Taking Flight

After a few practice flights, my work managing the Black Hills Audubon Society's (BHAS) Facebook page has begun to take off in earnest.

When I started the work for BHAS last May, I blogged about it here. During the course of the ensuing nine months, I tried a few different things to engage and increase the organization's followers. Starting with 364 followers, I saw a small increase initially, but as I fine-tuned my strategies for making posts, the follower totals and the engagements began to soar.

November represented the point at which everything started to come together. The daily reach of posts dwarfed the rate seen earlier, going from 27 on January 1, 2019, to a current high of 377 on February 10, 2020, (see Graph 1). Likewise, the number of people viewing the site jumped up, particularly when it came to people viewing the homepage and scheduled events (see Graph 2). Paralleling these trends, the number of followers saw a marked rise. Currently, the page has 484 followers, an increase of nearly 33 percent in nine months. What's more, all of those growth points coincided with an uptick in people attending the organization's events, and many of those individuals credited the Facebook posts with bringing them there.

The successes on the BHAS Facebook page have also brought two intangible results. First, I have thoroughly enjoyed doing the work. It's a great combination of strategy and fun. Second, because of the measurable results in followers, engagements, and event attendance, managing the page has been very fulfilling. I can see the impact of my work and know that it's helping a great organization.

Stay tuned to see how high this project flies.

In a Flourish, Not a Flash

A lot can happen in nine years; but in the case of Townsend's warbler, a lot more can happen in a couple of months.

My first sighting of a Townsend's warbler occurred on January 1, 2011, an unexpected burst of yellow in the middle of winter. The second sighting did not happen in a flash though. In fact, so much time passed after the first sighting without a recurrence that I began to consider it an accident.

On November 24, 2019, I saw a Townsend's warbler
for the first time in nearly nine years.

When I next saw a Townsend's warbler, the sighting kicked off a flourish of activity. On November 24, 2019--almost nine years after my first sighting--I spotted a Townsend's warbler in the yard. I didn't see it again for a while, so I figured I had just had another flash encounter. Then, on December 19, things started to become extremely interesting. In the middle of a downpour, four Townsend's warblers (at least one adult male, one adult female, and possibly two juveniles) landed in the yard. I've seen at least one on three separate occasions since then, including three birds yesterday. One even registered itself as the seventh species I saw on New Year's Day when I began my yearly bird count afresh. Considering the long wait between my first and second sightings, this feels like a barrage of action.

Once elusive, the Townsend's warbler has turned into a reliable visitor. With its striking color, it has added variety to the usual core of avian yard frequenters. To have the warblers stick around for this long at this time also means that I can count the species on my yearly list for both 2019 and 2020. I am thoroughly enjoying their consistent presence, and I hope they'll stay for a while yet.

Although it took a long time to see another Townsend's warbler after my first brief sighting, the string of encounters since November has supplied enough joy to more than make up for the extended absence.

Close to My Heart

Naturally, we want to protect the things closest to our hearts, so I am asking for help in conserving a piece of nature close to mine.

Wetlands at the Davis Creek Wildlife Area Unit.

Two weeks ago, the Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife (WSDFW) announced a set of land-acquisition projects for 2020. Of course, all of these projects are important to expanding the department's conservation and wildlife efforts, and I support each of them, but tucked in amongst the others, you'll find one of special value to me.

The Davis Creek Addition represents the only piece of Grays Harbor County to make the list of possible acquisitions. It would add 416 acres to the existing 535-acre Davis Creek Wildlife Area Unit and would provide key habitat for many bird species. Those are all great reasons to support this proposed acquisition if you have never visited this out-of-the-way pocket of southwest Washington, but I have personal reasons as well.

An old farm provided the land for the existing wildlife area.
Now, WSDFW has an opportunity to add to the unit with the
acquisition of land both north and south of it.

Protecting the land on the Davis Creek Addition feels like protecting a part of myself. I've felt similar feelings for other conservation efforts before, but this part of me resides right in my core because that property sits so close to where I was raised. I've driven by it hundreds of times. Friends from childhood lived within walking distance of it. I remember playing on the prairie just across the road. So when I visited the Davis Creek Unit a few days ago, the importance of protecting and expanding it enveloped me. I felt intimately connected to it, and I realized that conserving it means safeguarding a piece of my heart.

WSDFW will take comments on the 2020 acquisition projects until January 3. You can e-mail your comments to lands@dfw.wa.gov or mail them to: Real Estate Services, PO Box 43158, Olympia, WA 98504.

With all my heart, I hope you'll join me in asking WSDFW to purchase the Davis Creek Addition.

By Necessity, By Design, By Me

Some things don't go exactly like they are drawn up, and some things do. In the case of my work for the Black Hills Audubon Society, both are true.

When I started helping the Black Hills Audubon Society in May, my duties focused on managing the organization's Facebook page. That's gone well. However, a new twist developed in August when the organization sent out a call for help on an upcoming brochure. I'd done some layout projects and worked with graphic designers before, but I had never created a brochure on my own, so I offered to help on this project if the organization couldn't find a professional graphic designer who would work for free.

A look at the brochure I created for
the Black Hills Audubon Society.

Necessity took over when Black Hills Audubon couldn't land a pro. I was it, so they turned to me, and I turned my attention to figuring out what I needed to do. Before I met with them to discuss the project in detail, I created a rough sketch of a simple trifold brochure. My goal was to tell a visual story with the images guiding the reader's eye. Slightly to my surprise (after all, I wasn't a layout expert), they liked it and turned me loose with their only request being that I use a Microsoft Word template, a stipulation that made my design work a bit easier.

That rough sketch proved an effective guide. Using the photographs and text Black Hills Audubon provided and a brochure template I thought worked well, I implemented my vision. By the time I sent out a draft for comments, I started feeling considerable excitement and pride about the product. It just looked good! At least, I thought it did. Still, I was again a little surprised when they agreed with my assessment without requiring any major changes. They were happy, and that made me even happier.

When I received copies of the finished brochure, I couldn't help but smile. There it was: My vision, my design, and my work, all derived from necessity, smoothly developed, and successfully executed.

Back in May, I didn't know my foray into managing a Facebook page would lead to designing and laying out a brochure, but I am glad for the challenge and the chance to put my stamp on this project for Black Hills Audubon.

The Real Lost World

It's quite an irony that we make films about the dangers of bringing dinosaurs back from extinction while we threaten the existence of their avian descendants.

Jurassic Park and its four sequels like The Lost World: Jurassic Park have hit home the consequences of wielding genetic power to resurrect the dinosaurs. One of the themes from the films challenges humans to think about the damage they may inflict before mindlessly plowing ahead with a harmful action.

We aren't bringing dinosaurs back at any point in the near future though, so it might be best to first examine how we already impact existing species. If we don't want to stray too far from dinosaurs, let's check out what we are doing to birds, the dinosaurs' living legacy.

A rufous hummingbird, one of the species
most at risk of extinction from global warming.

In a new report, Survival by Degrees: 389 Bird Species on the Brink, the Audubon Society shows how global warming threatens two-thirds of all bird species in North American with extinction. Half of the species in Washington state alone face extinction from a temperature increase of three degrees Celsius. Instead of the power to create addressed by Jurassic Park, we are wielding the power to destroy, and we are doing it just as recklessly as John Hammond and the host of other characters who tried to cash in on dinosaurs.

The report from the Audubon Society does a great job of helping us visualize the possible consequences of our actions. We should take it as an opportunity to consider where we go from here.

No horror from any of the Jurassic Park stories could match the awfulness of wiping out the animals most closely related to dinosaurs.

Different This Time

For my hike at Mount Rainier this summer, I chose a familiar trail and came away with a new view of it.

In 2016, I hiked the trail at Rampart Ridge near Longmire. The experience stayed with me as one of my favorite places at Mount Rainier National Park. In fact, it made such an impression on me that I blogged about it here. The one thing that trip lacked was a view of the mountain. Heavy clouds that made for a misty, mystical hike also concealed Rainier, creating an opportunity for a return visit and a fresh look at Rampart Ridge.

This year's hike started out much like the one three years ago. When we arrived at Longmire, clouds covered Mount Rainier. Even as we reached one of the viewpoints on the ridge, the mountain remained hidden. However, the sun had started to break through in places, hinting that better views might appear soon. We stayed at the viewpoint a while, and the very top of the mountain began to show. With another viewpoint ahead, we resumed the hike.

The clearing view of Mount Rainier from Rampart Ridge.

Upon reaching the second viewpoint, the familiar trail looked altogether different from what I remembered. Last time, the clouds hugged the top of the ridge, making everything feel close. This time, the expanse across Kautz Creek had opened up to reveal sections of the mountain. The trend was clear: The clouds would soon leave the view entirely untrammeled, so we sat, ate lunch, and watched the entirety of the mountain emerge. By the time the wind had blown away the last of the clouds, it was hard to believe that we had been to that very spot before. What a spectacular view the clouds had kept secret!

It was a long hike (three years) to get that view of Mount Rainier from Rampart Ridge, but I ended up with two very different ways of knowing the trail.

First Sight and Further Reflection

A brown pelican fishing a Moclips.

One of the birds I saw on a recent trip to the beach took me about a second to identify; another bird required a couple of days and input from two other birders.

As I walked toward the ocean at Moclips two weeks ago, I saw the unmistakeable profile of a brown pelican flying down the beach. Just like that, I had added to my 2019 birding list.

Later, while wading at the waterline, I added to the list again. This time though, I wouldn't know for sure that I had added to it until more than 24 hours later. That's because the second identification was difficult. Among a group of western sandpipers and least sandpipers, I saw a strange interloper. Like the other two species around it, this bird was a smallish shorebird, but it was slightly larger than the others and had distinct plumage. I took some pictures of it for later identification.

An early-arriving sanderling.

The pictures didn't help much even when I consulted my field guides or online sources like All About Birds. Finally, I sent a picture to a contact at the Black Hills Audubon Society. She guessed it was a sanderling but wasn't sure because the pattern on its breast was a bit unusual, so she sent the picture to another birder, who confirmed it was a sanderling. Besides having slightly different plumage, the bird was also an early arrival on its migration and marked my very first sighting of the species; so the identification was definitely worth the wait.

Whether I know it at first sight or need further reflection to identify it, any bird is a fun and rewarding addition to my birding list.

By the Sound of It

What looks like frustration but sounds like satisfaction? Bird-watchers know the answer is a flycatcher.

Willow flycatcher at the Billy Frank Jr.
Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge.

Many types of flycatchers look maddeningly indistinguishable from each other. Generally, they appear very plain with many of the species lacking clear, visual identifiers. Using sight alone, about all people can be sure of is that they saw some sort of flycatcher. (The birds do have a distinct profile with a large head and a common habit of perching near the tops of trees, flying out to catch insects, and returning to their perch to repeat the hunt.) But was it a willow flycatcher, a Pacific-slope flycatcher, or maybe a western wood-pewee? Even with photographic evidence, a birder can spend hours trying and failing to decide.

I speak from experience about the vexing nature of identifying flycatchers by sight. Until the last couple of years, the difficulty in doing so nearly beat me into submission. The longer the identification process takes, the more upsetting it becomes until it reaches the dejecting feeling of failure: There's a bird right in front of you, waiting to be added to your list, but you just can't make a certain determination, so the opportunity is lost. After several failures like that, you kind of don't want to bother with flycatchers anymore.

Then, there's the peace, joy, and empowerment of identifying flycatchers by sound. Learning their songs and calls is really the only way to deal with flycatchers, and once you've done that, you might as well be the smartest, most powerful person in the world because that's how it feels. I've gone from staring at photographs in exasperation to walking along and making an identification without even turning my head to see the bird that made the sound. By itself, the contrast in processes and outcomes is enough to put a smile on my face, but the knowledge of the birds' sounds carries something more powerful: the confidence of connecting to and understanding the surrounding environment. It's like knowing some great secret of life, a secret those confounding flycatchers have kept all this time.

Trying to identify flycatchers by sight is an aggravating process that makes you feel like you can't do anything, but learning to identify them by sound gives you a feeling of nirvana and omnipotence.

On the Song of the Swainson's Thrush

Swainson's thrush.

Nothing humankind has done or will ever do could rival the ancient power in the song of the Swainson's thrush.

If that sound were to disappear from Earth, I think the planet would collapse upon itself in great throes of agony.

Just the Little Things and a Very Big Mountain

Yesterday morning, I shared Mount St. Helens with some of its small residents and not much else.

I first noticed the lack of human activity when I didn't see another eastbound car on Highway 504. Considering that the highway leads to the popular Johnston Ridge Observatory, I found its emptiness quite a surprise. My amazement grew when I saw only one car in the parking lot at Coldwater Lake and then no cars at the lot for the Hummocks Trailhead. I might as well have been the only human in the entire Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument. That's such an exhilarating feeling.

A warbling vireo along the
Hummocks Trail at Mount St. Helens.

Once on the Hummocks Trail though, I was anything but alone. Birds, including a large group of warbling vireos that kept me company to the base of Johnston Ridge, sang all around, and seemingly, every boulder had a chipmunk atop it. One of these rodents was the smallest of its species that I have ever seen. Its tail could not have been longer than two inches.

Part way up Johnston Ridge, I stopped to photograph Mount St. Helens and the surrounding area. Eventually, another hiker, the only one I would see in five hours on the trail, came along. We talked about the mountain for a little while, and when he left, I sat and watched clouds move around the crater. In the meantime, a western meadowlark started singing nearby--a retiring bird with a big voice providing the soundtrack for one of the most powerful places on Earth. It was a timeless moment, and with the other hiker well up the hill, it belonged to me alone. All I had to do was enjoy it, and that's just what I did.

That other hiker most certainly also missed the toad I saw on my way back down the ridge. I only happened to catch a glimpse of it before it retreated into its hole along the trail, but I couldn't believe my luck in the discovery. The toad had been warming itself in the morning sun, looking out on the mountain at the same time I had been. Mountain watching with a toad--how cool! A bit farther down the trail, I saw a lizard scurrying on the rocks. Overall, in the absence of people, the landscape teamed with activity for me to observe.

By the time I returned to my car, at least 10 other vehicles occupied the lot, and more sat in the lot at Coldwater Lake. However, even when I recorded my very first sighting of a Vaux's swift over the lake, I don't think anyone else noticed. That little bird flitted and swooped overhead, but like so many other events around the mountain yesterday, the sighting was all mine.

To me, yesterday will always be the day I experienced Mount St. Helens with just the little things.