Archive for Canada
I’m not a scientist, and I certainly wouldn’t play one on TV, but as an outsider and a layman, it seems to me that some Ontario birders are rolling over and playing dead for no reason at all.
In November of last year, a suspect oriole was discovered in the eastern part of the province. In the first, rather poor photos I saw — there are now much better ones out there — the bird was gray-bellied and dull-throated, with a clear black eye line. A perfectly reasonable consensus was reached that the bird was a Bullock’s oriole, a nice find indeed but hardly earth-shattering at the season anywhere in the east.
The story continued to unfold in the usual way: the exuberant posts from exuberant birders tallying a lifer, the inevitable accusations of harassment and bad manners on the part of photographers and those armed with audio recordings, the gradual settling down as the bird gradually settled in. And the “rescue.”
The absurdity of “rescuing” vagrant birds in the wintertime is something I’m happy to rant about any time you’re ready, but in this case, holding the bird in captivity provided an opportunity to conduct a little genetic analysis. As it turns out, material gathered from the bird’s droppings included mitochondrial DNA identifiable as that of a Baltimore oriole.
Meaning, of course, that among this bird’s female forebears was a Baltimore oriole.
Now come the retractions, the recantings, the regrets. You can almost hear the check marks being erased from birders’ lists. But why?
There is probably no Bullock’s oriole on the planet that does not have a bit of the Baltimore coursing through its veins. We know this, and we’re happy to ignore it when we identify birds in the field — just as we gladly ignore the fact that the family tree of nearly every mallard on the east coast is studded with black ducks, and that there isn’t a “black” towhee on the great plains that is not the product of repeated miscegenation. It’s biochemically messy out there.
For the past century and a half, we’ve known that there is no such thing as a species. For the past century and a quarter, birding in North America has been intentionally cast as an exercise in identification of species. If we want to keep understanding birding in that way — and many of us do — we have to both acknowledge and insist on the difference between what we do and what the scientists do. Our tools are our eyes and our minds, not blenders and litmus paper.
If I were in Ontario and cared, I’d count it. And I wouldn’t let a little thing like DNA get in my way.
I can’t claim to have read (or to want to read) all of the vast literature on the Passenger Pigeon and its decline, but I’ve perused enough to know that it is all much of a sameness, fact after repeated fact piling up into a story that is more and more familiar as this sad commemorative year goes on.
I’ve come to be more interested in — and sometimes more charmed by — those texts where pigeons and their habits and history are not the central subject, but rather where the birds flutter around the edges, as it were.
On May 6, 1721, the Jesuit explorer and historian Pierre François Xavier de Charlevoix found himself becalmed at Quebec’s ominously named Anse de la Famine, “the worst place in the world,” as he called it. To pass the time, he caught up on his “historical journal,” composed (or at least published) as a series of letters addressed to the Duchess of Lesdiguières.
“This contrary wind,” he wrote,
gives every impression of lingering for a while and of keeping me here in the worst place in the world for more than a day. I will overcome the annoyance by writing to you. Whole armies are passing without pause of those pigeons that we call turtles; if only one of those would take up my letters, then you might learn some of my news before I leave this place: but the natives have not figured out how to train the birds to that occupation, as they say the Arabs and many other peoples did long ago.
Charlevoix’s scientific, factual report on the birds is well known and widely reproduced — and apart from its early date, just a few years after Catesby, doesn’t really add much to what we know: the flocks once darkened the skies, they’re easy to shoot from the trees, they are kept and fattened to be killed and dressed in autumn.
But doesn’t the image of the homesick writer, looking longingly out the window and hoping that the wind will change — doesn’t that passage tell us more about the way the pigeon was experienced and what the pigeon meant than a whole sheaf of life history details? I think so.
A hundred years ago today, Canada’s first Tufted Titmouse was discovered — where else? — at Point Pelee. What must it have been like to hear those now-familiar whistles for the first time?
Among the birds from the final voyage of James Cook sent back to England was a new thrush, collected at Nootka Sound in what would later be British Columbia. The skins wound up in the collection of Joseph Banks, the naturalist on Cook’s first expedition, who passed them on to John Latham to prepare the formal description.
Latham named the bird the Spotted Thrush, a name taken over into scientific Latin a few years later by Gmelin as Turdus naevius, the “thrush with freckles.”
I’ve wondered for years just what those spots and dots were meant to be, and now, thanks to The Marvel That Is The Internet, there’s no reason to guess. We can know.
Latham says that the coverts of the wing are
ash-colour; the lesser ones plain; all the others marked with a ferruginous triangular spot at the tip: the prime quills dusky; each feather marked with two ferruginous spots on the outer web, one near the base, the other about the middle; the second quills have one of these marks near the end, but paler.
Those intricate wing markings are the only “spots” Latham’s account mentions. Gmelin, too, fidus interpres that he was, points out the same “macula” and no others.
Thomas Pennant, writing two years after Latham published his description, was apparently less impressed by the bird’s freckled wing and more interested in the overall pied aspect of its plumage. Pennant gave us both one of the least successful portraits ever of the species and its enduring English name, Varied Thrush.
Pennant’s plate is so bad, in fact, that it misled Swainson and Richardson, who had access only to a single, molting specimen, to deny that the bird was a thrush at all:
it exhibits unequivocal indications of those characters by which Orpheus [the thrashers, catbirds, and mockingbirds] is so decidedly separated from the true Thrushes…. This opinion is, in a great measure, confirmed by the figure of Pennant, where the tail is represented as rounded, and fully as long as the wings, a structure which precisely agrees with the American Mocking-bird.
In order to “express what appears to us its real affinities,” Swainson coined new English and scientific names for the bird, Orpheus meruloides, the Thrush-like Mock-bird.
Swainson’s view didn’t really catch on. Audubon, with “numerous specimens of this Thrush in [his] possession,” which he compared carefully to skins of the American Robin and “another new Thrush from Chili,” came to the
opinion that both these and the Chilian species are as nearly allied as possible, and therefore ought to be considered as true Thrushes….
With few and infrequent exceptions, such as the brief entry in Lesson’s Notices of 1840, ornithology has agreed with Audubon. In January 1854, though, almost three years to the day after the old man’s death, Charles Bonaparte went out of his way to take a cheap shot at his erstwhile friend:
Notwithstanding the efforts of the pen and the paintbrush of the famous ornithologist Audubon, Turdus naevius, Gm. (Orpheus meruloides, Sw.), is neither a Turdus thrush [Bonaparte: Grive] nor even a mimid [Chanteur], but a teniopterian bird, the type of my new genus Ixoreus.
That is simply mean-spirited, and Bonaparte deserved what he got when Philip Lutley Sclater pointed out that the ornithologist prince had been far more confused than either Audubon or Swainson:
The true type of Prince Bonaparte’s .. Ixoreus … is, as I know from its having been pointed out to me by the founder [viz., Bonaparte] in the Jardin [des] Plantes’ collection, the S[outh] American Taenioptera rufiventris….
If I’ve run the synonymies correctly, Taenioptera rufiventris is an obsolete name for the Streak-throated Bush-Tyrant. Thus, even as he ridiculed Audubon for his taxonomic naivete, Bonaparte was confusing the Varied Thrush with an entirely different bird, a lovely neotropical flycatcher.
Audubon’s old protégé Spencer Baird, on learning of Bonaparte’s confusion, decided to drop Ixoreus entirely, and coined the new and very pretty genus name Hesperocichla for the thrush. Not until 1902 did Charles Richmond restore the name Ixoreus:
it is yet plain that [Bonaparte’s] term was based upon Gmelin’s name.
His heart, in other words, was in the right place, and Ixoreus it has been always since.
Who else out there knows that sinking feeling when you show up for a field trip in the worst possible weather–and there are people waiting for you? And who understands how just a few seconds of birding with friends can make the worst weather disappear and the day brighten?
That was our experience this morning at Kitsilano Point and Vanier Park. It was miserable when I arrived, but the four of us put up our hoods and had a great time–and the weather actually improved, with a patch of dry sky mid-morning and nothing really worse than mist by the time we broke up at 11:00.
As usual, waterfowl provided the major highlights. The strange Bufflehead x Common Goldeneye hybrid was bobbing around at very close range, giving us great looks at this strikingly beautiful bird; Alison and I had seen it yesterday afternoon on our scouting, too, so I was glad it deigned to perform for the group this morning. A drake Eurasian Wigeon was on the Vanier pond–yesterday afternoon we’d also found a female, but she was sensibly tucked up somewhere out of the rain.
The scoter flock was very close to shore this morning, hundreds of Surf Scoters forming and reforming their lines and blobs and clusters. At least half a dozen White-winged Scoters were mixed in, and the morning’s real prize was a female Black Scoter, the first for me on English Bay of a species said to have been hugely abundant there not that many years ago.
So a great morning in great company, and with the rain tapering off, I met Daniel at the eagle-adorned totem pole (real Bald Eagles, not just carved ones) and stopped quickly at home for another waterproof layer before heading south to Alaksen. We pulled in just to find a small group of birders leaving. Smiling birders. Happy birders. And we shared their delight when we found the lingering Yellow-breasted Chat right away, not just near but actually under the breezeway leading to the offices. She (a dull lore) was even vocalizing, giving a chat-like buzz and wheeze as she fed on the ground and in the open trees. Poor Karen, trying to get from one building to the other, was stranded for some moments as she very generously waited for us to tire or the chat to fly off–the latter occurred before the former, but not before we’d had splendid views of a major December rarity.
Where to next? Skies were brightening, so we decided to go looking for owls nearby. Big ones eluded us, but our 700th or so search of a trailside holly turned up a splotch of whitewash and its snoozing author.
This was my first living Northern Saw-whet Owl of the year, and one of the sweetest little creatures of 2010 so far. And of course we paused on the way back out Westham Island Road for a look at the Northern Hawk Owl, making for a pretty good strigid day on top of a pretty good warbler day on top of a pretty good waterfowl day.
I like BC in December, I’ve decided.