Amakihi in Volcano

I don't know why there were never any Amakihi around the cabin here in the golf course neighborhood of Volcano, Hawaii. But there weren't. When I was younger, I may simply not have recognized their little calls and songs. But once I became a bird point counter, I would have known their sounds in an instant. I specifically remember often thinking about how I never heard Amakihi around the cabin. This was odd to me, especially after coming back from being in the field at Mauna Kea or Hakalau, where HAAMs (Hawaii Amakihi) are so abundant. Amakihi are also one of the few species of Hawaii's honeycreepers that seem to be making a comeback at low elevations, where diseases like avian malaria keep the native birds away or at least from becoming very abundant. Amakihi, though, are thriving at low elevation forests here on the Big Island. So it was doubly odd that I never heard them here at home, and only so rarely around Volcano village that it was a special sound there.

So this past month when I heard a familiar little squeak, my head snapped up from the article I was reading. I knew it was a HAAMie, but I didn't see it anywhere. I figured he was just passing through. But I began hearing that little voice more often, but soon I heard a HAAM song, that distinctive series of peeps that sounds like a squeaky wheel or a squeaky sewing machine. Then I saw them in the Koai'a tree outside. A female, then an adult male, both green as the leaves, but the male with a robber's black mask across his eyes.

Perhaps they're now here because the trees on the land behind the cabin are getting a bit bigger, as succession progresses. Or maybe they're re-populating this area after being extirpated from some human-caused factor. Whatever the reason, there are at least two around, and I've heard more on my bike rides. Welcome back little Amakihi!

Team Hoawa

I gave the one-year-old chicks some Hoawa capsules today. They were all down to investigate right away and they grabbed a couple capsules to take up to their hack box tops to make some attempts to open them. For a while they were all making quite a ruckus, running around, chasing the rolling hoawa fruits like a little soccer team.

Then Po Noe grabbed a Hoawa and brought it over to the water dish, where she dunked it and began pounding on the capsule while Ikaika watched her. The tableau was happening at a low angle from my perspective from the door window (with supposedly one-way glass) so I was on my tiptoes trying to watch her progress. Ikaika somehow guessed that I was there and flew up to perch on the door handle and peer back at me. Because I was watching Po Noe so intently, my face was very close to the glass. And because Ikaika is his precious self, his face was completely smashed up against the window, his breath fogging the glass. So for a while we were eyeball to eyeball, although I was pretty much ignoring his cries for attention.

None of the crows got the capsules open, once again, but a great time was had by all and when I left them they were all still industriously working on succeeding.

What is the current status of de-listing the 'Io?

I've noticed that I've been seeing 'Io more and more these days. One day recently, when I was down in Hilo, I saw 'Io on 3 separate occasions (admittedly there is no way to know if they were the same bird):

-one crossing high above Hwy 11, heading over to the KTA shopping center.
-one skimming over the trees towards the downtown park as I was driving away from the Hwy 11/Hwy 19 intersection.
-and another that I heard and glimpsed while in the open-air section of the Hilo library. I heard a Mynah squawking and I looked up to see a dark-bellied hawk flying away.

I've also been noticing them often in Volcano soaring above the forest, usually when I'm driving on the Hwy near the park. I also see them occasionally perched on utility poles within the neighborhood here. I don't remember seeing 'Io quite so often when I was younger. I'm not sure if this increase in sightings is due to my heightened awareness of birds in general, or if this is reflecting an increase in abundance.

But even with all these sightings, I'm ashamed to say that I'm not sure what the status is on their ESL de-listing. I know there was a hubbub about it, for reasons both ecological and commercial, but I don't know what the outcome was. The hawks certainly seem to be doing okay, but the only data I have are our collective observations. In my opinion, the threats that put a species on the ESL in the first place need to be addressed before the species should be de-listed. But it's definitely a happy thing that the 'Io seems to be doing so well. I wonder if a possible gamebird population boom has had a subsequent effect on 'Io population numbers. If we could find 'Io nests, we could pick up pellets and analyze them to see what the birds are eating, then compare these findings with similar studies from a time when 'Io were fewer in numbers. Perhaps Kalij Pheasants (especially young Kalij) make up a larger percentage of their diet these days.

A Crow Speaks

A couple of the crows have strange vocalizations that sound a lot like human speech. The other day I was training a new intern on the protocol for caring for the Alala. We had noticed that there was a loose perch in aviary B that morning and so brought along the power drill to fix it in the afternoon.

Aviary B, for those of you who don't know, is the home of one of the top three craziest/scariest male crows, Kukuna. Kukuna, in Hawaiian, means "ray" or "spoke" as in a ray of sunshine, the spine of a sea urchin or the spoke of a wheel. I have no idea what the person who offered "Kukuna" as a name for an Alala was thinking, but there it is. I can't help but see a certain irony in the translation "a ray of sunshine".

Kukuna has attacked a staff member before. Granted, she is a small diminutive woman with a southern drawl, but Kukuna's potential threat is accepted by all. He often enters the hack box while I am cleaning up in there and stares balefully at me. Or, he'll lurk furtively just outside the door, swaying slightly on his perch, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if sizing me up and debating the satisfaction of attacking me versus the risk of taking out the one human who has control over his food pan that day.

So the intern and I took someone's advice and I brought in the giant net with us when we went to go fix the perch in Kukuna's aviary. The net must be considered the scythe of death to these birds because upon glimpsing it, he and his mate, who housed right next to him in a separate chamber of the aviary, went nuts. Their screams exploded in our ears the second we entered. Answering shouts came from adjacent aviaries as the other crows expressed their solidarity with the embattled pair.

I climbed up the secured ladder and re-aligned the loose perch to the bracket that attaches it to the wall. I fumbled in my pocket for a screw and washer to drill into the branch when Kukuna ceased his cawing and let out his charlie brown voice. This vocalization sounds a lot like the adults in the charlie brown cartoons, kinda like a tuba in the other room. When its coming from a small black bird, it's utterly hilarious. Even though I suspect Kukuna was breaking out the big bad voice in order to tell us to go to hell, he lost all credibility with me, and became ever so adorable. He continued to warble to us as we packed up and left the aviary. I hope our exit gave him the confidence that he had succeeded in chasing us away with his scary voice.

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.