Storm-petrels and sandwiches

Great Shearwaters weren't obliging at all...

Life post-St. Paul has been an adjustment. Produce abounds, Gray-crowned Rosy-Finches do not, driving on pavement is an experience comparable to floating through silken clouds (and Boston drivers look at you quizzically when you wave at them). And, after spending months straining to find birds in non-wooded habitats, I've reentered a world where vertical vegetation exists and fluttering leaves masquerade as warblers. I lasted in New England woodlands for a whopping 5 days before again seeking treeless horizons.

Paulagics was running an overnight pelagic off Brooklyn, so I convinced my roommate that she wanted to devote a weekend to rough seas and cold wind. She agreed joyfully, because Rose is cool like that (and, she's also cool enough to have seen a Tufted Puffin in the Atlantic!).

There was a hiccup, though--Rose finished work at 2:30 Friday. We needed to be at the dock no later than 10:00 Friday. It takes nearly 7 hours to drive this distance in optimal conditions, but dogged determination fueled by tubenose lust propelled our hope.

Rose took a huge leap of faith and let me drive. Still in St. Paul mode, it wasn't until New Hampshire that I realized I'd neglected to fasten my seatbelt. (Ironically, in New Hampshire, you don't have to wear one anyway.)

We endured Boston rush-hour, then Worchester rush-hour, then Hartford rush-hour, then an accident...
"I don't think we'll make it." said Rose, the sensible one.
"I think we will." I contradicted, holding on to the hopeless optimism near and dear to any birder.

I'm not entirely sure how we made it--this is possibly due to the nonfunctionality of Rose's dash lights; our post-sunset speed remains mystery. I'm also not entirely sure how we managed to parallel park, since our cumulative prior experience could be counted on one hand. However, we did, we conquered, and we soon were standing on a dock next to a dumpster-full of pizza boxes, making small talk with long-lost acquaintances.
"What are you hoping for?"
"Dunno man...it's my first Atlantic pelagic. I'll get Life Birds no matter what."

The engines wheezed to life, and I headed up to the top deck, where I found a half-occupied bench with just enough space for my sleeping bag. The engines wheezed to life, and I fell asleep as New York's lights blinked out behind us.

When I awoke, we were more than a hundred miles offshore. That sounds romantic, so I'll be honest--I awoke when the city lights still blinked distantly. I awoke again when a rude, salty wave invaded my sleeping bag, then once when Nathan, on the floor behind me, announced he'd found someone's hard drive sliding around. You get the idea.

When I awoke the final time, the boat was pitching in the dark swells; the chummers were beginning to lay down the fish oil slick, trusting that dawn would overthrow night. I too trusted that dawn would overthrow night. You see--I'd signed up thinking that, if nothing else, the endeavor would be a fine opportunity to see if I get seasick. I was hoping I wouldn't.

Finally, the horizon emerged, putting my mind at ease. Michael, snuggled in his beanbag tarp burrito, looked like his stomach was not at ease.
"Alison, do you have some food?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm not sure if I can make it to the cabin before I puke."
"Oh. Take my crackers!" I pushed the Ritz roll into his hand.
Fortunately, Michael would not be adding to the chum slick.

Dawn came and with it the birds, who could smell our fish oil miles out.
"Wilson's Storm-Petrel! Gettin' late there!"
Lifer. Storm-petrels are one of my favorite tubenoses--they're delicate, pattering across the waves like tap-dancing swallows. The ocean temperature was warm for late October; our hopes were high for the unexpected. (Though not the inexpectata.)

We were not disappointed--in fact, the sun technically hadn't risen when a large bird arced distantly over the fish oil ribboning out behind us. Pale underwings, glaring white rump...
"BLACK-CAPPED PETREL ON THE SLICK AT 7:00!!"
Birders spilled out of the cabin to watch this desired Pterdroma...then the next one...then a group of 3...then an 8th (or was it a 9th?).

The petrels set the excitement level high, and the ocean continued to deliver. Mola-mola breaching. Great Shearwaters wiggling through the wake, shyer Cory's cutting the swells, Gannets spiraling overhead. Manx Shearwaters, fulmars, a sharp juvenile Black-legged Kittiwake, MORE storm-petrels, some mahi-mahi.

The mahi-mahi were quickly transformed into sandwiches. Rose, in the right place at the right time, lucked into one of these and kindly bestowed half of it to me. It was a pretty amazing sandwich--definitely a rewind/repeat meal. While I was licking my salty fingers, someone yelled out a Pomarine Jaeger. A mass evacuation ensued. I remained, unwilling to compromise my sandwich enjoyment. The last birder to lurch out the door paused.
"Trash bird for you?"
I smiled.
"Oh, no. It's always a good day when you see a jaeger. It's just, this sandwich is really good..."

I doubt he understood. I'm not sure I fully understand, either, why we'll happily spend hundreds of dollars to go spend hours throwing up in the ocean--why the idea tantalizes us so much. When I see a storm-petrel--a tiny bird better-equipped to elicit the sea's mercy than I am--dancing over the waves, I understand a little more. We're intrigued by the unknown, crave that which we cannot control. And we get that by spending an October weekend on a boat 100 miles offshore Brooklyn.

Rainbow Birds

Yesterday morning, I retrieved Susan from the King Eider. It was 10 AM, the sun only recently emerged from the Bering Sea.

We had just enough time to drive Northeast before lunch. Save the growing flocks of Snow Buntings and a couple Brant on Big Lake, it was a quiet morning--quiet in the bird department, that is.

Susan, a long-time veteran of St. Paul and a fellow Michigander, is one of the most ebullient birders I've met. A day spent with her shotgun isn't really work. As we wound back to Trident, we acknowledged fall's advent.

First snow of the season

When I came in May, everything was yellow-brown, flattened from the recently-departed snow. I can't remember when exactly--I think it was when VENT saw the Common Cuckoo--overnight everything turned emerald. That sounds cliche, but it wasn't; one night, I went to bed and the flanks of Polovina were just beginning to green. The next morning I looked across the harbor at Tolstoi Cliffs and blinked, disoriented--it was lush, verdant, green.

Then, summer--babies and purple flowers and life exploding.

Hatchling Rock Sandpiper and Nootka Lupine

And now, fall, with its volatility of weather and Good Birds. Rain squall, rainbow. Snow squall, rainbow. Hurricane winds and horizontal rain in the morning, sun in the afternoon. Rainbow.

Marunich taking a pounding...

looking west from the top of Hutch.

Everything is brown again--again, overnight. Celery flattened where we've stomped it for vagrants. Longspurs gone, cliffs barren, me not wanting to leave yet wanting to go. Susan's here again. Our season began with Susan; now, she's here as we finish up.

By the curve at Polovina Hill, we both noticed the double-rainbow over the tundra. Susan turned to me, raising an eyebrow.
"You know what this means, now..."

I returned the eyebrow raise. Yeah. This fall, rainbow days have also been good bird days: Purple Finch, Ovenbird (both 1st-Prib records); Jack Snipe, Siberian Rubythroat, Olive-backed Pipit (stellar finds anywhere in the ABA-area)...the pressure was on for me to find us a Good Bird.

"It's been September 19 since I got a lifer. We're due for something else. I think we'll still get a good bird while I'm out here."

Lifers for Susan are unfathomably rare. This last lifer of hers was none less than Pallas's Rosefinch--a first ABA-area record.

PALLAS'S ROSEFINCH

About then, I pointed out the 6 Cackling Geese dropping into the grass by Big Polovina Lake.
"Well, there's a trip bird for you!" I offered.

Susan wanted more than trip birds. I wanted badly to deliver more than trip birds.

A pipit squealed out the stuck-open Sequoia window--Red-throated.
"I'm tired of looking at pipits."

Couldn't exactly blame Susan; it's harder to get excited about little brown birds that are challenging to differentiate from other little brown birds, especially when you've already seen most of these little brown birds but you could see something like...

"Hobby. I think it'd be a good day for a hobby."
"I think we all need hobbies", I thought sardonically, continuing Northeast while Doug and Tom trailed us in the van, antagonizing me by playing Taylor Swift over the radio.

At Webster, we stomped the celery remnants; Susan stood sentinel on the berm. This netted us one Pacific Wren that we briefly tried to make something less-expected. We prepared to continue Northeast.

Tom, near Gate Celery, started yelling.
"Falcon...Peregrine...male, maybe."
Doug and I looked up to catch a slate streak bombing Webster Lake.

Tom yelling, again.
"Actually, I think it may be a HOBBY..."

As Doug began firing shots, I looked frantically for the person we cared about most.
"....SUSANNNNNN? THERE'S A HOBBY OVER THE LAKE."

I bounded over the pallet pile and intercepted her on the other side of the outhouse. Her face told her story. It's no fun to spend all day looking for new birds and find none. It's less fun when the guides get the bird and the clients don't.

High on adrenaline but repressing my celebration, I pushed a radio into her hand and ushered her to Doug's van. Doug's put some serious guiding time in on St. Paul, and the cloud of rumors about his driving are rivaled only by the cloud of dust that billows behind his van.

We spun out of the driveway, frantically scanning. They were heading to Polovina Hill for a better vantage. I radioed them--
"Hey, do you want me to post up on the Big Lake dune? Spread out a..."

In the background, I heard Susan's shrieking
"THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS!"

The hobby cartwheeling over their van; Tom nearly clocking Susan with his door as they both leapt from the vehicle; the hobby streaking through Big Lake dunes...I enjoyed it all, exhilarated for us, for Susan, for GOOD BIRDS.

When I caught up to them, Susan and I tackled each other with excited hugs, jumping up and down in the road shouting with happiness.
"Did you get good looks?"
"OH DID I GET GOOD LOOKS."
"WE GOT A HOBBY! WE GOT OUR RAINBOW BIRD!"

A few hours later, when our ecstasy had tempered to coherency, Susan said,
"You know, I wasn't expecting to get any new birds this fall. And, here I am with two."

Oh, St. Paul, I'm going to miss you so much this winter--your everchanging skies, your Good Birds, your rainbows. Even though I want to go, I don't want to leave. Yet the hobby--and all it represents--will tide me over until my return, because I will be back.