ELIF #2: Storm Edge Birding

Rolling seas at Pine Knoll Shores, NC.

There is no better time to go birding than ahead of a major storm. On Sunday night, we had a phalanx of thunderstorms march across the island bringing all their fury. Watching them is like seeing a blockbuster right out of your own window. The crescendos of rainfall, the bowing trees, and rolling waves of cloud and breeze. Earlier on the day, we were fortunate to have a row of storms roll through before we were bathed in a rich sunny afternoon. However, as evening approached, the clouds returned and I decided it was the perfect time to go for a walk. The beach swells were rich and frothy and raced up and down the shore leaving milky sea foam in its wake. Sanderlings (Calidris alba) and willets (Tringa semipalmata) jogged back and forth, gathering what they could in the saturated sand.

The scene was chaotic to say the least. The sand was so many different colors. Crushed tan and white quartz mixed with the shattered orange and browns of thousands of smashed shells. A chunky form stood out from the shell pieces. The desiccated remains of a burrfish (Chilomycterus schoepi) sat on the shore. A common find after rough storm waves have pounded the berms, they feed along the bottom of the surf zone where the more powerful waves will toss them shoreward if they aren't too careful. Its presence was another example of the varied texture of the beach. This was all in stark contrast to the waves. Grey and white ridges of pulverizing foam and water washed irregularly over the beach. I watched the waves intently. As my gaze drew past the breakers, white and brown arrows shot over the water.

Several northern gannets (Morus bassanus) were heading east, likely traveling ahead of the incoming storm. A few were actively feeding, pulling their wings back into their characteristic spear-like dive before impacting the water. They use their streamlined bodies to torpedo themselves into schools of fish below the surface and can reach depths of up to 72 feet. These birds fascinated me; their pointed forms like flying compass rosaries combined with their size make them a unique bird to spot along our eastern shores. A member of the booby family, they are about the size of a goose (an old nickname for them was "Solan Goose") and breed in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland in huge cliffside colonies that number in the thousands. In the winter, if you have a good set of binoculars or a telescope, you can see them diving just offshore from Massachusetts to Florida and along the Gulf Coast.

The air was thick with salt spray and not wanting to feel like I was being immersed in a salty broth, I returned to the safety of the live oaks that shelter the sandy earth of the island. Nothing quite darkens the world in a protective blanket like tree cover. The canopy is both a friend and foe of the plants below. On the one hand, it helps to shelter the plants from the burning salt coming off of the ocean and sound. On the other hand, if it is significantly shady enough, there won't be enough light for new plants to grow in. That shade also helps to hide shy forest birds like brown thrashers (Toxostoma rufum) and American robins (Turdus migratorius).

Roger Tory Peterson once said that the robin was the one bird everybody knows, but there is a special power in watching a bird that you think you know. Before becoming our ubiquitous, lawn-scampering neighbors, they were like many of their relatives in the thrush family, preferring the safety of the trees and bushes to the open areas that are more common these days. In some ways, they haven't changed. They are wild birds after all, eyeing us carefully, unsure of our intentions or interest in their daily lives.

As I walked from the woods to the sound, I spotted a pair of robins walking near a puddle. Nearby, a pair of mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) walked away nonchalantly, heads bobbing furiously as if it was the only thing keeping their legs moving. The male robin, eyed me with suspicion and sped away before pausing in the shallows of the puddle. He wheeled around to face me and turned his head. The female watched from the distance. I knew this was a male due to his dark brown head contrasting with a crisp white eyering and rusty belly. Females, like most songbirds, are duller brown in an effort to camouflage themselves while sitting on their eggs.

He watched me a few moments more and then he roused, fluffing his breast feathers out and dipping them in the pool beneath him. His image reflected back nicely and so I snapped a few photos. What a strange creature, he must have thought of me, just watching and holding a black box with one unblinking eye. I often wonder what animals think when they see us, how they perceive us, and what goes on inside their heads. Do they recognize us? If so, what do they recognize us as?

I wondered this as I walked to the dock, previously littered with quahog (Mercenaria mercenaria) shells. It had likely been cleared for the visitors that streamed through this weekend in an attempt to show that we could cultivate order even as we built into the space of other beings. Now instead, they rested around the dock, their forms shifting in the windy ripples. It was low tide with sandbars exposed every hundred yards or so and sat upon them were many birds.

Long-legged egrets stalked small fish in the shallows, striking with precision through the film and regularly coming up with a prize. Their patience is fascinating to watch and the stillness they practice contorts them into elongated forms. These forms are reminiscent of the pale grey roots of a fallen cedar, gnarled and winding out, no longer needed to draw water and nutrients from the soil. Recently I found a few of these roots and have been slowly working them into a heron-like form, complete with pointed bill, towering neck, and stretched out body. Hopefully, I can embody the look of these birds in a way that makes them recognizable for others.

Great egret (Ardea alba) striking a small fish. 

A snowy egret (Egretta thula) steps carefully in the shallows of Bogue Sound.

Elsewhere in the sound, gulls and terns gathered on the sandbars, their loud ringing calls bouncing off of the nearby trees. While they are related to one another, gulls and terns look vastly different when standing side by side. Practically every human being in North American has seen a gull (or "seagull" as the majority of the populous would call them). They are the classic natural sound of the seacoast and are spotted regularly throughout North America. Even in a landlocked state like Kansas, you can expect to see at least 5 species of gulls on a regular basis.

Terns however, are less well known. They are sleeker and more pointed than gulls with sharp bills, wings like sickles, and swallow tails which means that they are built for speed and precision when diving for fish. Many are have black caps, red or orange bills, and grey and white bodies. In my opinion, they also resemble pterodactyls to a certain degree. Despite their physical differences, both stood on the sand, cackling and barking to one another. I peered through my binoculars, hoping to get a good look at the terns beyond. A pair of the larger royal terns (Thalasseus maximus) with spiky black crests and carrot orange bills stood amidst a huddle of Forster's terns (Sterna forsteri). Least terns (Sternulla antillarum), the smallest of all terns, flitted past as laughing gulls (Leucophaeus atricilla) jeered at their flock mates.

The gang's all here.

There was so much to see that evening. The birds cackled and fished over the shallows, while the clouds continued to gather over the mainland. They reminded me of the waves on the beach, grey and white, frothing with energy and passion. The air felt like soup and I couldn't wait until humidity faded away as the rain brings it back down. I sat on the edge of the dock and watched the ripples in the water. Underneath the surface, a purple rimmed quahog shell wiggled as the ripples passed overhead. I let thoughts go and concentrated on the shell. Then, thoughts returning, I snapped a few photos of it, thinking it might look good on a postcard or something. I looked out over the sound once more, smiled, and then headed home.

"A beach is not only a sweep of sand, but shells of sea creatures, the sea glass, the seaweed, the incongruous objects washed up by the ocean." - Henry Grunwald