Birds of Winter - Rosy Finch

Black Rosy-finch photograph by Doug Brown

One wouldn’t ordinarily think that birding the high mountains in the dead of winter would be a good idea. First of all there is all that snow: it makes the basics of getting around challenging as well as noisy, and stealth downright impossible. It would seem that all birds might flee with the advance of a large two-legged mammal crunching along through the snow. Such is not the case however, at least in certain parts of New Mexico.

Several years ago, a friend and I stumbled upon three new life birds while cross-country skiing along the open waters of East Fork of the Jemez River. Being neither quiet nor stealthy, we encountered a smallish flock of rosy-finches was feeding on the rock walls that line the canyon. They seemed oblivious to our presence as they flitted over the rock face searching for food. Among the flock were individuals that appeared to be markedly different. Indeed, in recent years, they have been classified as three separate species: Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch, Black Rosy-Finch, and Brown-capped Rosy Finch.

In summer, the Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch is distributed from coastal and western Alaska and British Columbia to the mountains of Idaho, western Montana, and northern California. The Black Rosy-Finch breeds high on scattered mountaintops in the Great Basin, and the Brown-capped Rosy-Finch is limited to the southern Rockies. In winter, the three species may be found together at high elevations in Colorado and New Mexico, most reliably at ski resorts such as Loveland, Colorado, and Taos, New Mexico.

Of the three species, the Black Rosy-Finch (Leucosticte atrata) is the least studied of all birds found on our continent, due to its choice of nesting locations. Only three people known to recorded scientific literature had ever found a nest of the Black Rosy-Finch before 2002. With Global Information Systems (GIS) technology and strong mountaineering skills, a University of Wyoming student became the fourth – when she discovered a nest at an elevation of nearly 12,000 feet in Utah's Uinta Mountains. The difficulty of exploring the Black Rosy-Finch breeding habitat has severely limited scientific study of the birds and made finding one of the nests a rare event.

In late spring, the alpine birds migrate to their nesting grounds above the timberline. There, among the tundra tussocks amid craggy cliffs, the rosy-finches build their nests inside cliff crevices and among the large boulders found on talus slopes. At an elevation of 10,000-13,000 feet, generally in the most remote regions of the Rocky Mountains and on the edges of the Great Basin, these hardy finches set up housekeeping and rear their young in nature’s most challenging environment.

On the nesting grounds, males defend a floating territory around their mates, rather than an area with a defined boundary. As a result, males constantly chase other males that approach their mates too closely. The best way to locate females is simply by watching the center of all the fighting.

In winter, the feisty, territorial birds assume a more gregarious lifestyle, and can be found in large mixed flocks of all three species of rosy-finches. The birds roost in large communal sites in caves, mine shafts, on rafters of barns, and in clusters of old Cliff Swallow nests.

It had long been known that one might find rosy-finches at the well-stocked feeders of the condos near the Taos Ski Area, but elsewhere they were considered to be rare, appearing only sporadically in the dead of winter. There was no reliable site where the birds might be found. This changed when birders Ken and Mary Lou Schneider responded to a Rare Bird Alert in the dead of winter and drove to the top of Sandia Peak (10,678 feet). The skies were clear and the winds calm on that day, and 40-50 rosy-finches of all three species were present foraging along the edges of the parking lot.

Thus began a fledgling plan that has, today, grown into one of the premier winter birding locations in North America. With the blessing of the US Forest Service and the staff of the Crest House, the feeders are always stocked much to the delight of birders that travel here from throughout the world to bag three different lifers in a single day. What is even more remarkable is that many of the feeders are within easy viewing of the tables in the coffee shop, eliminating the need to brave the elements. The dedicated folks that manage this site also run a banding station to track the birds’ movements, and they also maintain an extensive website www.rosyfinch.com The rosy-finches arrive in November and can stay as late as March, although the latest sighting occurred in April.

While I would love to direct you to a more local site in the Jemez Mountains to view these remarkable birds, your best bet to check off all three rosy-finches would be to drive up to the top of Sandia Peak on the next sunny, calm day, buy a cup of hot chocolate or two, park yourself next to the window near one of the feeders and wait. I might just see you there!

Shades of Cimarron

Rough-legged Hawk. Photograph by Douglas Brown

Flash back to two years ago, December 13, 2006. The day dawned cold and dreary, matching my trepidation about what was to come. The old red-tail had been limping for some time, and although the vet assured me that it was just arthritis, I doubted his judgement. Now, it appeared that her foot was rotating inward and she seemed to be in pain. I feared the worst, the big “C”, which is what my gut said. As I was getting ready to take her in for yet another set of X-rays, the phone rang.

I heard the deep voice of a man who said, “I found this hawk alongside the road. It’s been in my garage for two days and a garage is no place for a bird. If you won’t come and get it, then I’ll take care of it myself.” He sounded both kindly and crusty, like an old rancher who had seen much. I knew that he meant every word. I asked where he lived and he responded, “Roy”, a four-hour drive from Albuquerque. Fortunately, Ron, our raptor biologist, was available, and offered to drive up immediately to see what the bird might be. When we get these types of calls, speculation is rampant among the staff as to what we will actually find.

I once got a call from a couple that had an injured ‘eagle’ in their urban back yard. Sure enough, when I arrived, they had it locked in a tin shed, in an eagle-sized box. However, the box seemed lightweight for such a large bird. We brought the box out into the sunshine, and I opened it to reveal – a common nighthawk, a very small insect-eating bird that weighs about a quarter pound. But, that’s another story. On this day, Ron and I both agreed that he would be picking up a Ferruginous Hawk, common on the plains of northeastern New Mexico. Ron drove off to the north at the same time as I drove south to the vet.

Indeed, the news was not good. It would be the old gal’s final day as this set of X-rays clearly showed the deteriorating, twisting bones, eaten alive by cancer. I tried to put on a brave face, but oh, how this hurt! She had been my first bird, the one that inspired me to pursue this line of work. Tears streamed down my face as I sat, typing at my computer waiting for whatever Ron would bring back to the office.

He arrived an hour after the red-tail was gone, not the expected species, but instead a majestic arctic bird, a Rough-legged Hawk. He had an elbow injury, an old healed wound evident in the set of X-rays. He would not ever be able to fly well enough to be released and he joined our staff of educational ambassador as soon as the federal permits were processed.

Rough-legged Hawks nest in tundra or taiga in arctic and subarctic Alaska and Canada, and migrate over the boreal forest to winder in southern Canada and the northern United States. In New Mexico, they appear only occasionally and not at all in some winters. Only when frozen conditions to the north limit food availability, do ‘roughies’ move this far south. And, they generally are observed only from December-February.

How could it be that the bird had been in New Mexico long enough to have been injured, healed and fortuitously found alongside the road? He would have had to arrive by about October, much earlier than expected for this species. He was plenty fat, and showed no evidence of recent trauma. Who would have cared for him so well that every feather was absolutely perfect? He also was an adult, and knew that he belonged in the wild. Yet, he was relatively calm around his human captors. Many mysteries shrouded the majestic northern hawk stranded in the Southwest, never again to see his Arctic home.

We now have two years under our belt, and our relationship has grown. Training a wild bird to a public life in captivity always has its challenges and he was especially wary. He already was an adult bird, had known life in the wild, and possibly produced offspring. Being condemned to a cage, albeit large enough for flight, and forced to interact with a human on a daily basis was hard for him. For my part, I just wanted to gain his trust so that I might someday get close enough to pick him up.

The first year was spectacularly unsuccessful, with little evidence that he would one day be calm enough to display in public. Our Fish and Wildlife Service permit requires that each educational ambassador complete a minimum of twelve programs annually, and I began to wonder if he would ever reach that goal. Each morning, when I would deliver food, I would stay near and talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes just sing-song words, but always in calm tones. As much as possible, I tried to reassure him that it would be okay, that I would never hurt him, and that we had to make this work as there were no other options.

Then, on one momentous day a few months ago, he trusted me enough to lower his head and eat in my presence, exposing his vulnerability. It was just one mouse, but it was a new threshold. Today, I can sometimes lay the mice at his feet, but not always. At other times, I only can approach within about three feet. He still retains his spirit and his wildness. I am thrilled and humbled to be a part of his life. He’s completed his 12 programs in 2008, and perhaps you will get to see him one day at a presentation. We call him Cimarron del Norte, refugee from the north.

The Water Ouzel, an Ecological Indicator

American Dipper - Photograph by Tom Kennedy

We donned our cross-country skis at the East Fork of the Jemez River, expecting nothing much more than a glorious winter outing in a beautiful canyon. Brilliant sunshine belied the actual temperature as clouds of condensation fogged our glasses. The novice among us worried about the skill level required for the outing, as she clipped her spankin’ new boots in to her equally virgin cross country skis. As a winter wonderland, the Jemez back country is easy to access and provides a more solitary experience than the crowded trails of the Sandia Mountains. Only two more cars shared our space, an indicator of the near solitude that awaited.

As we neared the river, a flash of gray in motion caught my eye. A quick flit, and the bird disappeared behind the rocks. It was February, a month where our usual avian companions are the hardy ravens and Steller’s Jays. Most humans would not be expecting a birdwatching expedition but it soon became apparent that this outing would reveal special rewards. Cautiously, and as quietly as possible, we sneaked up to get a better view of the elusive gray bird whose plumage blended so well with the wet rocks. Only rippling, crystal clear water cascaded through the stream that drained the Valles Caldera. However, as we watched, a little gray bird popped up from beneath the surface with an aquatic insect firmly clutched in its bill.

First documented and christened “Water Ouzel” by John Muir, bird and stream once were considered inseparable. Present along fast-moving, clear, unpolluted mountain streams in the American West throughout the year, the American Dipper is almost exclusively associated with water. The behavior and biological adaptations of this aquatic bird are unique, combining aspects of songbirds with those of ducks. Their traits include and incessant dipping, hence the current name, and a blinking white eyelid. They appear frenzied as they dive into water, sometimes at near freezing temperatures, and use their wings to propel them underwater. They walk, swim and dive underwater. Their main foods are aquatic insects which they find under rocks and in crevices. Although insects are captured underwater, the bird brings them to the surface to eat.

Uniquely adapted to this special environment, dippers share many traits of waterfowl, including exceptionally dense feathering that allows them to remain dry and buoyant in the water. When swimming on the surface, they paddle rapidly with feet and wings. One account reports a dipper being swept over the brink of a waterfall in Yosemite. That bird emerged unscathed and flying at the base of the waterfall, only to return to the exact same spot where it had been previously foraging. Like ducks, dippers molt all their flight feathers at once, and are flightless from four days to two weeks. During this time, they are extremely secretive, taking short fluttering leaps and escaping predation by swimming above or below the water’s surface and hiding under logjams, tangled vegetation, or overhanging banks.

In fact, the very presence of an American Dipper in a particular watershed is an indicator of ecological stream health. As a free-flowing river, the Jemez meets the needs of this species, which requires unpolluted waters, free from agricultural discharges, and without clear-cut deforestation that opens habitat, increases water temperatures, and alters the entire aquatic food web. Upon removal of forest, soil becomes compacted, and erosion, silting, and runoff are accelerated.

Healthy dipper populations on upland rivers througout the world indicate healthy river ecosystems. Along the Jemez River, I’ve observed dippers at East Fork, Jemez Falls, and Soda Dam but only during the times of year when the river receives reduced recreational use. During the times when the river receives heavy use, the birds inhabit those areas that are less accessible to humans. At any rate, each dipper observation, regardless of the time of year, tells us that we are doing something right in managing the Jemez watershed.

On the Wing, Over Prairie and Sea

Peregrine Falcon. Photo by David Powell

They’re coming soon, to a forest or shrub stand near you! In fact, many are already here. September is just about the best month to look for migrants winging their way south toward their wintering grounds. It is an especially good time to look for those uncommon species, like Yellow, Canada, Prairie, or even Chestnut-sided Warblers that nest in the northern forests, but winter in Central or South America.

The good news is that huge numbers of migrants can be found in any area with a good supply of insects, often in mixed flocks that just might include that target bird on your wish list. Just about anywhere with good stands of shrubs beneath the cottonwood canopy should host more than enough birds to satisfy your birding appetite. Just find a likely patch and stop and listen. Shortly, you should begin hearing the little chips that tell you songbirds are around. At this time of year, only one thing is on their minds – food! Their entire focus is to add as much fat reserve as possible to help them survive their long migration.

Just as all species look and sound different, their feeding styles vary too. Yellow-rumped and Wilson’s Warblers are very active feeders, flitting about at all levels from ground level to canopy tops. Watch for motion in the leaves that indicates a songbird is actively feeding. For others, like MacGillivray’s Warbler and Common Yellowthroat, a forceful chip note arising from near ground level in dense vegetation reveals their presence. Still others, like our resident Virginia’s and Grace’s Warblers, tend to skulk in the vegetation, moving slowly and deliberately, often evading detection. And, lastly, there are those that never make a sound, like Warbling Vireo. Luck has to be on your side to detect them.

Although the songbirds moving south through New Mexico have a land-based migration, many species in eastern North America have evolved to migrate over the Gulf of Mexico. Their southbound journey exactly coincides with hurricane season. Have you ever wondered how birds cope with the wrath of Mother Nature at her most ferocious? So far in 2008, Gustav, Hannah, and Ike have affected an already perilous journey, one in which there is no natural respite for an exhausted bird.

It is clear that hurricanes have a devastating effect on migrants caught in the storm, with some estimates of hundreds of thousands dead as a result of a single powerful hurricane. Seabirds, in particular, have nowhere to seek shelter on the open waters. Birds caught up in these storms are blown far off course, often landing in inhospitable places or simply arriving too battered and weak to survive. Although the toll may be extreme on individuals, healthy bird populations are able to withstand such losses, and have evolved to do so. However, severe storms can have devastating consequences for endangered species. Such was the case in 2007, when all 18 endangered Whooping Crane youngsters drowned in their protective cage in the lowlands of Florida following an unexpected storm surge.

There is evidence that birds are sensitive to changes in air pressure and instinctively take shelter. A sharp drop in barometric pressure indicates a big storm is on the way. Some birds fly away from the storm’s path, while strong-flying birds, like the Peregrine Falcon, fly ahead of the storm. In 1998, a second-year, female peregrine was captured in Virginia, and fitted with a satellite transmitter. Scientists monitored her migration southward to Venezuela, including during the extreme weather created by Hurricane Mitch. The peregrine initially followed a track that would have taken her island hopping along the eastern Carribean. As Mitch’s winds altered the normal southerly flow that aids migrating birds, she was pushed toward the west into the open waters of the Gulf. Suddenly, over open water, the falcon appeared to stop for nearly two hours, apparently taking refuge on a ship. For the next three days, she moved against the prevailing winds in a direct line toward Galveston, at a speed of ~10 miles per hour, again presumably on a ship. She rested near there for six days before departing in a southeasterly direction, again possibly hitching a ride on a ship based on her average departure speed. She arrived in Venezuela approximately five weeks later after a sojourn in the Yucatan Peninsula.

Although, much has been published about the effect of Hurricane Katrina, little has been written about its impact on avian migrants. One study, conducted by U.S. Geological Survey scientists, used radar ornithology to measure the effect of the storm on migrant use of lowland forested wetlands of the Pearl River and upland pine-dominated woodlands near Slidell, LA. Their study used archived Doppler weather radar data to measure bird use of this particularly important stopover location. What they found was that for the 3 weeks following Katrina, when virtually all vegetation had been stripped in the wetlands, the birds foraged in the less heavily damaged pine uplands. However, about five weeks after the storm, when much of the surviving forest in the Pearl River bottoms began to sprout new foliage, a corresponding increase of migrant use of the lowlands was documented.

Ultimately, the real threat to birds may not be from Earth’s natural forces, but rather human alterations to the planet that reduce or eliminate surge-protecting coastal wetlands and warming ocean waters that generate increasingly more powerful storms.

Those Darn Jays! And one of their cousins.

Steller's Jay. Photo by David Powell

Seems like they are everywhere, and into everything. Just watching their antics brings a smile to most folks. Their raucous call is the first sound I hear when I pull into the drive at my Jemez home; the sentinel loudly proclaiming the arrival of the source of raw peanuts, one of their favored foods at my place. Steller’s Jays are the most common in the ponderosa pine forest, but several other species also reside in the Jemez valley and mountains including Western Scrub-jay, Pinyon Jay, Gray Jay, and Clark’s Nutcracker. Each fills a unique niche, and all reside in slightly different habitats. Some species are absent from, or highly inconspicuous, in the Jemez for at least part of the year.

All jays are members of the Corvid family of birds, which includes crows, ravens, magpies. The source of many legends and myths, they are the largest of the passerines, or perching birds, and as a group are considered to be among the most intelligent birds. Conspicuous in their presence, they are bold, active, noisy and aggressive. They are survivors in the avian world!

Those that are most frequently seen in the New Mexico highlands, the Steller’s, Pinyon, and Western Scrub-jay have noticeably blue plumage, almost iridescent in some light. Interestingly, there is no blue pigment in their feathers; the color is a purely structural effect dependent on the fine colorless framework of interlocking barbs in their feathers, and why the color varies relative to sunlight.

All jays are omnivores, eating a wide variety of plant and animal foods including insects, nuts, seeds, berries, fruits, small mammals, and eggs and young of smaller birds. Most jays also cache food such as nuts, by pushing it into crevices in the ground, or in the bark of trees. They loosen the soil with their bills, and sometimes even dig a small hole, insert a single food item, and then cover it with soil or vegetation. Interestingly, they can indeed return to the stash later to collect the hidden treasure.

Found in the higher elevation coniferous forest, particularly in ponderosa pine, Steller’s Jays are the largest of the western jays, and distinctive in their blue plumage and black crests, used for social interactions combined with a variety of postures and vocalizations. They habituate readily to humans, and are common at bird feeders and picnic areas. Possessing an extensive vocabulary, they also are mimics, and imitate raptors calls as well as those of other birds and mammals, including chickens and roosters, and dogs and cats. I once chased a Northern Goshawk through the forest, only to find a very vocal Stellar’s Jay at the end of my quest. Normally non-migratory, they will sometimes move to lower elevations during the winter months. They are monogamous, and pairs maintain a territory year-round. Independent young remain with their parents as a family group into the winter following hatching.

The Western Scrub-jay is generally found at lower elevations than the Steller’s Jay, and in more arid scrub and dry woodlands, including pinyon and juniper forests that are generally more open. I do; however, occasionally see them at my place. This medium-sized jay lacks a crest and has a long tail. It can be easily recognized by the dull blue upperparts with a patch of gray in the mid-back, and grayish-buff underpart. They also habituate easily to humans, and I often seem them near residences along the valley floor. Bold and confident around we two-legged featherless types, scrub-jays seem largely unaffected by our activities, and indeed their populations seem to be healthy in the western U.S. Monogamous pairs defend permanent, all-purpose territories, and share in territorial defense.

The behavior of the medium-sized Pinyon Jay differs considerably than either of the previous two jays. It is a highly social, cooperative-breeding, seed caching bird that often lives in permanent flocks that may contain 500 or more individuals. Although it is omnivorous, its ancestors evolved in close association with pine trees. Modern day Pinyon Jays are highly adapted for foraging on pine seeds, and have a number of adaptations that enable them to do so. Their bill is relatively long for removing seeds from cones, and they also possess an expandable esophagus, for storage of seeds. Individuals have an excellent memory that allows them uncanny accuracy when digging up hidden food stores months after caching them, and even beneath snow. Highly monogamous, divorce among this bird is extremely rare (< 3%). Extended family members, usually sons that were hatched the previous year, assist the parents with feeding, nest sanitation, and nest guarding. Pinyon Jays maintain large home ranges, and range widely throughout these areas year-round, always in a flock. Finding a flock is much like locating the proverbial needle in a haystack, thus limiting our ability to adequately assess numbers of birds as well as populations trends. They are primarily dependent on pinyon-juniper habitat, which is among the least appreciated of western woodland types, and is often targeted for removal or conversion to grassland. Additionally, the bark beetle infestation of the previous two years, that has killed a large number of pinyons may have an effect on populations.

Found in boreal and sub-alpine conif erous forest, the Gray Jay, is only rarely seen in the Jemez Mountains and only in the highest of elevations, generally during the winter months. Its range extends southward only into northern New Mexico. Adapted to a life in a hostile environment, it employs an unusual food storage behavior. Copious, sticky saliva, is used to fasten food items in trees, which are retrieved throughout the year.

Clark's Nutcracker. Photo by David Powell.

Also a pine seed specialist, the annual cycle of the Clark’s Nutcracker, is based on the availability of fresh and stored pine seeds. They begin consuming unripe seeds at high elevations in July, and by September are storing ripened seeds. In the fall, they often switch to new seed sources at at lower elevations, and by mid-winter, I find them at my suet feeders. Populations fluctuate between years, primarily in response to food availability, making this another difficult species to monitor. Their grating, noisy call is occasionally my reward at the end of a challenging, uphill hike to the escarpment of Virgin Mesa, which makes the sight of them at my water pan in winter ever more exciting.

Other larger cousins of these birds such as Black-billed Magpie, American Crow, and Common Raven also belong to the corvid family, and they are equally fascinating but fundamentally different than jays.

Rainbow Bird - The Common Raven

Common Raven. Photograph by Gail Garber

Once upon a time, there lived a bird more beautiful, smarter, and braver than all the others. He had iridescent feathers of many colors and was admired by all for his many attributes. One day the Earth began to grow cold, and snow began to fall. The animals, who had never before seen snow, were not afraid. However, as the white blanket grew deeper daily, and food became limited, they asked their beautiful and smart friend to visit the Great Sky Spirit to stop the snow. Rainbow Crow volunteered to take the dangerous journey, calling out to the others in the sweetest voice of all, “I will go; I will stop the snow.”

The Great Sky Spirit had never before heard such a sweet song, as Rainbow Crow asked for help. Although he was powerless to stop the snow, he gave Rainbow Crow a stick with a bit of fire on the end and told him to hurry back home before the fire disappeared. On the first day, the fire blackened Rainbow Crow’s tail feathers. On the second day, the fire burned brighter on a shortened stick and covered all of his feathers with soot. On the third day, the fire was so hot and the smoke so thick that ash blew into his mouth and his once beautiful voice became harsh. As he returned home, the fire warmed the Earth and melted the snow, and the animals were happy. Rainbow Crow flew off alone and wept. He could no longer sing, was no longer beautiful and his rainbow feathers were gone forever.

The Great Sky Spirit heard Crow weeping, and came down from the sky to soothe the black bird. “Soon, the two-legged will walk the Earth, but because you are brave and unselfish, I will give you the gift of freedom. You will never be hunted for your meat tastes like fire and smoke; your feathers will never be taken because your rainbow colors are now black, and you will never be captured because your voice is broken and harsh. Your black feathers; however, shine and reflect all the colors of the Earth, if you take the time to look closely.”

One of my favorite legends, the delightful children’s, “Rainbow Crow”, by Nancy Van Laan, was based on a tale of the Lenape Indians. Crow, also known as Raven, probably has as many myths and legends associated with it as all the other birds combined. Native Americans of the northwest, revere ravens as being the creator of the earth, moon, sun, and stars, but the bird is also considered to be a trickster and a cheater. To some, the bird symbolizes death, wisdom, or danger.

Members of the Corvid family, the common raven is the largest of the passerines (or perching birds), strong and powerful, highly intelligent, playful, daring, and funny. Unappreciated by many, these remarkable birds are assuredly survivors in a human dominated landscape. It is one of the most geographically widespread, naturally occurring birds in the world. It is found throughout most of North America, and in all terrestrial land types except for rain forests. Although in some areas the population is rapidly expanding,is considered a pest, and programs are in place to reduce numbers, in other areas precipitous declines in population have lead to reintroduction efforts. It is listed as an endangered species in some states. They evolved with the great bison herds and wolf packs of North America. Now, they are resident wherever they occur, even in the high Arctic, although they wander during the winter.

They are the acknowledged leader in avian intelligence, with numerous stories about their cerebral prowess. A raven trapped in a wire cage was freed by wild ravens. From outside the cage, they dug a hole under the wire while the trapped raven dug from the inside, eventually making an opening large enough to crawl out. They have been documented using tools and making use of human equipment, such as bathing in sprinklers. Extraordinarily playful, they are inventive in their quest for fun. A few of the many reported behaviors include sliding down a snow-covered hill on their bellies, dropping and catching objects while in flight or passing them among each other, hanging upside down by one foot, playing tug-or-war, and harrassing other animals by pecking on their tails. In one instance a pair of ravens played an endless game of tag. One raven strutted close by a cat that gazed intently at the bird, apparently anticipating an an easy snack. In the meantime the other bird would quietly approach from behind to pull on the cat’s tail. As the cat turned to see what was tugging on it, the other raven would then pull on the again unprotected tail. This game went on four hours until the exhausted cat crawled off.

Supreme aerialists, they are often the only species surfing the sky on a very windy day when even the eagles are earthbound. Although they seem to be fearless, in reality, they are wary around humans and other unfamiliar objects. They generally inhabit areas more distant from human concentration areas than their cousin, the American Crow. They are dependent on coyote or wolves to open the carcasses of large animals, and although they will approach the predatory mammals, it is with the extreme caution on which their lives depend.

Pairs remain together throughout the year, and in winter, groups of ravens often roost together, possibly to reduce the effect of extreme low temperatures and wind chill. In areas where winter foods consist mostly of deer or elk carcasses, flocks of 50-100 are common. In other areas where grain is a major food source, up to 2,000 ravens have been seen together.

Perhaps the word adaptable should be included in the species’ name. Whatever the challenge, they rise to the occasion. One of my favorite sights occurs daily in the Jemez if one cares to climb to the higher mesa tops to look down on this magnificent bird as it plays on the thermals, rolling, diving, and climbing, all the while croaking with the harsh voice that was left to Rainbow Crow. If you look closely at a raven feather reflecting in the sunlight, you just might see the remains of the former rainbow.

Just a Sparrow

Female House Sparrow. Photo by Dave Herr

It was a rainy afternoon in the monsoon season of New Mexico. After a long day at work, I rounded the corner onto my street, so close to home that I was almost relaxed. Then, I saw her, a little wet lump sitting exactly on the center stripe of the road, obviously stunned. It was just a sparrow. A House Sparrow to be exact, scourge of North America in the minds of many; an introduced exotic species that out competes our native birds.

A thousand thoughts ran through my mind in the blink of an eye. Foremost was, quite soon, someone would surely make that left turn into the McDonald’s parking lot, and it would be her final moment. Even though there are a lot of House Sparrows here, I couldn’t let that happen. I whipped my Explorer around into a garden center parking lot, looking through the car quickly for a jacket, towel, or something that I could use to try to capture the bird. There was nothing. Well, the wet, feathered lump was still sitting there, but at least still alive. Perhaps she would be stunned enough that I could just pick her up.

I should have known better. I dashed out into the rain, and tried to unobtrusively sneak up on the little sparrow. Although stunned, she was certainly not oblivious to the giant human now in hot pursuit. She perked right up, and tried to look as healthy as possible. One tiny little wing dragged and was clearly broken, but there was nothing wrong with her legs. Off she dashed across the street and right into the McDonald’s drive-thru lane. I skirted around and she raced off toward the shrubs. If I was worried about looking foolish before, it was nothing compared to how I felt as cars began to stop and look at the strange woman chasing a tiny bird through the parking lot. Ms. Sparrow made it to the juniper before me, but I arrived before she scrambled beneath what she viewed as safety. A quick flip of the wrist and I had the prize firmly in my wet hand. Returning to the car, I realized that I had no box or cloth with which to confine her for the one-block trip to the house. Nor could I drive, shift, and hold the sparrow. I stuffed her into the leftover McDonald’s bag that had held that morning’s breakfast burrito. Somehow, it seemed fitting.

The House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) is an Old World sparrow, not related to the American, or New World, sparrows that are native to North America. There are more than thirty species of native New World sparrows in our country, all of which are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. While some of our native sparrows are abundant, for others there are serious conservation concerns, as well as significant threats.

However, when the word “sparrow” is mentioned, it is the ubiquitous House Sparrow that comes to mind. In 1851 and 1852, 100 birds were introduced in Brooklyn, New York to help control the canker worms that infested many of the trees in the parks. Ironically, this lowly sparrow, set free to control an insect pest, is primarily a seed-eating bird. There were no natural predators in our country for the little urban dwelling sparrow and they thrived in their new land. The House Sparrow is now one of the most abundant songbirds on our continent, with an estimated 150 million birds in North America. Although abundant, long term data indicate a general continental decline in the House Sparrow population.

Worldwide there is great concern about the survival of the species. During the 1950s, the Mao Tse Tung regime unleashed a campaign to rid that country of the House Sparrow, resulting in targeted and committed persecution of the bird. In the United Kingdom, populations have declined as much as 83%, without any known deliberate killing of even a single bird.

In the Netherlands, it is an endangered species. In 1995, the misadventure of one unfortunate sparrow that flew in through an open window and knocked over 23,000 dominoes incited the wrath of environmental groups worldwide. The ill-fated bird flew into an exposition center in the northern city of Leeuwarden, where employees of TV company Endemol NV had worked for weeks setting up more than 4 million dominoes in an attempt to break the official Guinness World Record for falling dominoes. The little sparrow was chased into a corner and shot by an exterminator with an air rifle.

The following day, the Dutch animal protection agency demanded prosecution, "Under Dutch law, you need a permit to kill this kind of bird, and a permit can only be granted when there's a danger to public health or a crop," said agency spokesman Niels Dorland. "That was not the case. I might add: Is it really necessary to kill a bird that knocked over a few dominoes for a game?" he asked. The story made headlines worldwide. Not since Cock Robin has the death of a tiny bird caused such emotion.

Eventually, the Dutch Bird Protection Agency reported that although it was a very sad incident, it had been blown out of all proportion. "I just wish we could channel all this energy that went into one dead sparrow into saving the species," Dorland stated.

In my case, Ms. Sparrow stayed the night, regularly breaking out of the box that held her on my kitchen countertop. She was transported to Wildlife Rescue the following morning, and at last report was doing just fine, living with all the other House Sparrows in the rehab center. Humans have interfered with her life since she before she born, from releasing her species into a strange world, to her encounter that rainy day with someone’s bumper. She is just one sparrow. But she did not die a lingering death in a parking lot, thanks to wildlife rehabilitators who care enough to put the time and energy into her recovery. And one determined lady who wouldn’t have been able to sleep that night if I had just driven on by.