Happiness is a Rare Bird

by Gene Walz

  I can trace my fascination with corvids back to those early days of birding. There’s something about these big, jet-black birds with their blunt, noisy calls that always catches my attention—wherever they are.

  Like in the Bible. A raven is the first bird mentioned in the Bible—in the flood story in Genesis 8: 6–12. After forty days, “Noah sent forth a raven and a dove.” The dove returned shortly, tired and bedraggled, not having found dry land. The raven is never again mentioned. It seems to have disappeared into thin air. Presumed dead, I guess.

  I’ve often wondered: Whatever happened to that raven? Did it succumb or was it just stronger and smarter than the dove? After forty days cooped up in a home-built, DIY ark with two of every other species in the world, the liberated raven probably vowed to find refuge somewhere, anywhere, or die trying. (Imagine the noise, the smells, the crowded quarters, and resulting Darwinian animosities in that ark!) Smart cookie, that first raven. It found a tall, leafless tree and waited a couple of days for its mate to be set free so that they could propagate the species.

  Recently, corvids have been studied almost as extensively as the Bible and more so than other bird species. Among the best studies are Bernd Heinrich’s Mind of the Raven or Ravens in Winter or even A Year in the Maine Woods; they are brilliantly readable and informative books. For an even broader view, pick up Bird Brains: The Intelligence of Crows, Ravens, Magpies and Jays by Candace Savage or The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman.

  Corvids have enormous brains relative to their size. Some ornithologists consider crows and ravens equal in brain capacity and power to apes and dolphins. As the three above authors point out, corvids are capable of designing and using tools and of giving gifts. They are smart and social and playful. Pigeons and geese are social; they hang out together. But they don’t seem to completely understand the full implications of cooperation and competition to the extent that crows and ravens do. Crows, for instance, often have “nesting assistants”—a third crow at the nest that aids in feeding and protecting a brood.

  And though pigeons and geese fly in groups, they don’t seem to enjoy flying, to be as playful in flight as crows and ravens. Corvids take delight in the wind; they perform with it. I’ve watched them swooping and soaring and somersaulting for the pure joy of it. This playfulness, this exuberance, inspires me. It makes me jealous, stirs my soul, exhilarates me. Corvids’ playfulness, to me, is a true sign of their intelligence.

  Corvids not only possess unusual cognitive abilities, they’re also capable of emotion. Bernd Heinrich, listed above and one of my favourite authors and scientists who has studied ravens closely for years, feels that he can “detect a raven’s surprise, happiness, bravado, and self-aggrandizement from its voice and body language.” They can also be cranky, greedy, affectionate, grieving, and sly.

  They are also patient, which to me shows a certain amount of intelligence. One crow watched a Killdeer’s nest at FortWhyte Alive and waited patiently for a chick to be born, seeming to prefer it to an egg. As Killdeers are precocious birds, able to scurry into hiding quickly after being born, the crow timed his predation perfectly. It swooped in, grabbed the nestling, and flew off with a meal before the adult Killdeer even noticed.

  A couple of years ago, a Winnipeg crow seemed to hold a personal grudge against a postal worker, recognizing him whenever he walked his route and dive-bombing him viciously. I too have been singled out by a neighbourhood crow, angry with me on my daily dog walks. Facial or body recognition and memory are measures of intelligence. It also seemed to have a special call to bring in other crows for possible back-up whenever I appeared, perhaps the result of my disturbing its nest the previous year. The racket they made, as if taunting me, was unnerving.

  After West Nile fever reduced the numbers of corvids several years ago, they are making a strong comeback. Record numbers of corvids are now being entered in the Winnipeg Christmas bird count. And in my neighbourhood, they are much more numerous than ever before. In the early fall I can count scores of crows streaming northward in the evening for weeks at a time; well over a hundred of them assemble in a nearby park at dusk. A dozen or so regularly hang out at McDonalds.

  During the winter, I’m delighted to see crows and ravens. Their dark presence can enliven even the bleakest wintry landscape. In March, if I’m lucky, the ravens will amuse me with their aerial courtship displays. Twisting and diving and swooping, they’re marvelous aeronauts. It’s still the dead of winter, minus forty degrees, and they’re courting and mating. In the air! (Is there a Kamasutra for birds somewhere? Is this part of parental training? Or do they just have vivid imaginations and playful natures?) Amazing birds!

  In the spring and summer, however, crows and ravens make me extremely nervous. They’re too smart. They’ll find and devour eggs, fledglings, and smaller birds. No wonder Kingbirds and Red-winged Blackbirds chase them and dive-bomb them whenever they can. They’re brainy menaces, something I too often forget in the winter. With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe, I’d like to see them disappear and, ahem, “nevermore” be seen.

  Kathy

  and the Pileated Woodpeckers

  My wife Kathy’s passion for birds did not match my own—though I thought it did when we were courting.

  Courting, as some of you may recall, was a quaint and elaborate pre-marital ritual of testing and pleasing your prospective partner to determine whether you were more than temporarily compatible or completely deluded. (It’s since been superseded by computer dating and immediate co-habitation.)

  When I was writing my PhD thesis, I signed up for a ten-week, non-credit “course” in birdwatching to allow me one sane day per week. The course met at dawn on ten consecutive spring Saturday mornings. Kathy showed up every Saturday at dawn.

  I thought I had found a perfect mate: a beautiful, smart, sensible, sensitive woman. BONUS: she too loves birds. It turns out she was my ideal mate for nearly forty years; but she loved a certain birder (me!) more than she loved the birds.

  That’s not to say that she didn’t like birds. She did. But they had to be special, i.e., big, colourful, stationary, and close. The little, flitty ones she didn’t have much patience for, no matter how rare, delicately beautiful, or sonorous.

  Birds were just one of many things she was interested in: her family, skydiving, camping, travelling, Star Wars paraphernalia, garage sales, gardening, photography, watercolours, wretched soap operas, lighthouses, hot air ballooning, animals of all kinds, a good mystery, the internet, and especially the frail, difficult, and rejected kids that she tended as a school psychologist. The list of her enthusiasms is long.

  When she saw Pileated Woodpeckers late in the summer of 2010, she was delighted. Here was her perfect North American bird.

  A big, robust bird, eighteen inches long with a huge, 28-inch wingspan, a Pileated Woodpecker is not what you’d call pretty or elegant. In fact, it’s somewhat prehistoric-looking. It’s got stark, basic colours—a black body and wings, a white face and neck with a black stripe down the nape, and a dashing, thin, black (female) or black and red (male) “moustache” stripe. Its most distinctive feature is its flame-red head, sweeping back rakishly into a tapering point. The bird takes its name from this stunning feature—pileated (either pill-ee-ated or pye-lee-ated is acceptable) meaning “having a crest.”

  Pileateds are not common birds, but they’re not rare either. They are uncommon in more ways than one. They prefer forests with dead trees to drill for food (carpenter ants and beetles) and to hollow out their nest cavities. With long, thick, sturdy chisels for bills, their loud drilling is quite unique—like the sound of a marble-sized steel ball tapping noisily down a wooden set of stairs. That’ll get your attention. If not, their piercing, clear, unmistakable call will. It’s similar to the loud barking of a small terrier. Ka ka ka ka ka ka kaa! Or a series of whinnying whoops.

  Recently, Pileateds have become somewhat more numerous alon
g the rivers in Winnipeg. When I see them, I feel that it’s almost a privilege, especially if they come to my yard to peck at my suet feeder or drill into a dead ash or aspen trunk. Huge chips fly everywhere. It’s a wonder that they don’t give themselves concussions.

  I’ve also seen a pair engaged in a mating dance. They were coyly playing tag, chirping loudly at each other and hopping around a hydro pole and then swooping back and forth to a nearby tree trunk, the female never too far ahead of the male. In their typically undulating woodpecker flight, the large patches of white under their wings made the scene all the more vivid—two or three wingbeats showing their white patches, then they fold the wings close and go into a loop, all in black.

  Although I’d seen them often, even in our own yard, my wife had whiffed on them repeatedly for over forty years.

  In late summer 2010, we were on a small, hilly island in the middle of Lake Temagami in northern Ontario. Our hosts suggested that there was a spectacular vista on the other side of the island. Although Kathy could barely walk and was in excruciating pain (from what we thought was sciatica but turned out to be bone cancer of her sacrum and femurs), she couldn’t resist an opportunity for a mini-adventure or the possibility of a good photograph.

  Even in her pain, Kathy somehow got ahead of the rest of us. (We were stopping to look at migrating warblers—her least favourite bird.) When we caught up with her at the top of the island, Kathy was beaming. She showed us what she’d just shot on her digital camera. “My new favourite bird!”

  Not just one but three spectacular Pileated Woodpeckers sat calmly on a bare birch tree, just as she had wanted them: big, colourful, stationary, and close. A photograph of them (see page ii) is the last nature photograph she ever took.

  Pileated Woodpeckers will always have a special place in my heart.

  Rest in peace, my “Lifer” Kathryn Manix Walz

  October 16, 1945 – January 20, 2011

  What Is So Rare As

  Atlantic Puffins

  Clowns of the Sea

  Puffins aren’t at all rare along the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. But for a prairie guy, they’re a rare treat.

  Atlantic Puffins are odd, stumpy seabirds that look like a mad scientist somehow engineered them out of genetic materials from a penguin, a toucan, a hummingbird, and a football. Perhaps that’s why they’re called the clowns of the sea. They’re funny-looking!

  They’re also cute—cuter than their Pacific cousins, Horned and Tufted Puffins. They’re probably the only bird truly worthy of a plush animal toy. With their black backs, white fronts, and stubby tails, they might be mistaken for foot-tall baby penguins. Except for one thing—their colourful, over-sized beaks! With orange and yellow stripes and a large, sideways, steel-blue triangle, the beaks make a bold contrast with the puffins’ sober black and white bodies. Adding to their quirkiness are bright orange feet and what look to be triangular eyes.

  If I were a bulkier, shorter person (Danny DeVito, say, who notoriously played a penguin in a Batman movie), I’d consider dressing up like a puffin this Halloween; all it would take is a black tux, white shirt, orange running shoes, and a colourful proboscis.

  The best place to see puffins is Iceland. I once got caught in a whirlwind of flying puffins on the top of a cliff on the south side of the island. Hundreds of them flew up from the water, swirled around my wife, Kathy, and me, and then dove back into the sea, coming up with beaks full of tiny fish. It was both thrilling and a bit scary as they almost fetched us over the cliff with them.

  Puffins are so plentiful there and fly so close to the volcanic cliffs that Icelanders catch them easily with nets as they fly. Or they knock them out of the air with oars and brooms. Then they cook them and eat them. I couldn’t bring myself to a feast of puffin when I was there, but I hear that they are tasty—like chicken (or rattlesnakes). Then again, everything exotic “tastes like chicken.”

  You don’t have to fly halfway across the Atlantic to find them. It’s getting easier to watch them off the coast of Maine thanks to Project Puffin, a program begun in the 1970s. At that point in time, puffin nesting-sites in the US were reduced to two small islands north of Bar Harbor, Maine. Dedicated conservationists, alarmed because puffins don’t mate until age seven and produce only one egg per year, established two other colonies nearby. Now there are several pelagic tours in the area to take birders out to see the puffins at their breeding grounds. Three 24/7 live feeds from webcams mounted on Maine’s Seal Island currently provide intimate views of puffins for those too seasick to risk a boat ride out to see them.

  My wife and I had to skip Seal Island. The waters were too choppy for the puffin boats to venture out into the ocean. We hung around in a campsite for three days, waiting for the ocean to calm, the only consolation being the lobster dinners we had every night. The seas might have been too scary for puffin boats, but they didn’t prevent the lobsterman who owned our campsite from going out to sea to retrieve his lobster pots every day. In the morning he’d ask us if we wanted lobsters for that evening. Later in the day he’d return with two pound-and-a-half beauties, fresh from the ocean. And at less than half the price we’d have had to pay in a restaurant. We were not too disappointed.

  To have a close encounter with puffins in North America, my wife and I had to wait until several summers later when we took a boat from Englishtown, Nova Scotia to Bird Island off the north coast of Cape Breton. There we saw lots of puffins, Razorbills, and Black Guillemots bobbing gently in the waves and flying up to the rocky island to sun themselves. All three birds were new to me in Canada, and they were mere feet away from us. So the wait was well worth it.

  All three of these waterfowl are basically black and white seabirds distinguished mainly by their beaks. The Razorbills are mostly black with white undersides and thick, round-tipped bills. The Black Guillemots are mostly black with white wing patches, red feet, and pointy bills that reveal a red mouth when they open them. They’re easy to tell apart.

  Puffins are especially fun to watch in the air and diving for fish. They have slender wings that allow them to swim underwater like penguins. But the combination of stumpy bodies and short wings means they have to flap their wings faster than any other birds except for hummingbirds. Puffins flap their wings at 300-400 beats per minute, or five to seven times a second—almost, but not quite, like the blur of a hummingbird’s wings.

  Seeing swarms of puffins buzzing around you or bobbing in the ocean with as many as ten small fish tucked into their beaks is quite a treat. No matter how gloomy you are, watching puffins will definitely cheer you up.

  A Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch

  Truculent Vagabond

  Most die-hard birders keep lists of the birds they see. All kinds of lists: life lists (the total number of birds seen in your lifetime), yearly and even monthly lists, yard lists, daily trip lists, provincial lists, national lists (for Canada and every other country visited—all separate), dead-of-winter lists (for birds seen when Manitoba winters are at their coldest), and on and on. Me? I’m not nearly as thorough (or anal).

  I’m most conscientious about my Manitoba list. It stands at 340 species seen by me in the province—out of 400 or so recorded here since records have been kept. So it’s getting tougher and tougher for me to add new species to my Manitoba life list. I’ve seen virtually all of the resident birds found here. I’m lucky if I can add one new bird per year.

  Like other birders, I pray for rarities—what the books call “vagrants and accidentals”—birds that aren’t supposed to be here. I prefer the term “vagabonds.” Adventurous birds or strays whose internal GPSs have gone wonky.

  When one shows up, I get all twitchy. I’m not the only one.

  That’s how I ended up in a car full of birders chasing a Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch that was more than a three-and-a-half hour drive from Winnipeg. It was early January—frigid, the roads were icy, and we left before daylig
ht. A long, potentially dangerous slog for one small bird—and there was no guarantee we’d even get to see it!

  Gray-crowned Rosy-Finches breed in arctic and alpine tundra regions in western North America and eastern Asia. According to The Birds of Manitoba, the first one was recorded here in 1891; since then these sturdy little birds have ventured eastward into Manitoba only fifteen times; before our January trip, the last time one was seen here was over twenty years ago. I missed it.

  When we got to the remote grasslands farm in western Manitoba, it took less than a minute to spot our target bird. The finch sat in perfect profile, Roger Tory Peterson-style, on the roof of a farmhouse, evidently eating grit from the shingles.

  After each of us gave it a thorough examination, the bird flew off, and the homeowners, who had first spotted the bird and notified the birding community, invited us into their house to get warm. They were clearly happy to have the company, had had several car-loads of birders visit them before us, and served us coffee and cookies. Once, when I lived in Massachusetts, a farmer was so incensed at the hordes of birders attracted by a rare Snowy Owl that he shot the owl. These cordial farmers were more the rule than the horrid exception when it came to welcoming birders. Truly friendly Manitobans.