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Glenn Barlow, Dana Green and I headed up Powder
Mountain Road (Highway 158 through Eden) last night for another attempt to
see the Northern Saw-whet Owl. We arrived in time to reconnoiter the
rugged terrain on either side of the highway in case a hike to an owl tree
became necessary. The early survey proved its usefulness later, but not
because of an owl. We gave the Northern
Saw-whet many opportunities to respond and show us what a beautiful bird he
is. We played the CD to no avail at several spots along the road. At
least two owls have sung for me in the last 2 weeks with and without the
CD, but we did not elicit a response last night.
During the earlier survey I heard a Common
Poorwill singing far back in a draw. We decided to play the CD
for poorwills once we concluded the owl wasn't going to be "our"
bird. We were encouraged to hear one poorwill respond and then slowly
another, and another. It seemed that the birds were working their way
down to the road. We frequently swept the road with our spotlights, but
never saw one resting there. At one point I was sure a poorwill was
singing in the ditch right in front of me. Not only did I hear the
"Poorwill! Poorwill! Poorwill!", but it was close enough for me to
hear several singular, musical chuckling notes. My spotlight picked up
nothing.
The poorwills chorused on both sides of
the road. Glenn swept his light up high on a rocky embankment and picked
up the luminescence from glowing orange eyes on a flat
rock. The eyes flashed down at us without revealing much
more. Showing spotlights from two angles did not illuminate the
bird's body. Those eyes were tiny beacons that beckoned.
While Dana held her spotlight on the bird from
the roadbed below, I climbed the slope to get a better look. I tried to
use Dana's advice to keep my eyes on the shine in case the bird
flushed. Watching my footing at the same time to avoid becoming part
of a scree avalanche was somewhat entertaining. Thankfully, I
had climbed the slope in early evening light in case it
became necessary to get a better view an owl in a nearby
tall fir. Little did I know I would later climb the slope for a
better view of Phalaenoptilus nuttallii--the Common Poorwill. The
knowledge of a rough route became invaluable.
The grade was at least 20 percent...maybe
more. As I climbed higher, I kept my head low to use the slope to disguise
my approach. I came within view of the bird at about 15 feet...then
10...then 6...then 4...then 2...then 18 inches...then I stopped. This
chunky little piece of bark was completely unconcerned with my presence.
Perhaps it was instinctively relying on its protective coloration in
response to a potential threat. I turned on my own light for a close
inspection. The poorwill watched me every second, but didn't
move. Its black pupil was surrounded by a warm brown iris. Hairs
around its face seemed to stick out in every direction. Its flat wide
triangle of a beak was hairy to the faintly down-curved point. The
white crescent under its neck was compressed to a narrow white slash.
Every feather seemed to have a different pattern of gray and black and
white. The word 'variegated' doesn't begin to accomodate the different
shadings, tiny geometric shapes, patterns, and marks of its plumage. A
narrow white terminal band on the tail determined his gender for me. The
band was slightly worn and the end of one tail feather was askew, pointing
toward the night sky. His three toes on each foot stuck out from below the
belly. The middle toes were curiously long. Together, the toes
didn't seem suitable either for perching on a flat rock or on a bare tree
branch.
By using my spotlight, I inadvertently brought the
poorwill into the swirling circle of moths that surrounded me. I imagined
the poorwill would snap open his gaping maw that marks him as a member of
the Nightjar family, but he never acted out my imaginary
wish. The moths churned with impunity, at times ricocheting into
my unconcerned subject and me. They were not in danger.
To size the bird I imagined he could almost fit
into my open cupped hands and perhaps overhang my fingers a bit.
Glenn most certainly is clairvoyant. From below, his voice floated
up, "You're going to pick it up, aren't you?" I wasn't really thinking of
flirting with the anti-bird harrassment provisions of the Migratory Bird Treaty
Act, but I chuckled at the synchronicity of our thoughts.
I had finally experienced enough to be able to
keep the bird in my mind's eye, and I turned quietly to go. The trip
down the slope was as entertaining as the ascent. The occasional
shrubby vegetation obliged me with handholds. Together, the shrubs and
I frustrated the force of gravity that was determined to carry me
pell-mell downward to be presented in a dusty pile at Dana's and Glenn's
feet. Thanks to the shrubbery I arrived back at the road, unscathed
but bedecked with burrs and a satisfied smile. Thanks to Dana and
Glenn, I was enriched by a wonderful experience with a Poorwill.
Kris
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