Playing duck, duck, goose Playing duck, duck, goose (January 21, 2005)

Avians can't hide from Voice birdwatcher
First person

By Jon Wiener

Spotted Saturday morning at Charleston Slough: a greater yellowlegs but not its lesser relative; a long-billed dowitcher but not the short-billed variety; and, most of all, least sandpiper.

Next on our list was the Barrow's goldeneye.

The Barrow's is called a "dabbling duck," the kind that feeds by sticking its rear in the air, thus sinking its head.

Apparently unaware that I had joined 14 Save the Bay members for this trip specifically so I could write a story about the beauty of local wildlife, it was refusing to cooperate. Whenever I thought I had spotted the Barrow's goldeneye, whatever bird I was actually looking at promptly dove under water.

Nevermind, I was told, I had probably been looking at it at some point. I could still check it off my list of Santa Clara County bird species.

According to Save the Bay's Jocelyn Gretz, one of the leaders of Saturday's trip, nearly a half-million birds spend their winters in San Francisco Bay.

Charleston Slough, at the end of San Antonio Road in Mountain View, is a prime spot for watching feathery natives and visitors from the north this time of year.

Save the Bay, while best known for its activity regarding Moffett Field, also conducts restoration planting and leads regular birdwatching trips on the Bay for its members and the general public.

"We want to give the Bay CPR," said Jocelyn, referring to the organization's three missions of celebration, protection and restoration. The trips "get people interested in what we do. ... Knowing that this is here to come back to is pretty powerful."

Despite the occasional frustrations inherent in birdwatching (according to one guide, "they're able to fly"), the experience was truly a celebration and an eye-opening one.

The fact that I was going on a birding expedition at all was a source of much sarcastic delight to my two little brothers. But lest anyone think of birders as a boring group, I can report that a good chunk of our discussion during the day centered on the sex lives of different bird species.

For example, the bright red eye of the cinnamon teal and the turquoise eye of the double-crested cormorant indicated their fitness for mating. We also noticed that some mallards and gadwalls appeared to have paired off already.

"They probably just met over Christmas," said Steve Rutledge, an ornithologist with the local Audubon Society chapter who was serving as our guide. He explained that certain species get engaged, picking their mates before they travel to breeding grounds further north.

Steve brought two spotting scopes and a mountain of birding knowledge to lead us on our three-hour walk. All told, we identified 45 different species of birds. Actually, Steve identified 45 different species of birds. I picked out one on my own, a mallard, which I recognized from the cover of the children's book "Make Way for Ducklings."

Bird species can often be told apart by their behavior and feeding habits more reliably than what they look like, said Steve.

"People tend to look at colors. That's why I tend to emphasize other things," he said, facing the group. As if on cue, we heard a cheep-cheep-cheep sound in the mud flat behind him. Without missing a beat, he informed us that we were listening to a long-billed dowitcher, which often has a shorter bill than its cousin, the paradoxically-named short-billed dowitcher.

When feeding, the dowitcher's bill looks like the needle on a sewing machine, rapidly poking holes in the mud, hoping to find invertebrates. In the same feeding grounds, the American avocet uses its upward-curved bill to sweep along the surface of the mud. Differences like these are crucial to the ecology of the bay, Steve said, because they enable multiple species of birds to coexist without competing for the same resources.

As joggers, walkers and bicyclists zipped by, Steve pointed out a pied-billed grebe, which had apparently taken a break from eating its feathers -- a bizarre habit that protects it stomach lining from the bones of fish.

Our attention soon came to rest on a group of black skimmers, believed to be the only such birds in Northern California. Cliff Barnett, a Palo Alto resident who has been birdwatching here for years, said he believes the skimmers' recent appearance north of Los Angeles is a sure indication of global warming.

A more innocent explanation is possible. "They fly around looking for something they like," Steve said. "And they like it here."

E-mail Jon Wiener at jwiener@mv-voice.com

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