Four Palila birds take Mauna Kea by storm!

We're down from 7, which is sad, and I'll get the sad stuff out of the way first, then move on to the happy singing stories. #87 (green banded girl) was found, before I returned, on a Pu'u (hill), in the form of feathers, guts and transmitter. The suspicion is that an 'Io got her since a rat would have been more chewy. I'd rather an 'Io get her than a rat. Though, I'd like to announce to all 'Io that Palila birds are off-limits. Go after those HOFI and CAQU chicks instead, please.

And numbers 60 (pink/pink singing dude) and 89 (flighty white banded guy) are missing, presumed dead. Again, I wasn't there when they were released and took off, but have spent the last 9 days looking for our poor little birds. I feel we should post missing posters around Hilo and Waimea with pictures of them, askin "have you seen these birds?" It might also draw awareness of the palila's plight in general. We've looked east and west of the release site, and even around to the west slope (where the core palila population exists) and on the south side along the saddle road. It's been exhausting and depressing to search with no response and, in all reality, no likelihood of finding them alive. The best we can hope for is to find their transmitters and evidence of their fates, if only to inform our future approach to release.

So, on to the good news! Numbers 76 (blue-banded pod-cruncher) and 75 (King of the mamane tree on the hill) found each other after some separation and now occupy an area above the grid (helluva hike uphill) where they eat pods non-stop all day and contact call to each other.

Number 94 (orange flower girl) found her way uphill as well, though not as far as the males. I have seen her eating flowers happily in the morning sun. She was chased briefly from a tree by wild birds RW/RW: Wh/Al and one of the unbandeds. I sat down to write the sightings and observations in my notebook and within 10 minutes she was back, eating pods with gusto. So, she's holding her own and by all appearances is having a blast in her new wild and crazy life.

The littlest palila bird we released, Number 94 (little red-banded one) had been hanging out in the immediate proximity to Hack Tower 2, from which she was released. Koa trees surround HT2, and so she was limited in her options for wild food. She continued coming down for supplemental food, and occasionally interacted with wild HOFIs (mimicking them) and had a friendly encounter with a wild pair (R/G: LG/Al and his unbanded lady), though she didn't follow them when they left. But the day before yesterday she had found her way to HT1, where the mamane trees are abundant and have pods to offer. She was singing and eating. I don't know what her progress has been since I left on Sunday, but my guess is that she will hang around HT1 for a while and make her way up to join 90 uphill and take her place as a wild and crazy palila bird.

In other news, turkeys are lekking and the first of their chicks are starting to run around the mountain. There are lots of pigs up in the forest reserve. Optimistic and dedicated state biologists came to plant mamane seedlings in the mitigation land. And Mana road, 6 miles to the east, is impassable due to serious mud.

News flash: it's cold up on Mauna Kea

It got down to 29F one night, and in the morning the truck windshield was frozen (I had an urge to break out my credit card and start scraping, but the heater and wipers did the trick), the puddle of water on the tarp had a skin of ice, and the whole slope of chocolate black sand was dusted in powdered sugary frost. beautiful, and cold as hell. of course the palila were as chipper and bouncy as ever, excited for their foodpans and flowers.

I'm heading up again for 9 days tomorrow and I sure hope it's stopped raining up there. The last session was a dreary routine: wake up to fog, notice some clearing as we headed up the mountain, see the clouds rolling in as we fed the birds, be enclosed in roiling mists by 10:00, and break out the rain gear by 11. Head back to camp where the rest of the afternoon and evening would be punctuated by the sound of hard rain on the corrugated metal roof of the drafty cabin, eat a hot meal and retire to the sleeping bag by 19:00. Then waking up again to the same day all over again. I'm just going to say that I'm secretly hoping for a sunburn this next session.

Because of the nasty weather, the release was postponed a couple days, which meant I was not present for the birds' first foray into the wilds of the mamane forest on the north side of Mauna Kea. And true to my desire to keep work as separate as possible, I haven't sought a bulletin. But after 3 days of rain in Volcano, I'm raring to go track those transmittered birds.

News from Palila camp

Seven captive reared Palila were helicoptered in from the KBCC captive rearing facility. Their journey took 15 minutes, while it takes 4 hours for us land-crawlers to get to the release sight by truck. They're all doing great in their hack towers where they'll acclimate to the new (and cold!) environment for 2 weeks before being released with transmitters. They eat...all...day...long. They especially love mamane flowers; I fear for mamane flowers upon their release.

The north slope camp is much as I remember, and is quite luxurious for a field camp with propane fridge, hot water heater and stove. The first two nights I was up there were frickin' freezing, down in the 20s! But when the birds got there, the overnight lows rose to a balmy mid-thirtys. The hike to transect 119 is hellish as ever, the air is still dry, the black volcanic sand is still slidy, and the slope is just as steep as I remember. It's great to be back up there for 9 days at a time.

When I left yesterday only 3 color banded wild birds had been seen, plus one or maybe 2 unbanded birds. The unbanded birds are exciting since they are most likely fledglings from the past couple years. I personally saw one pair of wild Palila. One allofed the other, which probably means they are gearing up for the breeding season.

The drive to and from Palila camp never fails to depress. Cattle are in the mitigation land. Giant skeletons of ancient Koa trees litter the otherwise barren, rolling, grassy landscape. And discussions about what can be done always end in frustration with state government and private landowners. But there are seven little Palila birds ready to give it their all to survive in an increasingly difficult world, so the least we can do is watch to see how they do, and speak on their behalf.

Turkey in the bath, Turkey in the grass

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.

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.

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.

The 'Io and the Kalij chicks

I realize the title to this blog sounds like some Hawaiian version of an Aesop's fable. Maybe I'll try writing it, but for now, it was just the most convenient way to summarize the bird encounters I had yesterday.

We’re out at transect six, finding points along the steep slope of the gully, from which old Ohia and Koa reach skyward. I hear a croak from above us, and look around wildly, the sound vaguely familiar, suggesting something to me before I can put a name to it. There, above our heads, two Io fly, skimming the cliff on which we stand. I point and call excitedly, “Io! Two Io, look, one is dark the other is light!” I raise my binoculars and watch the spectacular pair, who continue to call and exclaim about their flight together. They soar downhill, surfing on the undulating forest surface, the very tips of their wings bent upward from the draft, like Red-tails. I lose sight of them as they blend into the complex pattern of the endless forest below.

I’m driving in the truck back to the field station. Annie is up front and Anh Nguyet in the back. The roads are like the surface of an unsettled ocean. At night, I continue to feel as if I’m riding the swells. Today, the dust swirls around us as I slow down for a particularly steep bump, edging the 4WD truck up slowly so as to avoid bouncing and thus scraping the undercarriage. I’m concentrating on the road so much that I don’t see what Annie does. “Look,” she says suddenly. She’s pointing up the road. I can see a small chicken-like bird paused in the shade of a Koa tree at the side of the two-track. Barely discernible is her red skin patch on her face, like a scarlet silk mask. “Kalij,” I say, slowing down. “Female, look she’s all brown, not dark black-blue like the male.” Then we see lots of little fluffballs scurrying around the female Kalij’s feet. Annie squeals in delight, “ooh, chicks!” Indeed, tiny yellow and brown striped chicks peer at us bemusedly until we edge too close in the truck. Some particular personal space boundary crossed, Mama Kalij reacts by striding off purposefully into the tall grass. The baby chicks try following her, frantically running, tripping, fluttering and bubbling around like chaotic popcorn. As we go slowly by, each of us craning our necks for a look at the chicks, they seem to me like unorganized ninjas, careening here and there as they flee the unbeatable truck monster.