Does Lafitte’s Cove, in Galveston Island, TX, have the highest number of bird species per acre per year of any birding hotspot in the US? After birding there for the first time last weekend, I think the Cove not only holds that record, but that it’s also the best place in the nation, by a huge margin, in which to see migrating songbirds in the fall. At a mere twenty acres of wilderness–marsh, tree-studded prairie, and woods–engulfed within a high-end residential neighborhood, it stunned my imagination to learn that 313 species have been recorded there on eBird. 313 is an impressive number of species for any location north of Mexico. (Update: a Townsend’s warbler was photographed there in mid-September, increasing the total to 314.)
I don’t have hard evidence, but, based on my own experiences in the past month, speaking to other local birders, and checking eBird to see what species others are listing along the upper Texas coast these days, it seems the difference in yield–especially for songbirds like warblers, vireos, and tanagers, and for rare vagrants–between Lafitte’s and any other hotspot along the upper Texas coast is vast during fall migration. Unlike spring migration, birds are more spread out when they migrate south in the fall. However, many stop to rest, refuel, and quench their thirst at coastal green spaces like Lafitte’s before resuming their long journeys to Mexico or Central/South America. Since Lafitte’s is so compact yet welcoming–with water drips, multiple habitats, and adequate cover–one’s odds of seeing migrant species there are disproportionately large relative to other places.
The day before I visited Lafitte’s, I spent four hours hiking the trails of a local noncoastal wilderness that’s 125 times bigger and still saw seven fewer species than I saw at Lafitte’s in an hour. More importantly, I saw three new life species that hour at Lafitte’s but only one new species the day before!
As federal land, it’s also one of the starting points this November for Trump’s ill-advised expansion of the US-Mexico border wall, which will be built on the levee between the parking lot/visitor center and the refuge itself, cutting the refuge off and threatening to destroy it.
The first place I ever wanted to visit, when I got into birding a decade ago, was Santa Ana. I read that South Texas is the best place to bird (and to see butterflies) in the US and Canada, especially during spring and fall migrations. Then the 2009 swine flu outbreak dissuaded me from making the trip. I graduated from medical school, moved to California for residency, and didn’t bird in Texas again for years.
Last weekend, I finally visited for the first time. We drove from Houston to Alamo, one of the most southerly Texas towns, to experience Santa Ana for ourselves, and, along with ~681 like-minded pilgrims from near and far, marched against the planned border wall and for Santa Ana’s continued protection and preservation.
Abstract superlatives about Santa Ana that anyone can read online are relatively meaningless until one actually visits the place. This is an account of our brief experience.
As hot as it is right now where we live, it’s even hotter in three of the four cardinal directions away from Houston. This is definitely not the best time to visit the refuge. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, I encountered multiple “life species”–species I’d never seen before. What’s more, I wouldn’t be able to see several of them anywhere else in the US or Canada.
Unlike most other natural places I’ve visited, Santa Ana is tucked away, with little signage, in an area dominated by development: a paved jungle of gaudy chain stores and congested gas stations yields to old neighborhoods and finally to plowed land, with little trace of the original habitat. Visiting the refuge is like taking a time machine to a lost natural world destroyed by development over many decades.
We visited an hour before dusk on Saturday with two friends who drove separately. (Our friends had arrived earlier, were on a different trail. We discovered the following morning that they became engaged during that hike!) The refuge was bereft of employees or other visitors–it was all ours to explore. >100-degree Fahrenheit daytime temperatures had dipped into the high 90s by this time. It was noticeably more pleasant along the tree-shaded trails.
I began picking up life birds immediately. The first was a plain chachalaca near the levee past the visitor center, just inside the refuge. I’d seen gray-headed chachalacas near Arenal Volcano in Costa Rica in 2013 and speckled chachalacas in the Ecuadorian Amazon earlier this year, but, ironically, the plain chachalaca of my own state was a life bird for me last weekend.
At a branching point for trails, we took the Chachalaca Trail, a lucky choice since it was closed off Sunday during the protest hike. The air was infused lightly with the scent of sage–blue sage? It reminded me of my hikes in Southern California. Mesquite trees and scrub seemed dabbed onto the landscape with a natural watercolor sponge dipped into a dull, light green paint. We walked among live oaks with cascades of hoary Spanish moss billowing in the wind. Sabal mexicana palms peeked out here and there. I heard great kiskadees calling nearby. (We heard their intermittent calls both days in Santa Ana.)
While admiring the Spanish moss, my eye meandered over a statue-like Harris’s hawk staring at me.
Flocks of white-winged doves dominated the trees and sky throughout the entire hike. On our way back to the parking lot, several raucous green jays greeted us. (I last–and first, in the wild–saw one of these beauties along a trail near Hacienda Chichen, in the Yucatán, in 2015.) Groups of three or four groove-billed anis–another life bird–clucked melodiously (like a pleasant ringtone) as they hopped from branch to branch at eye level near the trail. Back at the trailhead, a golden-fronted woodpecker flew onto a nearby tree, staying only long-enough for us to identify it before flying off along the Pintail Lakes Trail–we saw several others of this species Sunday.
Our experience the following morning was very different. Unlike Saturday’s spiritual experience of the refuge in the absence of other people, the refuge was crawling with them Sunday. Friendly refuge employees guided us to parking spots as we arrived. The parking lot filled up well before the scheduled protest.
A white-eyed vireo sang and a white-tipped dove flew overhead as we walked past a naturalist–one of many naturalists, birders, and conservationists there that day–being filmed as he expounded on the importance of the refuge and about the birds he’d already seen that morning.
We met up with our friends, hiked to a large grassy depression that’s a lake in other seasons (there are multiple such seasonal lakes there, with three species of kingfishers and other water-associated birds). They pointed out olive sparrows to us along the way. Great egrets and barn swallows occasionally flew overhead. At one point, I saw at least seven northern rough-winged swallows sitting on a power line. (We saw southern rough-winged swallows in the cloud forests of Ecuador in June.) Along this same power line, I later saw a rare olive-sided flycatcher and then a Couch’s kingbird. Four of these species were life birds for me.
Turkey vultures soared overhead, mourning doves sang unseen, and mockingbirds flew by as we walked to the hawk tower in preparation for the march. On the way, I saw an Altamira oriole nest–the longest nest of any North American bird, by the largest North American oriole, another South Texas specialty. It reminded me of the many oropendola nests I saw hanging from trees in Costa Rica and the Amazon.
Nearly an hour later, many more people had accumulated at the hawk tower. We started our march toward the levee. Along the way, a naturalist tried to help a large butterfly on the ground grasp his finger and flip right side up while another person watched. A few large and innumerable small butterflies flew about the refuge–so many, in fact, that we later almost stepped on a couple of them while hiking one of the trails.
As we stood on the levee in peaceful protest of a wall that could devastate this uniquely beautiful refuge, one of our friends spotted an Altamira oriole looking at us from the forest below. I quickly snapped a photo of this life bird before it flew off. Large flocks of red-winged blackbirds rose and fell in the fields opposite the refuge while golden-fronted woodpeckers threaded between the Washingtonia robusta palms. Beyond them, a stampede of deer escaped an unclear threat.
I appreciate the Santa Ana employees and the organizers of this protest. I am disappointed by the callousness, ignorance, and narrow-mindedness of our national leaders for threatening to destroy this vulnerable wildlife sanctuary. I feel that I need to return to Santa Ana many more times, in different seasons, to explore the depths of its complexity; I’ve barely scratched the surface with last weekend’s visit. However, future visits may not be possible if the border wall goes up at Santa Ana this fall.
In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows…Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight…Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. — Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature, 1836
A truly open mind is fascinated with and open to exploration of many fields. Nevertheless, the best and easiest way to refine one’s “wonder mechanism,” I’ve discovered, is to grow as a naturalist. The endless variety and novelty of nature is compelling, not least because of its unparalleled complexity.
The granularity of one’s wonder mechanism is an important determinant of one’s baseline happiness. It’s also important in the formation of memories; a finer granularity of wonder results in a richer, more positive set of memories throughout a lifetime.
A coarse granularity of wonder is possessed by this man: “I went on the Circuit de la Grande Chartreuse hike today…The first stretch of forest was…just an ordinary forest, not much more interesting than woods back home. The only spectacular thing was a mountain with two or three peaks between which nestled a…green valley…”
That hard-to-please man was me, twelve years ago, journaling about a solo hike in the beautiful Chartreuse mountains of France. Not knowing anything about the natural history, geology, or archaeology of that region, I could only appreciate superficial, immediately accessible characteristics: grand vistas, mountains, valleys, forests. I remember some of the people I met, but I don’t remember which tree, bird, or insect species I saw, nor which types of rock I encountered, nor did I appreciate the significance of ruins I came across in a valley during that hike. That leaves me with only a shallow impression of that experience.
A finer granularity of wonder is possessed by this man: “A grass-like mantis was on the floor outside my home today. I chased it with my finger toward a wall so it wouldn’t be crushed by an unaware passerby. It didn’t let me touch it; at each near-touch or rare ephemeral touch, it ran forward, at one point flying smoothly up to the wall as if running along an invisible ramp.”
That was also me, journaling this week about an interesting insect species I’d never seen (or noticed) before 2017. I’ve seen it intermittently all summer long in a space about twenty feet by six feet.
Here’s another recent journal entry: “I also did see and photograph a wood stork soaring–it soared over the exact area (vast marsh with adjacent picnic park) where I saw the last male painted bunting of the day! They showed up at the same time, presenting an observational/photographic dilemma. I’ve never seen a wood stork before, as far as I know; this is a life bird.”
Twelve years ago, I had little interest in that marsh, precisely because I didn’t know much about it. Not only did I have little interest, I actively wanted to keep my distance because it’s surrounded by oil refineries:
Each experience of wonder creates a pleasant memory. No grand vistas required. This humble, likely polluted marsh is now elevated in my mind to a new significance.
“A special power of observing and remembering particulars, a special memory for places, allied to a love, a lyrical feeling for nature, is characteristic of this naturalist’s sort of mind.” – Oliver Sacks, Oaxaca Journal, 2002
For those without a naturalist bent, the lowland tropical jungle–as seen in the photograph I took this summer in Yasuní National Park in the Ecuadorian Amazon, above–is a gloomy, menacing, tediously green place. One does not bask there in breathless views on par with those found in Yosemite, the Canadian Rockies, or similar places with awe-inspiring landscapes. The biodiversity, however, remains unmatched…for those prepared to appreciate it.
It may be obvious that preparation increases appreciation, but this is particularly true of nature travel in the neotropics, where the rare is commonplace, the commonplace is rare, and where each bit of background knowledge yields outsized rewards for the observer.
One of our guides–who has worked as a generalist guide as well as a specialist birding guide in the Amazon, the cloud forests, the Galápagos, and elsewhere in Ecuador–confirmed my suspicion that birders seem to get more out of their Amazon experience than do non-naturalist visitors. We ended up seeing or hearing 325 bird species total in the Chocó region of northwest Ecuador and Yasuní National Park. We also saw a tayra, two black caiman, agoutis, several giant river otters, five monkey species (including five common woolly monkeys, which are not common at all), several puma and tapir tracks, and two electric eels.
Each of these sightings, for me, is pegged to a wondrous memory, in addition to memories of all the people we interacted with during the trip–our hosts, our guides, our drivers, and everyone else–and to memories of a more standardized nature: landmarks, street scenes, cityscapes, historical buildings, food, etc.
“It is similar with Tom Morgan–he remembers, I think, every fern of significance he has ever seen, and not only remembers it, but exactly where it was located.” – Oliver Sacks, Oaxaca Journal, 2002
I still have a long way to go as a naturalist and as a learner in general. I look forward to learning much more botany, entomology, geology, anthropology, archaeology, and other fields.
Summer is an oppressive season in southeast Texas. Long days allow heat to build up–it can be nearly ninety degrees Fahrenheit well after sunset–and the humidity doesn’t letup. If northerners are snowbound in winter, we’re sunbound in summer. We visited the Ecuadorean Amazon recently, where it was cool sometimes (cold, even), days were much shorter, wind pollination was refreshingly absent (or rare), and where one stands much less of a chance of being swarmed by mosquitoes than in summertime wildernesses of the temperate zone.
However, despite the unpleasantness of the season, one can still experience the beauty of nature here, as I found out less than two weeks ago when I saw a male painted bunting for the very first time. Ironically, I’ve lived within its breeding range for most of my life but never birded within its habitat during summer. (Also ironic: I saw it only ten minutes from where I grew up!)
If one rises early enough and travels to its breeding grounds–a shrubby, overgrown prairie with not too few and not too many small- or medium-sized trees–then one might see a male painted bunting in a treetop, head thrown back, singing its lovely song. It might even fly from treetop to treetop, singing at each location, as did the males I observed–a magical experience! Here are a couple photos I took of one of them:
In May, during the tail end of spring migration, I also saw a playful, beautifully green, female painted bunting in a nearby marsh. I was observing a female indigo bunting when the female painted suddenly appeared and landed on the same stalk of grass, making them both drop down. The indigo flew off, but the painted remained nearby. Here’s the quick photo I took of it:
“[For a naturalist,] the concrete significance of living things in their natural setting is at least as precious as any generalization.” — Alexander F. Skutch, A Naturalist in Costa Rica
“For lack of attention, a thousand forms of loveliness elude us every day.” – Evelyn Underhill
Last Sunday, my girlfriend, two friends, and I had a remarkable experience in High Island, TX: a quiet Sunday morning hike in coastal woods slowly transitioned from seeming “birdlessness” to finding ourselves literally surrounded by tens of migrant bird species just-arrived from Central and South America. It felt like a Big Bang of birdlife; it felt as though God had just decreed, let there be birds. We were in the midst of a “fallout” of songbirds precipitated by a storm the night before and by abatement of the south wind that had previously allowed them to skip the island entirely.
At Boy Scout Woods (BSW), the warblers trickled in slowly at first. We saw male birds almost exclusively the entire weekend–in many species, males migrate first–indicating that females may be seen in the next week or two. A hooded warbler started the show by appearing suddenly at Prothonotary Pond, then a magnolia warbler and a northern waterthrush became visible. Soon, the treetops were alive with black-throated green warblers. Occasionally found solo, but usually in mixed flocks, we eventually saw bay-breasted, Tennessee, Canada, Nashville, and chestnut-sided warblers, as well as American redstarts and a common yellow-throat, punctuated by sightings of other species: a peregrine falcon and a broad-winged hawk flying inland, a green heron at Prothonotary Pond, an immature orchard oriole singing far beyond the boardwalk.
Sighting a warbler–a tiny, quiet bird constantly on the move–or any other “new” bird is quite thrilling, even addictive: one raises one’s binocular in eager anticipation of identifying the species before the bird moves out of view.
By noon, in the small parking lot and adjacent street alone, in the span of fifteen minutes, I saw four male indigo buntings, at least four female indigo buntings, male and female summer tanagers, innumerable black-throated green warblers, two male Baltimore orioles, a male rose-breasted grosbeak, and a male scarlet tanager. Soon after my girlfriend and I left for Smith Oaks, our friends saw a male painted bunting in the parking lot. Very few of these birds will stay for the summer; most will radiate to their breeding grounds in the northeastern US and Canada. (In fact, when I returned to High Island today, I only saw two of the above species at BSW: the rest may already be at their summer homes.)
At Smith Oaks, where I hiked for about an hour last weekend, I saw numerous male and female Baltimore orioles, summer and scarlet tanagers, gray catbirds, a black-billed cuckoo (we saw a yellow-billed the day before at BSW), a brief flash identified by others as a vagrant black-whiskered vireo, and, at water drips in the forest, males in breeding plumage of the following warbler species: Blackburnian, Magnolia, Tennessee (unclear if male), chestnut-sided, American redstart. So many species observed in so little time amongst the lovely old oaks and other trees! (The birding was so good this week along the upper Texas coast that even I–a casual birder who doesn’t aim to maximize the number of species seen, unlike more “muscular” birders–ended up seeing sixteen warbler species, including the rare golden-winged warbler.) A short walk away, the famous High Island rookery teemed with nesting wetland species we observed and photographed the day before: roseate spoonbills, purple gallinules, common gallinules feeding with their chicks, neotropic cormorants, great egrets, snowy egrets, and other species. Down the road, Bolivar Flats–we didn’t go there this trip–hosted numerous shorebird species, including (rumor had it) red knots and piping plovers, the latter of which I saw in February on a birding trip with two other friends.
Such irruptions of songbirds and other bird species are a rare occurrence for the occasional visitor to High Island, but do occur with some frequency during spring migration, especially following storms or when there’s a north wind. However, I’ve met serious birders who have visited High Island for years without experiencing such a “fallout” of birds.
We met many other birders while there, including the ever-helpful and enthusiastic Houston Audubon Society volunteers who manage High Island’s nature sanctuaries. It was a joy to help others see the birds we saw and to allow them to help us see what they were seeing. Birders are a diverse bunch: while many were casual, some were very professional, taking high-quality photographs of the birds they encountered. Most birders are warm, engaging, and helpful people; I was surprised to find that a few were rather cold and businesslike and seemed to be there just to lengthen their lists of species seen.
I visited High Island for the first time about nine years ago. Since then, I’ve unintentionally built up a store of happy memories associated with this tiny, unassuming salt dome in the Texas backcountry. One of my first visits was with my friends, Jeff and Noam. On that trip, we serendipitously chanced upon the Texas Birding Classic. We were seen as “rare birds” by Texas Parks & Wildlife for being young men out birding–this was even rarer then than it is today–and were interviewed on the spot, had many photos taken of us, and were given free T-shirts (I still wear it; a songbird is displayed on the front with “Portable Audio Device” written under it).
A year ago, serendipity struck again: I found one of those photos while hiking Lost Maples State Park! At the end of a long hike, my girlfriend rested by a bird blind while I went to get the car. When I returned, she recommended I check it out. I glanced at the sign in front of the blind and immediately saw myself in a photo taken with a Texas Parks & Wildlife staff member that day I birded High Island with Jeff and Noam nine years ago:
Each ecosystem has intrinsic value. Just as a country treasures its finite historical episodes, classic books, works of art, and other measures of national greatness, it should learn to treasure its unique and finite ecosystems, resonant to a sense of time and place. – E.O. Wilson, The Diversity of Life (1992, 1999)
The curse of all persuasive writing is that of self-selection, or “preaching to the choir”: the majority of those who read your writing already share your views, more or less, which diminishes your impact. Despite that handicap, I still want to write about a local, man-made disaster that occurred last week. With all of the significant world news over the past several months, and even over the past few days, what point is there in criticizing a relatively tiny, local disaster? The point is that I personally witnessed this event–an event that represents a significant and enduring shock to not just the local, but also the global ecosystem.
In the past year and a half since moving to southeast Harris County, where I originally spent much of my youth, I’ve gotten back into hiking/birding and have had the privilege of experiencing firsthand the cycle of ecological rhythms that occur with the change of seasons in one of our last remaining wild spaces. For example, I know that white-eyed vireos are active in our forests now, irises gleaming in the sunlight when the birds show themselves. Blue-headed vireos were here a few months ago; red-eyed vireos are just arriving. The caterpillars are emerging, there are Gulf Coast ribbon snakes everywhere, broad-banded water snakes are active again, roseate spoonbills began arriving in January, and I saw my first brown thrashers of the year yesterday.
Carolina chickadees now forage energetically over tree foliage, plucking small invertebrates for themselves and for cackling, wing-fluttering fledglings that follow them around, begging for food. Ruby-crowned kinglets are here, too, often foraging in mixed flocks with yellow-rumped warblers and other songbirds. The thin, wheezy songs of blue-gray gnatcatchers can be heard here and there along trails. If one stands still, a gnatcatcher often appears and hunts for insects and spiders in nooks and crannies of trees, seemingly oblivious of human presence. In the past two months, large flocks of cedar waxwings passed through, descending upon fruit-bearing plants to feed, taking off en masse in a whoosh of wingbeats like a sudden breeze through leafy trees.
Carolina wrens from the nearby riparian forest–from which we often hear a barred owl calling at night–recently nested in a small flower pot on a neighbor’s porch. Their four chicks fledged a few days ago and hopped out, three headed in the direction of food and camouflage while the fourth hopped in the wrong direction and got stuck behind a staircase. My neighbor and I spent at least thirty minutes getting it out of its predicament; eventually, we got it out of there and reunited it with its parents and siblings.
A local pair of bald eagles overwinters practically in my “backyard.” They will migrate out of the area soon, hopefully to return again this fall as they have done for years now. I’m told that they first appeared in this area in 2008. As I traverse the trails, I hear a lot of birdsong I don’t recognize, which means that warblers and other small songbirds headed north have arrived. I’ve seen gray catbirds hiding in the underbrush and have crossed paths with a three-toed box turtle. Soon, tanagers and grosbeaks migrating from the neotropics will fly over. A birder friend has already seen fourteen migrating swallow-tailed kites.
Great biological diversity takes long stretches of geological time and the accumulation of large reservoirs of unique genes. The richest ecosystems build slowly, over millions of years…Such a creation is part of deep history, and the planet does not have the means nor we the time to see it repeated. – E.O. Wilson, The Diversity of Life
Last year, I saw and painted an imperial moth that spent a few days on my doorstep. This year, I saw a polyphemus moth on my doorstep. I had never seen either species before; what’s more is that I’ve seen innumerable moth species since moving here and that I continue to see new ones. I’ve also seen and observed the behavior of belted kingfishers repeatedly for the first time in my life, I’ve spotted and photographed a juvenile peregrine falcon, and the list of such priceless experiences goes on.
In the past year and a half, I’ve also seen progressive deforestation in multiple areas here, all by developers.
Two nights ago, I went for a twilight run at the University of Houston-Clear Lake (UHCL) and was immediately set upon by the strong smell of wet, overturned soil. Ground was dug up at a previously grassy field next to (irony #1) the Environmental Institute of Houston, where I would often see deer grazing in the late afternoon mist.
The disturbed earth was fenced off. As I ran further, I saw that the entire edge forest habitat–which comprised several city blocks between two parking lots–had been cleared. In the span of a few days–it was there when I ran last weekend–developers had destroyed the entire forest except for a few large trees (likely left standing for future decorative purposes in a paved, boring environment devoid of plant diversity that could shelter and feed local and migrating birds). There was no warning on-site beforehand for the general public, so I had no idea this was going to happen. The university had two posters attached to the fenced-off destruction, stating that they will build a “Recreation and Wellness Center” and a “STEM and Classroom Building.” A family of at least seven or eight white-tailed deer that lived there and often fed in the adjacent clearing–including a few fawns–appeared ghostly in the deepening dark, some of them lying in the mud, others walking aimlessly. The stench of wet soil permeated the air over the entire campus. Ironically (#2), red-shouldered hawks (UHCL’s mascot is the hawk) also lived in–at the very least, hunted in–that forest, too. I saw them all the time there, along with Cooper’s hawks and ospreys flying overhead.
Running farther, it was surreal to see lush remaining forest with Spanish moss hanging from trees adjacent to the bulldozed mess. Two streets connecting two of three entrances are now visible from each other where thick forest previously prevented each being seen from the other. The now-felled forest with its edge habitat was there for as long as I can remember, at least since my childhood. It was probably quite old by local standards. Irony #3 is that Earth Day is in two weeks. Irony #4 is that spring migration is already underway and that migrating songbirds desperately need forest habitat for cover as they fly north.
The final irony is that I saw the screening of The Messenger, a documentary about the plight of migrating songbirds, at UHCL last year.
Large numbers of new species continue to turn up every year…we don’t have time to describe more than a small fraction of [them]…how little we know of the living world, even that part necessary for our own existence. We dwell on a largely unexplored planet…killer caterpillars and entrepreneurial crickets [of Hawaii] have all been discovered within the past twenty years. Hawaii, familiar as it may seem to the casual visitor, is still a paradise full of surprises for the explorer naturalist. – E.O. Wilson, The Diversity of Life
The demolition of this lovely, rich forest habitat was clearly a greed-driven project greenlighted by single-minded administrators. The following day, while birding, I met a nearly 80-year-old birder, long-since retired from NASA, who has lived in this area since the mid-1960s. He had seen what UHCL had done. He said, “it makes me sick” and that this must be part of UHCL’s “four-year plan“–they plan to become a four-year university. An avid birder here, he said that chipping sparrows seen on the local Christmas Bird Count may no longer be seen, since they were always seen along the edge forest habitat that was torn down. For some reason, the sparrows preferred that area. He had also seen “a ton of [other] good stuff” while birding there over many years.
The mature forest, razed, cannot be resurrected within a reasonable (human) timespan.
Human demographic success has brought the world to this crisis of biodiversity. Human beings–mammals of the 50-kilogram weight class and members of a group, the primates, otherwise noted for scarcity–have become a hundred times more numerous than any other land animal of comparable size in the history of life. By every conceivable measure, humanity is ecologically abnormal. – E.O. Wilson, The Diversity of Life
Birding was the original Pokémon Go. As with any activity that increases your appreciation of the world around you, becoming a birder can add more depth and meaning to your life. My favorite way to bird in the Houston area is while jogging–I see the greatest number of species during my long runs. When I lived in San Diego, I also liked to bird while cycling through the canyons and mesas there. (In fact, unbeknownst to me for years, I routinely cycled past endangered California gnatcatchers.) The best way to see many bird species in one day, besides going to the zoo, is to not stay in one place outdoors: move around to many places, and try to bird around dawn or dusk if possible.
I’ve seen many overwintering species in the Houston area in the past month. On December 4–a cold, rainy day–I took one of my compact binoculars (an inexpensive Olympus Tracker 8×25 PC I) on my long run and serendipitously encountered the first bald eagle I’ve ever seen in Houston! Since then, I’ve continued to see many migrant species: on Christmas day alone, I saw ospreys, a small fleet of American white pelicans soaring over the bayou, a flock of cedar waxwings, herons (tricolored, little blue, great blue), great egrets, a belted kingfisher, hawks (red-tailed, red-shouldered, immature Cooper’s), Eastern bluebirds, Eastern phoebes, a flock of “myrtle” yellow-rumped warblers, an immature white ibis, a blue-winged duck or ring-necked duck, two crested caracaras along the median of a road (these were seen while driving), Carolina chickadees, tufted titmice, and more!
If you own wild land, seriously consider not developing it. If you own developed land, seriously consider de-developing it. I, for one, would gladly pay an entry fee to spend some time in the serenity of a local wilderness instead of, say, paying a fee to plop down in a large theater for some escapism or going for a walk in the concrete jungle of the typical modern American city.
The following are photos I’ve taken with a smartphone and my entry-level spotting scope of some of the animals I’ve seen recently. In order, they are a great blue heron, osprey, female belted kingfisher, and white-tailed buck.
Update 1/2/17: I added photos I took on New Year’s Day of a juvenile brown pelican and of an immature Cooper’s hawk. The pelican preened itself while I photographed it and the Cooper’s hawk remained nonchalant as I took photos from a few feet away. A tiny ruby-crowned kinglet, perhaps emboldened by my presence, chirped at it with curiosity from a branch directly over my head. Ten minutes later, the hawk suddenly, explosively bolted off the branch, gliding mere inches above the paved street for half a block before suddenly sweeping itself up onto the slanted trunk of another tree, wings folding so quickly that it might as well have teleported.
The birding smorgasbord continues: before I even left home to bird, I heard and then saw a large flock of Brewer’s blackbirds congregating in the trees beyond my living room’s windows. At the bayou, I spotted an osprey atop a dead tree in the distance, eating a fish it had caught while flocks of cormorants criss-crossed the sky and a tireless, immature Forster’s tern circled and dived in front of me for food, not stopping to rest at all in the forty-five minutes I was there, and even feistily chasing away other terns as they entered its territory.
The many ospreys I’ve seen recently remind me of one of the first I ever saw: on January 11, 2013, I saw the following osprey and took photos of it before my run + hike at the salt marsh adjoining Torrey Pines State Reserve in La Jolla, CA. Two hours later, when I returned, it was circling and then dived and caught a fish! Luckily, I had my camera out and managed to photograph the entire sequence: