The Secret Lives of Birds

Bill Teetz bands yellow-breasted chat. CG photo

Armchair Adventures

by Paul Sullivan

May 27, 2012 

 

Banding-For the Birds

            When I was a little boy, someone gave me a book called "Bill and the Bird Bander." It told the story of a kid who learned about birds from someone who banded them.

            That book disappeared in the ensuing decades, in a series of moves my folks made, and I had forgotten it until this morning. Or I certainly thought I had.

            But the memory plays strange tricks, for I planned to write about a visit to a bird banding station last Saturday at Occoquan Bay National Wildlife Refuge near Woodbridge. And then, from nowhere, I remembered that old book.

            There is little doubt that the book had an impact, as I have been chasing birds for more than 60 years now. Yet, oddly enough, last Saturday was the first time I had ever gone to a banding station for a close-up look at what's done there.

            Suzanne Miller, a licensed master bird bander, has volunteered at the station since it opened in 2001. She was one of four volunteers manning the station. Nearby, a series of 17 nearly invisible mist nets snag small songbirds for study.

            Betsy True, who had told me about the station, took my friend, CG and I to see how it operates. We met in a parking lot and "birded" our way along half a mile or so of trails through fields and along woodland edges to the station. We tallied a dozen or so species on the walk in and several more on the trip out.

            The banding station was a small shelter in a thick mixed hardwood forest with heavy undergrowth. Four volunteers checked the nets each half hour. Business had been slow, they said.

             But things began to pick up in late morning. First a northern waterthrush, then a Carolina wren, a cowbird, followed by a tufted titmouse and another wren. And on the last net-check of the day, voila! A male yellow-breasted chat. A female chat had been captured earlier that morning.

            The chat, while not a rarity, is not easy to see as it hides in heavy undergrowth. It is a large member of the warbler family that keeps itself well out of sight most of the time. I have probably only had a good look at a chat four or five times. Hard as it is to see, it's an easy bird to hear, with a boisterous, rowdy series of notes. Learn that call and you learn that the bird is not so rare.

            The banders bring their catches to a table at the station. There, with a swift efficiency, they note the species, look for previous leg bands, check its weight and gender (they "sex it"), take measurements, note its age and breeding condition. If there is no band, one of the tiny, numbered bands is attached to a leg.

            All info on the bird is carefully logged.

            Then comes the fun part.

            Visitors may be offered the chance to release a bird. There is a quick lesson-hold it thus; release it like this…

            I would never have guessed what a thrill it is to hold a live bird for release into the wild.

            "Would you like to release it?" asked Kevin Hewes, a bander at the Woodbridge refuge.

            He handed me a cowbird. It seemed so small. The bird settled into my right hand and I firmly but gently placed its neck between two fingers of my left hand.

            The bird peered at me as it sat on my right palm, my left hand restraining it. Someone shot photos; the bird wanted to fly.

            Just like that, I eased the grip on my left fingers and it vanished. It departed so fast my eyes could scarcely track it.

            Shortly before noon, the nets were checked one final time. No birds. The nets were lowered and rolled; equipment stored.

            The banding station operates during the spring migration of transient species. That season is nearing an end. Wednesday was the final scheduled day.

            For the 2012 season, Miller said she expects a total of around 430-plus birds will have been caught, examined and released. And yes, she said, birds previously tagged are often netted again.

            Since 2001, the year of fewest birds tagged was 358; the high was 807. The smallest bird snagged was a ruby-throated hummingbird; the largest, a green heron.

            Data gathered here is fed into a database of the U.S. Geological Survey, which licenses the banding station.

            As we walked back to the car, I found myself thinking that, if I lived a lot closer to the refuge, I would have to volunteer as a bird bander.

           

           

           

           

           

           

Whirlwind Day in Albuquerque

Armchair Adventures

for May 20, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

Albuquerque on Steroids

            Think of a single day in which you are offered to opportunity to see and do the following. Any one of them would make a day to remember.

            It could be a flight in a light plane up one of the most scenic valleys in the Southwest with time to land at the state capital, have coffee, then take off again to trace the path one of the west's most legendary rivers, viewing a rugged range of mountains, as well as dozens of other sites.

            Or it might be an evening concert to hear the world's most famous flamenco guitarist and his ensemble, taking in an electrifying performance of musicians and dancers as they bring a packed house to its feet in waves of applause.

            It could be a quiet drive down a National Scenic Byway through old mining towns from the Frontier West, in the shadows of towering forested peaks, a few with snow still brushing their upper flanks.

            Maybe it would include a chamber music concert by top tier musicians in an architecturally striking setting, sipping wine afterward in a chat with the players who live there.

            Surely all of these activities and a few others couldn't be stuffed into a single day?

Or could they?

            And despite this amazing schedule, everything came off without a hitch, thanks to my Albuquerque hosts, Chuck and Carol Kreis.

            Chuck and I left early Sunday for Kirtland Air Force Base, where he had scheduled time in 66-Mike-Juliet, a clean, well-maintained Cessna 182 of the base Aero Club. After Chuck dispensed with the paperwork and got a forecast, we untied and did a pre-flight on the plane.

            Despite the high altitude of the field (shared as Albuquerque International), the 182 with constant-speed three-blade prop didn't break a sweat holding a 600-foot-per-minute rate of climb as we made a wide climbing turn to a northerly heading.

            Chuck, a retired, high-time career Air Force pilot took pity on this salivating wingless flyer and offered me the controls. What a feast for the eyes and the senses!

            At 8,500 feet, where my old C-150 would be gasping, this little bird didn't seem to notice.

            We explored Santa Fe and vicinity, Chuck pointing out such notable features as the renowned Santa Fe Opera, national cemetery, and the state capital's ancient old town.

            I believe we could have made a day of our aerial tour, but a tight timetable meant that after landing and taking a moment for coffee, we had to depart

Santa Fe and head south for "home."

            On a trip to Thailand, the Kreises had met Conrad and Susan De Jong, retired musicians who live near Santa Fe. It was sheer coincidence that on the Sunday I was there, the De Jong's were holding a chamber music concert for friends at their lovely home in the woods not far from the city. Would I like to come along?

            And that explains why, soon after we returned to Albuquerque, we once more headed north, this time the three of us in a car.

            The De Jong's home is an understated showcase of brilliant design. We were welcomed, joining some two dozen guests for the concert. Although I am not particularly enamored of chamber music, generally, two of the five pieces on the card were, I thought, warm and compelling. All were beautifully executed. Mastery is always evident.

            After wine and hors d'oeuvres, we sat around outside for a time with our hosts and their great little companion, 10-year-old Zappa, a Westie (West Highland Terrier). From their patio, we had a grand view of Wheeler Peak in the Sangre de Cristo Range-New Mexico's highest mountains.

            For the journey back to Albuquerque (getting dizzy yet?), Chuck avoided I-25, opting for New Mexico route 14, a twisting, turning historic trip through that state's colorful mining history, tracing southward 64 miles along the east flank of the Sandias. This is more commonly known as the Turquoise Trail.

            Paco de Lucia is billed as the world's eminent master of flamenco guitar. So it was said; and so did I suspend judgment knowing the tendency of promoters to hype their performers.

            At the University of New Mexico's concert hall that night, de Lucia proved himself to be as good as his billing, if not better. Such energy, such dynamic range, such lyrical raw emotion did he, his dancer and vocalist sustain that he held his audience in the palm of his hands. And when his listeners stood and demanded more, I joined them.

            What a day! I have had none other like it. And I surely will not forget it.

            It was the perfect cap to my solo cross-country driving trip.

            Monday morning I bid adieu to Chuck and Carol, taking along grand memories on the final leg of my drive from Fredericksburg, Va., to Prescott, Az. 

 

           

           

           

Albuquerque Close-Up

Armchair Adventures

for May 13, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

Albuquerque: An Insider's Look

Notebook, Monday, leaving Albuquerque, 9:33 a.m.:

A good start on the final 410 miles of my cross-country drive from Fredericksburg to Prescott.

            Good thing, too, since I need a break from that dazzling weekend

in Albuquerque. Talk about Living the Rich Life! (Did I actually do everything I think I did in less than 48 hours?)

Guy on the left is NOT Al Unser Sr.

            If I stayed any longer with Chuck and Carol I'd double my weight and gather enough material for a year's worth of Armchair Adventure columns in another week!

            I had rolled into the city early Saturday and had no trouble locating Aztec Storage. Picked up P's gear there, stashed it into two big duffels; had great talk with co-manager Mary Ann there, then cleared out and went to FedEx store. Helpful guy took over and got the bags on their way to Spotsylvania County, pronto.

            Chuck Kreis directed me to their beautiful home in East Albuquerque near the Pass. With shameless timing I pulled into the driveway just at lunch time.

            Carol laid out a terrific table for the three of us. That tangy balsamic cole slaw was a treat.

            Chuck wondered if I'd be interested in the Unser Racing Museum. Time lapse from question to car start, 5 mins.

            Unsers more than big racing family, they're like an auto-racing franchise. Wall chart lays out family tree highlighting racers. Like, are there any non-racers?

            Chuck and I checking Indy car downforce features. Voice familiar from TV seeps in and I spin around, shake hands with "Big Al" Unser Sr.

            I learn more from him about Indycars and their drivers in 10 minutes than in last 10 years. Mr. Nice Guy.

            Back at house, Carol laid out plans to see Old Town. Change clothes and head out for that low-lying part of this high-flying city by the Rio Grande.

            First stop, the rooftop lounge of the Hotel Parq Central, a beautifully restored, handsome hostelry where the city's old section abuts the modern build-out. Rooftop garden terrace has expansive view of city. Yes, waitress says, we're just in time for Happy Hour.

            From the Parq, Chuck takes us on an Old Town tour, and while it's not my first time there, I see much more of this large and diverse area than I'd dreamed existed.

            Coronado explored the valley on the banks of the Rio Grande River here in 1540, but the town was not settled until 1706. With more than 840,000 people living in the metropolitan area today, the Spanish explorer would not recognize Albuquerque.

            We thread our way along quiet streets in old residential section to Panaderia Bakery-a novel combination of New Mexican and traditional baked cuisines, crafted by guys who care.

            We watched a cool evening gently settle over this historic city, which spread from the banks of the Rio Grande, east to the Sandia Mountains. And we dined well. My pizza simply could not have been bested.

            "Anybody interested in desert?" Carol had another stop in mind, but I waddled from Panaderia to Chuck's Volkswagen. It had been long day, and I voted to head home.

            I drifted to dreamland that night thinking of all I had seen and done…and the even busier schedule the next day. I knew we would get started with a sightseeing flight in the Aero Club's Cessna 182. Talk about sweet dreams!

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

American, right, and Soviet space hardware in Oklahoma.

Armchair Adventures

as seen May 6, 2012

in The Free Lance-Star

Fredericksburg, Va.

by Paul Sullivan

A Road Warrior on The Great Plains

             

            Daybreak came with the incessant soft hissing of tires on nearby I-40. Not a good sign, I thought, since it meant more wet roads.

            As I prepped to leave a motel in Clarksville, western Arkansas, I wondered what day 3 of my trip west had in store.

            In short time, I knew I would begin zooming from one scenic Indian reservation to the next in eastern Oklahoma's grassland prairies. It is beautiful country.

            They ought to call Oklahoma the Transition State for westbound travelers. From the jump-off town of Fort Smith in Arkansas, there's no doubt you're still in the eastern half of the continent.

            Yet, hard as it is to believe there, many long miles ahead, where I-40 rolls into the Texas panhandle east of Amarillo, you have long been driving deep in the heart of the west. The limitless views, the ranches, small cowboy towns-mark a world apart from the Arkansas Ozarks. 

            It is not a place for those who have trouble keeping company with themselves. If that is true driving through it, I can scarcely imagine what it must be like living on one of those ranches. And yet, among those who call it home, it

apparently puts an indelible stamp on the soul. 

            If you want to see what they mean that it's big country out here, this is the place to come. No wonder folks from this region feel cooped up in the East.

            Weatherford is a pleasant town not far west of Oklahoma City. From the interstate, I'd always noted two things about it. There is a gigantic wind farm sprawling over thousands of acres west and north of the city. And there is an old Air Force F-104 Starfighter on a pylon at the airport.

            Trip after trip I'd seen that airplane standing sentinel and the sign for the Stafford Air & Space Museum. Worth the stop?

            I had to make 664 miles to Santa Rosa, N.M., that night, but the little calculator in my head whispered, "Aw, go ahead. Give it an hour or so."

            A very good move, it turns out.

            The museum celebrates the life and spectacular achievements of Tom Stafford, a local boy who soared in the loftiest circles of American space flight. He is Lt. Gen. Thomas Stafford, and his list of accomplishments as an aviator and space flight pathfinder ranked at the top in those heady days when we and the Soviets raced into the heavens. In fact, I could have written this entire column just on Gen. Stafford, a remarkable individual.

            There were countless artifacts from that historic era in the museum, and they were presented in a way that told the story of space exploration, from the earliest days of the Goddard rocket experiments right into the era of manned space exploration.

            That alone would have made it worth my time. But this little museum-which proved to be not so little at all-also told the story of human flight, from its beginnings with gas-filled balloons, into the risky and often failed efforts of the 19th century.

            There were aircraft representative of each era of flight in the 20th century, as well-far more of them than I had imagined.

            But for this traveler, it was not a plane or spacecraft that left the most memorable impression by far.

            I clambered down from a look into the cockpit of a Soviet Mig-21 fighter and saw a long, cylindrical object with fins on it. A panel explained, matter-of-factly, that it was a B61 thermonuclear weapon. Oh yes, and that it could be slipped under the wing of an F-16 and dropped either from far above the earth, or from treetop level.

            I could not stop, alternately looking and reading: "The B61's yield ranges from a little more than 1% of Fat Man (Nagasaki), (or more than 150 times the force of the Oklahoma City blast) to 22 times more powerful than Fat Man."

            What's more, it was explained that the size of the blast could be conveniently adjusted, in flight.

            Hundreds of miles lay before me to be driven that day. It was terribly windy out there westbound on I-40. But the miles passed fairly quickly.

            As a kid who grew up in the nuclear age, who remembered clearly the day the announcement flashed over the radio that a nuclear bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima; who remembered all the Cold War hysteria, that small nuke in that museum gave me lots to think about. Not least of which is that if that weapon is publicly displayed, rest assured it is old-tech, far surpassed by newer types.

            It seemed especially chilly when I stopped that night in Santa Rosa.

Next week: Adventures in Albuquerque.

           

Road Trip-Westward Yo

Armchair Adventures

as published April 29, 2012

in The Free Lance-Star

by Paul Sullivan

New Twists in the Old Road Trip

            It was drizzling when I set out solo from home for Arizona recently. It looked like four days of grinding out the miles but-somehow-there were many new places and faces to discover along the way.

            The weather gurus called for little more than scattered showers, yet-surprise, surprise-it rained all the way to Kingsport, Tenn., where I met high school friend Jim Holston for dinner.

            And when we still hadn't solved all the world's problems over a meal, we reminisced some more at his place on a scenic mountain near the city. We bid so-long just after daybreak, Jim heading to Charlotte for a car show and me hitting the road once more for Prescott, Arizona.

            East Tennessee's hill country ranks right up there with the country's finest scenery, to my way of thinking, but west of Nashville on that state's long traverse to the Mississippi, the land begins-gradually-to flatten out.

            On day two, the weather gods shone on my route, and by mid-afternoon I was rounding busy Memphis on that storied town's bypass. I'd like not to always diss Memphis like this, especially given its place in the world of jazz and history-two old flames of mine.

            There is a certain discipline to this kind of solo drive. The idea is to divide up the total miles into the total days you want to spend. That meant day two would be the killer day of this effort.

            Circuiting Tennessee's River City is a strange experience. One minute you're dodging crazy city drivers (DC makes anyone expert at this); the next minute you're soaring out over the wide expanse of the Mississippi River, passing beneath a big banner: "Welcome to Arkansas."

            If the Tennessee side of the Mississippi retains a gentle roll to the land, Arkansas does not. The transition is abrupt, and you are in no doubt this place is different as the car sails past mile-upon-mile of rice fields and bottomland hardwood forest, all laced with quiet, winding rivers.

            North Little Rock was my minimal day two stop, but I hoped to do better.

            I've heard folks say they didn't like Arkansas, but then, they make jokes about West Virginia, too, and I find enchanting beauty in those mountains.

            Although I had a GPS for this trip, it's impossible to get lost. Once on I-40, stay on I-40 till I'm nearly at my Arizona home. The GPS just counted down the miles.

            It was dark by the time I stopped in Clarksville, Ark., 15 hours and 20 minutes and some 725 miles from Kingsport.

            Just up the hill from the motel was a little Italian place, Pasta Grill. It didn't appear to be anything special but, I was starved. They were busy closing but welcomed me, nonetheless. Restaurants, like books, should not be judged by appearances. My simple meal of mushroom-and-onions spaghetti with a side salad and garlic bread was as good as I've had.

            Spaghetti, so simple a child can prepare, yet doing it right remains strangely elusive for so many. The difference between the child's and the master's is in the smallest details, and the seasonings.

            My server, from Boston, as in Mass., was as good as the food. Clarksville, she apologized, is dry, thus no chianti to complement my dinner.

            No matter, a good meal, delivered with smiles ends any day well.

Next week: Nukes amidst the Sooners.