Chum Salmon

Erika and I occasionally hike along Kennedy Creek a few miles west of Olympia. We were aware of a salmon viewing area along the creek, but we had never seen any fish—until 11 November 2019. Chum Salmon, splashed, spawned, and died in the stream. This spawing area is only a mile from Puget Sound—typical spawning habitat. In Washington, Chum do not swim as far upstream as Coho Salmon—Chums’ larger size keeps them in relatively deeper water and Chum are poorer jumpers (WDFD). Elsewhere, however, Chum make extended travels up larger rivers.

The Chum Salmon is this photo is probably a non-hatchery released individual since its adipose fin is present. This current-sensing fin can be seen on the fish’s back, behind the dorsal fin and in front of th tail. Fishery biologists often cut off the adipose fin so that researchers can easily recognize hatchery raised fish—for more see my blog on Coho Salmon.

Chum enjoy the largest range of any Pacific salmon. Chum breed in rivers along the North Pacific Rim in Korea, Japan, eastern Russia, Alaska, British Columbia south to California (where they are rare or extirpated). In the ocean, they swim relatively near the surface, deeper in the day than at night (Wikipedia).

Snow Goose

On 7 November  2019,  Erika and I photographed an immature Snow Goose at the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. I an surprised that this is the only Snow Goose we have listed this fall. The species is an abundant winter visitor in scattered locations in western and southern North America. Up to 40,000 have been censused just north of Seattle and many winter in northwestern Oregon and in California. You might think that Snow Geese would be a common sight overhead as they head south. Almost all the Washington Snow Geese breed on Wrangel Island in the Chukchi Sea off northern Siberia (Wahl et al. 2005). These birds often have rusty-stained heads (a color that this bird is lacking). 

Bufflehead 2

I’ve menstioned before that male Buffleheads are hard to photograph. The drake’s striking and contrasting plumage is part of the problem. It also does not help that these ducks seem to be in constant motion—diving, flippering off the photographer, and even laughing a the photographer’s curses. These pictures were taken on 6 November 2019 at Olympia’s Capitol Lake.

I took the last photo with the final rays of the day. I think the dark water perfectly contrasts with the drak’s iradescent head and white body patches. It would be nice, one of these days, to capture images like this on purpose, rather than by dumb luck.

Bufflehead 1

On 5 November 2019, Erika and I stalked around Olympia’s Capitol Lake trying to take pictures of Buffleheads. My first goal was to capture a female. In my next post, I will report on my subsequent efforts to photograph a male. I was well-enough pleased with my first two images, but the third may be the most interesting. Note the roiling water in front of the duck. Unseen by us, a dozen Bufflehead were feeding under the water. This duck grew tired of my attention, and flew off to join a huge raft of Buffleheads in the center of the lake. Her flight must have been noticed by the divers—in rapid succession, the twelve birds exploded from under the lake and, without pausing to take the situation into account, took to the air, following the first bird to her distant companions. Erika and I could only laugh at this amazing sight.

Gadwall

Erika and I found this FOS Gadwall at Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge on 4 November 2019. FOS stands for First of Season. Had it been new for the year, it would be FOY. Gadwall are common ducks across northern and western North America. They winter in more southern climes as far as Central America. I find these photos odd. Although they appear well within permissible variation for male Gadwalls, the photographs are actually of the same individual. I assume the differences are due to the bird’s orientation to the light, and not to different plumages on the duck's left and right sides.

Wilson’s Snipe

On 4 November 2019, Erika and I took more photos of Wilson’s Snipe at Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. I was pleased with how the images turned out, since these shorebirds are often hard to find out in the open. These snipe are named for Alexander Wilson (1766-1813), sometimes called “the father of American ornithology.” Wilson, a weaver and a romantic poet, led an interesting life, before embarking on a 10-volume, illustrated treatise on the birds of eastern North America. This effort was before Audubon. Wilson got to volume 8, and number 9 was published posthumously. The name, Wilson’s Snipe, is a bit confusing due to ornithologists’ arguing if our snipe is the same species as the Old World’s Common Snipe. If the two species are merged, then they are both known as Common Snipe. If you think that slight differences in voice, color, and structure are significant, then you call our species the Wilson’s Snipe. I tend to side with species-splitters, since then you can better know what is being reported—and, of course, you can amass a larger life-list.

Pectoral Sandpiper

Pectoral Sandpipers provided Erika with the data for her dissertation. She studied their trematode parasites as the birds made their 15,000 km migration from the Arctic to Argentina. She took parasite samples in Canada, South Dakota, Louisiana, and Peru. She discovered that the the more internal parasite species, those not restricted to the digestive tract, were most likely to be found across the birds' whole migration. Intestinal species were lost, those lodged in the birds’ air sacs were not dislodged. Such a long migration must be physiologically stressful for the birds. Pectoral Sandpipers that breed in Siberia may winter in southeast Asia and in the South Pacific. Other Siberian birds may make a “Great Circle route over the Arctic Ocean to Alaska or Canada and then to South American wintering areas (Farner et al. 2013). Erika and I found this Pectoral Sandpiper on 31 October 2019 in the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge.

Halloween Owls

Halloween, 31 October 2019, found Erika and me at the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. A woman came down the boardwalk and told us, “there’s a Barred Owl just ahead—look for all the people!” We are not sure we would have found the owl without the birders, who subsequently took us to see a Great Horned Owl about a 16th of a mile further down the walkway.

The proximity of the two large owls surprised me. I thought that Great Horned Owls displaced Barred Owls from shared woodlands. A quick review of the Internet suggests that the situation is complicated. The Audubon Society writes that Barred Owls are less aggressive and competition between the two species may drive Bared Owls out of more open woods. Great Horned Owls are “the most serious predatory threat to the Barred Owl” (Cornell). Nevertheless, this source informs us that when the two owls live in the same areas, Barred Owls will often move to another part of their territory when a Great Horned Owl is nearby. On the other hand, (Artuso et al. 2001) report an “exceptional record” of the two owls nesting successfully in the same tree.

Wilson’s Snipe

Wilson’s Snipe are abundant but elusive shorebirds. We finally began seeing them at the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge on 29 October 2019. Snipe breed across Alaska, Canada, and the northern United States. They winter across most of the United States south into northern South America. Here in western Washington, and elsewhere in the northwestern United States, the species can be found all year.  It is a little strange that it took Erika and me so long to photograph one.

The word “snipe” come from “snite,” which means “snout,” referring to the bird’s long bill (Mueller 1999). As in other shorebirds, the tip of the beak has sensory pits for the birds to detect submerged invertebrates. Snipe eyes are set relatively far back on the head, allowing for binocular rear vision while the bird has its bill buried in the mud.

American Dipper

Ever since 7 July 2019, when we observed an immature American Dipper in the cascades of the Deschutes River in the Tumwater Falls Park, we have looked for another. On 25 October we finally succeeded. This latest dipper is also a young bird, judging by its pale bill. The scalloped back feathers indicate that it is newly molted. (The white feather is miscellaneous down.) In the second photo you can see white lines on the bird’s eyelids. According to Kingery and Willson (2019), these feathers produce the white flash that you often see when you watch dippers. I had always thought these flashes are caused by their nictitating membranes blinking.

I suspect dippers are year-round residents on this sea-level stream, perhaps augmented by mountain birds moving to lower elevations when their streams freeze in the winter. Dippers inhabit cascades, even nesting behind waterfalls and feeding under water. I am surprised they do not have even larger toes help them swim in the rapids or to hold on to the slippery rocks upon which they forage. To survive this environment, they have low metabolic rates and their blood can carry more oxygen than other birds. Their feather coat is thick. In Arctic Alaska they have overwintered at tempetatures below -50 degrees Celcoius (presumably near salt water).

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