It's a frequently asked question to which I knew the answer before I arrived.
"Yes, but just black bears. No grizzlies."
I wasn't at the Field Station 24 hours before I witnessed the answer firsthand. I was looking out over Lost and Found Lake, about a half-mile from the Station, with a group of visiting teachers when someone pointed out a black form on the opposite shore. (Lost and Found Lake might be more accurately termed a pond, mind you.)
Lost and Found Lake.
Binoculars went up, cameras clicked, and we had confirmation: the black shape was a black bear!
What a robust nose!
The bear saw us, but he didn't seem particularly interested. He padded a few feet away and lay down for a nap.
That was my first sighting of a bear from foot -- I saw a few from the car window with my mother on our Great Alaskan Road Trip last summer -- but it would not be my last.
Two days later, I emerged from the Low Tide Trail. My hiking partner pointed across the tidal lagoon, and there she was, a black bear balancing on driftwood for fun!
This black bear didn't seem worried about us, either. As long as we keep our distance, they keep theirs, and nobody gets surprised, we'll all be great friends.
One of the most imaginative tips I've recieved as a guide was a package of homemade bear jerky. Every Alaskan resident gets to shoot three bears a year, though of course most don't take up the offer. Our eight-year-old visitor had shot this jerky's black bear himself. And here I'd thought butchering my own rabbits made me cool.
I haven't seen a bear since my first three days at the Station, but I always carry bear spray. And when my friend Laura and I go running on the trails, we holler our rambunctious greeting at every turn: HEY, BEAR!!!
In case you haven't heard, spring is the season for babies.
Here at Peterson Bay Field Station, a pair of bald eagles is accomplishing an incredible feat: they are raising triplets!
The broken crown of a seaside spruce makes an ideal platform.
I'm taking photos every day to mark their progress. To the eagle experts out there: any idea how old these chicks might be?
On the Lost and Found Lake Loop Trail, which winds through a mile-and-a-half of Lutz spruce forest, I found the sign of an American robin's reproduction: the cracked shells of two sky-blue eggs.
Cracked sky.
Shell fragments.
A proud mom or a heartbroken orphaner?
I don't know if the eggs hatched or were pilfered by raven or raccoon.
On my day off here in Homer, I circumnavigated Beluga Slough through questionable tides, estuarine mud, and private property.
Kenai Mountains in the background.
Kachemak Bay on the horizon.
I ducked behind the tree line to read a chapter of Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac on somebody's hand-hewn log bench. Seven northern shovelers flew in as soon as I was out of sight.
Pendulous bills make for good shoveling.
I've never seen such an enormous hoof print. Moose were probably watching me follow their trail.
Further along, I discovered septuplet ducklets. Their species eluded me at first. Mallards have orange bills; green-winged teal have dark faces; gadwalls aren't common here.
What nice eyeliner you have. I always go for down-turned wings, too.
Is that a peek of blue speculum I spy?
But with enough patience and photographs, I got a look at her blue speculum, and I believe she is simply a dark-billed mallard mama.
Ahh, blue indeed!
On my walk home, I got a much closer view of a mother mallard with only two ducklings. She had a dark bill and a brilliant blue speculum, confirming my identification.
And her duckling took an adorable bath while practicing her dabbling! I wonder how even their down is waterproof?
A baby duck is a duckling (or ducklet, with poetic license). A baby eagle's an eaglet. What do you call a baby crane? Take a gander. (No, a gander is a male goose!)
I'll give you this one. A baby crane is called a colt!
Watching them gambol through the grass makes clear the resemblance between filly and fowl. I couldn't get too close to the pair of colts this morning, but you can see their yellow fluff nudging mom or dad for food.
Four days ago, I was fighting for a national championship with my ultimate team, the Whitman Sweets, at the National College Ultimate Championships in Raleigh, North Carolina. (We made school history and earned a silver medal!)
Three days ago, I was buying my first pair of Chacos in Seattle and stuffing polypropylene leggings into my waterproof duffel bag.
Two days ago, I was flying to Anchorage and then Homer, Alaska and settling in to my bunk room on the second floor of the Center for Alaskan Coastal Studies. I met an old friend and teammate for dinner (here in Homer, what wonderful coincidence) and fell asleep at 10:30 pm in broad daylight.
One day ago, I took a boat across Kachemak Bay to the Peterson Bay Field Station, a semi-remote campus of the Center for Alaskan Coastal Studies where I'll be living and guiding for the rest of the summer.
We passed Gull Island on our way to Peterson Bay Field Station.
Common murres were conspicuously absent in the water... and then we found them all huddled on top!
Black kittiwakes coated the cliffs and generated a constant pulsing wail.
Tufted puffins bobbed near our boat.
And this morning, I woke up to gossip of boreal chickadees, the indignant peels of black oystercatchers, and the melody of robins.
A bald eagle perches in this snag every day.
A group of eight Alaskan school-teachers are visiting for a three-day Teacher Academy. They'll take back what they learn to provide outdoor education for the students in their classrooms. It's a perfect first group for me because I get to learn about this ecosystem alongside curious educators who ask creative questions and find joy in the mucky details.
Gull Island, a pillow basalt home to thousands of birds.
Otter Rock: can you see the geological sea otter on her back, paws in the air?
Low tide.
Can you identify this dead duck head?
Our steep ramp from the dock to the Field Station.
If you're heading to the beach, take the stairs.
Our drinking water comes thrice-filtered from this steam, but it's still imbued with a rich brown color from leaf tannins.
Today we have a minus 3.2 tide at 7:30 am -- that's really low. We're off to Otter Rock to seek out the Fab Four Phyla and whatever else crosses our path!
2016 began with owls. On New Year’s Day, I journeyed north through a light snowstorm to Skagit with a group of friends known as Bird Nerds Birding Club. (I met its founder, Courtney, while volunteering for Seattle Audubon’s Christmas Bird Count. Birding is the best way to make friends!)
Bird Nerds take on the Skagit.
Washington State is home to fifteen species of owl, and I was lucky enough to see three of them this winter and spring. Our first stop: short-eared owls, Asio flammeus.
The dark eye shadow is quite a statement.
She liked to perch on the caution sign.
Look at that dished face for funneling the skitter-sounds of rodents into her short ears.
These owls were a lifer for me. I soon learned to recognize their distinctive flight, long-winged and loping like a butterfly’s.
Sibley's Guide describes their flight as "floppier" and "erratic."
In this neck of the woods, the short-eared owls fly by day, and they convene a following of dedicated photographers. When the owls weren’t nearby, I enjoyed watching scattered huddles of men and women in full camouflage attire, their telephoto lenses propped on sturdy tripods and transported in jogging strollers.
Can you spot the photographers?
A month later, I returned to college in Walla Walla and invited Margo, Lizzie, and Molly Moo Moo to join me for a lap of Bennington Lake. Birders come in two categories – Sitters and Flitters – and this crew of budding ornithologists earned the first title with their patience. After we heard a single hoot, they took up posts off-trail for five, ten, twenty minutes until finally Margo spotted the owl. We stalked closer and watched the resident pair of great-horned owls watch us.
The great-horned owl, Bubo virginianus, is the most widespread owl in America.
Hello yellow eyes.
The baby owls thought. All owls think a lot.
"I think she's gone hunting," said Sarah.
"To get us our food," said Percy.
"I want my mummy!" said Bill.
If you know what’s up, you’ll recognize this conversation between three great-horned owl branchers from the wonderful children’s book, Owl Babies, by Martin Waddell.
Last week, near Bennington Lake, I got to meet Sarah and Percy. Bill was probably snuggling with his Owl Mother somewhere. I was on an excursion with my advisor, Tim, and several professors and classmates on Reading Day. (That’s the day between the last day of classes and the first day of finals, and it’s best spent doing anything but studying.)
An owlet basks in the sun on the parking-lot cliff.
This brancher eyed us from ten feet away.
Two hours later, she was still at her post.
You again?
Get outta here!
It’s been an incredible spring for owls. A few days later, I returned to the same lake with Thomas for a mid-finals birding break. After listening for yellow warblers in the willows, we heard a raspy cough from high within a cottonwood – it was Sarah and Percy, begging for food from their good old ma!
Sarah and Percy in a black cottonwood.
Before our eyes, an adult great-horned owl delivered a writhing gopher snake to one of the owlets.
I’ll let the video speak for itself.
Only a few minutes later, she returned with a second snake, but the first owlet (who I’m certain at this point was Sarah) begged more convincingly and snagged that snake, too. The second owlet, Percy, hunched dejectedly in the rain while Mom took a break.
Sarah polishes off her second snake in ten minutes.
“Geez, Mom, can’t you tell us apart? I’m hungry over here!” whined Percy.
As if that sighting wasn’t enough, on the last day on finals, I received a phone call from my friend Joe.
“Check your texts! I sent you a photo,” Joe instructed. “I found a bird for you to ID!”
The photo showed a puffy western screech owl, Megascops kennicottii, nestled in the knot of an oak.
“She’s right here on my street,” said Joe. “Come see!” Through the phone, I could hear the porpoise-like laugh of the owl.
Could you imagine a better owl hole?
It seems like the owl's coated in bark, or the tree in feathers.
Thomas and I went to find her, and there she was, her ruffled feathers blending with the rough bark. She eyed us with sleepy disinterest.
Maybe she was waiting to deliver a letter… or just hunt a mouse.
