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. 

Puffin Factories

Parakeet and Crested Auklets

A seacliff is a place impossible to feel dead. Take a walk to the edge, inhale deeply the fusion of seabird excrement and nootka lupine. Stumble through the pushki pits, sit in a grassy hollow, marvel at the abundance of life unfolding below.

Tufted Puffin

Horned Puffin

From your perch, enjoy the puffin chuckles, the braided wake of porpoising fur seals, the Red-faced Cormorant stench.

Red-faced Cormorant 

Naked-eye, the cliff is a writhing blur: incubating murres looking meditative (hell, I would too if I had to spend a month preventing my egg from rolling off the ledge); gray and green lichen; whitewash against black basalt. 

Thick-billed Murre

Arctic summers are so short. Much must happen in a limited amount of time; these nesting colonies explode with life. Sitting here, you have to wonder: if your life was likened to an arctic summer, would you be exploiting the finite time? 

Least Auklets

Parakeet Auklets

Crested Auklet

Least Auklets leap from rock to rock, jostling for the title of King of the Mountain. Crested Auklets assemble in bickering clumps; they sound like chihuahuas with squeaky toys. Breeding plumage and behavior are in full display. Every creature is living out what it was designed to do. The beauty of this is pure, simple--yet overwhelming. 

Pacific Wren

Tufted Puffin

Like the wren belting away down the wall (I will always marvel how such a small bird comes with such a large voice) or the puffins bouncing jauntily beneath, I recognize my place here. The accompanying joy is palpable. 

Tufted Puffins

A few evenings ago, I was working with three photographers on Ridge Wall. A fierce Tufted Puffin dispute unfolded beneath us. To my surprise, the pair tumbled off the cliff, crashed on the rocks below. The luckiest arctic fox on Saint Paul carted one off, and I sat in goosebumps and disbelief. Although it takes a less-blatant role on the cliffs, Death is an inherent facilitator of Life. 

Northern Fulmar love

Red-legged Kittiwake

One of the best things about this job is the privilege of showing our visitors their first Bering Seacliffs. Each time we peek over the edge (and they're bombarded with the decision of which specialty to feast upon first!), it's like I'm seeing the place through new eyes myself. The life unfolding beneath me is powerful, compelling, restorative. 

Least Auklets <3 

Pribilof Fourth

I write this latest St. Paul installment from the balmy refuge that is our boiler room, on the Fourth of July. If that fails as a revealing lede, perhaps I should reconsider my life course.

Scott's absence has allowed me to integrate with the St. Paul community. His approaching return is providential; my approach to assimilation involved delegating this week's tips to poker and dancing the night (and a good chunk of the following morning) away in our vacuous rec hall. Unsurprisingly, I didn't open my eyes on Fourth of July 2015 until a luxuriously late hour. I woke to sirens--a sound I haven't heard since early May.

There were few spectators of St. Paul's parade, for the entire village was the parade. The procession, marshalled by our puke-green fire engine, wound through each street. Victim to a distinct aversion to getting dressed, I watched the proceedings through our cracked window, hot chocolate in hand, clad only in red/white/blue pants. Freedom is a great thing.

St. Paul centipede races, note the dust storm...

By 1:30 I'd finally pulled my act together, and I wandered across town towards the gravel ballfield to mingle. There, a bunch of kids bounced around on buoys while the adults supervised from the comfort of festive vehicles. I spotted some unfamiliar, friendly faces on the edge of the crowd, so I did the good tour guide thing and introduced myself. We endured small talk's banalities.

"So, what brings you to St. Paul?"
"Well you see, we're hoping to sail the northern route to Greenland, if we can make it before ice-in."

Pretty fucking cool.

Turns out that Seth (a professor) and Ellen (who writes for sailing magazines) live in Switzerland during the school year, taking off on epic sailing journeys in summer. They are a captivating duo, and eager to show their boat off. I was eager to continue our conversation, so we wandered to the harbor. Their boat was small, gorgeous, the type of craft that takes some serious balls to navigate through the Bering Sea. Inside the cabin, they regaled me with chai tea and good conversation. We discussed the similarities between fur seals and frat boys, poked fun at their dock neighbor Tyrone, up for halibut season and well into a bender.

Hunger drove us back to the ballfield. As we passed A-Dorm, I pointed.
"I live there."
Their faces were mixed shock and pity.
"We weren't sure if anyone could live there."
I take sardonic pleasure in revealing our hovel to those accustomed to cushier surroundings.

We made it back just in time to witness the flag-clad MC recruiting for the pie-eating contest.
"You can do it even if you don't have teeth!"
Three brave souls stuck their faces into the gooey melding of whipped toppings and canned fruit; one of them promptly yakked, much to the delight of the little-boy spectators.
"Is he done puking yet?"

Maybe pie-WEARING contest would be more accurate? 

Not even this spectacle could diminish our appetites. We shivered in line, backs to the wind, looking lustfully at the mountains of food. I bypassed the tray of cheese slices that by now were covered in a layer of volcanic grit and headed for the watermelon. The produce section in the AC has been barren for the last two weeks--last time I checked, we didn't even have onions or potatoes. This is the first place I've lived where I've entertained genuine concerns about scurvy...

By the time we sat down, we were all too cold to open our king crabs.
"I don't think I've ever gotten hypothermia on the Fourth before, guess there's a first time for everything."

We endured through the pinnacle of the celebration--scaling a crisco-greased pole to claim a flag and a significant cash prize. St. Paul's gang of little boys dared each other to pelt me with grass while I stood there, for the most part lost in thought.

The victor!

Today I ate reindeer for lunch, had a near-altercation with a fur seal, wrote a blog post in a boiler room. To me, St. Paul is very dissimilar to stereotypical 'Murica, but that doesn't mean we'll pass up a good reason for celebration.

Good chase/bad chase

There are many things I don't mind doing by myself, but chasing a rare bird is not one of them. Chasing is far more enjoyable when you've got a partner: another set of eyes to reassure you that your incompetency isn't the reason when the bird isn't showing; another set of feet to cut down the area that you have to cover; someone to share in the celebration--or the disappointment.

Last week, I got a text from Cory about an "unusual" golden-plover in Nova Stoshna. My group was working the kelp racks and whale carcass at Marunich--pretty much the antithesis of where you want to be when a vagrant is found elsewhere. By the time we pulled up in Nova Stoshna's foggy dunes, the bird hadn't been seen for about an hour. To add insult to injury, the "unusual" golden-plover had been photographed in flight; the bright white underwing suggested European Golden-Plover, a 3rd Alaska record.

Scott's group of photographers released him after lunch. Scott must be living his life right, because he experienced a wild streak of luck and found the bird flying down the beach northeast of Nova Stoshna. I clearly haven't been living my life right, though--by the time I could go look for the bird, I was the only person left on the island interested in trying. This meant that I was going to have to take on Nova Stoshna by myself.

I've always been too damn competitive. Although I don't really care about my ABA list, I care about my island list. Particularly, how my island list measures in comparison to the other guides. They feel the same way, too, and this friendly competition is good, because it helps everyone net more Good Birds for all.

So, I began trudging through the gray, damp, rolling tundra, spurred more from a sense of duty than from actual desire. After all, is a guide worth her salt if she doesn't give it her all to see rare birds on the island? (Never mind the fact that she'd rather be finding her own rare birds instead of chasing sloppy seconds.) I wished for someone to share the search--and the misery. My only camaraderie and help came from two avian plover-flushing machines: a sexy Parasitic Jaeger and the island's FOY Peregrine Falcon.

About 8 miles on foot later, I finally pulled out of Nova Stoshna ploverless and in a Bad Mood. Chasing is such a bizarre compulsion, demanding that you doggedly give your all to, in this case, search for a bird that (a) resembles OUR more common golden-plovers and (b) is an easy-to-find bird in many other parts of the world.

That was a sad chase.

We all like stories with happy endings though, so here's another one...

Two days ago, I was finishing up some solitary birding up Northeast. I drove sedately past Polovina, just on the brink of entering cell service when I noticed a vehicle coming towards me. Funny--it looked like our red Sequoia...it was our red Sequoia. What was Scott doing out towards Northeast? I rolled down my window.

"Have you gotten the texts?!"
Panic welled up in my throat, colliding with the dust cloud coming in the window.
"...nooooo??"
"GO TO REEF THERE'S A NEEDLETAIL."

I don't remember any further conversation, just tearing down a washboard road at a maniacal rate of speed, hoping I wouldn't encounter a police officer or a baby Rock Sandpiper. White-throated Needletail would be a first Pribilofs record; I tried not to ponder the probability of an aerial bird persisting.

At Reef, I sprinted through the Pushki towards Cory, looking intently in his scope.
"Do you still have it?"
"I'm on it. Okay...get ready...it's going left."
"Ready."

Cory stepped left and I dove in, overwhelmed in a shaky cloud of relief as I watched the massive swift foraging over the lava fields.

"How'd you first find it?"
"Well, it's a long story. I overheard seabird people talking about a petrel flying around the cliffs...a few minutes later I looked up and saw this swift. Saw the white and thought it was Fork-tailed. Then, I realized the white was on the underside."

What a flipping GREAT bird. After watching it for about a half-hour, I went home. The place was in shambles--lights on, TV on, a trail of clothes leaking out of the bathroom... Scott found out about the bird while he was showering and raced out to Reef, shampoo still in his hair. I'm sorta surprised he didn't just leave the shower running and show up to Reef in a towel.

Yeah, it was a happy chase for us all, the way it should be.

A Lifer for Bill

"Olive-backed Pipit...the bird of the trip...the rarest bird on this island!"
Bill's eyes lit up with frenzied hope as I laid out the options for Brookline Bird Club's first evening on St. Paul.

Over my mountain of rice and octopus, I surveyed my 20 charges with uncertainty.  Out of the three options I'd given them--male Brambling at Hutch Hill; Common Cuckoo at Nova Stoshna; Olive-backed Pipit at Webster Celery Pits--the pipit was the one I was least stoked about. The previous day, Cory, Ashley, and I had failed to relocate it, my gut feeling was that it had skipped town.

Bill, leading his 23rd--and final--trip to St. Paul, wasn't about to be swayed. Unlike the other options, Olive-backed Pipit would be a Life Bird for him. So, after we escaped Trident's caloric onslaught, we loaded into the bus and drove to Webster. A few hours later, I dropped them off at the King Eider, still pipitless.

Two days later and Bill still hadn't gotten a Life Bird. I really hoped we'd find one for him--after all, it was his final trip. It was my day off, so I decided to go turn over some rocks that hadn't been flipped for awhile. It was a beautiful afternoon. Sunny, warm, only light winds. Just beyond the airport is a nice corridor of wet areas separated by lupine-carpeted dune bowls. We often check the wet areas individually, but I decided to just walk the whole complex.

I drove past Weatherbureau, arm raised in Rock Sandpiper salute to the lost Barrow's Goldeneye and Double-crested Cormorant. At the road's end, I grabbed my camera and binoculars and began slogging through the Mare's Tail.

When I guide, I'm constantly "on". You have to be sensitive to the needs of your groups, play off their dynamics, give them the best experience possible. You have to be adaptable, intuitive, three steps ahead of where the group's at. Your work goes far beyond simply finding them birds. You have to figure out the best way of getting everyone in the group on it, then be an ornithological encyclopedia about the identification, the life history, take a stab at explaining why it ended up on this speck of a volcanic island instead of on its Siberian breeding grounds. It's exhausting, gratifying work. To recharge, I must allow my thoughts to outwander my feet when I'm off.

I was thinking thoughts so deep they must have been heavier than my feet (swaddled in sweaty alpaca socks, entombed in rigid rubber coffins) when I saw a bird with huge white wing patches flying away from me. Huge white wing patches are not a trademark of any St. Paul regular, so I drew my binoculars and nailed the bird in my sights.

Awwww yeah--HAWFINCH. Most years, some Hawfinch end up in the Pribilofs as they leave their wintering grounds in Japan and head towards the Kamchatka. It was a Life Bird for me. Was it a Life Bird for anyone else?

The bird landed on the far side of the bowl. After snapping a "record shot", I called Scott, who was taking the Brookline Gang around that day.

"Yo."
"Hey, I got a Hawfinch in the dunes between Tonki and Tim's."
"We're heading that way."

By some miracle, when Scott's group started walking from Tim's, the bird had positioned itself optimally--to escape, it would have to fly by me or Scott, and those glaring wing patches weren't going to make a stealth escape easy.

Scott's small army and their colorful windbreakers crested the dune. The Hawfinch flew. I glared at it bouncing away in finch fashion. They were so close to getting it, this escape attempt was not permissible. I called Scott, barely out of shouting distance.

"Yo."
"It's flying your way...LOOK UP! Oh, it landed. Do you have it?"
"No."
"It must be just over the berm for you."

They marched forward, Scott raised his hand, they stopped. They had it. My anxiety upwelling receded, and I made my way to the group to be greeted by a receiving line of high fives.

During the chase, Bill's windbreaker had slipped down to his elbows. His eyes--those eyes that have been finding birds for more than 40 years--were wild, elated. He shook my hand.

"Nice going, nice going, I've been coming here for 23 years and this is my last trip. Great find, the bird of the trip. Good direction. Well-played, nice going."

Bill had gotten his Life Bird

Gale Walk

With the craze of spring migration, Days Off have been a precious resource to all St. Paul Tour guides. Although working here is living the dream, Days Off allow for activities ordinarily impossible--long walks; writing; not wearing pants. Two days ago, my legs needed stretching; my head needed emptying. I threw a journal in my pack and hitched a ride to Southwest Point with Cory and Ashley. There, I hoisted my tripod on my shoulder and set off towards Marunich.

12:30 PM. It's been a half-hour since I started walking the ATV trail from southwest, and I'm almost at the top of High Cliffs. The wind is fierce--it tangles my hair, buoys kittiwakes, slams swells into the rocks well below. The sea is angry, beautiful. I crouch as close to the edge as I dare, just above grating Parakeet Auklets, imagine my mom's disapproval. I feel so small, so alive.

1:20 PM: I've now made it to the base of St. Paul's highest point, Rush Hill. It peaks at a whopping 665 feet, and I spontaneously alter my route to take me over its summit. I've traded the guttural sounds of the seabird colony for longspur snarls and Rock Sandpiper (Frog Sandpiper?) croaking. An arctic fox whines from another slope. There is no shelter in this bowl; unsurprisingly, no birds either. Time to move on...

2:02: I still have not summited Rush, thanks to my discovery of an intriguing fissure begging to be explored. Following the fissure led me to an American Pipit and a large opening that felt like an abandoned ampitheater decorated by tundra flowers, moss, and reindeer skulls. Snow Buntings and Rock Sandpipers call from the slopes. The beauty here is more peaceful than the sea's fury.

2:58: After a harrowing walk down Rush Hill's volcanic furrows I'm now sitting on a grassy plain. I sat in some veg that smelled like sage--and on further examination, tasted like sage too. I'll make this a short stop--Tsmana's pond and house beckon from a mere half-mile away. I finally remember to take a lupine photo for Dave, and suddenly feel a twinge of guilt for the selfish pursuits of my day off. Adri, Danielle, Gunnar, Katie, Rose, Summer--you're all in my heart. I miss you. I'll write you soon.

3:29: Tsmana. There are 2 Red Phalarope on the pond--2 Red Phalarope and a LOT of whitecaps. I knew walking the shore in this gale was idiotic, but last night Scott and I talked about irrational opinions and one of mine was that a Spoonbill Sand would be waiting here for me. It was not, but Red-legged Kittiwakes are gathering mud next to me and that's pretty cool, too.

Tsmana Camp House

4:07: Wind and hunger make me angry...need I say more? I packed a sandwich, but ate it about 2 miles into my hike, back at High Cliffs. That was intelligent. It's so windy that as the waves are coming in, the opposing wind is actually blowing them backward. There is a big raft of Harly Ducks offshore; the fulmars seem to be enjoying the gale. Glad something is.

4:44. I found a bird I hadn't crossed paths with for a couple weeks--Red-necked Grebe. I pretended it was a rare bird, and thus documented it, since that would be the correct action. This documentation was less to prove the bird than it was to prove that I have a camera.

5:21: Once I saw the size of the Harly flocks along the north shore, I halfway expected to find a Steller's Eider, and I did! Steller's are the smallest eider and nest on arctic tundra. At St. Paul, they are a fairly common winter resident, and there are still a few lingering with the Harlequin flocks. Steller's are listed as "threatened", and thus a better bird in more parts of the world than, say, the Common Cuckoos that have been causing a ruckus on St. Paul this past week. It's only the 3rd time I've seen one; the walk has now been justified.

5:54: Aww yeah, made it to Cormorant arches, it's an easy 20 minutes back to Marunich. I'm ready to be done with the wind, which must be a sustained 30mph+. The gusts unbraided my hair, which induced a fit of rage when I had to wrangle my hair out of my eyes and mouth as I tried to identify a swallow being buffeted. It's moments like these that tempt me towards dreads, girl problems...

9:15: Finally out of the wind, after a dash up to the north side of the island for an unsuccessful stab at Olive-backed Pipit. Per usual, my day off left me more exhausted than the accumulation of days on, but it's a good kind of tired.