds of Tundra Swans and thousands of ducks.

Stay Tuned. It Ain’t Over ‘Til It’s Over

Canada Geese

Way back in the last century when I came out of the closet and declared myself a real birder (this was shortly after dinosaurs left the planet) there was a Holy Grail, of sorts, that separated real birders from “bird watchers.” It was a number—600. It represented the number of species one saw in a lifetime in North America as defined by the American Birding Association (ABA, www.aba.org).
This arbitrary number was created when there were about 800 species on the list of birds possible to see in the designated territory. Like birds, that number is a moving target. Now there are something like 969 birds recorded in North America, including Alaska, and the Holy Grail is whatever you want to make it.
As I approach my allotted three-score-and-ten, Susan asked how I might celebrate the big occasion. I said I’d rather ignore the whole thing. Our conversation switched (or maybe got back to) birding and the fact that I was stuck at 595 on my life list. The Holy Grail was within reach if only I was willing to stretch a bit. Stretching at my age has its hazards; it leads to obsession. I began to think, however, maybe, just maybe …
Odds were against me. This is a tough time of the year to chase birds. On the other hand, it’s a great time of the year because rarities pop-up in the strangest places.
Bird #596 turned out to be a Little Gull we located in Niagara Falls, Canada, still part of North America by most definitions, on a whirlwind trip with birding buddies Pat and Karin.
Bird #597 was a Hoary Redpoll, thanks to local birding dynamo Jen Brumfield (www.jenbrumfield.com). Jen is a local artist and bird guide, with energy levels that rival the Energizer Bunny. Thanks to cell phone technology, she reported a rare Hoary Redpoll among a flock of Common Redpolls and within minutes, Susan and I were in the car and looking at the bird.
My hands were getting sweaty. I was trying to hit a lifetime 600 with no trip to Alaska, nor a pelagic trip—that’s a trip on the ocean. I have a lot of holes in my life list that could easily be filled by doing either. And if I did, I’d have serious holes in my pockets.

Goose. Goose. Duck!


Now, within three birds of the Holy Grail (as defined by me), I leaned on another young local area birder, sharp-eyed Ethan Kistler, education and outreach specialist, Black Swamp Bird Observatory (BSBO, www.bsbo.org). He also posts a regular update of rare birds seen in Ohio. One of the relatively easy birds that has alluded me over the years has been the Cackling Goose. Ethan promised to keep me posted on any reports that crossed his desk.
Then, the planets aligned. Cackling Goose was reported near by. Better yet, a rare Pink-footed Goose had been hanging with the Canada guys over in Maryland; easy pickings. More better yet, an even more-rare Black-headed Gull was reported near Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I dug out the maps, did the math and got approval from management.
Time for a road trip!
I’ve been running off the leash this week with Susan away on grandma duty. Everything pointed toward success. Only one major stumbling block I refused to recognize—birds have wings.
A day of birding the local patch, Sunday, and I came up empty handed on the Cackling Goose. Not to worry. Go for the tough ones, said the voices in my head.
A day’s drive east got me to where the Black-headed Gull should have been on the Susquehanna River. I watched an uncountable number of Ring-billed Gulls, along with a couple local birders. We swapped lies until dark, then called it a day.
The next day, close to Baltimore, I searched pond after pond in the toney suburb of Lisbon, Howard County. It’s one of those places with street names like, “Brittle-branch Way.” You get it. Lots of ponds, mostly on inaccessible private property where the people will call the cops if they see you looking at their starter castles with a spotting scope.
I met up with another birder also following the rare-bird reports. We combed through hundreds of Canada Geese, taking breaks by looking at daffodils and admiring the colors of the crocus in bloom. Carolina Wrens were singing, a Swainson’s Thrush made a cameo appearance and an Eastern Meadowlark helped brighten the morning.
Three and a half hours of looking at Canada Geese is about all I can take. It was a fun trip. I still have 46 days to finish my income taxes or find three new life birds—whichever comes first.

Hope is the thing with feathers … Emily Dickinson

Will Luna Swallow Jupiter?

Jupiter approaches Luna

In case you’ve been spending time looking at the stars on the eye-that-never-blinks inside your home, the real stars (okay, planets actually) are currently putting on an incredible show in the southwestern sky.
February 23 may have been the better of the past few nights, however, the show will continue until mid March. So, any night that’s clear, get out there and see Venus, Jupiter and Luna, all coming to a sky near you. No red carpet, but no commercial interruptions, either.

These are the brightest objects in the sky and you won’t need a telescope or even binoculars to witness the conjunction they’re creating. Look for the crescent moon just before sunset. It’s in the southwest part of the sky. As the sky darkens, you’ll see two bright objects aligning with or near the moon. The brighter of the two is Venus, the other is Jupiter. On February 26 when I made these pictures it looked like Jupiter might fall into the open mouth of the moon. Okay, it takes a bit of imagination, but that’s what astronomy is for, asking the big “what if” questions. Astronomy is a three dimensional art, however, you're only allowed to use two dimensions when trying to figure out who is doing what to whom
Although the moon will move out of the scene as the days progress, the orbits of Venus and Jupiter will make them appear as close as a binary star by mid March—the real thing if you want to see what March Madness is all about.

Left of the moon is Jupiter and below to the right is Venus

Ghost From the Past

Barn Owl

As is often said when birding, expect the unexpected. Such was our luck Saturday at Killdeer Plains in west central Ohio.
Killdeer Plains Wildlife Management Area is one of those rare spots where you can bird a full winter’s day and always, well, almost always, come away with a great list of birds. Susan and I make an annual trek to this location a couple hours from home with our birding buddies, Karin and Pat. They missed last year’s outing because they were on hiatus in Africa, so this year we were looking forward to renewing our tradition.
The question of the day—the season, I should say—was, “Where’s the winter?” With birding, there are numerous reasons species do or don’t show up on schedules we humans like to attach to them. For example, this year there has been a limited number of Snow Buntings, a species we’ve seen in abundance when snow covered the landscape and temperatures were at polar bear levels. We saw none this year.
Owls, a big attraction at Killdeer, have infrequently been reported on the Ohio Ornithological Society list serve this season. In years past we’ve recorded no fewer than five species, four in one day! This year we saw only one species—the most sought after in the owl family—the Barn Owl!
An endangered species here in Ohio, the Barn Owl’s status has improved, marginally, the past few years. This improvement is due in no small part to efforts by the Ohio Department of Natural Resources installing nesting boxes throughout the state. While the Barn Owl has a worldwide distribution (eight species of the genus Tyto, worldwide), true to its name, it prefers barns as nest sites. With the obvious changes in agriculture, those preferred nest locations are hard to find.
The bird has also be called a “ghost” bird, a reference to its light coloring, use of abandoned (read haunted) buildings, monkey-like face and eerie, screechy call. Seeing one of these secretive birds away from its nest site, and unless you’re directed to that nest site, is a rare and special treat.
So it was, Saturday, as we walked through the traditional owl grove at Killdeer Plains, seeing virtually nothing. Then Susan casually looked up and studied a dark shape high in a pine tree. I still marvel at her calm demeanor when she said, “I think I have an owl, here.” Then she said, “Oh! It’s a Barn Owl!”
Swaying in the breeze, seemingly as curious about us, was a Barn Owl. We knew exactly what it was, yet kept asking and confirming with each other that it was, in fact, a Barn Owl.
Most of the Barn Owls in the state are migrants, spending winters in the South. We suspect, with the mild winter we’ve had, this bird probably returned earlier than its usual nesting period, late March into April. Whatever the reason, we enjoyed our brief visit with this ghost who did not frighten us in the least.

Killdeer Plains never disapoints

God’s Dog

Winter is making another threat here in northeast Ohio, so I figured I best get some backcountry hiking in, just in case it’s serious about snowfall tomorrow. I opted for the Plateau Trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park—five good miles to shake loose the too-much-inside doldrums.
At first it was just a feeling—not uncommon when hiking the backcountry alone—that I was being watched. I had seen no one except a couple of White-breasted Nuthatches in a couple hours, yet I had the feeling I was being watched—make that stalked. I thought I heard leaves crunch and glanced over my shoulder several times but saw nothing.
Then feeling turned into reality. I froze. He froze, 100 feet away. Nothing but bright sunshine, clear air, a few sapling trees and braches between me and a wild beast. He had somehow maneuvered in front of me.
The hair on the back of my neck was sending a signal to the rest of my body. My mouth was dry, but I feared licking my lips. I’ve read that any movement might be construed as aggression. I figured sticking out one’s tongue was not a good idea. I’ve read not to stare into the wild beast’s eyes, yet I could not take my eyes from his; the deep amber color of the wet leaves. I’ve read that you’re not suppose to run, but I think that’s so the beast does not tire himself before he eats you. And I’ve read that wild animals can smell fear. I don’t think it’s fear they smell. I think it’s what was about to start running down my leg …
Then he blinked!
Something to his left caught his attention. He lifted his muzzle skyward and closed his eyes. I dropped to my knees in the mud and ice of the trail. In a frenzy to get into my pack, my trekking poles clattered as I struggled to dig out my camera.

I looked up, fully expecting him to be long gone. He was watching me, his head tilted to the right giving the appearance of curiosity. Another staring contest. This time I must have looked like an alien to him, somehow smaller, a single blinking eye with black surrounding it where seconds ago there had been a taller animal, red pelt, two long legs and two short legs, two eyes, gray beard. (Okay, coyotes are color blind. I’m just saying …)
Now he seemed more puzzled than hungry. Whatever was happening to his left made him look again in that direction, then turn. He peed on the ground, scratched a bit to mark the spot, then started to move away. Suddenly he stopped and looked directly at me.
On some primal level I got his message.

He moved through the underbrush, then magically appeared, standing on a fallen tree. He gave me one more look to be sure I understood. I assured him everything was cool, thanked him for his time and sat down in the mud to catch my breath. He disappeared.
So, why is Coyote called God’s dog? We have the native American Navajo people to thank. To them, he was a culture hero, trickster; a shape-shifter described as a buffoon, clown, or less frequently, a dangerous sorcerer and cannibal.
Coyote's adaptability, ingenuity, and intelligence are renowned and celebrated, not just among modern biologists who have identified 19 separate species of coyote, but throughout prehistory. His ability to endure is unparalleled. Yet this alone didn't make Coyote sacred. His engaging personality, comic playfulness, exuberant celebration, boundless joy, and extraordinary cunning mark him as something from the spirit world.
Called God's Dog by the Navaho who see him as originator of death and bringer of dreams, Coyote is both trickster and wise counselor.
On some primal level I get it. You don’t go eye-to-eye with God’s Dog and not understand.

Full Snow Moon

Recently, I was reading a poem by Alfred Noyse (1880-1958), "The Highwayman," later put to music by Phil Ochs (1940-1976); two seemingly disparate characters who found common ground in a single entity—the moon.
Fate conspired to make me think of Ochs this morning. Recently, PBS ran a brief special on Ochs’ brief and special life. The moon was less than a day from full at 5:30 a.m. I headed west, watching it set. Noyse’s words played with my mind as I looked at Luna’s cold stare: “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees; The moon a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.”
Englishman Noyse was born to academic parents but failed to get his college degree because on the day of his finals, he was arranging publication of his first volume of poems. He went on to publish numerous volumes of his work and came to America in 1913 to lecture on world peace and disarmament. His skills as a lecturer landed him a job at Princeton for nine years. He went on to write a large body of work, much of it based on his interest in science, including astronomy.
Phil Ochs was a child of the 60s, sometimes described as a “Bob Dylan with a good voice.” His protest songs, often laced with sarcasm, turned the spotlight on injustices in America and throughout the world. Michael Ventura writes that Ochs’ songs contained the energy that instigated change.
The moon, particularly a full moon, has its way of forcing heavy thinking on people. We’ve lost our ability to live our lives by the phases of the moon; we chuckle at names given to full moons by native Americans—this month’s is the Full Snow Moon; yet we always look at our nearest neighbor in wonder; and wonder.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the Highwayman came riding …

The Bird Bus

Cedar Waxwing

The Bird Bus arrived this morning around 8 a.m. Its arrival was muffled by the fog settling in, thankfully hiding all of the human-made activity in the neighborhood. For about 45 minutes only a couple panes of glass separated us and the birds.

American Robin

The bus had a diverse load of passengers today. Some stopped by for just a drink of water. Starlings discussed their good luck in finding a fresh suet cake meant for woodpeckers.

European Starlings

Others were there to stare through the glass to see what it is humans eat in the mornings. Cedar Waxwings bought a ticket to the feast offered by the crabapple tree, or to glean the Bradford Pear.
Then, as quietly and quickly as they arrived, they were gone.

House Finch

Fishing the Backcountry

The new aqueduct in the CVNP moves the Ohio & Erie Canal over Tinker's Creek, along with storm damage, have wiped out the usual gravel beds

Today started out as a normal day, or what passes for normal around here, until Susan asked, “Why aren’t you fishing?”
A perfectly logical question that might otherwise be ignored in January, except that today the thermometer was already gagging on 45 degrees and threatened to go completely whacky with a high of 58. Did I mention this is January?
Survival depends on being fast on your feet, so I immediately responded, “I am going fishing. I just want to finish reading last night’s saga of the Clown Circus masquerading as the Republican Primary. I need a good laugh to start my day.”
Less than 45 minutes later I was lining up my rod, confidently warning any steelhead trout swimming upstream in the Cuyahoga River, that he had something to fear this morning.
As I looked around, the first thing that did not feel right was an apparent lack of access to the stream. During the past year, beginning in 2010 actually, the good folks from the National Park Service have been repairing the aqueduct that transports the Ohio & Erie Canal over Tinker’s Creek, which empties into the Cuyahoga, and is the spot I like to fish here in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.
They’ve done a fine job and it looks like the aqueduct should last 100 years. For me, however, it means walking about 50 yards in either direction to get to the stream. I thought of the quote, “You can never step twice into the same stream,” usually attributed to some Oriental philosopher, but really comes from Heraclitus of Ephesus, a sixth century BC Greek philosopher not known to be a trout fisherman.
In any case, he was right, the construction work on the aqueduct, along with our non-stop rain of last year, created a whole new waterway. It sort of looks the same, but access—from the road on in—is different. It’s much deeper now and I couldn’t step into it even if I wanted.
I managed to waste a couple of hours acting like I was fishing, then bagged the whole idea. Less than a mile down the road I spotted a deer trail leading back toward the river and thought maybe, just maybe … The more narrow the trail got the better I liked it. We’re talking about virgin territory here. I’d be sneaking up on the willy fish any minute now.

I like what these fishermen leave behind

Sure enough, the trail led to the river and I could see where the deer must cross. It was not a good place for fly fishing so I worked my way along the stream until I found an opening wide enough to allow me to cast. The only other tracks were those of a Great Blue Heron. The only other sign of life was some recent deconstruction work by beavers.
This had to be the spot. Or not.
By noon, none of the fish in the stream (assuming there were fish in the stream) had taken up the challenge of making fools of themselves. I walked a bit further down stream until I found the perfect log and ate my lunch. A Belted Kingfisher laughed at me as he flew up stream. I could see a small fish glistening in his bill and wondered if his mother ever told him not to talk with his mouth full.

Midnight snacks for a beaver

A Hairy Woodpecker impatiently tapped on a nearby tree like a rude card player drumming his fingers on the table, waiting for other players to get on with it so he could toss down his cards and scoop up his winnings.
After five hours of bushwhacking and fishing, what had I learned? Shoes made for wading in a stream make lousy hiking boots; maybe one cannot step twice into the same stream, but that’s okay; and one can always have a good day in the woods.
Which reminds me of another of Heraclitus’ lesser known quotes: “Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play.”

Soaring Above It All

120 feet straight up--you can't beat the view

Rain stopped the afternoon of the day before, yet, we were admonished to arm for Tuesday morning with our usual kit: SPF, bug dope, snake boots, rain gear, cameras, binoculars and lightweight clothes. Thus, prepared for anything, we set out at 0-dark-30 for the Canopy Tower.
Canopy towers have become de rigor in many places catering to birders throughout South America. The primary reason being that many species of birds and other animals rarely come down to ground level. If you want to see them you have to ascend to their level.
In the case of Napo Wildlife Center—a place so deep in the Amazon basin that it’s a two-hour canoe transport from the nearest motorized boats—the canopy tower is about 120 high. Climbing what equals a 12-story building could be fraught with hazards, or so some of our participants imagined. Little did we realize the day’s dangers would be found at ground level.

Safe in the arms of a 400-year-old Kapok tree

Fishing bats and Long-nosed bats flapped past at ear level, accompanying us along a tannin-stained stream that lead deeper into the jungle. The stream narrowed and the water thinned until we reached a point where the canoe bottomed out. Wisely, the guide said we have to hike in from there, about 800 meters, to the base of the tower.

Spix's Guan seen from above

When you approach a canopy tower, it’s best not to look up. When you make it to the platform above, it’s best not to look down. As I stood on the platform, 120 feet above the ground, a gentle breeze rustling my hair, I thought about how this Kapok tree was getting its start about the same time as America—when Jamestown was being settled as the first permanent address in Virginia. It was easy to imagine that no matter which direction I looked, white men had probably never walked.
We spent about three hours watching a variety of birds and monkeys move among the tree tops. The occasional breeze was welcome as it blew away the pesky stingless bees. Then it was time to descend.

This Cinnamon-throated Woodcreeper seemed as interested in us as we were of him

On our return to the canoe, our guide, a member of the indigenous Kitchwa community and known throughout the area as the Bird Whisperer, sensed (I can’t find a better word for his uncanny ability to locate birds) a rare Grey-winged Trumpeter. This velvety-black and white bird the size of a really large chicken or a small turkey sports a greenish bill and has a penchant for bugs kicked up by wild pigs—Piccaries. Heedless of danger, and thinking we were of like mind, Jorge plunged into the jungle.
We had little choice but to follow. The irony of a pack of bird watchers fearlessly bushwhacking through the Amazon jungle, chasing wild pigs, really didn’t set in until later that day—when we stopped shaking. No way could we keep up with the guide. Suddenly we realized we were all standing still, listening to far-off thrashing and grunting sounds, some of which were probably generated by the guide.
About the time I was going to ask my colleagues what we’d do if the pigs ate the guide, he popped up, grinning like he was having the time of his life. It seems the herd of pigs went further into the jungle and the chase was over. He easily walked us out to the trail, leaving us with a tale to tell. Just another day in the jungle.

More on Ecuador

A name like Purple-bibbed Whitetip says it all

Thanks to all the readers who sent notes and made comments about the colorful bird pix in my latest blog. It’s true, the birds of Ecuador are fabulous. It’s also true that many of the more than 400 species we saw were rather nondescript. Here are some more birds and observations from birding two weeks within a few kilometers of the middle of the Earth.

Tawny Antpitta

Rufous Antpitta

In our experience, we saw every shade of brown known to the art world. Most of these species had the word rufous in their name to describe the head, wing, breast, tail or some other body part. As one of our non-birder participants said as we labored over our daily sightings, “Why are you bird people so fascinated with bird rumps?”

Just another day in the cloud forest

It’s hard to describe some birds as pretty. Birds such as the One-colored Becard, Drab Water Tyrant, or Dull-colored Grassquit are not as beautiful as their names might imply. If you’re a “lister,” however, they all count as another checkmark on the scorecard.

At this reserve, to prevent bird-window strikes, the folks tied rocks to ribbons. So, the bird flys toward the window, hits the ribbon and the rock goes ...

So Many Birds—So Little Time

Bizarre, yet beautiful: Hoatzin

Birding Ecuador is like drinking from a fire hose. With more than 1,600 bird species in an area smaller than the State of Nevada, and dozens of habitats (compared with half that number of birds in all of the United States and its half dozen or so habitats), a taste is all you’re going to get. But it’s a taste that makes you want to go back for more.
Susan and I just returned from two weeks of Ecuadorean birding, along with friends we met on our Cuban adventure two years ago, and some new friends. We split our time between a week high on the northwest slopes of the Andes, trekking to as high as 11,500 to see the Sword-billed Hummingbird, then a week in the Amazon jungle; two more diverse habitats would be hard to find.
Since a photo is worth a thousand words (or whatever), here’s 10,000 or so.
Enjoy!

The Sword-billed Hummingbird, with its 4-inch bill, is unmistakable, even in the rain

Blue-winged Mountain Tanager

Booted Racket-tail

Capped Heron

There's a reason they call it the Cloud Forest--10,000 feet up and panting

Red-capped Cardinal

Snail Kite

Velvet-purple Coronet

Violet-tailed Sylph

No Free Lunch

Cooper's Hawk+Northern Cardinal=lunch

At the lunch table this afternoon I was joined by Mr. Cooper. He’s becoming a regular tablemate these days. I was enjoying a hearty bowl of soup, while he opted to bring carry-out—in this case a Northern Cardinal. We chose not to share tastes as some of my luncheon regulars do.
I find it interesting, people who enjoy watching film of Bald Eagles plunging to catch a fish, or Cheetahs whacking a Springbok, get all squeamish when looking at or talking about birds eating birds, especially at the bird feeder. Hey, why do you think it’s called a feeding station?
Anyway, while Mr. C and I were enjoying our meals of choice, one of our not-so-bright squirrels decided he wanted to get in on Mr. Cooper’s catch. We both watched as this guy slowly climbed the tree—as if no one could see him. Mr. Cooper paid less attention than I and continued to work on the packaging surrounding his lunch.

At least his packaging is biodegradable

When the squirrel got within about three feet of the hawk, tails flared. The hawk flared his wings as well and said something in animalese that gave the squirrel pause. I used my magic decoder wristwatch to interpret what he said. Here it is, verbatim: “If you want a free lunch, become a politician.”

This story ends with Mr. C flying off to a nearby fir tree, me catching my breath, and the squirrel checking MapQuest to see how long it will take to get to New Hampshire.