Sunday at Ridgefield NWR

     The weather in Vancouver has turned cold with intermittent rain.  It's been that way for three days in a row.  With the highs topping out at below 60 degrees F., this is not the sort of weather conducive to butterfly hunting.  But boys and girls still need to get outside, so with the chance of morning rain at a mere 20 %, Sandra and I decided to take a chance and go to the wildlife refuge.  Being warm blooded and requiring daily sustenance, birds were much more likely to be active, especially as it is spring and they have chicks to feed.  Right?

The Cinnamon Teal appears to be breeding at Ridgefield

     We got to the refuge a little after 8 AM, the weather was cool and there was water in the puddles, but it wasn't raining.  We filled out our pass, and checked the white board for recent sightings.  Two days before, someone had seen an avocet.  We noted the approximate location, given as area 6, and headed out.  

   Immediately, in the first pond, we saw a pair of cinnamon teal.  I haven't seen a bunch of these handsome little ducks in my life, so even though we had now seen them here two out of three times, the thrill and pleasure was still there.  We watched these beauties for a minute or so, and headed down the causeway.  

   A bit further on there was a lady in a car who tried to tell me something as I inched by.  I didn't quite get it, so I stopped and went back.  "There is a mother redwing blackbird feeding her young." she said.  Blackbirds are possibly better mothers than their human counterparts, so this was not exactly surprising...we pushed on.

A pair of Barn Swallows greet Sandra in the Blind  skg photo

   We passed spot six, where there was a trio of Lesser Yellowlegs and avocets were plying their trade in the shallows.  It was just a bit further to the parking area for the blind, which was our prime objective for the day. 

    On the asphalt trail to the blind, I noted that the stinging nettles, which grow profusely in many parts of the refuge, looked undisturbed.  Having seen one Painted Lady on the edge of that trail, I was hopeful that the nettles would be in tatters and we would have a plethora of Vanessa caterpillars with which to amuse ourselves.  The nettles look fine and we made no effort to look under the leaves for caterpillars.  

Marty saw as many snipe as we did.

    On the auditory side, as we walked along I heard the unmistakable sound, known as winnowing, produced by male snipes as part of their courtship display. The snipe, which is fat little wading bird, flies way up in the air and then dives.  Specialized tail feathers catch the wind and produce a woo, woo, woo which I suppose might suffice for the noise made by ghosts in a haunted house.  Sadly, the noise was coming from the area we had traversed on entering the refuge, about a mile back to the north.  

   Suffice it to say, we didn't see any snipes.

  Are you old enough (as ancient is your faithful correspondent?) to remember Spin and Marty.  You had to be watching the Mickey Mouse Club back in the late 50s to see Marty sent out at night holding a burlap sack and making peculiar noises to attract a snipe.  Perhaps I should have retained more important information like the various lung volumes, the Krebs Cycle or the finer points of Calculus, but that stuff got seriously unshelved, while Marty and his burlap sack remain.  Sad to say, despite all the winnowing, which went on for at least twenty minutes, Sandra and I saw no more snipes than the Walt Disney camper. 

Long-billed Marsh Wren hunting among the grass below the blind 

   Finally, we made it to the blind.  I was desperate to see the Virginia Rail with her chicks and we gave it lots of time, but none appeared.  Our time in the blind was shared with a few barn swallows that were nesting there.  I took a short video of a single swallow just a few feet away, singing his heart out.  Sandra got a great shot of a pair in one of the blind's windows. 

   But we did not see any rails despite putting in plenty of time at the marshy spot where we had spotted them a few weeks ago.  However, towards the end of this vigil I got a very good look at a Lon-billed Marsh Wren.  This is not a particularly rare bird, but in the past I have seen this tiny fellow at a significant distance.  It is dependable in cattail marshes and can be induced to show himself briefly before dodging back into cover,

   This morning I saw movement in the grass (where the family of rails ought to have been) and focused on the spot.  There the marsh wren made a couple brief appearances.  Although they didn't last long, these were superb looks, close with excellent lighting, allowing me to appreciate the barring on the shoulder and back and the delicate face pattern and eye line.  

The Green Spot next to Rest Lake

   So here it was Sunday and God provided.  

   We made our way back, not seeing much.  At the ranger's hut we stropped to note our Long-billed Marsh Wren sighting.  The docent, a stout lady a bit younger than myself, told me that she had seen the Virginia Rails that morning.  It had been at a spot where there were cars stopped, but we didn't know why or see anything.  Bad Birdwathchers!  She pulled out a map which she claimed to be inadequate, but is way better than nothing, and was induced to make a little green spot where the family of rails is to be seen.  Its between to mall groves of cottonwoods. See you there, 

jeff

    

The Virginia Rail Part Two

    OK.  I didn't actually meet Col. Frank Slade on a muddy trail in Ridgefield.  But there is a rumor that Charlie Simms graduated from Harvard, made a quick killing in the stock market and is now retired to one of those luxury condominiums in Easst Vancouver.  His condo, so they say, is perched on the ridge at 192nd, where he not only has a drop-dead view of the Columbia River, but of Gresham Oregon, where his mother and step dad (who never liked Charlie very much) pushed corn nuts in their convenience store. 

     Its not clear what happened to the step father, but Charlie's mom, or so it is rumored, can be seen driving her Tesla along Rodeo Drive.

     Sandra and I are retired to a pedestrian condo hard by the 205 bridge over the Columbia.  The one Pete Buttigieg wanted to put a toll on.  One small reason for us Vancouverites to celebrate the current regime...there will be no bridge toll as long as the Epstein files occupy the mind of our fearless leader.  86 205, that's what I say.

     Yesterday was Sunday and Sandra and I were left with a decision. It is just about the same gas guzzling distance from our humble abode to our church in Camas and the Ridgefield NWR. What with our ecclesiastical friends on the road to far flung family reunions, it was an easy choice to skip the wine and bit of bread and take communion with the critters St Francis spoke with on the trail above Assisi.  

     So around 9 AM we found ourselves entering the refuge.  Sunday is apparently free and there was a docent sitting on the tiny porch of the ranger hut. The first thing I noted was that someone else had seen the Virginia Rail.  The docent, who was a pleasant country fork sort of middle aged lady,  noted that the white board had been wiped clean that morning, so these were fresh observations.  And someone else, they had used a different color of magic marker, had registered the Black Phoebe.  The same observer had noted Soras near the yellowhead, which is to say in the cattails.   The sora, a small dark rail, is just as furtive as the Virginia Rail. 

A Black Phoebe pair.  

    I asked about little white, orange spotted butterflies and she was interested but thought it was too early for butterflies.   So we were on our own.  Not an uncommon position for a butterfly hunter.

    We found a few yellowheads in the cattail marsh, but no Soras.  I might have been insufficiently patient.  We did not see the teal or canvasbacks that were present earlier in the week and soon we were at the parking area for the blind.  On the trail, we dallied by the stinging nettles and were rewarded with a single painted lady, who landed on the edge of the trail long enough for both of us to get a good look.  

    Out at the blind, we got a definitive look at the Black Phoebe.  While this species has a special place in my heart, this observation is really significant regarding climate change.  In 1970 the northern boundary for the range was around Redding, so a couple hundred miles north of Okland, where I saw them flycatching over Jewell Lake.  Since then, I had seen this bird as far south as Ecuador and I associated it with a southern range.

      The first iNaturalist record for Black Phoebe in SW Washington was in 2008 and it was a recognized summer resident by 2010.  Until a few days ago, I was unaware of any of this, so Sandra and I took a good long look at this pair as they foraged over the pond.  Watching them gave me warm neo-tropical vibe.  

   While we watched, a phoebe caught a large bug, maybe a yellowjacket and sat on a branch about thirty feet away, apparently contemplating what to do with his prize. 

A dutiful parent bringing home the bacon

   Tiring of all these phoebes, I took up a position on the edge of the blind.  there was a couple of 40 ish photographers hogging the blind, so I got a good position on the steps with a good view of the patch of marsh where we had seen the rail a few days before.  We waited for only a few minutes when I saw some motion and out he came.  Sandra also had a good position and we watched this rare bird step out in the shallow water, robing this way and that.  We were only fifty feet away at the most and this seemed to go on forever, although it was in reality only two or three minutes.  the sun was shining and we got some excellent looks.  

    As I said in the previous blog, the Virginia Rail is common but it spends its life in hiding.  Perhaps I need to get out more or maybe I just need to thank my lucky stars.

     The drive back to headquarters was fairly unremarkable.   Once there, we spoke with the docent and she encouraged us to post our Painted Lady.  Most significantly, between the time we arrived and this exit, someone had posted on the Virginia Rail: breeding pair with chicks, 2+2.  Well, isn't that enticing?  Certainly, birds raising a clutch are more active, foraging and feeding their chicks. 

    So stay tuned, there may be a Virginaia Rail part three in our future.

jeff

The Stromboli, the Ridgefield NWR and the Virginia Rail

    Last week we met Sandra's son, Douglas, and his lovely wife for lunch.  We got to pick the place and since neither of my boys are in Portland and Leslie (Sandra's daughter) is on a gluten free diet, Douglas and Diane got stuck at Flying Pie on Stark.  There are many Flying Pies scattered over the PNW, but this is the first of the bunch, the flagship, as it were, and they make the best damn pie anywhere.  In my humble opinion.  

One large Stromboli, please!

   The pie in question is a Stromboli, named for a small volcanic island just off Sicilia's northeast corner.  This is a pie to die for, with big, manly crust, veritable chunks of spicy Italian Sausage and pepperoni, onions and green peppers.  Yummity,yummity ,yum.   Damn!  I just love a Stromboli washed down with a slurp or two of my favorite beverage.  Beer may be one of the few things that Brett Kavanagh and I agree on!  

  During our mid-day feast, Dianne told us about a recent trip they had taken to the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge.  In Ridgefield.  I may have mentioned this place before.  It's about fifteen minutes north of our hacienda, once you get on the 205.  It used to be a tiny burg with a slough and the refuge, where my father taught my brother and I to hunt ducks.  Not to worry, my father was no Rollo Kuse.  Not only did he not get his deer, but he rarely got his duck.  But I guess we had fun putting out decoys, sitting in a blind and imitating mallards with our duck call. Quack, quack, quack.  

    Something happened.  Clark County exploded and now Ridgefield, fifteen minutes north of the 205 bridge, next stop Portland Airport, is a sprawling bedroom community all built in the last fifteen years.  As you will see, it now has not only countless citizens, but a Costco, a Starbuck's and an In and Out Burger.  I tell ya, they took a fair piece of marginal agricultural land and Californicated it.  

No matter how many Wood ducks, I refuse to call them dirt birds.

   So anyway, Dianne was telling us that they enjoyed a loop road ride through the refuge, and she saw a Great Blue Heron.  I wasn't so much interested in the GBH, but the last time Sandra and I tried to visit, my old hunting grounds had been under remodlement, if you can twist your imagination in such a way that you can grasp remodeling a swamp. They wouldn't let us drive in and they were going to charge us 5 bucks a head to walk.  If you know me and my sweetie, you know they would have had to pay us the five clams to get us to walk.  

    That was two years ago, and this is now. Ridgefield is on the razor-sharp cutting edge of a brave new world and Dianne was telling us that they had the wildlife refuge to prove it.  A visit was clearly in order...

    So last Tuesday Sandra and I made the 20 minute drive north to the refuge.  If you don't have one of a variety of passes, you have to pay three dollars to drive in.   Sandra has a pass!  It's a 4.2 mile one way driving loop around the refuge.  Stop where ever you want, multiple signs encourage you to stay in the car, using it as a blind.  And indeed, the birds were closer to the car. than one might have expected. On that day we started out with Blue-winged and Cinnamon Teal , Canvasbacks, a pair of Wood Ducks and some Canada geese.  And, of course, the Great Blue Heron. 

English Chickie buckin' for birder, you call her Daphne.

    At the halfway mark, the refuge lets you get out of your car and visit a blind.  The trail to the blind is a little soggy and there is a wonderful patch of stinging nettles on the way.  Knowing that Vanessa butterflies use nettles for a host plant, Sandra couldn't resist checking out the leaves for caterpillars.  As a consequence, she spent the rest of the day researching remedies for nettle stings.    Poor Sandra!

    On the way to the blind, we met an enthusiastic young man who told us he had spent the last 45 minutes taking pictures of the Tree Swallows.  One assumes he spent the next 45 minutes taking pictures of Great Blue Herons.

   At the blind, we met a nicely dressed lady with a big camera and an English accent. On questioning, it turned out that she wanted to become a bird watcher and so she had purchased a $5000 camera and an app for her phone that tells her, if she is clever enough to record the song, what bird she is looking at, or, I suppose, listening to.  She was really precious, so I tried not to give her too much of a hard time.

   At this point we were joined by Al Pacino in the character of Lt. Colonel Frank Slade.  The colonel was still accompanied by Charlie, late of the Baird School.  The colonel was nicely dressed in green cammo.  A pair of expensive binoculars hung from his neck inexplicably.  As you will recall, he is blind, following an unfortunate incident at Fort Benning where he was juggling live grenades. 

    The colonel sidled up to me and whispered, "English chickie buckin' for birdwatcher, you call her Daphne.  Hoo ahh."

Daphne got a good shot of the Yellow headed Blackbird

   While we were chatting with Daphne, I noted a pair of Black Phoebe's in the alders next to the blind.  This is the bird that turned me into a bird watcher, on the marge of Jewell Lake in Berkeley, way back in 1970.  So if you want to know who to blame, there's your answer...the Black Phoebe.  

    Daphne shared a passable picture of a Yellow-headed Blackbird, which we had missed on the way in, but her effort at the phoebe was blurry.  I'm sure she'll get better and we'll see her work in Audubon magazine in no time.

    For a few minutes, we watched the phoebes fly catching over the pond and then we moved up into the blind.  At first, there was nothing to see. Suddenly (isn't it always suddenly?) I saw movement in the marsh plants near the base of the blind.  Sandra was on it and we watched a Virginia Rail walk into the weeds.  It was a good ten second look at close range What a treat.

The Virginia Rail sneaks back into the swamp.

    The rail didn't make any noise, so Daphne wasn't able to use her app.  And she wondered, me not having an app, how I know what bird it was.  I patiently explained that as a bird watcher, I once had the entire bird book firmly ensconced in my brain.  And luckily, lo these many years later, the Viginia Rail had not yet escaped the friendly confines of my gooey gray matter.  

   We left Daphne to contemplate bird books and after checking out the nettles again, made it back to the car.  From the blind, on back the only thing of note was another pair of Wood Ducks.   I told my sweetie that no matter how many wood ducks we see, I refuse to call them Dirt Birds.

    At the kiosk where one might pay, we parked and ate our sandwich.  After lunch. I got out of the car and wandered over to the tiny hut that might be occupied by a ranger, had El Presidente not eliminated that unnecessary position. I noted a white board with recorded observations.  Snipe and Sandhill Crane had been noted by worthy observers.  However, no one had recorded the Virginia Rail.  I took up a blue marker and wrote it down.  Virginia Rail!  That exclamation mark was well deserved.  

To be continued, jeff