Hovering, by a ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis)
Dried limbs at the edge of a marsh
The coming of the storm
A winter wren (a.k.a. northern wren; Troglodytes troglodytes) perched in starlight
Brittle thicket at woods edge
A great egret (Ardea alba) framed by thick brush
In winter, a waxing gibbous moon at sunset
A small waterfall at dusk
A ruby-crowned kinglet (Regulus calendula) fluttering from a branch
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Not long ago Mary spoke about the difficulty of photographing birds. She wrote:
I recently read a remark from a blogger in New England, “…photographing birds is hard work.” I never thought of it that way. However, truth be told, a few days, weeks, or months pass and maybe several hundred photos get dumped before I nail a glorious, unedited series of shots. Yes, it’s hard work, struggling to maintain the virtue of patience and practicin’ cussin’ skills.
And she’s right. Like the rest of nature, birds don’t respond well to the “Say cheese!” or “Sit still, damn it!” commands, or any of the other usual suspects in our repertoire of photography directives.
However, circumstances sometimes conspire in a way that provides opportunity to capture an avian moment more difficult than the usual image of something perched on a branch or swimming in a lake. I mean birds in flight.
While many gull species overwinter at White Rock Lake, the ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) remains the most common. Both adults and juveniles spend plenty of time fighting with the coots and ducks and geese for every little tasty tidbit that can be found.
And woe is the unsuspecting person who comes to the water’s edge with a treat hoping to birth an encounter with the other inhabitants. Gulls will swarm in flight and will challenge almost anything that gets in the way of a free meal.
Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) enjoy a permanent home around these parts. Truth be told, after being introduced to North America, they made themselves at home anywhere humans live—just as they have around the globe. In fact, rock doves are ubiquitous in the world and thrive in urban and suburban landscapes, and they have been involved with humans for thousands of years, something that makes it next to impossible to determine their geographic origin.
A veritable laundry list of heron and egret species live here. The most elusive is also the largest: the great blue heron (Ardea herodias). Yet this behemoth tends to stay with the rest of the pack.
There exists a firth stretching inland from behind the old paddle boat building where one these days can snag a canoe or kayak. The lake’s arm that reaches behind that structure, though, is so far removed from the world of humans that it hardly seems possible to bridge the gap between them. Egrets and herons of all sorts make this lagoon their home. At the right time of day, it’s possible to see several dozen birds of many different species, including the great blue.
Loud. Obnoxious. Willing to travel with the pelicans when it’s feeding time in hopes of grabbing a free fish stirred up by the larger birds, a practice that has landed them in the gaping beak of more than one pelican.
The number of double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) explodes in winter as migrants find their way back to this wildlife refuge, an oasis tucked gently in the middle of Dallas’s far-reaching sprawl. Morning, noon or night, these mouthy, large birds can be found at the water theater behind the Bath House Cultural Center.
With all manner of wildlife living and dying in the middle of the city thanks to this man-made lake and surrounding park, turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) thrive here alongside their less evident cousins, the American black vulture. Although it might be hard to believe, I see more vultures here than I do when I visit the family farm in East Texas’s Piney Woods.
Turkey vultures are birds of prey. Sure, they spend a great deal of time looking for meals that are already dead, but they don’t mind doing the dirty work themselves when circumstances warrant. Nevertheless, it’s obvious they find it much easier to soar around overhead waiting for nature to set the table and cook the meal instead of doing it themselves.
The first time I discovered the heron and egret sanctuary behind the paddle boat area, at least a dozen great egrets (Ardea alba) sat about in the trees, some offering raucous cries when one of the others invaded their personal space. Much wing flapping and neck stretching ensued, after which one of the birds would move on to another branch or another tree.
One marvelous trait of the great egrets in this area is that they are far more tolerant of people than the great blue herons. That’s not to say one can walk right up and pet them; it is to say they’re easier to photograph, and not just because there are a lot more of them.
Hawks, eagles, falcons, merlins, owls… When it comes to birds of prey, White Rock has them all. The only problem with photographing them comes from the challenge of finding them. While hunting, they stay high or out of sight; while resting, they stay tucked away in the dense woodlands; and when running from the local murder of crows who mob the larger species, they run like the devil no matter who sees them.
Red-tailed hawks (Buteo jamaicensis) perhaps represent the species most often seen. Why that is I don’t know since there are so many others to be found if one looks carefully enough.
Back to ring-billed gulls. Why? Because I really like the way this photo turned out. Nothing more complicated than perception…
And finally my two favorites from this series…
I stood at the shore in Sunset Bay and took pictures of every little thing that caught my eye. Bright sunshine did little to assuage the chill wind sweeping in from the north. Gusts blowing at more than 40 mph/64 kph had me resting against a tree so I didn’t blow over—something that had already happened more than a few times earlier in my walk.
Reeds and brush at the water’s edge swayed back and forth, but mostly the dry plants pressed themselves down while pointing south as the arctic air invading Texas rolled over everything in its path. Once I realized all the blowing stems would make photography difficult from where I stood, I made my way to the pier jutting into the bay. The sandbar reaching north from the jetty would keep water from spraying into my face, and at least the lack of plants would give me a clear view.
Regal bald cypress trees stand on either side of the pier’s entrance. As winter steals their verdant splendor, the foliage puts on clothes the color of rust and falls to the ground, something that creates a soft blanket of deep orange and red. The planks under my feet eventually became clear once I reached the place where the wind scoured from the surface everything not nailed down.
At the end of the pier where I wanted to plant myself, a young man stood atop his bicycle, his mouth agape as he stared at the American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos). At least a dozen of them already occupied the sandbar, some sleeping, some preening, some standing and staring aimlessly as though unsure of what to do with their time.
Overhead, sweeping in from their breakfast hunt in the deeper water near the spillway, yet more of these leviathans soared in on wings held still. Conservation of energy defines their flight, much like that of vultures and hawks and eagles, and windy days can both help and hinder this effort. Moving from southwest to northeast, the pelicans could use the strong northerly winds to their advantage for both flying and braking.
I finally reached the end of the pier where the young man stood. His red sweatshirt was pulled tight and the hood provided only the smallest space for his face to see out. Yet hidden or not, the surprise on his face clearly mixed with glee as he watched a parade of pelicans fly right over him as they circled the bay once or twice before landing (in this sense, the wind didn’t help since many of them missed their first try).
The wood under my feet moaned and creaked as I stepped up beside him. He immediately turned, his blond hair blowing against his face as his crystal blue eyes devoured the entire landscape before us. “Wow!” he exclaimed, then he looked up to watch another pelican coast overhead. “Look at the size of them! I guess there really are fish in this lake.”
I burst into laughter. That comment alone meant he was new to the area—or at least new to this season at the lake.
We chatted a bit about the pelicans, for no more than a few minutes, then he spun his bike around and headed back to land. He quickly disappeared around the north end of the bay as he continued his ride.
Which left me to watch the remaining pelicans arrive for their afternoon bath and siesta.
I might add I came awfully close to falling in the water more than once as I tried to take pictures. Bracing against the unrelenting wind with only the viewfinder giving me an idea of the world around me made for a greater challenge than I expected.
Thankfully Sunset Bay is rather shallow, the confluence bringing a great deal of sediment into the area that only gets swept away during spring floods.
But I didn’t fall in. Instead, I wallowed in the privilege of seeing pelican after pelican fly close both above and in front of me, each one trying for a soft landing in the face of winter’s chill blow. Only when my fingers could no longer operate the camera did I turn and walk away, a grateful and overjoyed man who couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception on such a cold day.
What fantasies rest upon dreams made of feathered wings…
To take flight, to swim naked through the ether under the power of my own mind… Ah, such is the foundation of hope.
Envy fills the space betwixt the flying bird and mine eyes.
Tiptoeing across the lake’s surface becomes the godlike fantasy of all men: to waltz upon the water without sinking.
For something so ethereal as air to hold me aloft, for something so invisible as atmosphere to defy gravity…
Stretching my arms unto the ends of the earth only to find them capable of holding me above the ground rests within the confines of powerful magic.
The world would fill my sight with vistas profound and indomitable. Every tiny thing moving upon the ground and every flying beast flitting through the cosmos would bring to me visions meant for more powerful beings.
— — — — — — — — — —
Photos:
[1] A female red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) soaring high above the family farm in East Texas. She spent a great deal of time arcing beyond sight where the treetops shielded her from prying eyes, yet once in a while she came into view as she circled, climbing higher and higher with each pass, moving further into the distance as she began her hunt.
[2] A dule of rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) circling above Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake. Seen at top left is the marvelously unique dove I first encountered in November.
[3] An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) taking off near the sandbar in Sunset Bay. Other pelicans remained wholly unimpressed with the giant bird as it skipped across the water’s surface while its powerful wings carried it aloft.
[4] A juvenile black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) remained unseen until it took flight, its plumage offering superior camouflage amongst the autumnal limbs already stripped naked by powerful winds and seasonal change. The bird remained unnoticed while I visited the inlet that herons and egrets frequent, and it caught me by surprise when it took to the air.
[5] A great egret (Ardea alba) soaring above the shoreline. I surprised it as I rounded the corner that provided it a reed-filled hiding place, but I found myself fortunate enough to suspect its presence before I stepped into the clearing where it hid.
[6] A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) turning sharply as it flew over my position on the pier in Sunset Bay.
their feathers so graceful in flight
powerful wings carrying bodies so light
attuned vision beyond my own sight
imagination cannot so delight
Poser: I watched this great egret (Ardea alba) stroll through the shallows before coming ashore and finding a spot to rest.
Satisfied: A yellow-crowned night-heron (Nyctanassa violacea) standing at a creek’s edge near White Rock Lake. The bird had just finished eating a small turtle (which I didn’t think it could swallow without breaking the shell open, but it very much surprised me in that regard).
The same but different: A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) on the left stands next to an adult of the same species. I find it remarkable how different they look with only a year separating them.
On guard: A female ruby-throated hummingbird (Archilochus colubris) perched atop a fence wire as she watches me. Taken at the family farm while the air was abuzz with hummingbirds, each of them frequently sizing me up as they defended the various feeders.