Not dipping on a Dipper

As some of you (particularly those who regularly read Dale's excellent Discovering Alpine Birds) might know, I spent two weeks in January in and around Tirol.

The main reason of course was a ground breaking international event Dale's blogged about here (and that I will blog about at a later point in time if time herself, who is a river, will permit) but of course, while I was there and the family was with me, I thought that I might also try to get some birding done.

And yes, I did.

Well, I had visited the Alps before on a few occasions in the 1980ies and late 1990ies and was thus familiar with the very vast majority of its special birds, so there was no real rush to get lifers. However, I very much looked forward to re-connecting with a few enigmatic species I hadn't seen in a long, long time.

Amongst these species was the Eurasian Dipper.

The Dipper is a bird frequently found along mountainous streams and creeks (and therefore not a tricky bird to see or get), yet I had spent 12 years in the flatlands of northern Germany where it is but a rare visitor from Scandinavia, and one that had basically avoided my detection for the entire period there .

It was thus with great pleasure that I found a mountain creek with a lovely weir and heaps of boulders along its banks was running through our little holiday destination of Kiefersfelden, right on the German-Austrian border. And by a stroke of luck (aka a good and long nap of my son), I found myself searching said location on my first full day there, for the Dipper.
I will let the pictures do the telling in a few instances, and it will suffice to write that I found not one but five Dippers along the 1.5 kms of river I searched, although the first 5 minutes were spent in a state of anxiety when the weir, my expected hot spot, held only Mallards.

Shortly after the weir though is where this blog post really begins:

The weir where the Dipper wasn't at first - but was on later day's visits I won't blog about...

The river above the weir where the Dipper wasn't where the Dipper was at first - but wasn't on later day's visits I won't blog about (the weir is in the background)...

And here it is, the star of this post:

Dipppp...

...errrr!

The passerine diving machine - going...

... going ...

... gone - what an unexpected end to this series!

And it's back up again.

The claws of this species, by the way, must be amongst the world's sharpest. Because those rocks can be dippery when wet.

I had watched the Dipper for well over half an hour when I realized it got dark and that it was time to return home to the family.

Walking along the river bank back towards the weir, a strange and barely audible whispering caught my ear.

I stopped in my tracks.

There it was again, and this time I was able to locate it as coming from amongst the boulders underwater.

In tune with the waves' rushing and purling but clearly discernible against its acoustic background, there was a tiny, soft, and repeated "Who", and like Horton I bent down to investigate further.

To my amazement, I found a choir of caddisfly larvae had gathered on a small area of sand amongst the rocks where the current was subdued by their larval cases and the boulders sheltering them, and they sang a sad and mellow song that I will reproduce here to the best of my abilities and as I noted it out in the field, lying down in the snow by the river, and I will call their tune The Ballad of Jack The Dipper.

The Ballad of Jack the Dipper

Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jackbill has The Dipper, dear
And he keeps it out of sight

When the shark bites with his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows start to spread
A white bib, though, wears The Dipper, dear
So there's not a trace of red

On the embankment...around sunset,
Lies a dead aquatic critter
Someone's diving 'round the river bed
Is the someone Jack the Dipper?

From a boulder in the river
A small pebble’s drooping down

Yes, it’s from a larva’s case, dear
Bet you Dipper's back in town

Makes you wonder if we owe one of literature's finest stories to Brecht & Weill spending one too many holidays at a creek in the Alps ...

Wayward Blogger

I'll be off the blog again until the beginning of February, family holidays near the German Alps.
Let's hope for a Wallcreeper or two at the castle Neuschwanstein.


Here is something to keep you entertained:
The following picture was taken in North America. Which species is shown?







Cheers, I'll be missing you.

Admitting Defeat

I have added Fraser's Birding Blog to my link list.

It was hard, really hard as I have mentioned here (and someone else who should really blog more frequently again has mentioned here).

The following series of pictures was the best I was able to do while being at the in-laws in Stralsund over the Christmas and New Year holidays (I have fully recovered, thank you).
These are Black-headed Gulls at dusk, and I solemnly declare defeat.

Southern Germany Today

You know, I wonder if Copenhagen was such a failure simply because of lousy seasonal timing.

Somewhere down there is my foot, and it doesn't like it that way

Looking Back at Birding in the 0's - part 1

I really don't want to go down in blogging history as the one boring maverick that didn't participate, so here they are: my Top 10 birds of the last decade.

I have however decided to twist the rules somewhat. This was deemed a necessity as the first decade of the new millennium took me to the North American Great Lakes in spring, and just naming the top 10 birds would likely have resulted in a list of 10 North American warblers.

Therefore, I have decided to do a little write-up of each year's birding highlights (mostly pertaining to birding trips I went on) and then choosing a Bird of the Year for each of the last decade's respective years.
Furthermore, I have decided to divide this post into several parts, and here is part 1 which covers the first half of the decade.


2000
The year 2000 was one of my power-birding years - the last one actually in a remarkable series that started in the late 1980ies.
The first few months of the year were spent in Greifswald where I finished my Masters thesis ("On the Ecology of the Mountain Zebra in southern Namibia") to become a biologist. It was a very stressful period and thus there was little time to go birding, but as it was a true milestone (possibly more so for me than the rest of the world) I was fine with that.
In July I flew back to Namibia for one last time, having spent 6 months there each in 1997/98 and 1999, to sell my stuff (which means sell my beloved Toyota Hilux) and say my farewells to the newly found friends, the best scenery in the world and the wildlife, too - but not without getting some serious birding done. Together with a friend from Germany, I went on a trip through the southern half of Namibia and the Cape province of South Africa in July/August and later went on some shorter trips to Etosha NP, Spitzkoppe, Swakopmund and the Waterberg Plateau. In October, finally, it was time to head back to Germany for good - back to Greifswald to start fighting for grants for a PhD project (which never materialized for me, the grants came half a year too late and a good friend of mine did the project instead).
I finished the year visiting my mother in Spain (she was spending the winter there), from the middle of December to the middle of January, and we did a "southern circuit" trip, from Valencia to Andalusia, Extremadura and back.

What was my bird of the year then?
Well, I thought long and hard about it but eventually decided that it was the Antarctic Fulmar I saw on a pelagic trip out of Cape Town on August 12th. We saw an incredible number of tube noses that day, almost 20 species and including 7 species of albatross, and the cloud of a few thousand albatrosses following a (not long-line) trawler was possibly the most awe-inspiring sight of my birding career. All these birds were amazing and I struggled hard to identify the one species that would symbolize the best birding day of my life. The Antarctic Fulmar was possibly the rarest of the birds we saw, certainly the most unexpected, but also the one I had told our guides I was particularly keen on seeing before the trip. And that's why it took the cake.

2001
The year 2001 was still filled with fine birding and a few trips, although the trips didn't quite match up with the time spent in southern Africa.
Birding around Greifswald was as great and exciting as it always was and always will be and I yet again scored more than 250 species around the city in the course of the year.
In late May/early June, I went on a short trip to Greece, although we did not visit any birding hot spots. Good birding, but not as good as it can get in Greece.
July and August saw me back in central Asia (Kazakhstan) for the third time on a faunistic trip organized by the University of Greifswald. Again, this was not a pure birding trip but it nevertheless turned out to be fabulous. We travelled from Almaty north to lake Saizan and back.
The bird of the year was seen at the end of this trip, on a small lake in the Tian-Shan mountains just south of Almaty (Corey, Dale and Sharon: if you are reading this, I am most definitely not trying to rub it in), where we found and watched a beautiful Ibisbill.
I started to work - in a real job, for the first time ever in a 9 to 5 fashion, only more like 7 to 7 - around September 15th.

2002
This was a very quiet year for birding as the job got very stressful. A notable and brilliant exception was a marvellous trip to New Zealand where I spent 3 weeks in April.
Stewart Island is the only place I've been to that could admittedly rival Namibia.
Obviously, the bird of the year 2002 had to be one of the New Zealand lifers, but which one?
Seeing two Black Stilts, one of the most critically endangered birds in the world, and actually having found them myself without any outside help or hint, was truly impressive, but as it was such a bitter-sweet experience (I'd really prefer each species of bird to be so common that I'd be able to call it a trash bird) it didn't quite make it to position No. 1.
Surely, spending half an hour walking right next to a foraging Kiwi in bright daylight without the bird giving me as much as a casual glance would qualify as the observation of the year, if not the decade, but the one bird species that really hit me hard in the heart was a common New Zealand endemic, the New Zealand Fantail. That is my bird of the year 2002.
Why would I choose such a common bird that's easily seen over the Kiwi, a bird most Kiwis haven't even seen, or an albatross, or a penguin, or the Kea?
This is hard to put in words, but the Fantail's subtle yet beautiful colouration, its inquisitiveness and its movements - including its fanning of the tail - had an effect on me that's comparable to the Sandman's star dust, only it didn't make me tired. Instead, it magically conveyed an amazing joy of life, a feeling that life is beautiful and meant to be lived to the fullest. And that was very remarkable.

2003
This is the year the birding really slowed down. Again, the job was so stressful that there was little time for birding. In addition to that, I moved from the German birding-Mecca Greifswald (most Germans aren't aware of this though) to Stralsund (where I worked).
Stralsund is also nice, but it doesn't have a fraction of the birding potential Greifswald has and thus there was literally NO birding after work.
I went on two short (a week each) trips, one in April to the Mediterranean island Majorca and another one in September to Tenerife and Gomera, two of the Canary Islands.
The Majorca trip was nice but not overly so, especially as most of the island's birds can (and were) also seen on mainland Spain, although seeing the endemic Sylvia-warbler (can't think of its name now) was nice.
Therefore, the bird of the year was seen on Tenerife/Gomera, where I saw all of the occurring Canarian Island endemics (the chat only occurs on Fuerteventura where we didn't go).
Which one to choose?
Well, I did see some very nice sea birds from the ferry between Tenerife and Gomera, and seeing my first (and so far only) Great Shearwater was very impressive. I temporarily thought I would choose the Flying Fish that got spooked by the ferry's bow (you know, sort of birds in the broadest sense) and indeed this was possibly one of my most memorable natural history moments of the decade (I never realized they'd glide that far), but the price goes to a Laurel Pigeon that perched beautifully on a dead branch below a breath-taking viewpoint in the mountains of Gomera.

2004
Definitely the low-point year of my birding life. Nothing happened except some job-related nice Baltic birding, but nothing too far out of the ordinary.
This is one of the very few years of my life in which I did not see a single lifer (with the other ones being 2008 and 2009 - I really, really could do with a cool birding trip).
In September, I went on a second trip to Majorca where the birding was very nice again, just not mind-blowing. As I went with my soon-to-be-wife, a non-birder, and wasn't expecting any lifers or really rare birds, I took the birding slow and easy and enjoyed sitting on the patio of coastal pubs drinking espresso and fresh orange juice.
You know, birding is nice, but fresh espresso in a comfy chair overlooking the Mediterranean can be quite nice, too.
The nicest birds were possibly the Eleonora's Falcons falcons that offered superb views, but as the bird species of the year, I eventually chose the Eurasian Black Vultures.
They are just truly and astonishingly, impressively large birds.


This was the first half of the last decade. Come back soon to see just how well things picked up in 2005, a year that once again was filled with birder's joy and - yes, drool drool - lifers!

Cheers and a happy and birdy year 2010!

No words, just awe

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother picking up a camera.

This is one of these times, with a hat-tip to Dale.

Fighting the loss of Biodiversity - the UK way

We all know that apart from climate change and the continued production and consumption of butterfinger chocolate bars, the loss of biodiversity is one of the most severe crises the world is facing at the moment.
Luckily, this is not the age of leaning back passively in a wing chair, eating butterfinger and watching things go to waste - this is the age of fighting back, right?


Right?



Anyway...

Of course the main mode of countering species loss is to save species from extinction, but at the current rate bird populations are dropping all around us, that sure ain't enough. More needs to be done to supplement our conservation efforts:
If we lose species after species yet want to maintain our current species diversity, heck , we just need to make new species.
And - as so often when it comes to bird conservation or new music genres - the UK has taken a lead in creating new species, with a simple means:

BIRD FEEDERS

Here are the links, with a tip of the hat to Laurent:

LiveScience Article

Not Rocket Science Blog post

The LiveScience article features an interview with Martin Schaefer who participated in the research that is due to be published soon (see publications list on his site).

Now, on a personal note it might be nice for you to know - it sure feels nice for me to tell you, so there you have it - that Martin Schaefer is a very good old friend of mine and an amazing birder as well. He is one of those friends I haven't really seen in many, many years as we both traveled around the globe far too frequently to stay in constant contact and news exchange, but of all the people I have met in my life, he is amongst the ones I felt closest to.
Okay, sentimental off for now, normal blogging continues.

So apparently the providing of winter food has split the Blackcap in half.
Martin - being the thorough scientist he is - maintains doubts whether the two populations will evolve into different species:
He says human habits of feeding birds will likely change over the time that would be necessary, and we are still talking about quite some 1,000+ years, so the migration routes and segregating behaviour of the UK winter birds might come to an end sometime.

I say that he is generally right, but this is a problem that can be fixed easily. Nature conservation bodies simply have to promote the development of feeders that - once filled - will supply Blackcaps for the next few millennia to come, independent of changes in human attitudes.
I am hopeful that very soon, feeding wintering Blackcaps in the UK won't look like this anymore but more like this, and it will be a visible token of today's society's commitment to fight biodiversity loss and take a pro-active approach towards evolution.

And that sure is good to know.