Orange-Crowned Warbler

Common Murres on the Water, Kittiwakes on Gull Rock

Orange Crowned Warbler--Photo by Peter Schoenberger

A week ago I had never seen or heard an Orange-crowned Warbler. They pass through the Hudson Valley where I live during their migration, but I have never had a chance to see and admire one. They are not a warbler that would command the most attention. They are yellow, a dusty yellow, with few other defining features. The orange crowned part is pretty subtle. And the song is a bit raggedy, not one of the magnificent warbler songs.
Turns out these little birds are everywhere in Alaska on the Kenai Peninsula. And after being thrilled at seeing them a week ago, I've now started to ignore them. That happened too fast.
Excess always makes us dull to something. Too much good food, too many beautiful sunsets, too many spectacular views of big, snow-covered mountains--even the best things push our attention elsewhere. But I'd like to resist that in praise of the orange crowned warbler and other birds we've seen a lot of here in Alaska (and the ridiculously beautiful views). Like the White-Crowned Sparrow, with its striking helmet and raspy song. Or the hundreds--perhaps thousands--of common Murres and Kittiwakes seen off of Homer while on a boat ride yesterday. A local birder took us out in his tin boat, circling Gull Island, where the Murres bobbed in the water, their beautiful black backs shining in the almost-sun (after days of rain). How could I ever tire of a Common Murre? He then took us into some little coves where we spied a few Marbled Murrelets, and some mountain goats high on a green hillside. The Murrelets and the goats--much less common, but no more special than the Orange-crowned warbler or Common Murres.

Wandering Tattler

View from Potter Marsh

Pine Grosbeak--photo by Peter Schoenberger

Before leaving for Alaska I set my sights on a few special birds: the Bristle-thighed Curlew and the Bluethroat in particular. But the bird I really wanted to see is called a Wandering Tattler. The Tattler is not a particularly beautiful bird or special looking bird. It is gray overall, with short yellow legs. It falls into the sandpiper family, that cluster of birds that are often maddening to identify. And it's not rare--certainly not as rare as the Curlew. And yet that bird took my imagination for one reason: its name. Wandering Tattler. Say it a few times and you'll feel giddy.
Our second day in Alaska we woke in Hope, just south of Anchorage, to rain and gray skies. We piled on layers--long johns, pants, rain pants; sweaters, down jackets, hats, gloves, rain parkas--and headed south toward Seward. The roads at five in the morning were empty. Five because we were still on East Coast time. Both Peter and Mark had gotten up at 3:30 to wander the woods near our rented cabin to look for owls (no luck). We pulled over at Summit Lake and there, squatting in the rain, was a Wandering Tattler. Now when I imagined seeing this bird the sky was blue, the views good, the feelings of euphoria deep. What I felt standing there in that pull out, the slow rumble of an RV parked nearby, was cold. Cold and a little tired.
Like many birding trips the best birds so far have been mammals: black bear, some with cubs, a moose at the end of a field near Potter Marsh, a porcupine that climbed into a tree and peered over at us, a full bodied coyote that we for a moment thought a wolf, and a mountain goat. The goat is perhaps the most miraculous of our sightings. As we sped along in our van at 65 miles an hour Mark (DeDea) asked Kyla (Haber) if she would stop. He pointed to a white spot on a steep hillside. Once he had a scope on it I could see the shaggy legs and bulky body of the goat. But that he was able to locate that goat was a gift to us all.
OK, the birds too have been wonderful, from the Hudsonian Godwit seen in a pond in Anchorage to the Pine Grosbeak we found by pulling over looking for another bird, to the Golden Crowned Sparrow seen on Palmer Road above Hope. We walked that dirt road lined with birch and spruce for four hours yesterday hoping to arrive in Ptarmigan country (no Ptarmigan, sadly, yet). En route Kyla found us a Spruce Grouse, a bird Peter has spent many hours trying to locate. There it sat in a tree, its dark red eyebrow visible as it remained motionless. The smell of the spruce forrest is always crisp, invigorating. We crossed snow, saw a bear galumphing on the hill above us (far up), and the sun beat down beautifully. On our return we saw a striking yellow bird I had never seen before: a Townsend's Warbler. It flew from tree to tree while we admired its black throat and mask against the brilliant yellow.
As we walked a beautiful, odd noise rose from the woods. It was a sound I had never heard before, which I have now come to associate with the forrest of Alaska: the Varied Thrush.
Thrush, especially the Veery, Wood Thrush and Hermit Thrush to me are the sounds of an Eastern woods. The sounds that they make--flute-like and a bit haunting--are beautiful, melancholic or romantic, depending on your mood. Here, the sound that this northern Thrush makes is also haunting, but in a different way. It sings a note, then another; last night one seemed to be singing a scale. But the notes are not pure, or flute like. "It's like amplifier feedback," Peter suggested. "It's like a bug," Kyla said. "It's like wind through metal," Mark offered. "But the song is indifferent." That was the quality I was trying to identify. Most birds sing to establish territory or to find a mate--there's boldness and sex lacing those calls. This bird seemed to be putting out a sound for other, more mysterious, reasons.
The Varied Thrush is a beautiful bird, with an orange throat and belly with a black bib. Imagine a finer American Robin with orange on the wings. This is what I love about travel: I never could have left on this trip imagining I would love the sound of a Varied Thrush, the striking yellow of a Townsend's Warbler, or the sight of a Mountain Goat high on a hillside. And I will still always love saying Wandering Tattler.