BIRDING SLUMP

This has been a tough week - by far the toughest so far - and a reminder of the ephemeral nature of birding luck. Oh - and also how annoying it is to not be able to predict the future yet!

July already seems a distant memory - zipping from rarity to rarity. There never seemed any shortage of the latter, and somehow they all cooperatively managed to stick around long enough for me to see before heading off to the next. Not that it was easy - in the month of July I spent 24 nights away from home, and many of those sleeping in a plane, airport or car. But boy was it fun!

This week, though, the luck finally ran out. Poised at 699 I just couldn't get a break. I was continually dogged with the realization that I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It started back on Sunday night in San Diego, before my epic 56 hour southern California pelagic. 

I'd never used sea sickness medication in the past - and I've never been seasick. But I'd also never been at sea on a small boat in the Pacific Ocean for 3 days. So, just before heading to dinner, I stopped by the Sport Fishing store at Point Loma, where I'd be leaving at 6am the following morning.

The guys in the store were friendly, and chatty, and, after buying my Dramamine, I ended up talking about my how excited I was for the trip. 

"Which trip is that?"

"Oh - the 56 hour trip on board the Grande."

"The what?"

"You know, the birding pelagic."

"Wait - wasn't that cancelled? Yeah, like a month ago. The Grande's on a fishing trip now."

There was something surprisingly unsurprising about the news - as if I'd been waiting for this moment, knowing that it would suddenly strike and that reality would rudely awaken me from the highs of my recent success. In the next few minutes I discovered that, even though I'd called a week before and received an email confirmation, there'd been a mistake: there was no birding trip. There was to be no magic #700 celebration aboard the Grande, and my time and money getting here had been wasted. The Dramamine wouldn't cure this sick feeling and knowing that a recently-discovered Curlew Sandpiper was drawing appreciative crowds at Plum Island back home didn't help much either.

I knew I'd get a chance to use this pic again this year!

I now had a choice - to rebook my flight home and try for the Curlew Sandpiper, or head to New Mexico for the mega-rare Blue-footed Booby. My exhaustion and frustration got the better of me - I chose Boston and home. I figured that, though Blue-footed Boobies are rare, they do tend to stick around longer - certainly longer than a Curlew Sandpiper. I'd go to Boston first, then back to NM.

As I left San Diego, on the first flight back home, the Curlew Sandpiper had been seen at 6:30 that morning. When I landed late afternoon, it hadn't been relocated. Figuring it was tidal and morning's might be best, I went back the next morning (Tuesday) to find lots of shorebirds but no Curlew Sandpiper. Damn. The #700 celebration at home, with Gerri on Plum Island, was also not to be.

But there was still the Booby - which was being seen every day and was very approachable. It was on a tiny lake in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico. I booked a flight on Tuesday evening to Dallas. I'd arrive late at night, and then drive the 6 hours (!) and be there on Weds morning. As I left, there was an update saying the bird had been seen today. Blue-footed Booby for #700 would be pretty cool. Finally my luck was back!

When the plane landed at DFW, I turned my phone on - as I habitually do now to check on bird sightings - and was surprised to find another update on the Booby. Why would there be another update? I could feel the knot in my stomach grow as I read that the bird was emaciated (no fish in the lake for it to eat) and had been captured for rehabilitation. Shit. The bird was gone. I'd chosen the wrong date to come.

I walked off the plane, went to the nearest airline rep, and asked if I could get the next flight back to Boston. "Wait, didn't you just arrive?" I didn't feel like talking about the situation, and thought that a story about a Booby might not help either, so opted for a resigned nod. I was on the next, and last, flight back home - at 1:15am. A beer and a grilled cheese sandwich did little to cheer me up. Nor did the discovery that the flight was now delayed until 4:30am. I spent the night drifting in and out of "sleep" precariously perched on the now all-too-familiar airport seating with its cruel arm-rests.

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If I hadn't been in San Diego for the pelagic, I'd have been in Hatteras - trying again for White-tailed Tropicbird and Herald Petrel. I could try this weekend, but I had a field trip I was leading at Plum Island on Saturday. Thinking one day was better than nothing, I booked a flight to Norfolk, VA, on Saturday evening, for the Sunday boat - the last of the season out of Hatteras.

I arrived at Hatteras at 2am, with barely enough time to sleep before the 5:30 boat. I was tired but excited: the day before, Saturday, they'd got White-tailed Tropicbird and two Herald Petrels. (They also had Herald Petrel the weekend I was in San Diego.) But pelagic trips are notably fickle - no two days are the same. And Sunday was predictably nothing like Saturday: despite a good show of shearwaters, the shout for "Herald Petrel" never materialized. Nor for Tropicbird. If only I'd been on the boat the day before... Those are two birds I've definitely lost for the year now. 

So here I am, a week later, with no new birds to show, and a lot of near misses and frustration. It's reminded me that birding is like baseball - if you can get a hit 30% of the time, you're doing extremely well. Maybe it was the contrast with the previous weeks which were so unbelievably good, or just the physical and mental toil this past week has placed on me, but it's the first time this year that I've not had fun birding. And I have a feeling the second half of my Big Year is going to throw up similar challenges. If I can just get some decent sleep, I think I'll be ok.

Right now - I'm waiting for my third flight of the morning from out-of-the-way Norfolk to Phoenix. There's a second Blue-footed Booby this year at Patagonia Lake in south east Arizona. Hopefully a chance for Booby redemption.

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BIG YEAR LIST: 699 + 1 provisional

NEW YEAR BIRDS: 0

#699 AND THE SEARCH FOR THE HOLY QUAIL

I'm back in California this week for some hard-core pelagic trips. Yesterday I was on Debi Shearwater's boat out of Monterey. This was the same trip that a week ago saw Hawaiian Petrel - a life bird for many on the boat including passenger and Big Year record-holder, Sandy Komito. I was hoping the Petrel might stick around. And on Monday, I'm heading out of San Diego for a 56 hour pelagic. Yikes - that's a lot of sea. And hopefully a lot of good birds.

Pelagic trips are the proverbial box of chocolates. You never know what you'll get until you get on the boat and open the box. Sometimes you get a delicious truffle. Or a Swiss ganache. Other times, some other bastard's eaten the lot and it's empty. Yesterday's trip from Monterey was the latter. The weather was great for humans (clear, bright, no wind) and terrible for birds, which were few and far between. But - I did get a pretty awesome life chocolate - Blue Whale. We saw at least 6 of these giants off Santa Cruz county.

Blue Whale - silvery-blue in color, with tiny dorsal fin

The largest known animal to have ever existed on the planet

As we're heading back, Debi asked me how my Mountain Quail trip with Bob Barnes worked out. I told her it was a lot of fun, Bob was fantastic, and we saw some great birds - the only thing that would, perhaps, have made it even better was *actually* seeing or hearing a Mountain Quail. And then Debi starts doing what everyone else does when I tell them about my nemesis - they describe their own secret spot for the birds. It seems that everyone has a Mountain Quail spot. Everyone, that is, except me. 

Debi's treasure map for Mountain Quail

I have the next day free - which I was going to spend hunting for quail back at the Piute Mountains. But Debi's place is 1.5 hours away, compared to 5 hours. Oh well - I'll probably miss them at either place, so might as well try the closer!

I leave Fisherman's Wharf in Monterey by late afternoon. My plan is to scope out Debi's site - Tassajara Road - before dark and then come back in the morning when the quail might be more active.

The road is unpaved, and steep in places as it winds up into the mountains of central Monterey County. I pass a busy campsite on the way, open meadows and heavily wooded hillsides. I'm about 10 miles up when I stop enjoying the view, and remember why I'm here - Mountain Quail. Must focus! I start imagining what it would be like to actually see one - turning a bend, and suddenly discovering one crossing the dirt road. And as I'm having this exact thought, imagination and reality suddenly fuse: as I turn the corner, there is a quail standing on the side of the road. I slam on the brakes just as it starts running to the other side of the road and disappearing up into a thickly-wooded slope. Wow - a quail! Could it be Mountain Quail? As I'm thinking this, another pops out, standing long enough for me to get my binoculars on it and see the diagnostic white vertical stripes on the burgundy flanks. Mountain Quail! And then it quickly follows the first. Where's my camera? Up pops another quail. Damn - where *is* my camera? And away up the slope. And another! My camera? There it is. And another appears! Remove lens cap.... 

Eight (!) Mountain Quail cross the road as I'm fumbling between binoculars, camera and the thought that I'm actually seeing Mountain Quail. I never do manage to get a photo, and searching around up the slope is hopeless - the vegetation is too thick to see them and too steep for me to clamber up. But they do leave behind one clue that I didn't just imagine the whole thing...

Mountain Quail footprints!

And this is where it all happened...

No - not an ad for the Ford Fusion (although it was a very comfortable car!) 

- but the location of the Mountain Quail road crossing drama

Hoping for more after such a tantalizing view, I sleep on the mountain and try again in the morning. As I'm driving up the road I meet a Fish and Wildlife ranger who tells me today is going to be busy: it's opening day for deer season. He asks if that's why I'm here.

"No - I'm looking for Mountain Quail." 

"Oh, I haven't seen one of those for years. Are you sure they're here?" 

I hope so! I'm pretty sure I wasn't imagining yesterday's encounter. Well - I was imagining it, but also seeing it, kind of both at the same...wait, this wasn't the time for this type of conversation. I left the guy sitting in his truck while I drove further up the mountain. 

The rest of the mountain was pretty quiet, and I turned round before the road started disintegrating. The ranger was still parked where I left him. This time though, he's waving frantically at me: "I just saw two of them!" What? "They crossed the road. Less than a minute ago!"

I drove near where he'd seen them disappear and waited. They never did come out, but I could hear their soft contact calls deep within the foliage. 

And on the way back, I stopped at the place I'd seen them last night. And this time I heard it, the loud call of the male Mountain Quail, "quee-ark!" 

Thank you, Debi! My nemesis is finally over. Wasn't there some idiotic hipster dufus who recently suggested that Mountain Quail were extinct?! I'd seen them, and heard contact calls and the male song. Definitely not extinct. I didn't, however, find the Sasquatch - but then, I didn't go all the way to the end of the road.

Mountain Quail is #699 for the year - although, if the Rufous-necked Wood-rail is accepted, it would be #700. After the many, many hours of Mountain Quail chasing this year, I couldn't think of a more fitting bird for such a milestone.

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BIG YEAR LIST: 699

NEW YEAR BIRDS (1): Mountain Quail

SNOWCOCKS ARE ON ME!

Himalayan Snowcocks. I remember joking about these birds when I first contemplated doing a Big Year, "yeah, ok, whatever, I guess I'm doing a Big Year. But I'm definitely *not* going to Nevada to see the damn Snowcocks!"

Today, I'm in Nevada to see to the damn Snowcocks.

Himalayan Snowcocks are, you've guessed it, native to the Himalayas. So, what the hell are they doing here? Well, the weirdness began in 1961 when the Nevada Fish and Game Commission were so bored / intoxicated / both that they came up with two bold thoughts: (1) "dude, you know what, our very own Ruby Mountains look a bit like them world-famous Himalayas"; and the logical extension, that if (1) were actually true, then (2) "why can't we have our own Snowcocks?" Presumably, a few bets were exchanged, and a phone call to the President of Pakistan placed. The latter agreed and Pakistan started trapping birds and shipping them our way. Most of them, sadly, died, and it was left to a local breeding program to provide the majority of the 2,000 birds that were released between 1965 and 1979. The birds loved their new home and have been here ever since, making them not only one of the most ridiculous of the introduced species to north America, but also annoyingly one of the most inaccessible. A visit requires flying into Salt Lake CIty, driving 4 hours, followed by a steep climb to their preferred altitude: rocky slopes above the tree-line.

My drive out from Salt Lake City takes me into the Great Basin - an area of some 200,000 square miles that encompasses most of Nevada, half of Utah, and parts of Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon and California. Salt Lake City (northwest) and Reno (southwest) are the major cities in an otherwise vast and empty area. It's an "endorheic basin" which means that all the water, whether that's precipitation, rivers, or springs, drains into internal (and often very salty) lakes - such as the Great Salt Lake - and never reaches the sea.

Nestled up against the Utah border are the Bonneville Flats, a blindingly white area of salt-encrusted sand.

 Bonneville Flats - north-western Utah

And after the other-wordly salt flats, maybe this was an appropriate discovery…

WTF? I thought this was in a galaxy far, far away. Not northern NV!

Four hours later I roll into Elko, the base for the Ruby Mountains (and also, interestingly, for the annual cowboy poetry gathering)…

Umm...I'm hoping this isn't the same facility?

My plan is to reconnoitre the Ruby mountains this evening - and hopefully see the birds - so that *if* I have to return tomorrow morning (in the dark, ready for sunrise) I'll know where to go.

Lamoille Canyon. Nice! A paved road all the way from Elko to the trailhead. 

No rental car trashing up here!

The Trailhead is at 8,750 ft, and the hike up to Lake Lamoille is a steep one, ascending 1,000 ft in only 1.5 miles. And it's a slow climb - as I'm continually distracted by the birds along the way…

Macgillivray's Warbler - typically skulking

White-crowned Sparrow - the dark-lored oriantha subspecies

And a very approachable Raven...

...as well as Mountain Bluebirds, Cassin's Finches, Juncos, and Clark's Nutcrackers that wouldn't pose for views.

And finally, after a series of steep switchbacks the trail pops out onto a plateau of flower-filled meadows…

Lake Lamoille is at the end of the trail and too big to squeeze into the lens of my tiny iphone. It's framed by a cirque - a towering half-bowl of serrated peaks. For 30 odd years, this is where the Snowcocks have been hiding.

I'm hoping that tomorrow morning the birds will be calling - because now they're not - making them easier to pick out from the similarly-colored rocks. For now, I start scanning, hoping to randomly find one. And within 5 minutes, I spot one on the ridge! It's standing perfectly still surveying its surroundings. Wow!I can't believe my luck - people spend hours here and never see one - and I get one within the first 5 minutes! *And* - this means I don't have to hike up again in the middle of the night! The bird is very still. Maybe that's why they're so tough - they don't move much? Very still. Wait - I zoom into the bird. Of course, I've been looking at a rock…

Himalayan Snowrock. Currently not countable on the ABA list.

Three hours and many, many more Snowrocks later I'm feeling pretty deflated. This *is* going to be difficult! And it's probably not helped by a resident and threatening Golden Eagle…

Golden Eagle. Probably the first time I've ever not wanted to see one...

So - I set off on the steep climb down, prepared to make the same hike back up again a few hours later in the middle of the night, ready to be here at sunrise.

Sunset in the Ruby Mountains

"Beep, beep, beep" my alarm jolts me awake from a freezing and uncomfortable slumber. I'm sleeping in the car at the trailhead, it's 3:30am and it's 45F outside. And inside. With only a sliver of a moon, it's totally dark. Even the Snowcocks can't tempt me to venture out yet. I reset my alarm for 4am. Then 4:15. Then 4:30. At 4:40 I finally drag myself out. With sunrise only an hour away, I'm now panicking that I'm going to be late. Why can't I ever get up on the first alarm? Or even the second? I start moving quickly up the hidden trail, using my flashlight to reveal the way, and avoid the rocks, tree roots and toads that line the nocturnal path.

As I'm scrambling up, hopelessly out of breath with my heart banging inside my chest, I suddenly remember there's an easier way to do this. Helicopter! In the Big Year book and movie that's just what Al Levantin and Greg Miller did - buzzing around the mountain tops flushing the Snowcocks. And then I remember that it's $925 more expensive than my short 1.5 mile hike, which doesn't seem quite so painful now.

I'm late. I'm out of breath standing below a cirque that's now fully illuminated from the east. And - I don't hear any Snowcocks. Shit. I spend the next 90 minutes desperately scanning the peaks, ridges and towers of the cirque, straining for the calls, all the time thinking that I'm going to have to come back here again - the flight, drive and hike. The frustration is temporarily lifted by a Mountain Goat nibbling at vegetation on the rock edges…

Mountain goat. Also introduced into the Ruby Mountains - in the 1960s

And then I see it. Along the top of the cirque, off to my left, I spot movement. A fat bird scurrying up the side, and out of view. The shape is right. Snowcock! And then, almost immediately, I hear a bird calling off to my right. They're here! This time, after some searching, I spot the bird standing on the ridge…

Himalayan Snowcock - heavily magnified (the bird is over half a mile away)

and then a pair…

A pair of snowcocks throwing their heads back to call

I spend the next hour transfixed by glimpses of Snowcocks punctuated by the occasional haunting call (not unlike that of the Long-billed Curlew.) As they wander over the cirque, coming in and out of view, stopping to call, I get the feeling that they really own the place. 

Maybe that whole Ruby Mountains / Himalaya bet wasn't quite so outrageous after all?...

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BIG YEAR LIST: 697

NEW YEAR BIRDS (1): Himalayan Snowcock

BERYLLINE HUMMER

There's something calming and meditative about watching hummingbirds. Like sitting in front of a good log fire, mesmerized by its crackling and warm, pulsating glow. I've been sitting here for over 6 hours and I'm still fascinated, held by the spell of the hummers.

"Here" is Madera Canyon in southeast Arizona. I've been at the Kubo lodge since 10:30 am waiting for the previously-reported Berylline Hummingbird. And there are few nicer places to wait…

Kubo B&B, Madera Canyon.

There are Broad-billed Hummers confidently flying around, seemingly oblivious to everything but the artificial nectar of the feeders. A shy Violet-crowned Hummer sneaks in occasionally, faithful to the same tiny red feeder. And the giant Magnificent Hummers zip around the place pretending to be "real" birds. But still no sign of the Berylline.

And the human birder show is equally interesting. I meet Jon Dunn and Dan Singer and reconnect with Laurens Halsey (who first photographed the Berylline - see here.) Jon is fascinating to talk to - and confirms the rumors that the Sage Sparrow has been split into two species - Bell's Sparrow (the previous subspecies of belli and canescens) and Sagebrush Sparrow (the monotypic nevadensis.) And like this year's addition of Purple Swamphen, and last year's Rosy-faced Lovebird and the Scripp's / Guadalupe Murrelet split, that means extra potential ticks this year that weren't available in the past. Oh - and a sigh of relief that my hard-earned trio of Rosy-finches weren't "lumped" into one species.

It's getting late. Slowly the birders drift away until there's just a few of us holding vigil. How long will I wait? I flew in this morning from California, and I'm tired. I could conceivably spend all day tomorrow doing the same, staring at the same feeder. At what point do I start going insane [Ed - umm….the point where you decided to do a Big Year?] 

And then at 5:04pm, 394 minutes after arriving, I see it. It's an odd feeling to be staring at the thing you've been imagining seeing all day - a kind of surreal experience. "Umm…that's…there's…oh wow…" I'm tongue-tied as I'm watching a bright emerald hummingbird with bronzed wings and tail. It stays a few seconds on the feeder - the same upper right feeder where it was seen yesterday - and then retreats to the tree behind…

Phew! And what a bird! A tiny beady eye set in the emerald of the head and upper-body plumage, and the bronze of the flight feathers. The bird returns again at 5:15 for a longer view, giving me time for some better digi-scoped images…

One thing I've learned this year is patience. In the past I'd have given up waiting after a few hours. But slowing down and waiting for the birds to come to you - and being patient - can really pay off. Obviously, that's not always the case. See here and here for examples of it not paying off - all involving Mountain Quail!)

My next trip is an entirely different target. I'm trading the diminutive frame of the Berylline Hummingbird for the giant chicken-like one of the Himalayan Snowcock - a bird of the high mountains. But like today's Berylline, it's a secretive bird, and I'm expecting an equally long wait. But hopefully not as long as the Mountain Quail…

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BIG YEAR LIST: 696

NEW YEAR BIRDS (1): Berylline Hummingbird

MOUNTAIN QUAIL EXTINCTION SHOCKER!

Shocking news for the birding world this week as Mountain Quail - a small confiding ground bird of the west -  has officially been declared extinct. Experts have been surprised at the unprecedented speed of the population decline - a bird that, only a few hours ago, was so common that the ABA listed it as code 1 (abundant.). Sadly, today the Mountain Quail is no longer to be found in the wild in North America.

The extensive research is based on hours* of meticulous driving through much of the range of Mountain Quail** by Neil Hayward. 

Piute Mountain Road - Kern Co, CA

He was joined by Mountain Quail expert Bob Barnes - birder extraordinaire of Kern County, CA. Bob used to see or hear these birds "every week of the year." That is, until today, when, shockingly, Mountain Quails were neither seen nor heard. In a statement released later in the day Bob explained that he was "very surprised." Bob had been so confident of the continued survival of this species that he had "all but guaranteed" a sighting for Big Year birder, Neil Hayward.

Neil was philosophical about the extinction, "Yeah - grouse and quails are notoriously difficult to see. I knew that at the beginning of my big year. They're just so goddam sneaky. I'm totally not surprised that one of them has deliberating decided to pull an extinction on me during my Big Year. That's totally like grouse." Asked how this has affected his Big Year, "Well, obviously this is huge. This is the difference between seeing a whole bunch of birds, and seeing a whole bunch of birds plus one. But, you know, that's life. You just have to move past these disasters."

But it may not be all bad news for the quail. Cincinnati Zoo have a small number of the birds in captivity and there's hope for a reintroduction program. And of course Cincinnati has an excellent track record - the now widespread Passenger Pigeon was brought back from the brink of extinction through just such a breeding program at this zoo in 1914.

One silver lining to driving up and down the Piute Mountains was the sighing of California Thrasher…

California Thrasher - definitely alive and not extinct on July 30

So what's next for Neil in his Big Year?

"When I flew out to CA, I didn't have a return ticket. I didn't know where I'd be going next. Now there's a rare Berylline Hummingbird back in Arizona [ed - where Neil had just flown from to CA] and I'm on a flight to Tucson first thing tomorrow morning."

Neil was very excited about his luxury hotel option tonight - "Hotel SFO - Gate 28"

In-room facilities include odors of Cinnabon, $8 beer and fun games such as "find the outlet."

* 6 of them

** 10 miles

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BIG YEAR LIST: 695

NEW YEAR BIRDS (1): California Thrasher

LITTLE STINT

Little Stint is a particularly nostalgic bird for me - and one of the reasons I got into birding. I'd always been fascinated by our yard birds - Chaffinch, Greenfinch, Green Woodpecker (wow!), Dunnock, etc. At age 12 or so I'd started birding local woodlands with some friends. That added some new species - Bullfinch, Jay, Blackcap, etc - but essentially an extension of what I was getting in the yard. Then we heard that people "birded" (or in those days it was the seemingly more passive "went birdwatching") at the local reservoir in Farmoor.

Farmoor Reservoir, just west of Oxford, was smelly, windy and frequently infested with biting flies. We loved it! I spent a large part of my teens - with Jon, Robert, Matthew and John - walking around that place looking for birds. As a land-locked county in the middle of the country, Oxfordshire wasn't exactly the best place to bird. Hence the joke "Farmoor Reservoir - Farmoor birds elsewhere!" But it's where I fell in love with birding. The feeling of walking out onto the causeway never knowing what you'd see - or walking into the sailing clubhouse and checking the well-worn logbook for bird sightings. And, during migration, Little Stint was an uncommon but reliable friend, scampering about on the edges of the water.

Before getting on Debi's boat yesterday, a report had come in of a Little Stint in the Central Valley - but it was on private land. Local birder Mark Stacy had organized a small and successful visit with permission yesterday. And as I was enjoying the day on Debi's boat, that Little Stint was pecking away at the back of my mind. The timing and location were perfect - but could I get to see it?

I spent the night in Fresno, arriving around midnight. I'd been in contact with Susan Steele who was hopeful that we'd get permission the following morning. I told her to call me anytime - however early. 

*Anytime* ended up being 6:49 am, which was early enough to wake me. Susan had permission to visit the site, and I would meet her there. Fantastic!

The Joaquin Valley is the southern part of the Central Valley - a wide, flat basin flanked by the Sierra Nevada to the east and the Coast Range to the west. It's one of the most productive agricultural regions in the country. The natural watersheds of this ancient prairie flow now through irrigation channels, the grassland now gridded into fields growing tomatoes, cherries, grapes, asparagus, cotton, and more...

The San Joaquin Valley - stop and smell the roses

(but not for too long - or you'll get hit by one of the many, many trucks!)

As I arrive at the flooded agricultural fields I'm greeted by thousands of shorebirds. Small shorebirds. Suddenly, the difficulty of picking out the one rare and different bird here dawns on me. It's going to be a long, hot day...

There are thousands of feeding shorebirds here. 

For some reason I managed to photograph the one part where there were none!

Susan and I split up and start searching through the birds. They're mostly Least Sandpipers, with the odd Western mixed in. Despite the heat (it's early morning and already 100F+) it's a relaxing task - sifting through these tiny birds, all running around looking for the next insect to snap up. Occasionally the flocks are spooked, fly around a bit and then return, the pack of birds newly shuffled. And the scanning - bird by bird - starts anew.

I'm not having any luck with the Least Sandpiper flocks. I know from Farmoor that Little Stints love the edges of water - much more so than the mud-loving Leasts. So I focus my attention there. And after a few false alarms (that's it! there it is...umm...no, that's not it) I spot one bird that jumps out at me. It's a small, stocky shorebird, with a tiny, straight bill, and lots of red on the face and neck. I double check before I call Susan - who, thankfully, agrees on the identification. Little Stint!

Little Stint (right most bird in top and bottom pics.)

Reddish wash on the face and neck, with spotting on the later. Faint supercilium and short, straight black bill. Black-centered coverts and scapulars edged in rufous. Black legs. White braces down the back.

What luck! I had today free and was traveling through here anyway. The birding stars really were aligned for this trip. And John Vanderpoel had a similar experience in his big year (see here) - just after getting off his pelagic trip in late July.

Tomorrow I'm meeting Bob Barnes who's helping me track down my nemesis bird - the Mountain Quail. These are pretty much "guaranteed" up in the Piute Mountains. But maybe Bob hadn't heard how desperately these birds were to not be seen (or heard!) by me. Who'd win out - Bob's experience or the quails' stubbornness?

Stay tuned...

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BIG YEAR LIST: 694

NEW YEAR BIRDS (1): Little Stint

BIG YEAR BIRDERS ON A BOAT

"Are you Neil Hayward? You're late!" 

I so wanted to make a good first impression with Debi Shearwater. Getting lost on the way to the boat looking for coffee resulted in the lateness. Not having the right cash for the trip resulted in an extra reason for Debi to be unimpressed. 

Debi Shearwater has been running pelagic trips out of California for over 30 years. She's an expert on seabirds, whales, oceanic life. Oh, and North American birders! If you're one of the latter, chances are you've been on a Shearwater Journeys boat with Debi.

After the safety talk (no smoking, standing on the benches, bow-hogging or generally being a pain in the ass) we set off. 

Half Moon Bay is a quick 30 min from SFO airport - where I'd flown in late last night. After navigating the coastal fog I finally rolled into town around 2am. Since I'd be getting up in 4 hours I decided to stay at Hotel Toyota. They charge pretty much the same as Hotel Mazda, but the "bed" is slightly more comfortable. What was not more comfortable was the harbor fog-horn that went off every 15 seconds. I never quite found a way to turn that feature off...

The shorebirds on the jetty were a lot more awake than I was...

Black Oystercatcher adult with young behind. Cool legs!

Surfbird!

As we left the harbor for the open ocean we had quick views of Marbled Murrelets and a young, totally dark Rhinoceros Auklet...

Not the Loch Ness Monster - but Rhinoceros Auklet

Inside the boat, the sightings were equally interesting. Firstly, my birding friend from MA - Dave Hursh - was on board, which made for a nice surprise. And as I'm talking to Dave, I realize the guy next to us is Jay Lehman - the other guy who's doing a full-blown 2013 Big Year (check out Jay's blog here.) I wondered when we'd finally meet. And, as with Hans de Grys (mid-year to mid-year Big Year birder extraordinaire) my arch-nemesis turned out to be a really nice guy! It was great comparing notes on places we'd birded, or not yet birded, quizzing each other on strategies, and giving suggestions. But really, there's something nice about talking to someone who knows exactly what you're going through - the travel schedule, decision-making, the thrill of seeing new birds, bird identification, blogging, being away from home, general sleep-deprivation...

While I'm talking to Jay and Dave, my first new year bird whizzes by - the first of many Ashy Storm-petrels...

Ashy Storm-petrel. Pale carpal bar and long tail.

...and then a Fork-tailed Storm-petrel, an unexpected find for the trip. 

And it's not long before the first albatross spots us and heads over to inspect...

"Hey - wait for me!"

Black-footed Albatrosses have a wingspan of  just over 7 feet.

Almost the entire population breeds on Hawaiian islands.

"You know who that is over there?" Jay's pointing to a guy on the other side of the boat. No - I'm pretty sure I've never met him before. But there is something vaguely familiar about him. "Sandy Komito." Wait, *the* Sandy Komito? 

Sandy Komito set the record for a Big Year in 1987 at 721, and then set it again in 1998 with an absolutely incredible 748. That was 15 years ago and it hasn't been beaten since. Wow - I was on a boat with a birding legend!

Pink-footed Shearwater

I spent a wonderful hour or so chatting to Sandy. He's a great and hilarious story-teller, as well as a humble birder. I learned that the key to a successful big year is to "chase the rarities." I'd kind of known this. But it's hard to do that when there's so much common stuff to see! "You can always go back for the common stuff. If you're in the middle of a Minnesota trip that you've spent ages planning, and a rarity turns up in Texas, you go to Texas." I knew he was right, absolutely right, and if I could do this year again, that's probably what I'd do. Well, I still had 5 months left...

An unexpected highlight to the trip - chatting with Sandy Komito.

Sandy's not a huge fan of the book and film, "The Big Year" ostensibly about him and his 1998 Big Year attempt. He explains that parts of it are fictional - especially the invented "competition" between Sandy, Al Levantin and Greg Miller. Birders are competitive  - but only with themselves and will go out of their way to help a fellow birder find birds - which I've certainly experienced this year. The one part of the book that is true though, is that Sandy loves birds. You can see the light shine in his eyes as he talks about them and as he watches them. He's a man with a great passion.

I'm enjoying talking to Sandy and Jay so much, that I barely have time to also enjoy the great seabird show...

Sabine's Gull - such a simple coloration makes for one of the most beautiful of birds. 

Pomarine Jaeger - with spoon-shaped tail feathers. 

Meanwhile, there's action back on the boat...

Debi Shearwater and Sandy Komito.

"No, we're not stopping for another whale"

I think they're joking!

It's getting late so we start heading back to shore. Suddenly Debi screams out, "Laysan Albatross, 12 o'clock!"

Laysan Albatross - named after one of the Hawaiian islands on which they breed.

Based on banding, the oldest known bird in the world - at least 62 - is a Laysan Albatross named, "Wisdom."

As we're nearing the harbor, we start seeing more coastal birds...

Elegant Tern

Patriotic Western Gulls. Adult feeding young.

Whimbrel on the jetty

I saw some great birds and had a wonderful day chatting with Debi, Sandy and Jay. 

Big Year Birders - Jay Lehman, Sandy Komito and Neil Hayward

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BIG YEAR LIST: 693

NEW YEAR BIRDS (3): Ashy Storm-Petrel, Fork-tailed Storm-petrel, Buller's Shearwater