Up at the crest of the road, I could see little puffs of dirt rising and drifting against the sky. At first I thought that the wind was the culprit, gathering fistfuls of dust and tossing them into the swirling air. But the action did not coincide with the gusts. I stopped and watched. Again, an eruption of red earth spurted into the air. Something was tossing the dirt hither and thither. I crept up the last part of the steep slope and my feet crunched slightly on the gravel. The dust-tossing stopped abruptly and a long skinny turkey head rose slowly against the horizon, like a snake uncoiling from a woven basket. She stared at me, as if to say, "hmmmm?" The head disappeared and I rose over the crest to see her jogging down the road, her rocking gangly gait hurrying her away from where I had disturbed her dust bath.
A little further on, I looked down at my feet to discover a little baby turkey puffball scurrying across the road into the safety of the grass. "Huh," I said aloud. Again, an adult turkey's head emerged from the grass and seemed very surprised to see me. She suddenly realized what I was and exploded from where she had been nestled down. She screamed, I screamed, and she proceeded to run down the road in the direction I was walking. I tried to guide her progress and eventually succeeded in passing her and pointing her in the right direction back towards her family.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bird Bath in the Mist
Behind me, the clouds are rising from the lowlands, seeming to be rushing towards me and at the same time stopped stock-still in time. The dust puffs up from my footfalls as I stride down the patchy dirt road, a jug of soapy water in one hand and several sets of plastic bowl bug traps in the other. I’m headed for a grassland point, where I will set out the bug traps to sample the arthropod community of this habitat. I reach the point and set out the bowls, filling each with sudsy water and carefully scraping the white scum from the surface of the water. The reflective surface of the water is apparently better for attracting insects to their watery doom. I then take a northerly bearing and pace out 50 meters. My stride makes for about 60 paces. I set out bug traps at this location as well, and then repeat the process at bearings of 120 and 240.
While I have been working, bent over my bowls, the stealthy clouds have caught up with me and mist now walks between the trees in the distance. The fog begins striding towards me and quickly I am surrounded by various shades of white. I’m glad to have my compass and an obvious road to follow back to the truck. I see that now the dust lies still, cowed by the moisture in the air. The toes of my boots gather small dark wet dots, which bleed into the clinging dirt.
I look up to a multitude of whirring wings. The mists have shrouded the land so completely that the sound tumbles out of the clouds, it origin unknown. But when the whiteness parts, I can see a gaunt skeleton of a tree against the sky. From its bony bare branches stringy yellowish moss grows like a scraggly old man’s beard. All through the network of bearded branches, small birds flutter, giving the mists their voice.
The number of birds surprises me (at least ten within a small area of the tree), as does their relative silence. The group is made up entirely of Amakihi and Japanese White-eyes, birds that usually twitter and call effusively. While their thrumming wings alerted me to their presence, I can only hear very soft chips coming from their throats. They seem intent on their mysterious business. I look through my binoculars, now curious to see what they could find so engrossing.
All along the branches, the birds lean up against the fog-wetted moss and flutter their wings and flick their tails. They are bathing in the dew caught on the vegetation from the passing mists. One Amakihi, clinging precariously the the bark, leans way down to take advantage of a spot underneath the branch where no one has yet soaked up the moisture. Another bird stands tall to quiver himself into some overhanging moss, a perfect shower if I ever saw one. All the birds are behaving as if they were standing in a puddle of water. I suppose in such a place as Hakalau, where the rains come in these soft breaths, the birds have learned that misty moss can serve as a shower source.
While I have been working, bent over my bowls, the stealthy clouds have caught up with me and mist now walks between the trees in the distance. The fog begins striding towards me and quickly I am surrounded by various shades of white. I’m glad to have my compass and an obvious road to follow back to the truck. I see that now the dust lies still, cowed by the moisture in the air. The toes of my boots gather small dark wet dots, which bleed into the clinging dirt.
I look up to a multitude of whirring wings. The mists have shrouded the land so completely that the sound tumbles out of the clouds, it origin unknown. But when the whiteness parts, I can see a gaunt skeleton of a tree against the sky. From its bony bare branches stringy yellowish moss grows like a scraggly old man’s beard. All through the network of bearded branches, small birds flutter, giving the mists their voice.
The number of birds surprises me (at least ten within a small area of the tree), as does their relative silence. The group is made up entirely of Amakihi and Japanese White-eyes, birds that usually twitter and call effusively. While their thrumming wings alerted me to their presence, I can only hear very soft chips coming from their throats. They seem intent on their mysterious business. I look through my binoculars, now curious to see what they could find so engrossing.
All along the branches, the birds lean up against the fog-wetted moss and flutter their wings and flick their tails. They are bathing in the dew caught on the vegetation from the passing mists. One Amakihi, clinging precariously the the bark, leans way down to take advantage of a spot underneath the branch where no one has yet soaked up the moisture. Another bird stands tall to quiver himself into some overhanging moss, a perfect shower if I ever saw one. All the birds are behaving as if they were standing in a puddle of water. I suppose in such a place as Hakalau, where the rains come in these soft breaths, the birds have learned that misty moss can serve as a shower source.
Pueo on my point count
“CF-08, CF-08,” I mutter, willing the flag marking this point to appear before me with no further effort on my part. My GPS has died, to my dismay. Anh Nguyet has placed the bright-colored plastic bowl bug traps at the remaining points, so in theory I should be able to find each spot. I turn around, feeling that I have gone too far. As I look back uphill, I see the flag, blowing mockingly in the slight breeze. I trudge up to the point and take off my backpack.
I dig into the pocket of my rainpants for the data sheet and a pencil. I write down the date and my initials, then glance up at the sky to estimate percent cloud cover. I then peer out into the landscape for Ohia trees. I need to estimate the percent of Lehua blossom bloom on up to ten trees in the vicinity. I spy one tree in the distance. Looking through my binoculars I see it has a few red spots within the entire foliage and decide this means “less than 10%”.
Now, time to start the point count. I set my watch for 8 minutes and begin the timer. Then, I listen, turning in a new direction every few minutes to ensure I’m not forgetting to pay attention to a different section of the area.
I hear a Northern Cardinal very far off, and note him down as a “NOCA”. Japanese White-eyes twitter from a nearby Koa, then come closer to give me a personal scolding. I write down “JAWE” and note the distance. Amakihi check in with each other with whiny “spee!” notes. When one HAAM spees, others call back, giving me a double check on my numbers. An Erckel’s Francolin laughs maniacally in the distance, at least two stations away. Dutifully, I write “ERFR”. Suddenly a little sneeze interrupts my concentration on the far-off sounds. “Ch-ch! Ch-ch!” There’s a pause, then the bird clarifies himself, and gives me his name. “Paio!” he whistles. “Eh-eh Paio!’ I can see the little brown Elepaio now. He swoops in close and looks up at the sky.
The way the little bird is intent on the sky above my head makes me aware of something behind me. I begin to turn around and out of the corner of my eye I see a winged shape arrowing towards me. As I’m turning, the shape flares up and I catch sight of the ventral side of a Pueo. Her startled yellow eyes dig into my own and she lets out an involuntary yelp. I watch, frozen, as she passes through the Koa corridor, dodging the trees effortlessly to escape into the open where she follows the contours of the grassy expanse, rising and falling over the hilled horizon.
I dig into the pocket of my rainpants for the data sheet and a pencil. I write down the date and my initials, then glance up at the sky to estimate percent cloud cover. I then peer out into the landscape for Ohia trees. I need to estimate the percent of Lehua blossom bloom on up to ten trees in the vicinity. I spy one tree in the distance. Looking through my binoculars I see it has a few red spots within the entire foliage and decide this means “less than 10%”.
Now, time to start the point count. I set my watch for 8 minutes and begin the timer. Then, I listen, turning in a new direction every few minutes to ensure I’m not forgetting to pay attention to a different section of the area.
I hear a Northern Cardinal very far off, and note him down as a “NOCA”. Japanese White-eyes twitter from a nearby Koa, then come closer to give me a personal scolding. I write down “JAWE” and note the distance. Amakihi check in with each other with whiny “spee!” notes. When one HAAM spees, others call back, giving me a double check on my numbers. An Erckel’s Francolin laughs maniacally in the distance, at least two stations away. Dutifully, I write “ERFR”. Suddenly a little sneeze interrupts my concentration on the far-off sounds. “Ch-ch! Ch-ch!” There’s a pause, then the bird clarifies himself, and gives me his name. “Paio!” he whistles. “Eh-eh Paio!’ I can see the little brown Elepaio now. He swoops in close and looks up at the sky.
The way the little bird is intent on the sky above my head makes me aware of something behind me. I begin to turn around and out of the corner of my eye I see a winged shape arrowing towards me. As I’m turning, the shape flares up and I catch sight of the ventral side of a Pueo. Her startled yellow eyes dig into my own and she lets out an involuntary yelp. I watch, frozen, as she passes through the Koa corridor, dodging the trees effortlessly to escape into the open where she follows the contours of the grassy expanse, rising and falling over the hilled horizon.
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