The Distraction Call of a Western Meadowlark Or Stark Terror in Mozier

   

Near the beginning of Rout 30 in Mozier.

Yesterday Sandra and I went to Hood River.  HR (not to be confused with Human Resources) is a small town on the Oregon side of the Columbia River.  Lying on I 84, it is a quick hours drive east of Portland.  Traveling in search of butterflies, and aware of the admonition that the further east one goes into the gorge the more species of butterflies he is apt to see, we whisked through Hood River and made the turn into Mozier.  Mozier is a small town on Oregon 30, a scenic and antiquarian byway that winds up into the hills above the river, offering some spectacular views of the gorge and river.  It is also home to the Tom McCall Preserve at Rowena. I had discovered this gem on a google search.  Pictured was a trail with hikers and numerous wildflowers.  I extrapolated several species of butterfly gaily nectaring on said blooms.

    As one passes through Mozier one is treated to an old roadhouse.  With white clapboard siding, this old edifice bears a roadster on the facade, highlighting the old and scenic Route 30.  Ever upward, one then motors past a winery and a cherry farm or two, and up onto the ridge overlooking the Columbia River.  We were confused by the information provided by the android version of Siree, and passed what was probably the preserve, although in actuality, it is not signed as such.  The road almost immediately

The Columbia Gorge as seen from Route 30.  Photo SKG

became an acrophobic nightmare, two narrow lanes hugging the sheer rim rock, protected only by an ancient stone guard wall all of a mere 18 inches in height.  As I write this, my palms begin to sweat.  

    After a mile or so, it was clear we had missed the preserve and I pulled into a nice large graveled turnout on the side of the road away from the cliff.  Sandra walked across the road and took the scenic picture you see here.  We decided, that as the return trip involved driving right next to the terrifying cliff, that she would begin the trip back towards Mozier as the pilot of our vehicle.  

   With much encouragement, like,"Its OK to cross the center line!", she soon made it back to the less terrifying portion of the road, where she pulled over, blocking the driveway of a distant home, probably perched right on the cliff.  At this point we were in a meadow of dried grass, with a few trees on either side.  We had yet to see a profusion of wildflowers as promised by the Nature Conservancy. 

   This being where we were, against all odds still alive, I pulled out our binoculars and, thusly armed,

Mountain Bluebird courtesy the Audubon Society

we  set out to watch birds and butterflies.  Immediately, we heard some flute-like piping from across the street, which I speculated might be horned larks.  Sadly, its been a very long time since I have seen horned larks and I didn't see any then, either.  As I was scanning the dry meadow, a bright blue bird, just larger than a swallow appeared, and swooped into one of three nesting boxes that were positioned on metal fence posts in the meadow.  I wandered over and watched the box, to be rewarded by a second of these birds, who arrived and hovered in front of the opening for perhaps fifteen seconds, plenty long enough for both of us to get an excellent look.  

    With a metallic blue mantle and very light below, I was confident that this was a mountain bluebird, and a beautiful one, at that.  As Sandra and I were discussing the bluebird I became distracted by some odd vocalizations in the grass just a bit away from the car.  More than one animal was making a pair of clicks, much like you might make with your tongue against the roof of your mouth.  

  Before going to investigate, I moved the car so it wasn't blocking the driveway and then proceeded through the open gate, blithely ignoring the No Trespassing sign.  There is a great tradition in birdwatching to the point that these signs apply to bad guys and not to harmless pajareros.  Thus assured of my righteousness I strode into the grass.  Judging by the number of small boulders that I encountered as Iwalked towards the clicking, this was probably not cultivated grass, for what plow could survive in this rocky meadow? About fifty feet in, I turned to my beloved and made sure that she was ready...her bird dog was at work and whatever he flushed, we did not want to miss it.  

Western Meadowlark, courtesy All About Birds

    There were two birds ticking.  I was hoping for an obscure sparrow, but really had no idea what it might be.  Possibly an introduced game bird, a curlew or any sort of passerine.  Another fifty feet and our quarry took wing ,landing in a shrub only another fifty feet away.  I got my glass on it to discover that it was a meadowlark.  

   Meadowlarks used to be rather common in Oregon.  In fact, the Western Meadowlark is the Oregon State Bird.  Now, however, the Western Meadowlark has become fairly scarce in Western Oregon.  His flute like melody is not heard routinely in wine country, which was once a prairie of wild grass, and we had not seen one in over a decade.  

   But even more importantly, I was unaware of the meadowlark making this two note ticking
vocalization.  Almost certainly what I witnessed were a pair of meadowlarks working as a team to draw me away from their nest.  One is reminded of the Killdeer who employs the broken wing display for the same purpose.  Research this morning at our local library did not reveal any of several bird authors talking about this two note distracting call.  It was revealed, however, that meadowlarks only have one clutch per year.  It is likely, therefore, that one has to hit it just right to find a pair  protecting their young in this fashion.  

   Once again back at the car, we were discovered by a lady bicyclist.  It is hard to do her sufficient justice.

Pale Swallowtail courtesy Jeffrey Pippen

  She had started at her home in Husque, up a different hill, and ascended 700 feet to where we were and appeared bound to plunge down the side of the cliff.  Not only that, she noticed our binoculars and stopped to discuss the birds  She was not at all surprised that we had seen Mountain bluebirds and suggested that if we waited until evening and were able to find Husque (which she pronounced Husky) we could see lots of Mountain bluebirds.  I didn't point out that as birdwatchers we only needed one and we had already seen it.

    As far as the wildflowers go, she was able to tell us that there had been a bloom that had finished about two weeks back.  She suggested that we go into Hood River, where there were bound to be flowers growing in the gardens.  As it turned out, we did just that, and we were lucky enough to life a pale swallowtail which flew past our windshield as we meandered the back streets of this cute old town. Pale Swallowtail uses cherry for a host plant, so it should be plentiful around Hood River.  We saw only one but (see above) when you're tickin' em off, one is all you need.

   Declaring victory, albeit a limited one, we crossed the bridge into Washington.  I'm leaving you with a picture of Mount Hood rising above the rimrock form across the Mighty Columbia.  Look carefully and you might see a Mountain bluebird.

jeff

Mount Hood as seen from the Washington side of the Columbia at Hood River.