Tag Archives: double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus)

Like, OMG, they have crests

In decades of living at White Rock Lake where double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) are year-round residents, I never captured a photo of one with breeding crests, the one physical trait from which their name is derived.  Oh sure, I’d seen the crests before.  But a picture?  Nope, not so much.

Until now.

Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) with breeding crests (2010_04_03_051914)

A few days ago as I walked along the north bank of Dixon Branch, the lazy sun still hanging low enough in the southern sky to make the creek one vast reflection of blinding starlight, I spied a dark form as it emerged from beneath the cover of riparian brush.  With me facing into the sunshine and this specter in the shadows, I couldn’t tell what it was but could tell it was large enough not to be a duck.

Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) with breeding crests (2010_04_03_051922)

It eventually moved close enough for me to see it clearly.  And it was near enough to my position for me to recognize the crests.  Then the scramble was on to capture an image or two before it moved into the direct sunshine where my position would make it impossible to photograph.

Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) with breeding crests (2010_04_03_051942)

Though I reviled the inconvenience of having the sun in my eyes—and therefore in the lens—even a backlit crested cormorant is better than none at all.

And a few hours later as I looped around the creek and headed back along the south bank, guess who came by heading back toward the shadows of the creek?

Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) with breeding crests (2010_04_03_052001)

I felt somewhat overjoyed with the encounter.  These birds are always here, right?  So why be ecstatic with just one more double-crested cormorant, a species so ubiquitous that I can photograph them any day of the year?

Because: Look it!  Crests!

Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) with breeding crests (2010_04_03_051983)

Though really more like tufts of poorly groomed feathers on either side of the head.  But still.

Ah…  Photos twenty years in the making.  I’m feeling, like, totally accomplished.

(Now marking off yet another entry from the “must photograph” list.  Only a gazillion more items to go…)

All in a day’s walk – December 24, 2008

Christmas Eve.  Warm weather and plenty of sunshine beckoned me to the lake for an afternoon walk following yet another day of laborious boredom in the office.  Someone has to pay the bills around here…

In the minute plus a few seconds it took me to walk down the private drive into the park, already I had to stop, had to take notice.

A tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor) clinging to the underside of a large branch (2008_12_24_002691)

Have I mentioned how enamored I am of the tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor)?

Something about such small bodies full of such attitude, full of such piss and vinegar.

They enthrall me.

This one clinging to the bottom of a large tree bellowed its opinions upon the still air as I stood beneath.

I love the attitude.  I love that they join in the mobbing of predators even when all other participants dwarf them by leaps and bounds.  I love that they scream their superiority upon the wind sans consideration for the size of all challengers.

I love their bigger-than-life personalities.

After watching this one pillage the trunk to which it clung, I moved on a bit, although I didn’t make it far before I came across a beautiful man who likewise yelled at me as I invaded his space.

A male red-bellied woodpecker (Melanerpes carolinus) perched on the side of a tree (2008_12_24_002697)

A male red-bellied woodpecker (Melanerpes carolinus) flitted from branch to branch prior to landing in the tree under which I stood.

I backed away from both plant and animal the moment I saw him so I could get a better view.

And he immediately complained about the encounter.

I’ve stood beneath this species as two of its kind tussled from high up until they fell to the ground with a thud.

A loud thud, one that worried me as I set my gaze upon the birds wrestling in winter grass.

Both took to wing as I tried to sneak closer, so no serious damage was done, although I feared for both of them with how far they fell and the rather abrupt stop that sounded like a bowling ball hitting the ground.

But on this day, this warm Christmas Eve, no challengers save me could be found, so no tussle ensued.

Yapping the whole way, he climbed further up the tree at which point I left him to his day.

A turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) soaring overhead (2008_12_24_002721)

While American black vultures usually play hard to find, turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) rarely miss an opportunity to be seen.  They’re rather conceited that way, thinking themselves awfully pretty and awfully worth looking at.

After leaving the woodpecker to his quest for lunch, I stopped near the confluence in Sunset Bay to watch some people feeding the waterfowl.  Sure, the city frowns on that practice and posts signs declaring as much, but people still do it.  All the time.

I knelt in the brittle winter grass and wallowed in the sound of it crunching beneath my knees.

Then a shadow passed over me, a large one sweeping across the ground like a paint brush dripping with darkness wielded by a true artist.

I looked up.

The vulture had just started its climb into the air.

Despite being mostly behind trees from my perspective, a tiny space between two ligneous leviathans gave me the room needed to take a photo.

Such beautiful creatures these vultures, these seekers of death who can inflict it as easily as they find it inflicted by others.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) foraging on the ground (2008_12_24_002733)

Then a brief sound arose from the hoard jockeying for a bit of bread from the old couple feeding the wildlife.  A raspy, throaty, scratching sound I know all too well.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) finished his declaration of supremacy with a downward sweep to inspect some shiny bauble that caught his attention.

Actually, it was a bit of bread tossed to him by the elderly man.  He seemed to appreciate grackles as much as I do, a feeling rare in these parts where most feel grackles are a nuisance only.

The female grackle who remained close to him made less of a photographic subject as she darted to and fro.

Too bad, too, as she was as lovely as he in very different ways.

A domestic greylag goose (Anser anser) swimming in the creek (2008_12_24_002737)

I think it’s unfortunate that people have released so many domestic swan geese and domestic greylag geese (Anser anser) at the lake.

Whether Chinese or African, these poor birds can hardly fly and have such a limited diet available that they require daily feedings from humans, something teaching other wildlife to depend on us for sustenance.

Yet would I wish them harm?  Clearly: No.

What I do wish is for people to be responsible, to understand the repercussions of their actions, to appreciate the delicate balance this lake requires for it to sustain the biological niche it serves: a full and vigorous wildlife refuge surrounded by some of Dallas’s most inner reaches.

If you can’t stop feeding the wildlife, at least stop feeding them processed foods like white bread.  It’s bad for them; it shortens their lives.

So when peripherally I saw this goose swimming by in the creek, I turned away from the grackle, shifted my knees on the ground, snapped this photo, and then wondered: How can you survive without people feeding you?  How much living will you miss because you need whatever humans provide in the way of sustenance?  How much sympathy can you expect from those who mindlessly tossed you here to eke out a living in a place that can’t support your kind?

Before welling up in tears, thankfully more swift movement from another direction helped me look away, helped me put those thoughts aside.

An American coot (Fulica americana) running by me (2008_12_24_002738)

This American coot (Fulica americana) dashed at full speed toward where I knelt.

But not so much at me as by me.

For I knelt in the brittle, dry grass only an arm’s length from where the elderly couple stood feeding the birds.

I regret that the coot was moving so fast and was so close that I couldn’t get a good photo.

I don’t regret that it was moving so fast and was so close that I captured this full gallop image as it raced headlong toward a free meal ticket.

Unlike the geese, coots do just fine on their own and survive here sans handouts.  But they’re thankful for the treats nonetheless.

It was then I tried gracefully to explain to the well-intentioned man and woman that feeding the animals doesn’t help, and I danced around and finally plunged headlong into saying the dinner rolls they offered made a terrible lunch for these animals, an unhealthy tidbit for humans and animals alike.

Blank stares mixed with offense drifted before me.

So I stood, my knees popping and cracking their complaints, and I turned away and walked to the pier.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) flying above the lake's surface (2008_12_24_002784)

American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) created perpetual motion with their comings and goings.

Some flew back to the bay after feeding while others flew out of the bay searching for lunch.

Catching this one winging its way back to the sandbar for some preening and rest gave me an opportunity to memorialize the pre-breeding beak.

You’ll notice there is no “horn” on top of its beak.  That horn begins growing in January or February as breeding season approaches.

As each bird prepares to woo a mate and secure a chance at procreating, a growth forms on top of the bill that eventually becomes the pelican version of a rhinoceros horn.

I always know the pelicans will leave soon when all of them sport this neat little accoutrement.

For now I can see they’ll be here a while longer.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002790)

Although Sunset Bay is my favorite place at the lake, large crowds on a welcoming pre-holiday afternoon made it too busy for my tastes.

I headed south along the east shore.

The northern edge of Winfrey Point gave me a moment to stop and appreciate a perched double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus).

My approach caught its attention and it turned to watch me, its jewel-like blue eye capturing the sun with splendor.

But then I realized I was on the wrong end of the bird.

Immediately after I snapped that photo, it’s tail went up.

I pressed the button again.

Then the reason for the lifted tail become clear: This one was clearing its bowels.

I turned away at the last minute considering I was quite close and didn’t have much interest in seeing that from the business end of the bird.

Instead, I moved on.

A killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) standing in an open field of dry grass (2008_12_24_002801)

I rounded Winfrey Point and saw gobs of people lining the shore as far south as Garland Road.  Apparently visiting the lake had become a major draw.

Facing the horde totally stepped on my buzz; therefore, I circled around the point and moved uphill back toward Sunset Bay.

Walking through a winter field of dry grass around these parts can scare up some interesting creatures.

The most common field inhabitant is the killdeer (Charadrius vociferus).

I must have thrashed the afternoon nap of at least a dozen of these plovers.

When they’re resting in brown ground cover as they’re wont to do, they become marvelously invisible until they start moving.

And when they start moving, they put a sharp eye on the interloper—in this case, me!—and they make a ruckus to let the invader know a sacred territory has been breached.

Oops!

I left them to their siesta and continued back toward the bay.

A European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) in nonbreeding plumage perched on a branch (2008_12_24_002837)

Feeling a bit like a lost child making loops through a store to find a parent only to keep seeing the same places over and over again, I passed boisterous crowds of people while trying to make my way through Sunset Bay and toward what I hoped to be quieter places near Stone Tables and places further north.

Along the way I couldn’t help but stop and appreciate some of the winter flora, like skeletal trees holding up the bones of the world for all to see.

And resting upon one such bone was this European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) in nonbreeding plumage.

I can agree with many that this species is invasive and that it has upset the natural order of North America.

I can also agree with many that this species makes life a lot more difficult for our native wildlife.

But I have to add this: We can’t undo what has been done.

Humans loosed the European starling onto this continent in an asinine attempt to introduce all the birds of Shakespeare upon the New World.

That didn’t go so well, at least for native birds who found a great deal of unhealthy competition suddenly set upon them by these aggressor species.

Nevertheless—and I repeat myself—we can’t undo what has been done, and we did it to ourselves.

So I accept the European starling as a disruptive element in our ecosystem.

I don’t like what it does and I don’t like the damage it inflicts, but I wouldn’t kill them all even if I could.  They can’t be blamed for our actions.

I left the starling to its lonely afternoon.

Two male lesser scaups (Aythya affinis) floating on calm water (2008_12_24_002868)

And where did I end up again?

Right back at the pier in Sunset Bay.

The thick mass of humanity had cleared a bit.  But only a bit.

I took the opportunity to crouch on the creaky wooden planks above calm water.

Lesser scaups (Aythya affinis) delight me to no end.  The Daffy Ducks of the world, they tickle me with their cartoonish looks.

Yet animated and childlike though they might seem, they’re also quite beautiful.

These two males floated carefree not too far from where I dangled myself over the lake trying to take photos.

Do they look concerned?

Nope.

A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) flying by me (2008_12_24_002897)

Stand to leave.

Hear shrieking from the air.

Turn to look.

Busybodies fly all around ready to swoop from the sky and nab tasty goodies from anyone who offers—or who can’t withstand the assault.

This juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) screamed its way by me.

I seriously doubt it had any clue why it was screeching or what it thought it might get in return for the yelling.

Well, truth be told, people expend a lot of effort feeding the wildlife here.

The gull probably thought it worth asking if I had a little something to share.

But I had nothing but the camera.

The bird swept easily through the air and circled the pier for a moment or two, then off it went in search of other trouble.

A white-winged dove (Zenaida asiatica) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002951)

Still too crowded for my tastes, I again left the pier, only this time I headed east along the creek.  The riparian landscape heavy with trees and thickets always offers a different smorgasbord of creatures.

Where I had first photographed green herons and yellow-crowned night herons, only naked branches stood in the afternoon warmth.

But something else was there as well.

Tucked back in the many islands of the confluence perched this white-winged dove (Zenaida asiatica).

Okay, let’s be honest: I scared up a litany of animals.  And I was on the opposite side of the creek!

Foraging in the crunchy, leaf- and twig-filled barren wasteland that is the winter ground, this dove became startled as I approached.  It then flitted into a tree where it felt safe watching me.

In turn, I felt bad for bothering it and walked away as quietly as I could.

A Carolina chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002963)

Which was about three steps before something else caught my eye.

Leaping from branch to branch as it nibbled at winter fruit and seeds, this Carolina chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) paused only briefly.

Its afternoon was full, you see, what with the whole chasing down lunch in winter thing that was going on.

Kinglets, titmice, woodpeckers, doves and other birds filled the area with the business of being busy, yet something about this little conspicuous critter held my attention.

It never moved closer to the edge of the creek where I might have had a clearer view.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed watching it through a barrier of naked limbs from where I perched on the opposite side of the waterway.

But then I had that feeling of being watched.

Strange how that works, how we somehow know when eyes are fixed upon us.

And I knew there were eyes resting all over me, intent and unflinching eyes.

So I turned.

A northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002979)

I commented at Mary’s place recently about northern mockingbirds (Mimus polyglottos) being my always companions when I take walks.

No matter the weather, no matter the surroundings, no matter the time of day, it never fails that a member of this species will be nearby keeping close tabs on me.  Even when all other birds scatter and hide, a mockingbird will fly in close and land in a place where it can watch me.

It’s become a sort of game, at least on my part.  The challenge is to find the bird.

And I always find one.

This particular mockingbird chose a bright sunny branch dangling over the creek that gave it a clear view of my position.

To test its mettle, I walked intently back toward the lake.  It hopped a bit further out on the branch to keep me in sight.

So I turned and walked back the other way, back toward the floodplain and Dixon Branch.  Its eyes tracked me like a predator watching a meal.

I laughed and thanked it for keeping everyone safe from the dangerous man with the camera.

An eastern boxelder bug nymph (Boisea trivittata) on a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (2008_12_24_002990)

Walking at the creek’s edge toward the bridge that would let me cross to the floodplain, flashes of gold punctuated each step.  Common dandelions (Taraxacum officinale) stood upright and showy, some still flowers while others had gone to seed.

A bit of movement on one of them drew me in closer.

A nymph.  More specifically, a young eastern boxelder bug (Boisea trivittata).

With a telephoto zoom lens on the camera, macro photography was out of the question.  In fact, I had to back away a few steps to get the scene in focus.

Sometimes I wish I could carry the whole camera store with me when I go for walks.

A true bug and not just an insect, these little critters can form rather large colonies when food is abundant.  Just ask xocobra: He and his family had a massive group of them take up residence outside their front door.

I grinned as I left the child to its investigation of the dandelion.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) in a tree holding a wad of black plastic in its mouth (2008_12_24_003001)

The sound of claws scampering on wood drew my eyes up to the treetops.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) ran from limb to limb, jumping from tree to tree, then paused when it realized I was watching it.

From my perspective, I knew it carried something in its mouth and I wanted to know what it was.

A bit of zoom and a button click made it clear: a wad of black plastic.

Nesting material I bet.  Or at least hope.  Yet also a sign of our lack of care and management.  I’ve seen too much garbage harm too many creatures at this lake.

It always disappoints and angers me.

Seeing this little tree rat leaping about with this material made me hope it didn’t pose a threat later.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) and an American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) foraging in winter grass (2008_12_24_003027)

I crossed the bridge and left the path as quickly as possible to escape the growing throng of people.  Who knew Christmas Eve was a major let’s-go-to-the-lake event?

Twigs and grass cracked and crackled beneath my feet as I walked onto the floodplain south of Dixon Branch.

Once I made it to the dry gulch that runs into the woods, I scared up a murder of crows perched in the trees above me.

Why crows are so skittish is beyond me.  They were so high up in the tree and I was still some distance from them, yet they panicked.

I followed their progress through the treetops and slowly turned until I saw another fox squirrel joining an American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) for a spot of afternoon foraging.

I was too far away for a good photo, so I walked slowly toward them with one eye looking through the viewfinder as I clicked and clicked.

As if I had leaped upon it from nearby, the crow suddenly took to the air and headed right for the trees.

I wasn’t even close enough to throw a stone at it, let alone pose a risk.

I tried capturing the escape even though I knew I was too far away.

What I captured was something else.

An American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) landing in a tree with a red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus) hiding in the branches (2008_12_24_003034)

Telephoto lenses aren’t particularly good at wide landscape shots.  Still, this image tells a story.

In the upper-left corner is the crow landing in the trees.  That’s simple enough.

Let’s talk about perspective: The branch that runs from the crow’s position to the right side of the picture actually juts out quite some distance above the floodplain.  It’s a large, heavy branch.

Now follow that branch to the right side of the photo just about centered from top to bottom.

See a hint of red and brown perched amongst the branches?

A juvenile red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus) sat in the tree in a place where it was perfectly camouflaged, a place that gave it a clear view of the birds and squirrels foraging in the open, a clear line of attack if only one of the animals would move far enough away from the thicket to give the hawk time.

I never realized the hawk was there as I walked toward the crows and squirrels.  In fact, it wasn’t until I was within about five yards/meters that the hawk finally saw me as a nuisance and left its perch.

It scared the heck out of me, took me completely by surprise.

The predator made a quick leap into the air and turned immediately into the dense woodlands.  Unlike its adult counterparts, it was still small enough to make a quick getaway through the branches, one replete with sharp turns and easy avoidance of the obstacles.

I wanted to kick myself for not seeing it sooner.

Go fish

Let me apologize in advance to nathalie with an h for not posting these photos until now.  I’ve been on call since Wednesday and have only last night enjoyed my first bit of sleep since Friday morning.  It’s been that kind of week and weekend.  But I digress…

Over a cup of coffee at Starbucks recently, we discussed the first All in a day’s walk in terms of photography, equipment, approach and so on—not to mention the plethora of wildlife presented.

You see, she’s a professional photographer with far more experience and much better equipment than I have, so I readily engage in “shop talk” with her as frequently as she’ll allow.  I listen intently, I ask questions, and I learn.

In terms of dealing with rough waters and strong winds and the other elemental considerations from January 18, we got around to discussing the image of a double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) carrying a fish.  That’s when I explained to her that that cormorant was in fact the second such bird to fight off a pelican while protecting its meal, and more importantly, the first cormorant had played with its much larger catch while swimming further away from me.

Those photos didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped due to distance and position: The birds were quite far from shore and I was facing south into the sun.  Therefore, I scrapped them.

Well, let’s be honest: Few of the pictures of things on the water’s surface turned out as well as I had hoped.  The water was simply too rough to provide a stable background.  I came home with a smorgasbord of photos showing empty water or bits of waterfowl hidden behind tall waves or subjects out of focus, all of which can be blamed on the fact that strong surface movement kept the whole of the lake in a perpetual state of turmoil.

This was the one case where, on the south side of Winfrey Point, the winds coming from the north ran aground and offered a tiny reprieve from the tumultuous waves inundating the rest of the lake.

As she and I talked a bit about what was in that post and I shared the story about the first cormorant, she adamantly said she wanted to see photo of the bird playing with its catch.  I agreed with one caveat: That she understand the photos weren’t as good as I would have liked.

So on with the tale…

I’ve explained before that many species join in when the pelicans hunt.  Unlike brown pelicans, white pelicans are surface feeders instead of divers.  They are also cooperative hunters: Groups of them form a floating line and push closer and closer together.  This herds fish into tighter and tighter circles until a feeding frenzy erupts as the pelicans finally meet in the middle.

Gulls, cormorants and ducks often join in this activity.  It’s actually quite interesting to watch since the pelicans will head out first and start congregating near the spillway.  As more and more of these avian giants leave, the cormorants begin flocking their way in the same direction.  Then go the gulls.  And any ducks already in the area or who see the activity likewise join the club.

When finally the pelicans begin to move, hundreds of waterfowl can be gathered together.  It looks like a naval fleet consisting of aircraft (gulls) and boats of varying sizes (pelicans, cormorants and ducks).  The cacophony will get your attention if the sight of so many creatures on the move doesn’t.

I saw the feeding flotilla out toward the center of the lake with spurious individuals sneaking away with whatever they caught.  Ducks and cormorants know that a pelican can and will kill them if it tries to go after a fish the lesser birds have in their possession.  It’s not that pelicans are violent or even trying to kill; it’s that they’re much larger than the other birds and can impale and/or drown them simply by trying to steal the fish.  (I’ve seen a cormorant grabbed in a pelicans beak and pushed underwater as the larger bird tried to “catch” the already caught fish.)

So the smart ones get out of the way fast when they have something to eat.

That’s when I first saw this cormorant.  The fish it carried was a large catfish that looked as big as the bird’s throat.  But I wasn’t the only one who noticed.  No sooner had I set my sights on the cormorant when a pelican flying back to Sunset Bay made a quick turn to intercept a free meal.  It landed pretty much on top of the cormorant, after which much splashing and wing flapping ensued.  Rough surface conditions made it impossible for me to see clearly what was happening so far out in the lake, yet I watched nonetheless in appreciation of the show.

After no more than 10 or 15 seconds, the pelican calmed down and floated quietly on the surface.  I didn’t see it eat anything, nor did I see the cormorant.  Then just as quickly as it had arrived, the pelican turned away and skipped across the surface of the lake as it took flight, then it arced silently and swept through the clear sky on its way back to the bay.

That’s when I noticed the cormorant had escaped with its meal!

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) swimming with a fish in its beak (2009_01_18_004692)

It broke the surface heading away from me.  I zoomed in as much as I could and snapped a photo.

Given the average size of cormorants, I estimated the catfish at about 1 foot/30 centimeters long.  Humans would consider it small by our fishing standards, but for a cormorant it certainly had to be viewed as a gluttonous feast.

I kept pressing the shutter button with the same belief I always have when taking photos: It’s digital, so it’s better to try and delete them later than not to try and miss something cool.

That’s when the cormorant turned and threw the fish into the air.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) tossing a fish into the air (2009_01_18_004693)

I’d like to believe, like cats, the cormorant was enjoying a bit of predator-prey play (although prey hardly find it fun), but in truth I suspect the bird needed to change the fish’s position after nearly losing it to the pelican.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) swimming with a fish in its beak (2009_01_18_004694)

It then turned away again and moved further toward the center of the lake, further from shore and into a more questionable photographic arena.  I was shooting at 400mm and still the bird was nothing but a black spot in the center of an ocean of blue.  (Yes, all of these photos are crops from much larger, much emptier images.  Eventually I will invest in a larger zoom telephoto lens, but not now and not soon.)

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) swimming with a fish in its beak (2009_01_18_004695)

Another westward turn and the bird-fish combo became increasingly difficult to focus on.  As it moved away from the cover of Winfrey Point, the wind-driven waves began creating an environment where mostly I saw water with a bit of cormorant hiding behind the blue.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) swimming with a fish in its beak (2009_01_18_004696)

When it dashed through a large wave on its way to the dinner table, I pressed the button one more time before turning my attention toward the rest of my walk.

[note: these photos are in sequence and span a time frame of five seconds]

All in a day’s walk – January 18, 2009

Sunday’s walk was punctuated with strong winds and bright sunshine.  As I’ve developed a great deal of respect for the wind and what it can do while I’m trying to take photographs, not the least of which is knock me on my butt, I tried to direct my walk toward those areas where gusty onslaughts would pose the least problems.

I headed out my front door and walked to the north shore of Sunset Bay to see if I could find my kestrel friend (which I did), and from there I wandered south to Garland Road, then west to the spillway and into the Old Fish Hatchery Nature Area.  Before I even reached Winfrey Point, however, I ran across some rather unique ducks.

A male bufflehead (Bucephala albeola) swimming away from shore (2009_01_18_004678)

Jenny once mentioned she walked at the lake and found herself in awe of the “baffleheads” swimming about near shore.

I corrected her on the name, and thereafter we both laughed uproariously in agreement that it probably wasn’t the ducks who were baffled.

I generally find buffleheads (Bucephala albeola) all along the eastern shore of the lake, and this time was no different.

As diving ducks go, they spend a great deal of time away from land where the water is deep enough for them to get below the surface and search for food, so getting close to one for a good photograph isn’t an opportunity that presents itself.

Add enough wind to create white caps that can hide in its troughs this small waterfowl and you can imagine the difficulty had with capturing an image.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) skimming the water's surface as it lands (2009_01_18_004700)

No visit to White Rock Lake in winter can be complete without seeing the American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos).

Watching this one ski in for a landing was a delight indeed.

Having flown from the spillway where a great many pelicans remained engaged in a cooperative hunt, this one came in with direct aim at a cormorant carrying a fish.

The pelican pursued the other bird for a brief time, but the cormorant won.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) carrying a small fish in its beak (2009_01_18_004766)

Having escaped the much larger pelican who had set its sight on a free meal, this double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) scurried away from the gaping maws with a daring bit of fast swimming, after which it was left in peace to enjoy its catch.

While the fish might seem small, a cormorant seen earlier held a much bigger prize: a catfish at least three times as large as this one.

When it comes to how these birds eat, one thing is true: Nothing is too big or too small, especially in winter when more competition fills the lake with hungry mouths.

By the way: Although cormorants swim low in the water, this one is more than swimming low; it’s in a trough between high waves pushed across the lake by blustery winds.  You’d normally see at least part of its back and the whole of its neck.  Not this time, though.

A pied-billed grebe (Podilymbus podiceps) swimming in rough waters (2009_01_18_004782)

Childlike, pied-billed grebes (Podilymbus podiceps) are so small and delicate that I always think of them as juveniles tossed out into the wild to fend for themselves.

This one struggling to swim against the onslaught of wind and wave beckoned for help solely by its appearance.

Don’t you want to just swim out there and help it?  I know I did.

Photographing this species is one of the most difficult prospects imaginable.  At the first perceived threat, they dive underwater and swim for all they’re worth, often moving several yards/meters in a random direction.

When they dive, all I can do is watch the entire area in hopes of spotting it when it surfaces.  That’s assuming, I mean, that it surfaces within sight.  That’s not always the case.

A great egret (Ardea alba) standing on fallen bamboo at the water's edge (2009_01_18_004811)

Great egrets (Ardea alba).  Ubiquitous throughout the year along with a litany of other heron and egret species, these birds help define the essence of this lake.  I can’t recall a single walk along its shores that didn’t offer at least one encounter with this large, stunning avian creature.

Perched on a bamboo float drifting against the ground, this beautiful adult captivated me with its grace, its agility, its pure essence defined by majestic white plumage.

It tolerated so many humans who passed by unaware of its presence.  And a shame that was, too, for it remained there for quite some time, posing as it were, and anyone witnessing it from nearby was all the better for it.

At least until some nitwit let his dog chase the bird away.  That’s a travesty of this lake: Too many careless people with unattended canines, and I’ve seen more than a few of those free-running dogs kill more than a little of the wildlife that lives here.  Watching a mindless git pat his dog cheerfully as it holds a dead duck in its mouth is one of the more disgusting things you can ever see…

When I finally made it around the southern end of the lake to the Audubon park behind the spillway, I lost myself in dense woodlands and impassible marshes.  The Old Fish Hatchery Nature Area remains one of my favorite haunts at White Rock.  It provides year-round exposure to a plethora of nature’s marvels.  Here I’ve seen many species of owl, hawk, eagle, egret and heron, chickadee, warbler, thrasher, duck, goose and many other birds, not to mention opossums, raccoons, coyotes, bobcats, two species of fox, snakes and turtles and lizards galore, and a litany of other denizens most would be surprised to find in the heart of DFW.  Yet here they are and here they live.

A tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor) perched on a small limb while watching me (2009_01_18_004911)

The tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor) is a mouthy little bird.

This one cried ad nauseam from dry marshlands as I circled on the trails and followed it through naked trees and evergreen shrubs.

Many times it became nothing more than a voice in the forest, a chattering life leading me from one footstep to the next.

It never lost sight of me, I suspect, as each time I found it again it was staring at me, yelling at me even.  How delightful!

Because it lives here throughout the year, I fear I might take it for granted more often than I think (like so many other species that become mundane and ordinary).  What a shame that is.  This bird is such a joy to watch and hear.

A northern flicker (Colaptes auratus) high in the treetops (2009_01_18_004934)

As woodpeckers go, the northern flicker (Colaptes auratus) remains an enigma.

Less evident than the red-bellied, hairy and downy woodpeckers yet still more obvious than the yellow-bellied sapsucker, this species seems easier to find at backyard feeders than within its natural habitat.

Well, perhaps it’s more visible at feeders than it is within its normal habitat given the density of trees within which I’ve always found it, not to mention its marvelous camouflage.  A back yard is an easier viewing platform than is a forest overflowing with ligneous, verdant obstacles.

I stalked this poor female like a hapless teenager circling the block where my latest love lives.  I’m not sure she made the distinction between that and a general nuisance.

An American robin (Turdus migratorius) perched on a tree limb while watching me (2009_01_18_005031)

What can be said about American robins (Turdus migratorius)?

They live here all the time, digging their way through yards looking for worms in the morning and flitting about trees and shrubs searching for fruit in the evening.

I scared up a handful of these birds when I stumbled—literally—and fell into a dry marsh replete with doves, robins, squirrels, flycatchers and sparrows.

They never saw it coming.  Neither did I, especially as I brushed myself off and tried to act as though I meant to be in the dirt at that very moment.

Not even I believed as much.

A red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans) and an unidentified turtle sunning themselves on a log (2009_01_18_005040)

Our winter has been anything but predictable.

Green anoles have come out of hibernation early to find insects scarce; some insects have arrived early to find the environment less than welcoming.

Some days are very warm; others are very cold.  Mostly it’s warm, and the lack of rain worries everyone.

One of the marshes offered a great deal of wildlife, but it also protected them with dense reeds and shrubs that offered only a small hole here or there through which I could see.

Nevertheless, a log near shore seemed almost busy with a red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans) warming itself alongside an unidentified turtle.

I wondered about them, wondered about what the weather would give them, and wondered how they might survive this distressing and confusing deluge of this and that.

A male house finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) perched on a limb while watching me (2009_01_18_005056)

Pushing my way through a thicket that had overgrown the trail, a menagerie of birds hailed my arrival with all manner of insults.

They didn’t like me forcing my way through the natural fence that protected them.

Yet even facing into the sun, I recognized this house finch (Carpodacus mexicanus) who perched on a branch and screamed at me from behind a cloak of blinding sunlight.

His mate, only a wee bit to my right, held her own from behind an impenetrable shield of branches I eventually turned away from.

Later, as I wound my way through trails that hardly seemed used in ages, I appreciated more and more the position the finches held.

My every effort focused on protecting my eyes and the camera lens from assault by the world’s bony fingers, yet the finches rested comfortably within those skeletal hands.

I left the nature area after wandering for hours, all the while never seeing the same trail twice.  I scampered back out into the bright sunshine and noisy city and returned the way I came, circling back around the south end of the lake toward home.

A male northern shoveler (Anas clypeata) swimming in rough water (2009_01_18_005064)

I marched along Garland Road with the lake sprawling out to the north with a host of waterfowl swimming in what looked like a large collection of flotsam.

Mixed in with the other birds was a handful of northern shovelers (Anas clypeata).

Although they hide quite well, this duck species can usually be found here in all but the hottest months.

Smaller than mallard ducks, they pass unnoticed for all but the careful observer.

I’m a careful observer.

They haunt the places where few go, skulk about in silence and shadow hoping no predator will notice.

I found this male swimming about with a few of his brothers and sisters.

Tired, my back aching from such a long walk, even I had to stop and take notice of this migrant.

A paddling of gadwalls (Anas strepera) swimming in rough waters (2009_01_18_005100)

The sun beating down on me, wind howling in my ears, my legs begging me to stop and let them rest, I stumbled along the edge of the lake many hours after I began my journey.

The flotilla of avians greeted my every step.

I noticed a paddling of gadwalls (Anas strepera) amongst the birds swimming and hunting.

Three males and two females all but escaped notice as they pretended to be detritus on the water, a bit of nondescript debris surfing the harsh waves.

The everyman of the duck world, these birds inspire me with their subdued colors.

A male ruddy duck (Oxyura jamaicensis) floating on rough water while a pied-billed grebe (Podilymbus podiceps) preens behind him (2009_01_18_005109)

It goes without saying that almost every encounter I have with a ruddy duck (Oxyura jamaicensis) is when it’s sleeping, usually large groups of them floating carefree with heads tucked beneath wings.

Finding this male swimming, his eyes open, excited me to no end.

That he and several others of his kind were so far away in rough water frustrated me to no end.

Thus is the curse of nature photography, I suppose.

And yet the other piece of the puzzle that enamored me of this moment is that another pied-billed grebe can be seen just behind the duck.

Oblivious to me since I was so far away and up high on a ridge overlooking the lake, for once the little critter didn’t vanish beneath the waves.

Instead, it just preened and floated along sans a care in the world.

A Forster's tern (Sterna forsteri) flying away (2009_01_18_005166)

When I finally made it back to Winfrey Point just south of Sunset Bay, I knew home was a few minutes away.

My feet had already started thanking me while my thirst had already started feeling quenched.

But as I walked through dry grass and listened to dry reeds play a woeful yet invigorating song as they danced in the breeze, I noticed a handful of birds flying back and forth along the shore.

I was facing south into the sun, yet even that didn’t stop me from recognizing the Forster’s terns (Sterna forsteri) hunting the shallows and occasionally skimming the water’s surface for a drink or plunging in to catch a small fish.

They spent most of the time cruising, though, passing me both coming and going as they repeatedly flew to and from territorial markers only they could see.

A female yellow-rumped warbler (a.k.a. myrtle warbler or Audubon’s warbler; Dendroica coronata) perched in the top of a tree (2009_01_18_005228)

I passed through Sunset Bay without stopping as the warm weather had beckoned crowds of people to the park.

Throngs jogged and rode bicycles, others picnicked, some meandered as though lost, a few walked dogs or pushed strollers, a handful jockeyed for positions along the shore where they could snap a few pictures, and many engaged in whatever activities would keep them from facing the tumultuous city hidden behind the enclosing woods.

Not wanting to be mobbed in the virtual chaos, I shoved off and let my feet carry me toward home by way of following a creek.

When a belted kingfisher flew by me at top speed, a blue-and-white blur recognized only by its call, I noticed a smaller bird as it landed in a tree nearby.

A female yellow-rumped warbler (a.k.a. myrtle warbler or Audubon’s warbler; Dendroica coronata), dressed in the myrtle form plumage, perched on a limb and watched the goings on with an almost sad indifference.

Projection notwithstanding, she sang a bit as I stood beneath her and watched, after which she went her way and I went mine.

I returned home by early afternoon and began the quest to do some chores, download and process the images from my walk, read a bit, and spend time with The Kids.

Oh, but wait!  You want to know about the encounter with “a creature rare in these parts that sent shivers down my spine for having seen it in the heart of Dallas“.

Let me tell you about that.

Near the beginning of my walk as I marched along the southeastern edge of the lake behind the arboretum, I noticed a large bird circling over the trees to the east.  The treeline was too near and too dense for me to see it clearly, but I could see it was large.

Probably a vulture, I thought given its size, yet the colors vexed me a tad.  With the bright sunny sky and where the sun was in relation to the bird and my viewing angle, I tossed off the issue as an optical illusion.

But I couldn’t take my eyes of the creature because its size and colors couldn’t be reconciled with any of the usual suspects, even if I considered the hues to be deceptive due to the sunshine and where I stood.

And something about the way it held its wings with the ends swept back a bit, not out straight like a hawk, eagle or vulture would do while soaring.

So I watched it as it circled nearer and nearer.  It seemed to be heading directly for my position, and I knew that would mean I’d have about three seconds to snap photos once it came out from behind the treeline.  After that, it would disappear into the bright sun.

Just as I realized my opportunity for a clear view would be extremely short, it finished its last arc and moved southwest.  Right over me.

An osprey (a.k.a. seahawk, fish hawk, or fish eagle; Pandion haliaetus) flying overhead (2009_01_18_004798)

I pressed the button as quickly as I could while the bird flew overhead.  The moment lasted a few seconds only, after which the massive creature vanished behind a curtain of bright light.

But I already knew what it was.

Ospreys (a.k.a. seahawk, fish hawk, or fish eagle; Pandion haliaetus) migrate through this area but don’t normally hang around long.  Seeing one is a momentous occasion since the lake is in the middle of Dallas proper.

An osprey (a.k.a. seahawk, fish hawk, or fish eagle; Pandion haliaetus) flying overhead (2009_01_18_004800)

Neither an eagle nor a hawk, ospreys fill a biological niche that no other creature fills.  It’s the only species in its family and genus, a bird of prey that inhabits all continents save Antarctica and that has no taxonomic siblings or cousins—only distant relatives.

An osprey (a.k.a. seahawk, fish hawk, or fish eagle; Pandion haliaetus) flying overhead (2009_01_18_004801)

This one had a wingspan of about two meters/six feet, so it was a fully grown adult.

After it disappeared in the sun’s brilliance, I had a new bounce in my step and an ear-to-ear grin on my face.  Others around me who looked up to see what I was photographing didn’t appear to realize what they had seen, or they just didn’t care.  Too bad.