St. Paul

"Hey Mr. White Man, have a good life." The Filipino worker leaned over the staircase, cigarette in hand. He was calling out to the tall thin white man in front of me as we left the dining hall at the Trident Seafoods plant in St. Paul. St. Paul is a tiny island, one of two, along with St. George, which make up the Pribilof Islands in the Bering Sea. The Trident Seafood plant has the only food service on the island. So that is where we ate during the two days were were on the island.
The first time we walked in, the smell of fish smacked me upside the nostril. Interlaced with this was the tang of cigarette smoke. Once in the galley, the thickness of fried seafood took over. Our group of birders assembled meals from the salad bar and the range foods: rice, chicken, baked potatoes, and one night pasta, ravioli. The tomato soup was delicious; so was the carrot cake. We ate at long plastic tables, while a TV blared from one end of the room and a radio clattered from the kitchen. Everyone stared at the TV; no one spoke. The Trident workers, few of whom were white, ate in silence as well. They had just finished the crab season and a board in the hallway announced it was a good season: everyone would receive a $400 bonus.
"So Mr. White Man, where are you going from here?" I asked the young man. He had spent the past six months processing King Crab and was off to work in Wrangell processing salmon. "Today I got to see the seals for the first time," he said.
The seals are the Fur Seals. 1,000,000 Fur Seals migrate to the Pribilof Islands; in July, at the height of the breeding season, a seal pup is born every five seconds. While we were there, the males had arrived after months of swimming in the cold Bering Sea. We peered at them from blinds as they lolled on beaches or draped across the rocks. They were waiting for the "girls to show up," as one of our guides described it. Those females carry their babies for 11.8 months. So they arrive, give birth, then mate again before returning to the cold waters.
Our group spent our time at St. Paul watching all of the alcids that nest on the island, but also admiring those seals, which look like giant sausages on land. They would scratch with their flippers, and some would tangle with each other, but most just slept, the lazy sleep of an animal that has not been on land in months.

St. Paul is not an easy place to get to. We flew from Anchorage, stopping for fuel in Dillingham, and then flew on to St. George where some passengers deplaned. St. George is St. Paul's sister island, and is often shrouded in fog so few flights actually land. We got out of the plane under a cold blue sky and walked the airstrip. As we admired the views, cannons popped off in the background to set off the birds, which otherwise take over the runway. There, I saw Grey-crowned Rosy Finch, a large rose hued finch with a clean grey cap, and Red-legged Kittiwakes for the first time. I spoke with a woman who lives on the Island. She surfs offshore and that afternoon was going to kayak to the point. It seemed like a small paradise.
On the final leg of the journey I learned that the woman next to me was on her way to St. Paul to make it her home. Her young son and daughter sat in the seats behind us. Her husband was doing weather work on the island and had been living there since April. "I had some movies to see," she said with a laugh as a way to explain why she was only now arriving at her new home. "I'm not an island person."
St. Paul would be an interesting place to call home. There is a cluster of tidy houses, a Russian Orthodox Church and one store that sold 12 ounce bottles of water for $2.99 and four frozen cobs of corn for $13. There is some tourism on the island because though it is also frequently fogged in, it is more accessible. The island Native corporation (TDX) has also hired three young men, all fantastic birders, as guides to take visitors around. They greeted us at the airport, and walked us to our rooms at the King Eider Hotel. To call this a hotel is a bit of a stretch. The "hotel" is a hallway that runs parallel to the waiting room of the airport. Spare, clean rooms awaited us, with a bathroom down the hall. Through the night, the northern sun streamed through the thin curtains.
Right away we headed into the field to walk a marshy patch near town. An Arctic Fox worked the edges of the marsh, delighting all of us. The fox are so numerous, prowling the cliffs for birds or their eggs, that by the end of the trip we were less excited by them.
The land is low, dried grasses with a few wild flowers coming into bloom--buttercup and a fuzzy lousewort. I could see that by mid-summer the island would be a riot of color. And a riot of baby birds. The island is where a range of Alcids nest and they were all clamoring at the cliffs that ring the island. On the next day we walked the top of those cliffs, peering over at the ocean, then snow that still skirted the cliffs, a reminder of the winters in this exposed place. Birds speckled both the snowfields and the cliffs, often just feet away from us. Least and Parakeet Auklets, Horned and Tufted Puffins, all clung to the cliffs. Common Murres with their white bellies and black backs (which make them look like Northern Penguins) sit in a bunch while the Thick-billed Murres line up in a row, often with their backs to the water. In between these alcids both Black-legged and Red-legged Kittiwakes zoomed by, often carrying nesting material. All of the birds were enchanting, but the Tufted Puffin is a favorite, with those fantastic tufts, a movie star of a bird.
A few low hills rise up on the island, providing great views in all directions to lakes and to the Bering Sea. From these hills we also hoped to be able to scan the wide sky for a White-tailed Eagle that had been seen a few times on the island. We never saw the eagle, but during those eagle watches I was able to listen to the lively song of the Lapland Longspur, admire more Gray-crowned Rosy-finch and a few Snow Buntings.
During spring and fall, migrants are often blown off course, and they end up here on the island, hunkering down in the crab pots, or in some of the ditches around the island. One evening we drove the bumpy dirt road to the northern end of the island. We fanned out, walking to the top of a hill, when our guide emerged with a big grin. "Wilson's Warbler," he said a little out of breath. It's a bird all of us know well from our homes in the lower 48. But to see it there amidst birds that were exotic to us was an odd treat. We chased down hill, then I spied the bright bird, put my binoculars to my eyes to see its dark black cap, and vibrant yellow body. A piece of home in a place that felt like a stark and beautiful and hard place to call home. I wished that mother and her two kids luck in the new St. Paul lives; I wished all of those fur seals good breeding; I hoped the tall white man has a good salmon season.

photos: the cliffs of St. Paul; Wooley Lousewort; Murres on the cliffs; count all of the Fur Seals!; the elegant Tufted Puffin, photo by Peter Schoenberger

Breeding Plumage

If I hear the words "breeding plumage" one more time I'll scream. When you travel for 18 days with focused birders, in June, in Alaska, a lot of what they are excited about (ok, what we are excited about) is seeing birds we are familiar with, but not in their breeding plumage. With some birds the transformation is extraordinary--they become different birds--and with others the change is minimal. One of my favorite birds, the Rusty Blackbird, has little variation between breeding and not. But the subtle shift from brownish bird to one that glows a range of blues and purple blacks is marvelous. And the Rusty Blackbird has a wonderful whitish iris, and makes a sound like a squeaky door. That this is one of my favorite birds is odd but my fondness for the bird is perhaps because it is overlooked in favor of those birds who do have showy breeding plumage. But also, it is a species in decline and I feel protective of animals that are not as colorful or charismatic that are threatened.The first time I saw a Rusty Blackbird Peter said to me, "This is a bird that might be extinct in our lifetime." That's a sobering thought. When our guide here in Alaska pulled a Rusty Blackbird out of the tundra near Nome, I was thrilled, while some participants sat in the van and waited for the next more exciting find.
All of the birds are here in Alaska to breed. In Nome, Anchorage, and on St. Paul Island, we have seen courtship displays, mating, nest building activity--lots of birds carrying tundra grasses to make nests--nests themselves, and some nests with eggs. It's a special thing to see these nests, built on the ground or in willow bushes as there are no trees in Nome or in the Pribilofs. There have been Hoary Redpoll nests, Red-Necked Grebe nests that appeared to be floating on the water, American Golden Plover nests on the hard Tundra at Wooley Lagoon. At a pull out near Potter Marsh outside of Anchorage an Arctic Tern had settled in right by the road--a serious bad choice for nest location--and dive bombed us when we got out of the van. On St. Paul in the Pribiloffs, a Lapland Longspur bolted from its nest as we walked out toward a marsh, and a Rock Sandpiper left its nest as we drove by. In each case, we looked quickly, not wanting the mother to leave her eggs uncovered for long in the cold northern air.
And some birds have already hatched. Cackling Geese and Mallards lead the pack. But at Westchester Marsh in downtown Anchorage we saw baby Mew Gulls--little gray spotted puff balls--and at Potter Marsh baby Sandhill Cranes, rusty puff balls.
Across from Potter Marsh is a strip of water, before the train tracks that line Cook Inlet. Our guide led us across the busy Seward Highway to peer into this strip of water. Karen, who has been a great spotter for all of this trip called out, "Grebe," with her Texas accent. And there, sure enough, was a Horned Grebe paddling in the water. It had wheat-yellow tufts that framed black cheeks and deep red eyes. It looked like it was wearing a beautiful, slicked back helmet. Its rusty chest gave way to a grayish patterned back. This was nothing like the black and white bird I had seen in New York State. This was the Horned Grebe in full breeding plumage. For once, those two words did not make me want to scream.

photos above: Mallard and babies; Lapland Longspur eggs; Rock Sandpiper eggs; American Tree Sparrow Eggs; Horned Grebe in breeding plumage! photo by Peter Schoenberger

Bristle-thighed Curlew

I had the honor of being the faculty speaker at this year's Baccalaureate at Bard College. I began my short talk to this year's graduating class describing a special bird, the Bristle-thighed Curlew. It's a medium sized shore bird that makes an amazing migration every fall from the Yukon to Layson in the Hawaiian Islands without eating or sleeping. That's 2,500 miles. Such determination, such commitment to one's own life is what I was urging onto the young men and women walking into the world with their new degrees. Make your choices and go.
But I also had the idea that if I brought the Curlew into my speech I would be bringing the bird closer to me and perhaps, perhaps, this would bring good luck: I would see the Bristle-thighed Curlew while in Nome.
Our group gathered at 5:50 to head out the Kougarok Road and would return to our hotel only 15 hours later. There are three roads out of town: the Teller road leads to Teller; the Council Road to Council. This road leads approximately 80 dirt miles to nowhere. What it follows is the Nome river, which has carved a wide, broad valley between mountains. The views were spectacular over the tundra. We stopped at many places along the way, finding Arctic Warbler and many Gray-cheeked Thrush. Willow Ptarmagin, the state bird, dotted the edges of the road--we counted 18 as we sped along. Dust swirled into the van, as we all scanned, finding birds--the Long-tailed Jaegers in flight, or the Harrier working the field, or the Golden Eagle, soaring high across the tundra looking for voles. We also stopped for Musk Ox, Red Fox, Moose, grazing the hillsides. On the return, a blond grizzly rambled through the bushes, poking its head out as we strained to catch a look.
This road, this area, is our guide Kevin's domain and he knew just where to stop to find that nesting Gyrfalcon. Through scopes we could see the powerful bird high up on the cliff, sitting on its nest. He knew that the road into a camp area was where we would see Bluethroat, a magnificent little bird with a vibrant blue throat. It flew high into the air and then sailed down into the low bushes, as if parachuting from on high.
It was all like being on a magical animal tour, all of the animals just where they should be. I doubted that finding the Curlew would be as easy. In the materials for this trip they mention the Curlew hike--up to two miles, through hummocky terrain. Both Peter and I started small but focused exercise regimens to get into shape.
We parked at the top of a pass, sloping mountains rising to either side. Our group poured out of the van and I was impressed that all but one--who had been sick all morning--headed to the hills. This included the out of shape and the over-70. I only hope I have such gusto at that age.
The field extended out wide before us as we charged uphill. We spread out, hoping to flush the bird, and from time to time stopped to scan, searching for a head poking through the grasses and low bushes. The walking was a bit treacherous, the hummocks seemingly flat but in fact wobbly, unstable footing. The uneven terrain was perfect for twisting an ankle; there were stories from a previous trip where a woman broke her ankle and the rescue took nearly all night.
Another group of birders arrived, giving us even more mass in the wide field. We saw a raven harassing some birds and that led us all toward the western slopes. Sure enough, within minutes we had our binoculars and scopes on the droopy-billed shorebird. With so many of us in the field, we stayed far back, only getting distant looks. The hunt was not nearly as rigorous as I had imagined and perhaps seeing the bird not as magical as I had hoped. It was a bird that so existed in my imagination--magical because of its name, because that migration had me enthralled, because the lesson I offered to those graduating students was one I wanted to take for my own life--that it was almost sure to disappoint. Walking that wide open field I did not come to any resolutions (except: drink more water; get more sleep). But I felt that quiet elation I feel in empty land, the emptiness giving me hope.

photos: Willow Ptarmigan; Musk Ox; Bristle-thighed Curlew field; grizzley!-photo by Peter Schoenberger; Bluethroat--photo by Peter Schoenberger

Ocean Watch

As I sat on the gravel beach in Gambell, looking at the ocean and watching the stream of Alcids flying by, I thought: this is the best reality TV in the world. I rarely watch TV, unless my Tivoli friends show up wanting to watch a basketball, football or baseball game. Then the TV goes on, someone finds some food, a beer appears. The TV is the center, but not really. Our easy friendship is the center; this makes me ridiculously happy.
This TV watching made me happy in a different way. First of all, the viewing was outside, standing or seated on the gravel (though I do love loafing on my couch with friends). People shuffled around as backs got sore. And, it involved watching something truly beautiful: thousands of birds nearing the northern end of their migration.
For many birds, migration involves following a coastline or waterway. This is one reason living along the Hudson River is fun--birds follow the river north and south. I always look forward to those evenings in spring when the Brant head north, and then in fall when they start south. They create a nice rhythm to the year. Here, those birds that nest in the high Arctic pass the tip of land of St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Sea. Most have made a journey of thousands of miles. Some stop in Gambell, like the Snow Bunting and Lapland Longspur. But most fly by. We were there to see the these intrepid travelers. It was like an Easter Egg hunt, only we didn't have to move.
All I had to do was stare out at the wide water. In the distance: Chukotsk Peninsula, Russia. Ice flows floated north, with speed, telling me the currents offshore are strong. The water was--how to describe the cold? Imagine water made of just-melted ice. The tips of my fingers tingled.
As we stood and watched, a dog would join us, playing with a piece of garbage that drifted down from the dump. Or, chew on a crab found amidst the gravel. At times children would join us, chattering away while we stood and watched the ocean. They didn't speak with us, but with each other, recounting stories as children do.
Identifying birds on the wing isn't easy--something I will never be good at--but after a while I got the hang of some of them--enough that I could tell when something special was coming into view (something special like a yellow-billed loon). The Thick-billed Murres flew in formation, their football shaped black and white bodies distinct. Often they were led by a Horned or Tufted Puffin, visible with those chunky orange bills. The little auklets flew in groups, often low to the water.
So we all counted on our leaders Kevin and David to call out what they saw and be sure to note the special birds.
"Spectacled Eider!" Kevin called and everyone scrambled for the scopes. The birds, a pair, made a quick stop so everyone could admire them. And, of course, some wanted to check these birds off of their life lists.
As I enter this strange and wonderful world of birding I'm always thinking about what it is I enjoy, what compels me. The lists do not excite me, even though I write everything down (this is more a writer's tick). Standing on the shoreline watching birds fly by isn't my idea of good birding--I like to walk along trails, into mountains, and then spend time looking closely at a bird, noting eyes and feathers and the change of color in light. Standing on the shore contemplating migration and watching the stream of birds was fun, though; watching Ocean TV is fun.
In the distance a whale blew, then breached. We all oohed, just like my friends in Tivoli do when the ball is hit out of the ball park.

photos above: VENT Ocean Watch joined by two local boys; Peter Schoenberger waiting to photograph passing birds; Tracy making friends with a local dog.