Another year has passed. My best friends are no longer school peers but life colleagues. My association with the Pacific Northwest region deepens, I’m at a point in my life where a lot of naturalists begin to recognize their home ecosystem. Yet, I also recognize there are many new things yet to see all over the world. That makes me antsy.

Comparing years to one another is a bit of folly but one can’t help but do it. The year of 2012 immediately seems less vibrant than 2011 simply because I didn’t spend over a sixth of the year in the Asian tropics (the farthest I got from home was Wisconsin, a wonderful place nonetheless). However, I did continue to broaden my understanding of the natural world which is the point. My time in 2012 was spent on home ground, on familiar ground. The thing is, that we never know everything.

I’ve never spent so much time in the Olympics or on Mt. Rainier. Even if those repeat visits were to the same spots, guiding people, repeating the same facts, things were always different. I saw magical things in 2012, some of which I managed to photograph and some of which I didn’t. For example I watched a male and female peregrine falcon catch a pigeon in swirling victory mere feet over my head from a kayak near the Ballard locks. That spectacular display of teamwork suffices as memory. The young black bear at Sunrise on Mt. Rainier licking the sap from a freshly peeled fir trunk? I photographed that.

This year I (nearly) made summit on the Brothers, a double peak most Seattlites recognize across the Sound in the Olympics. I got my hands dirty in my friends’ fields, helping build an organic farm, while ravens checked our progress overhead and Pacific chorus frogs jumped between my feet. Regular attendance to the bounty of mountain wildflowers found me all the more impressed with my home. I’d say 2012 was a success.

So for the next year? Somewhat financially grounded from international travel (only momentarily), I plan to see more birds, more corners of my state, and learn even more. That’s always the goal. This year might see me pursuing science or pursuing writing and photography or both (why not?). I’ll probably add farm hand (in the beautiful San Juan Islands) to my title as well. I’ll keep guiding people and sharing my passion. I’ll keep my childish imagination and poetic fascination for this planet. And this problem with verbosity.

A good year to everyone.  Thanks for all the support!

(A finale note – as I attempt to move in the direction of supporting myself with my work, I’d like to point out that all photos can be viewed and purchased at http://www.brendanmcgary.com.  I’m open to all inquiries on writing, photography, and naturalist work.  I love guiding and teaching and would be happy to do either in the Pacific Northwest.  Thanks so much for reading, looking, even peeking!)

The unflagging exuberance of young birders (or simply those enamored with nature) is draining on those even just slightly older. Certainly it’s uplifting and I felt energized as we left the Sage Grouse Lek on Foster Flats. Energy was entirely welcome after all, we still had a full day ahead of us.

Vesper Sparrows (Pooecetes gramineus) and Horned Larks (Eremophila alpestris) serenaded us down from the lek “parking lot.” In a couple slimy sections of the road, I inwardly thanked our lucky stars for making it up. After the other visitors had squirmed upslope, the track was a sloppy mess of mud ruts. The refreshing air wafted through aromatic shrubs had a calming effect though. The were windows rolled down and ears pricked at notes from the steppe.

There.

Just as I expressed doubts about the promise we’d see a certain sage obligate, we heard cheery, ebullient notes tossed across the shrubs. The Sage Sparrow (Amphispiza belli) is a delicately colored bird, enjoyable and beautiful in subdued shades of gray and brown in the way we find subtle geology dazzling. I’d also reckon it has one of the prettier sparrow songs. The first individual sat dutifully staking claim, broadcasting for mates long enough for Eric and I to creep near clutching cameras.

Before we made it back to the highway we couldn’t resist a few more stops to enjoy the sunny morning. A Ferruginous Hawk (Buteo regalis) sailed far above and more sparrows sang around us. We all developed platforms of mud, inches thick, caked to our soles that had to be scraped off each time before returning to the van.

Already pleased with the sights, we curved down the highway to the The Bureau of Land Management’s (BLM) Diamond Craters Outstanding Natural Area. The mention of the BLM never gets me excited except knowing that the land has few rules to fetter the adventurous. When entering their properties (or as many say, “our property, our land”), I vacillate between imagining open pit mines and overgrazed riparian areas festering with watery cow pies. “The Bureau of Land Mismanagement.” Let it be said that the road we traveled in to see the lek was a derelict BLM road, so I can’t entirely grouse. Diamond Crater’s must be the crown gem of all the BLM land.

What pleased me the most about visiting this area was the fluency of the Birdwatch kids in all things natural. Sure, they wanted to go far and see much birdwise, but they could enjoy roaming geology and settling down for a good old fashioned lizard catching romp too. Before we’d even made it past the first designated stop on the auto tour of the “Outstading Natural Area,” we were crawling over the thin crust of a basaltic flow in search of reptiles.

Midday birding what it is, we had the geology and herps to keep us busy. This first stop saw us clambering on a vertically tilted slab of basalt attempting to outwit several behemoth Western Fence Lizards (Sceloporus occidentalis). A cooperative Sagebrush Lizard (Sceloporus graciosus) proved much more easily caught and photographed. At the same time, someone noticed that many of the cracks in the rock were filled with Pacific Chorus Frogs (Pseudacris regilla)! Between trying to capture images of frog faces wedged in fissures and snagging lizards, we laughed and scrambled away an hour. This was good, respectable fun that had nothing to do with age or ability or knowledge.

The Diamond Craters are true geological wonders, much deserving of their cornball designation. I’d visited previously but hadn’t been compelled to contemplate the spread. Much of the rock we’d seen before this point was from a comparatively ancient 9.2 million year old vent located near where Burns, Oregon is today. The Diamond Craters are a geologically young formation, around 25,000 years old, and display a huge array of basaltic volcanic features localized and easy to see. Massive craters admired are in various states of erosion, collapsing in on themselves. The evidence of explosive events, fueled by the interaction of water and magma, were strewn about. I couldn’t help but wish to have viewed this from afar over the thousands of years of activity. The tumult, the explosions, the flows of viscous lava bubbling from vents to cover lakes and millions of years of older formations. I reckon I could probably give up television for that opportunity.

Possibly the gravity of the geology was lost on some of the students but they couldn’t ignore the unique features. Nor could they deny the desire to roam the slopes or climb into the craters. (Parents, don’t worry, this is no longer volcanically active). At the particularly stunning Lava Pit Crater, a collapsed shield volcano that repeatedly flooded lava over the surrounding slopes until it subsided and began to crumble, we had another good scramble. Here we found some delicate Side-blotched Lizards (genus Uta) near the crater rim and the more intrepid accidentally sussed out both a Great-horned (Bubo virginianus) and Barn Owl (Tyto alba) while exploring a particularly large vent.

The day went on like that. Driving, stopping at a gaudy volcanic feature, spreading out over it till we looked like ants, and circling back up to pile into the car. I don’t think any of us could have asked for a more enjoyable afternoon to cap the day and the trip. As the weather began to foul again, we turned back to the field station, satisfied and tired.

Back at the field station we discovered a Bushy-tailed Woodrat (Neotoma cinerea) that had been captured in the director’s residence and left for us to release. Only in this bizarre world I’m a part of does releasing giant rats count as fun. The giddy troops were dispatched and those of us who drove at 3 AM took a rest. Somehow, when they returned, I got convinced to hunt Kangaroo rats one last time.

So, excuse my lack of eloquence here: this shit is important. These kids are going to grow up and change the world. They are going to be stewards of the environment, no matter what choices they make in their career paths (doctors, business people, politicians need to have a connection with the natural world too). The volunteers of the program said this about my cohort when I was in Birdwatch and they were right; we’re working on it. I can think of little that is more important than helping this generation along, particularly considering this is a dying pursuit amongst the youngsters of America. Nature Deficit disorder may not be diagnosable but it is real. There is a widening disconnect between young people and nature, in my generation, and those after. I’ll never stop asking this of you, of myself, of anyone: how we can expect to save things we don’t understand, let alone care about? Simply knowing an animal or a landscape is endangered doesn’t inherently fuel action.

I’ll calm down and stop jumping on my soap box in just a second. My point is, if you have kids, get them outside and let them get dirty. If you are a kid (read: if you are young of heart), get out yourself. You don’t need to know what everything is or fret over dangers. For shit’s sake, live a little!

There are plenty more details, stories, and exciting things to share about our travels in Oregon but I choose to leave it here. We had an immeasurably good time and were all sad to leave and head back to the city. All ten hours back there were constant pleas from students (and whispered from the volunteers) to stop and explore. To get sidetracked.

Get sidetracked.

Flattening animals is never a good way to start the day. The jackrabbit was in the opposite lane when the brights caught it. Why it made the decision to hop daintily beneath my tires is beyond comprehension. As Tristan put it later, slowing would have made the difference between creaming it at 40mph rather than 60. I’d rather a clean job of it. I was still unerved.

Foster Flats Road slid about under the tires like the thin layer of wet snow most Seattlites find an insurmountable obstacle. When rain falls heavily on ground only half prepared for absorption, a sickly alluvium forms. We’d been warned such mud could make for disaster. However, there’d been no rain overnight and at 3:50AM a collective decision made. Yes, we were still in pajamas and the twin beds were, at that moment, the most luxurious in the world, but there was a greater pull. Time to get up the kids.

A vague hint of a slaty first light began to push over the horizon. The windows rolled down, Horned Larks were audible in dawn chorus. They were also apparently sleeping the middle of the road, groggily or stubbornly flushing seconds before our tread.

After eight squelching, sliding, jostling miles we slowed to a crawl. It was about five AM and we should have been able to hear them. We didn’t.

“Turn off the engine. I can’t hear anything.”

“Vesper Sparrow. Horned Lark. Meadowlark.” I grasped for other sounds in the inky depths.

“Stop crinkling that granola bar wrapper.”

A frumpy bird flew across the road. Our pulses quickened and I immediately cut the engine. Still nothing. I was starting to worry because we’d driven several tenths of a mile too far. People in the van began to ask pointed questions about the decision to drive beyond the bird. Collective decision making has never existed when the driver can be blamed for any potential problems. We circled back.

As if by magic, our eyes adjusted in the still waxing light. Something, looking uncannily like a pillow filled with a pair of matching balloons, adorned with a pointy fan on one end, was pirouetting about outside. We started to notice these queer shapes all over in the twilight. We were here.

Out on the sage it sounded as if a group of overweight people wearing corduroys were alternating between running and resting on elliptical machines – their inner thighs rubbing together audibly for contracted periods. As the pants rubbed, they were desperately clutching milkshakes and the viscous liquid was popping about in odd percussion inside their cups. This is a perfect example why written descriptions of avian sounds pale in comparison to a recording or a real thing. I’ve merely succeeded in describing weight watchers subscribers.

Jokes aside, what was really happening out there? Why had we woke at 4 AM, driven a sketchy muddy road, and crept about in the dark? In reality, the apparitions meters from our van were Greater Sage Grouse (Centrocercus urophasianus) in Strutting Display. This was their lek, a place where males collect to show off for females. We were attending one of most magical avian displays in North America.

Portraying this scene, so compellingly unique and fascinating as it truly was, might just be beyond me. As I watched the males dance about in the hopes that the females, lurking on the sidelines might find them worthy of copulation, I was awash in a passion that takes me now and then. Evolutionary time spread before me, I was lost in a branching whirlwind of specialization and runaway selection. I found myself swelling with excitement, in a tizzy over the beauty of the natural world. This was the second Sage Grouse lek I’d ever seen and these males were unconcernedly bouncing about just meters from us.

The noises we were hearing were partially from esophageal pouches, which swelled as they prepared for the breeding season. Males fill these pouches with air and as they do so swish their wings against the feathers of their necks and breasts. The air sacs plop (like the milkshakes, which in this case call all the girls to the yard) and the wings rub against chest to create the swish (the corduroys).

Besides the fact that these birds were an amazing sight to see, they are becoming rarer and rarer. Biologists on the state and federal level have been dancing around listing these birds for years now. This area of Oregon happens to be a stronghold but that doesn’t mean they are safe. They’ve merely benefited from occurring in the least human inhabited corner of the lower 48. Mines, natural gas, windmills, cattle ranching, and hunting seem to trump saving an animal that is an embodiment of this habitat. Sure they’re chickens, but they’re North America’s largest, only residing in the West and in shrub steppe. They need to be nurtured not stomped out of existence by clumsy cattle and gas pads. I use resources, everyone can be blamed for these problems, but denying protection for special animals does nothing but further the problem, leaving them prone to further decline.

There were nearly thirty males strutting about, amply bosomed and obviously thoroughly out of their minds. Several of the males in more central locations fought over space, displaying at eachother and occasionally physically attacking. There’s a dearth of consistent information to explain their nuptial behavior. What is apparent is that prime males come together to display, only a few of these males actually mate, and the females will nest and raise young completely on their own. We noticed that the males in the middle of the lek seemed more active, both fighting more and displaying with more frequency. The best of the best?

The sun began to creep higher, casting a harsh glare across the display grounds. Before long the males would be flying off for the day, to return in the early hours the following morning. Soon these grounds would be quiet until next March when the strutting begins anew. We’d been perched in our van for nearly three hours and I was pretty sure I was getting deep vein thrombosis. It was time to slide on off and leave these outrageous birds to their shrubs and their flouting.

If this wasn’t a formative experience for the Birdwatch students then we’d probably never find one.

(Ok, so I lied, there will be one more entry to tie up all the loose ends on our trip to Malheur. We had fun, which invariably means I have too much to say!)

Shoving as much natural history as a place holds into the space of five days will never promise restfulness. During the course of a few days we drove hundreds of miles in pursuit of birds, mammals, and reptiles. I’m feeling pretty pooped just thinking about it now and blogging about it during the trip was ultimately beyond me completely. In younger years I would have blown off writing completely but I’ve come to realize that memories fade and that this is the craft I wish to work and grow in. When these experiences are penned (or typed), they take on a whole knew life. The photos of this trip will always exist but the embellishment of a good yarn is equally important in immortalizing stories. Years from now I’ll thank myself for recording any experiences I had. I’m already kicking myself for not doing a better job in more formative times.

I left off on day three of our twisting navigation of the Malheur area. We continued to drift on and off the refuge and saw much of the birdlife the place offered.  A few surprises even popped up along the way.

To begin the day we decided to drive Central Patrol Road in hopes of seeing some good birdlife by using our vehicle as a blind. While we certainly saw a few nice things, including the first Brewer’s Sparrow of the year, this turned out to be unproductive in terms of seeing new species on the trip. Adam was particularly vocal in letting us all know we’d not seen any new species much of the day. However, it was a pleasant drive along the Donner und Blitzen River surrounded by the eroded walls and hills of basalt. (No, this river was not named after the reindeer but with German for the thunder, Donner, and lighting, Blitzen, that an early exploration encountered in a crossing).

Central Patrol Road runs practically the length of the refuge North to South, ending at the base of epic block fault Steens Mountain. While the gate to the top is closed till June, when snow from Steens has mostly melted bringing life to the wetlands below, Page Springs campground at the base offers variety to the sage weary. We retreated into the bowels of the upper Donner und Blitzen for a break amongst willows and juniper.

As I mentioned before a lot of the breeding songbirds hadn’t arrived yet. So as we entered the canyon, it was to enjoy new sights more than new birds. We heard both Canyon and Rock Wren, the later of which sat singing in plain sight, but that was the extent of our avian experience. Tristan and Ira sprinted off in search of snakes (and a potential Mountain Quail), hoping the hot day would reveal some serpent treasures (they caught a large Gopher Snake). The rest of us took our time along the slow river, admiring butterflies, plants and geology. Afternoon found us strolling about with no particular aim, what I consider a great joy in life. A few of the more bird manic of the group were initially disappointed as this pace but later admitted it a pleasurable way to spend the less active afternoon.

Night drives are one of the pleasures of being out in a place rife with mammals. You’ll never know what will be bounding along the road. What’s more, it offers and opportunity to acquaint yourself with a few of the animals more easily convinced to say a quick hello. Many cottontails and jackrabbits skittered about the roads on the nights Tristan, Ira, and I went out exploring but we were particularly keen to encounter kangaroo rats the most common of which was Ord’s Kangaroo Rat (Dipodomys ordii).

These desert adapted rats were surprisingly easy to find along the road on the nights I got up enough energy to drive us around. Most active at night, they spend their days deep in burrows and emerge in cooler weather to find seeds, which I learned they cache for later use. We spent a lot of time catching reptiles and amphibians during the trip, so it should come as no surprise that kangaroo rats were also handled. Luckily I’d learned from past experiences prowling for nocturnal mammals that they are beyond friendly in the hand, cuddling up, sitting calmly, or gently exploring your shoulder and hair.  (You may take issue to catching wild animals simply to admire but I think the benefits of understanding and appreciation that result far outweigh the negatives – every rat we caught was handled with care and released uninjured).

Bleary eyed from rat catching, I woke to rain and wind the next morning. The sage and rabbitbrush turned a pleasant saturated gray-green to match the weather. Us Seattlites weren’t going to let the rain hold us back and besides this weather was needed. According to Duncan, a director of the field station, it was drier than normal, with 60% less rain than the average. The state of the more pluvial loving Greasewood (Sarcobatus vermiculatus) was evidence of this, having lost most of their succulent leaves in response to the dryness.

Again we had a full day ahead of us and we struck out on a similar route we’d driven our first full day. This reaffirmed my notion that repeat visits gain you new, different sights. Almost immediately we noticed Clark’s Grebes amongst the Western Grebes on Malheur Lake. Stopping to admire one and some Cliff Swallow nests, Adam spotted a rare sight, a Great-horned Owl nest beneath a bridge on a highway!

The rest of the day was spent tooling around, just like we’d done on days before but with more activity. We were treated to a herd of Pronghorns right off the highway – a cooperatively perched Golden Eagle (we visited a nest too) – hundreds more American White Pelicans (which I tried to sneak close to unsucessfully) – a Common Raven nest – for once a sitting Prairie Falcon (all we’d seen were ones on determined wing). And there was one more delight and total surprise, a Snowy Owl!

If you paid any attention to the news or nature in North America this last winter, you’ve probably heard about Snowy Owls being all over the place. Last season was a good lemming year and there were a lot more owls born, which means they need to disperse to find food, often very far from their tundra homes. Many young birds die when they get far south (and in the case of the first record in Hawaii are shot….). That fact was not far from thought as we crept up to this shining white emblem of the North, sitting placidly right off the highway. The theories to explain it’s reluctance to fly were that either it was very sick or that it was stuffed on abundant food. Snowy Owls eat lots of waterbirds in addition to rodents, which could very well have meant it was simply in a blissed out state of heavenly indulgence while the weather stayed cool. Whatever the case, we saw it three times during our stay and it seemed content, even with two trailer semis zooming by mere feet from its fluffy face.

There will be one more installment on the trip coming soon. There’s some star characters to be sure, spectacularly absurd obligates of the shrub steppe that lek. See if you can guess what I’m talking about and stay tuned!

In Burns, Oregon we stopped for food in a Subway. Accompanying our fine dinning experience was a sour colored water feature which began dripping on one of our party suddenly and vigorously from a crack in the drywall ceiling. The employee’s response resounded with familiarity of such nuisances:

“Oh, is it raining again?”

Welcome to Eastern Oregon.

On the plus side, and there’s always a plus side, we managed to coerce a friendly kangaroo rat to join us for a visit post dinner.

I’m sitting in Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, Harney County, Oregon. Yesterday we trundled out of Seattle in a van stuffed with food, camera gear, and skivvies for five days. Somehow we found room for six high school students and four chaperones. I’m out exploring the high desert, of lava fields and wetlands, with Seattle Audubon’s Birdwatch Program.

Wind was tossing the loose, eroding landscape when we all pulled ourselves from a much needed slumber. Ground squirrels (there was a continued discussion of their identity all day), Nuttall’s Cottontail, and Black-tailed Jackrabbits didn’t seem to mind the buffeting and the cold. Neither did the California Quail. I was a bit concerned because I knew wind wouldn’t favor birding.

Feeling like we’d entered an entirely different vehicle, we spread out in the emptied van and readied for a day of birding. For some, like Adam (who you’ll hear from below), this was a new habitat full of new species. For others like myself, though I’m far from an old hand, we’d been here and explored a bit. Either way we had a blast.

People visit the area for various things. The geology alone is spectacular, consisting of eons of erroded lava and I’m pretty enamored with the shrub steppe ecosystem in general. Yet birds always manage to top the list. Waterbirds flock here because it is an oasis in the desert, excellent breeding habitat with abundant food and safe nesting areas for a myriad of waterbirds. Though a very dry and hot for much of the year, there’s a good amount of open water between the lakes and ponds of the refuge. While National Wildlife Refuges are largely purposed with managing waterfowl populations this also means that other animals are about too. Large ungulates like Pronghorn and Mule Deer stand out most, but Coyotes are common and rodents and rabbits abound. With many small mammals come many raptors. And if you get tired of birds of prey and waterbirds you can jaunt over to some sagebrush and find a whole new community of birds there.

With the first day past, we’ve clean up a lot of the birds that are present. This is the “shoulder season” in many ways. Most of the songbirds have not arrived yet and many of the wintering waterbirds are only around in low numbers. No matter, we saw a lot of flashy, sought after birds.

A target bird of one of the teens, a Ferruginous Hawk, flew by within the first half of the day. Ross’s Geese were a nice surprise, sitting for comparison with a few Snow Geese. Black-necked Stilt and American Avocets gave our mobile blind cold shoulders, but we saw them well anyway. Franklin’s Gulls, Sage Thrashers, Loggerhead Shrikes! Birds, birds, birds!

The most notable for me were the multitudes of American White Pelicans, at least 400, which soared overhead, sailed across the horizon and sat majestically in bright groups that shone across the xeric landscape. Adorned with their breeding “horns” (growths that develop for the breeding season on the upper mandible) and neon orange faces, they looked to me the kings of the shallows.

Probably the most numerous besides blackbirds were American Coots. You could sail a rock blindfolded and probably hit one. Their comical waddling and strange noises prompted an amusing quote from a student:

“If any bird makes being a bird look difficult it’s a coot.”

And in some ways he was right. They were the most numerous dead animal we found all day.

It was still cold in the afternoon but the sun soon got to us. After a much needed siesta we explored some proper shrub steppe habitat. A good deal of people, even honest naturalists and birders will see only monotony in such ecosystems and I made it my goal to erode that mentality a bit with the students. It didn’t help that the wind and early season meant many of the migrant songbirds that are obligates of the sage were absent but it forced us to look at bit harder for things to enjoy. A Coyote track, scat filled with reptile exoskeletons, some cryptobiotic crust. We still saw plenty.

Evening set and the Short-eared Owls changed shifts with the Northern Harriers. Snowy Steens Mountain caught the last of the sunlight as the storm clouds lifted, revealing the tall peaks. We watched a Coyote drooling after a group of geese, laying in wait for an opening in twilight. Black-crowned Night Herons and White-faced Ibis flew dark across a brilliant sunset. Our light had gone for the day.

Adam, a member of Birdwatch had this to say about his time out on the range:

“On my first day in Malheur I saw at least 20 new birds. The habitat is awesome and something I have never seen before. The sagebrush habitat holds many different types of animals including jackrabbits, scorpions, and Sage Thrashers. I learned today that Malheur has many different weather patterns from very sunny to all the sudden cloudy and very windy. I will never forget my first day day here.”

Sounds good to me Adam! Stay tuned in the next couple days, I’ll have more to share and a few more dispatches from the students before we are headed home.

A far parcel of Oregon houses a lasting corner of my imagination.  Down a seemingly endless road of silty dust, potholes, and bovine distressed shrub steppe, I find myself at a gate in late May.  It keeps happening every year now. No sign of nearby water, yet Franklin’s Gulls (Larus atricilla) dip over the sage and Willet’s (Catoptrophorus semipalmatus) call in the distance. This is a place of seeming discordance.

The Malheur Bird Observatory (MABO) is admittedly a bit of a misnomer.  Yes, work that would depict a scientifically founded organization has happened there and many of the field scientists of the West have found themselves there at some point or another.  But it’s not a functioning group like say, the Point Reyes Bird Observatory.  In the blandest of descriptions, MABO is a nice bit of shrub steppe acreage.

And arguably that’s the best thing about it.  Steve Herman, the owner and the inspiration for the gathering of the multi-generational students, just wants to get together with old friends and to make new ones.  Simone and I headed out from Seattle and saw people we admittedly could have seen in less than a 10-hour drive.  However friends from Wyoming, from Northern California, and elsewhere attended.  It was a sort of central meeting point.

At MABO we enjoy the company of our fellows, relax in the sweet smelling patch of intact shrub steppe, become enveloped by the dusty loam, and most importantly – watch birds!  An experienced birder of the Western United States will recognize Malheur National Wildlife Refuge as one of the best birding sites around.  Not only does it house a huge system of wetlands that nurse many a breeding waterbird but during migration songbirds descend on the refuge headquarters and other areas with planted trees, the artificial lushness we cultivate.  So amongst the Black Terns (Chlidonias niger), the White-faced Ibis (Plegadis chihi), and the Willets, you find Western Tanagers (Piranga ludoviciana), Swainson’s Thrushes (Catharus ustulatus), and Townsend’s Warblers (Dendroica townsendi).  Frequent “rarities” attract the so called “elite.”

As much as part of me wanted to dash out and find as many birds as possible over the weekend, a more persistent part of me wanted to slow down a bit.  I did just that for the weekend.  Sure, Simone and our close circle of friends (housed within a larger circle of Hermanites) got out and birded.  But it wasn’t rushed and we enjoyed quality not quantity.

Although the refuge headquarters didn’t quite live up to the fame of pulling rare birds this year, we had some fun stuff.  The “rarest” bird of our stay was a Black-and-White Warbler (Mniotilta varia), a bird that isn’t typically western but because it winters in Northwestern Mexico, tends to show in regular vagrancy. Also out of place, a Lewis’s Woodpecker (Melanerpes lewis) worked the compound of cottonwoods.

But I had just as much fun watching the family of Great-horned Owls (Bubuo virginianus) and Black-billed Magpies (Pica hudsonia) both with recently fledged chicks.  An opportunity to watch awkward adolescence, full of imaginative approaches to locomotion is full of endless hilarity.  I was disappointed when the Magpie fledglings moved out of range of easy observation on the second day.

Further out from the headquarters or MABO there’s much more.  Bobolinks (Dolichonyx oryzivorus) spurred up periodically in a wet field to sing their hearts out before flashing back to hide in the grass they so like.  I often wish I could spy on them in their moist domain.  Ibis dotted the countryside, either flying by in formation or probing spotted wetlands.  Crane cacophony rolled through the dust as we sped past ditches brimming with ruddy Cinnamon Teal (Anas cyanoptera).  A well established (multi-generational) Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) nest we’d discovered the year before was active with well developed young.  Just beyond the dwindling town of French Glen,  at the base of the east climbing slope of Steens Mountain is Paige Springs Campground.  I’ve never seen Yellow-breasted Chat’s (Icteria virens) in higher numbers or so atypically visible as at the entrance to the campground.

Wildlife in general abounds in Malheur (where cows haven’t been grazing).  We watched a Long-tailed Weasel (Mustela frenata) hunting Belding’s Ground Squirrels (Urocitellus beldingi) at the Malheur Field Station.  Pronghorn (Antilocapra americana) strutted through  the shrub steppe.  Coyotes (Canis latrans) rang out every night, culminating in a shouting match with our amassed dogs.

The time always comes to say goodbye (if I have anything to say about it, I’ll soon stop having to say goodbye to exploration and do it for a living).  All our dear friends parted ways, we brushed off the soot of good times, sighed our last breath of sage, and hit the road home.  Rain ushered our departure and the Cryptobiotic crust gleamed as we bounced down the road in admiration of a greatly undervalued landscape of shrub and steppe in the Great Basin.

Check out my photos from this year and last year on Flickr.