Thursday, 10 Jan 2002
SEATTLE, Wash.
There's a chance of rain this morning, but in western Washington in January, that doesn't come as much of a surprise. Despite the forecast, I've decided to do a little pre-work birding on Spencer Island, a small landmass about 30 miles north of Seattle formed by the rivers leading to Puget Sound. A low, wet estuary ecosystem, it's ideal for spotting birds. I like to get there just before sunrise, when there is the most activity, even though it means getting up around 6 a.m.
This early in the morning, all the traffic on the freeway is heading south into Seattle and I count myself lucky that I don't live out in the northern suburbs. As I drive, I can alternately see the Olympics to the west and the Cascades to the east just below a line of thick, purple clouds. When I arrive at the island, a couple of cars in the parking lot signal that I'm not alone, which is great because (believe it or not) birding is a very social activity. We share information, gossiping about who has seen what.
Someone tells me excitedly that there are redpolls mixed in with a flock of pine siskins on the south side of the island -- typical birder talk. I find the redpolls and check them off my "life list." I am not a hardcore birder with a typed life list in hand at all times, but there's a certain thrill in mentally noting a new species.
Winter is an ideal time for birding in the Northwest, even if our migrants have flown south. Walking around the island, I see a big flock of tundra swans and a great blue heron. A couple of northern harriers hunt for prey on the ground while I listen to a downy woodpecker banging its head against a tree. I pass by a tree full of bright red-headed ruby-crowned kinglets and scare a lone American bittern out of a marsh. After an hour or so on the island, activity slows down.
An olive-sided fly catcher.
Photo: Seattle Audubon Society.
As I head back to my car, it strikes me that it won't be long -- just a few more months -- before songbirds start returning to Washington. Migratory birds are amazing creatures. Weighing as little as one ounce, you could mail many of them with a single postage stamp, yet some travel thousands of miles each year. Take the olive-sided flycatcher, for example. A long-distance migratory bird, it travels from as far north as Alaska in the summer to the forests of the northern and central Andes in the winter. But populations have declined by about 25 percent since the 1960s, primarily due to habitat loss. Andean valleys are almost completely deforested, and 85 percent or more of montane forests have been cut. In the U.S., the olive-sided flycatcher prefers mature, coniferous forests, particularly those undergoing natural fire disturbance regimes. The decline in old growth forests and national fire suppression policies have seriously fragmented remaining habitat.
In North America, we've had 30 years or more of environmental awareness and still habitat loss occurs at an alarming rate -- suburbs creep into the mountains and pollution from lights increases, throwing birds off course. Pesticides, though not nearly the problem they were in the 1960s, still run off suburban lawns and agricultural fields, profoundly affecting small creatures like songbirds.
Despite all this, birding is an exhilarating way to begin the day. Driving back to Seattle, back to my office and the computer and phone, I know that I need to go out bird-watching more often. And I can't wait to see that first flycatcher or vireo, back from a long flight and a warm winter in coffee country.
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