Five crow chicks snoozing in the sun

I got a chance to peek back in the egg and chick part of the operation today. Blake had just fed the Alala chicks and told me they were sleeping. So, I followed him back there, tiptoeing into the back room which opens into four small aviaries, open to the air via mosquito netting. Five little ugly crow chicks were snoozing in the sun, each in their own plastic tub lined with sticks. They all had a mixture of feathers and pins, and their little backs rose and fell as they breathed. Occasionally, their featherless wings or feet twitched, just like when a dog dreams. I wonder if they were dreaming about flying and perching?

Lilinoe, the adult female who can no longer have chicks, is housed next to the chicks' aviary, at this time of year, to afford the chicks an example of a real crow adult (as opposed to the humans who come dressed in black sheets and hoods for feeding times, in order to prevent imprinting). Lilinoe can see the chicks and talk to them, but can't get to them. When she saw us humans peeking in on the brood, she hopped over importantly and began alarm calling, obviously letting us know that we had been spotted. She wasn't going to let us get away with sneaking in and out. The chicks stirred, one made a sleepy little begging sound, but they all kept on sleeping, for all the world like preschoolers at their afternoon nap. I wouldn't want to be the adult in charge when that group woke up, refreshed and ready for trouble...

Palila #60 Found -and- Leaving the Mountain

Actually, #60 was found several weeks ago, but I didn't write any notes on my previous weekend. So, I'm here to announce that #60 (singing guy) was found alive and well 5km from where he was released. Somehow this little bird flew (or was taken by the winds?) across very barren landscapes, desolate dunes of volcanic ash, and dusty scrubby vegetation to find a mamane oasis in a valley east of the release site. Every time we went to visit him, he was in the same tree. The only obvious indication of his presence was the quiet crunching emanating from the depths of the shadows as he ate mamane pods.

#94's (little red girl) transmitter died a couple days before we left, but I was able to find her in her same spot a couple times. #90 (orange flower girl) is totally in with the in-crowd. She is often seen with a wild unbanded male (which sounds very risque now that I write that out), and sometimes with other wild birds in a cavorting, tumbling Palila flock. The 70s, #76 and 75, are still up high, typically within a 100m of each other, and appear to be doing well. Each have begun exploring around a little, not simply sticking with the same tree.

All in all, I was very happy with the status of our birds when we left for the last time, leaving them to eat their pods in peace. No longer will they be bothered by the beeping of our receivers as we track them down and stare at them, noting their behavior and health. For better or worse, they're on their own, and I am confident that they have the skills to survive up there within reasonable circumstances. The mountain is entering spring, then will transition into summer, when warm weather will make life easier. Our released birds probably won't go through the stress of building nests or raising young this year. They'll continue to live their lives, learning the land and gaining experience to make it through the year in order to breed in the next.

Good luck little Palila!

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.