American Robins are common in our yards, but almost never come to feeders. Habitat is what attracts them. (Image: Brendan McGarry)
When I was eight years old, few things were more exciting than birds. This excitement may feel eccentric to certain folks. However I’m not unique in this. In 2013, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service reported that at least 47 million people in the U.S. watch birds, in one form or another. Few of these people probably match the fervor of my 12-year-old-self seeing “life birds” — species I’d never seen before — but I bet many feed birds.
There are likely more people on Capitol Hill who feed birds than identify themselves as birdwatchers. Bird feeding is a $5 billion industry. Inevitably, people on the Hill feed birds. I have been feeding birds most of my adult life. Not only do I get to enjoy feathered friends with morning coffee, but it gives me a sense of who is in the neighborhood, helping me feel less disconnected from the world.
So, if we’re going to do it, let’s do it right.
A burying beetle species found on a deer carcass. (Image: Brendan McGarry)
Most folks have an aversion to dead, rotting, and decaying things. They smell bad, they have a weird texture, they’re just simply gross. Most of us, if we had it our way, wouldn’t deal with the slime that forms in the bottom of the garbage can. However, in a strange way, this is the stuff of life: in the unmaking of things that once lived, the new foundations of life are found.
We are on the verge of a holiday in which we celebrate our fascination with death. Halloween mostly focuses on the spiritual side this. I thought we could think about what happens to the corporeal after life.
Things certainly don’t just fall apart by themselves. We can’t just throw our yard waste in a pile and expect it to turn to compost immediately. A whole host of organisms, we’ll broadly call decomposers, break them down. On a simplistic level, a decomposer picks apart the larger pieces in the process of getting sustenance, leaving divisions in its wake.
There are fungi, bacteria, insects, and even vertebrates that aid in decomposition. If we get into it, only fungi and bacteria really break things down enough to be considered fully “decomposed,” broken into essential ingredients of life like nitrogen or carbon. The rest are just detritivores that aid the process. No matter the role, they’re all important. So let’s consider some possibly familiar, and less familiar, decomposers that live on the Hill. Continue reading
Northern Flicker wings, from the spread wing collections at the Burke Museum. (Image: Brendan McGarry)
Growing up a birder, one tends to become the focus of bird questions. Frequently, people describe birds to you, hoping you can identify them. This has never bothered me and it serves as an entry into getting people to think about birds a little more with a series of questions: Where was it? What was it doing? How large was it compared to a bird you know? How did you know it was a he (as in, why do we assign “he” to animals without typically knowing their sex)? Lots of bird species surface in these queries. However, there’s one that tends to garner more attention than most: The Northern Flicker, Colaptes auratus.
I think what frequently catches the attention of people who see a flicker, is the intense color of their underwings and undertail. A reddish-orange flash greets the person who stumbles across a flicker, or as they are also called in our area, Red-shafted Flickers (a Yellow-shafted form of the same species exists east of the Rockies and they used to be considered different species). Of all the feathers I find, a good percentage are from flickers, their orange shafts acting as beacons, more than their feathers being more commonly dropped than other birds. Also noticed by observers is their white rump, or the body speckled with black dots. For being a bird that displays as predominantly gray and brown from afar, they are beautiful birds. An urban favorite. Continue reading
Has anyone else noticed the sudden appearance of rabbits on the Hill? Growing up in Seattle, I can’t recall many rabbits sightings. There were a few at Discovery Park, and there was the infamous colony in a rocky warren in Lower Woodland. Other sizable green spaces have rabbits as well, but it always seemed likely that the Hill and the rest of central Seattle wasn’t suitable. Turns out I was wrong.
Feral, domesticated rabbits are not unusual in cities overall. Often people assume they are easy pets, and disown them upon discovering otherwise. They hop about for awhile and I assume, are dispatched by cars or coyotes. But the bunnies we’re seeing aren’t domesticated, they’re eastern cottontail rabbits (Sylvilagus floridanus), and they’re suddenly everywhere. The real question is why? Continue reading
During my life as a naturalist, I’ve been thrown into fits of excitement. Maybe I saw a new bird I’d been lusting after, or connected the dots between a plant’s niche in a landscape and the adaptations that define its appearance. Rarely though, does it involve bursting my bubble about a whole family of creatures. This past week, I had that experience with native bees.
Now, I’d never call myself an expert on pollinators, let alone bees. However, I’ve previously felt I had a broad enough grasp on entomology, and even the Order Hymenoptera which encompasses ants, wasps, and bees. I even know a thing or two about the natural histories of bumblebees and the European honey bee. Yet, when I sat down to listen to naturalist and native bee expert Dr. Don Rolfs, my mind was truly blown.
First off, raise your hand if you knew that there are at least 600 or so native species of bees in Washington? Next, tell me if you knew that around 95% of those species are solitary and don’t live in colonies, And then, tell me, how many are smaller than the length of your pinky finger nail? In fact, at least half are so tiny you’d hardly notice them. Continue reading
Sometimes I think we just need to slow down, and recognize that the organisms around us are just trying to survive. We may be self-centered as a species (which aren’t?), but we also have the ability to look beyond ourselves and have empathy. As I write this I have Vaux’s Swifts roosting in my chimney and to be quite honest, they are only partially welcome (imagine chirping birds in your bedroom wall in the middle of the night). This is exactly the point, these birds aren’t thinking about me or my need to wake up at five. They are just finding their own space, particularly where we’ve taken up far too much.
A good number of the frustrations and annoyances we have with other species relate to their style of rearing young. Often, they’re just being excellent mothers (and parents). So, in honor of Mother’s Day, I thought I’d talk about a few species I know can be trying to us as neighbors on the Hill.
Raccoon (Procyon lotor) A female raccoon making a nest in your crawlspace or attic is an entirely unwelcome discovery. However, keep in mind that a mother raccoon is a single parent of two to five kits. Males play no part in raising young and for raccoons it’s not a simple wean them and kick them out situation. Continue reading
Salmon Berry phenology. Left to right: November 2017, January 2018, March 2018, April 2018. Credit: Brendan McGarry
Did you know you can go back in time easily? Give it try. Visit your local green space and admire the plants that have leafed out, the flowers that are blooming, the birds that are singing. Now, travel up into the hills, up the Snoqualmie or the Skykomish rivers maybe, and wend your way back into a cold deep valley. Stretch your legs, look around, listen. The same plants are there but whereas they were leafed out on the Hill, they may still be in bud along the rivers. This timing of the events in the lives of living things is called phenology. By taking this trip you’ll have effectively stepped back in phenological time. Continue reading
A female Rufous Hummingbird taking a break between gulping nectar. Credit: Brendan McGarry
This recent spell of unbelievably gorgeous weather followed by a chilly snap has done little to abet my craze for spring. Last month, I was thinking about early blooming natives, this month I’m focused on who will be the next migratory bird to show up on my door. With currants and indian plum blooming full bore, my ears have been perked for a familiar sound that graces the Hill, the delightful buzz of a male Rufous Hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus).
We’ve talked about our resident Anna’s Hummingbirds (Calypte anna) on Pikes/Pines before, but Rufous Hummingbirds are also very worthy of our attention. They weigh only as much as a piece of paper (.2 oz), but they migrate here from Mexico. They make lots of stops along the way, but when we compare body length to the distance they travel each year, they are champion migrants. Some individuals go as far north as coastal Southeastern Alaska, which also makes them the most northerly breeding species of hummingbird in the world. Continue reading
The unassuming Indian Plum, blooming in Interlaken Park several springs ago (Image: Brendan McGarry)
Maybe it’s just me, but spring still feel miles away. I love winter, even in the Pacific Northwest, but in the end, I find myself anxious for spring just like everyone else. I’ve been noticing hints here and there. More birds are singing. I go to and from work in daylight now. Yet, nothing during these dreary grey months signals that sunnier days are on the horizon more than the first buds breaking on Indian Plum (Oemleria cercasiformis).
While other plants are still just thinking about breaking out of dormancy, our Indian Plums, or Osoberry, start making moves. First a bud begins to break and you can see a little bit of leaf unpeeling inside. Not long after, chains of greenish-white flowers unravel. Currently, Indian Plums are just beginning this process on the Hill, which is totally welcome when the rest of the understory in our local parks are still mostly a sea of bare sticks. Continue reading
A Yellow-rumped Warlber (Audubon’s) flying between Black Cottonwoods at Montlake Park. (Image: Brendan McGarry)
As with most birders, my head is on a swivel, and my ears are always perked. Even on a walk in the middle of Broadway being attentive can reveal a Peregrine Falcon soaring overhead, or Dark-eyed Juncos flitting toward Cal Anderson Park. My friends know I’m frequently distracted. On a recent urban walkabout, one such friend noticed my focus on the tree-tops of the street trees overhead. He asked what I was looking for.
“A Yellow-rumped Warbler — there, flitting between the upper branches.” Continue reading