Category: Nisqually NWR

Great Hopping Horn Toads

I was about to finish my fourth straight trip to Nisqually National Refuge and was thinking that I certainly hadn’t seen many birds today, and, had, in fact, had finally resorted to taking more pictures of Giant Blue Herons.

However, while talking to a couple from the mid-West they informed that there was a Giant Horned Owl up the path a short ways. I picked up the pace, hoping it would still be there when I got there, and, sure enough, there it was sunning himself on a large branch:

I was amazed at how big, and stocky it was, despite the fact that it was several hundred yards away. At first I thought it was sleeping, but when I got home and examined the pictures I had taken I realized he had turned his head completely around while I was talking pictures.

It’s hard not to be reminded of Mary Oliver’s essay entitled “Owls:”

In the night, when the owl is less than exquisitely swift and perfect, the scream of the rabbit is terrible. But the scream of the owl, which is not of pain and hopelessness and the fear of being plucked out of the world, but the sheer rollicking glory of the death-bringer, is more terrible still. When I hear it resounding through the woods, and then the black pellets of its song dropping like stones into the air, I know I am standing at the edge of the mystery, in which terror is naturally and abundantly part of life, part of even the most becalmed, intelligent, sunny life – as, for example, my own. The world where the owl is endlessly on the hunt is the world in which I live too. there is only one world.

In the daytime, I was more awed than cowed, but it was clear that this was a formidable predator, and a rare one in this area. My book lists over 365 local birds, including several other owls, but does not list this species at all, even though Cornell Lab’s Bird Guides says they are found throughout America.

A Small Brown Creeper

Following up on my newly-found interest in birds, last week I ended up at the Seattle Audubon’s society home page and from there at Birdnote, the home page of short podcasts on various bird species.

One of the first podcasts I listened to was Hazel Brown and the brown creeper, the story of a Seattle activist who was converted to a bird lover after observing the small, brown creeper on her first outing.

For me, the most remarkable part of the story was simply that there was a bird called the brown creeper that I could not remember ever seeing despite many years walking the Northwest woods. Even more remarkably, I spotted one of them on my very next walk, a walk I’ve taken nearly five times a week for the last two years.

I wasn’t more than two hundred yards into my Nisqually walk when I ran into another brown creeper climbing a large, moss-covered tree:

After these kinds of experiences, it’s hard not to begin to wonder exactly how much in life I’ve been missing. I’ve begun to notice just how many small birds there are that I have taken very little notice of before, and, even more remarkable, apparently they all have names, not that it’s always easy to match a name to a particular photo.

For instance, here’s a Warbling Vireo who seemed to spend most of his time flying a foot or two off the ground:

Here’s what I think is a Hammond’s Flycatcher:

Though he doesn’t look very different from what I’m guessing is a Western Wood-Pewee:

Just knowing names doesn’t seem too important. For instance, learning today that what I’ve been calling an Oregon Junko for several years is really a Black-Capped Chickadee didn’t change my love of these small birds. Being aware of the large number of tiny birds inhabiting the woods, listening for their songs and watching for their quick flitting as I walk the trail is important, though. This increased awareness transforms walking into an even richer experience.

Nisqually’s Blue Frog

It’s tempting to go birding looking for specific “trophy” birds, large birds that I have never seen before. I’ll have to admit that I’m not beyond getting quite excited about seeing a bird I’ve never seen before, particularly if it’s a raptor. In other words, I’d really like to see Nisqually’s resident Bald Eagles.

But that’s really not the reason I walk there. I’d like to think that I’d enjoy the walk if I never even saw a bird, but I’m more than happy simply enjoying birds I’ve seen before and little birds that I’m not even aware of having seen before.

That said, I’m still having trouble not spending considerable time watching the herons, particularly since they seem to have many more than normal this year, and, no matter how many times you’ve seen one, they strike me as a beautiful bird:

I’m also slightly ashamed to admit that I’m not above having my interest peaked by an oddity or two. While taking a picture of a frog in the main pond, an attendant informed me that the they have a “blue bullfrog” in residence, and she was kind enough to actually take me down to the pond to see it:

I would never have spotted it without her assistance, but I enjoyed sitting and talking to her about the frog and more mundane attractions at the refuge. I’m not sure that herons and blue frogs really go together, but we’ll just pretend we have our “blue thing” going on today.

Learning To See

It seems a little strange to say that I’m learning “to see” at my age, but in terms of bird watching that’s precisely what I’m trying to do.

If you’re like me, you have birdwatching friends who seem to magically see birds where none exist. Unfortunately, I’m not naturally one of those people.

But I’m trying to become one. Two of my best pictures on my trip to Nisqually last Friday were taken after I’d stopped and paused, listening for bird sounds that might clue me in to nearby birds. I hadn’t paused very long before I heard a tapping noise right over my head.

The first time I got a picture of this small Downy Woodpecker:

or, at least what I’m calling a Downy Woodpecker until one of my more informed visitors tells me otherwise. Sometimes it seems even harder to find a match in the guidebooks for what you’ve seen than it was to see the bird in the first place.

Not more than twenty minutes later I repeated the above scenario, this time resulting in my favorite picture of the day, a Red Shafted Flicker:

I had spotted several of these on previous walks at Pt. Defiance but had never been able to get a decent picture of one.

Judging from last night’s bust at the nature center, though, I’m a long ways from becoming one of those gifted birdwatchers who can make birds appear on command. Despite lots of bird calls, the only birds I saw were some ducks who headed right for us when we crossed the bridge. For some reason, hard-to-see birds are more appealing than those who pursue you to get handouts.