The strange places birders visit

I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead – not sick, not wounded – dead:  Woody Allen

If you can’t annoy somebody, there is little point in writing:  Kingsley Amis

“Buffalo coming up fast from behind,” Brad warned me.

“Big one or small one?” I asked with a hint of annoyance (okay, more than a hint) leaning out of the car window, index finger steadily depressing my camera’s trigger. The camera, shooting at 6 frames per second, sounded like an automatic weapon as it captured images of the peculiar gull we were studying.

The Sequim Game Farm is a fantastic place to see gulls at close range, unless you have issues with large ungulates invading your personal space. This elk got chummy with the author in February 2009. (Photo taken by Steven Mlodinow using a Nikon D300 camera and a Nikon 18-55mm lens)

“This one has definite snot potential.” Brad responded with increased urgency.

I quickly recoiled, withdrawing my camera as hastily as possible and narrowly missing the large set of nostrils that lunged into the vehicle after me.  The vague aroma of silage encompassed us, and then the massive bovine head retreated as Brad set the car in motion. At the same moment, there was a soft thump against Brad’s closed window as another buffalo attempted to invade from his side, leaving a large greasy streak on the glass.

“Brad, you’ve been slimed again, dude.”

“I am going to love explaining this to Helen.” I looked at his side window. It was half obscured by the nasal secretions of at least four species of ungulates. Earlier, an Elk had attempted to French-kiss us, a Fallow Deer tried to nibble, and a yak tried to… well, tried to do whatever it is that Yak’s do. 

Non-birders tend to have this image of birders (a.k.a. birdwatchers) traveling patiently and stealthily through pristine wilderness: mountain meadows, dank rainforests, rocky shorelines, and the like. In reality, we spend much of our time in places that are rather the opposite. At least the ungulate adventure took place at the Sequim Game Farm, a place that normal people might visit. I hesitate to tell my non-birding friends precisely how much time I’ve spent at garbage dumps and sewage ponds. When asked, “Where is your favorite place, in the entire world, to look at birds,” I stutter and mutter my answer, “The La Paz Sewage Treatment Plant (if I am trying to be decorous, I can use its exotic pseudonym, “Lagunas de Chametla.”) However, whether you call ‘em sewage ponds or lagunas, the odor is just as pungent. The smell of sewage is, however, the smell of victory. 

In just the right light, even a sewage pond can look pretty good. This shot captures one of the Everett, Washington ponds looking particularly inviting. Thankfully, a picture isn’t worth a thousand smells. (Photo by Steven Mlodinow using a Contax U4R camera)

“Why,” you might ask, “are sewage ponds so attractive to birds?” Of course one might reasonably ask, “Why would you go there anyway? It’s a sewage pond.” Answering that question, however, would require a course in addictive behavior. Sewage ponds attract birds for several reasons, which are somewhat dependent on the type of facility (it’s perfectly okay to think “Ick!” at this point). The old-fashioned sewage ponds, much like the one in La Paz, have some impoundments that contain water and others that are “drying ponds,” in which the sewage forms a mud-like surface (now it is really okay to think “Ick!!!”) These ponds are loaded with organic material (nice euphemism, eh?), which in turn is a breeding ground for micro-organisms that then feed a host of invertebrates. The invertebrates are what attract birds. Typically, the deeper ponds are favored by ducks, especially Northern Shovelers, which use their spatulate bills to filter small organisms from the water. This is something to remember if a hunter ever offers you shoveler breast au gratin. The shallower or muddy ponds are often fantastic places to look for sandpipers and their ilk. As evidence of their avian richness, the Lagunas de Chametla have attracted more than 171 species, which is greater than 40% of all species recorded in Baja California Sur. Several of those birds are exceptionally rare, including Baja California’s first Great Frigatebird and Chimney Swift, Mexico’s 2^nd Harlan’s Hawk, and other exotic species such as Eurasian Wigeon, Curlew Sandpiper, Ruff, Red-throated Pipit, and Siberian Pipit (all of which strayed to Baja from Asia.)

This Great Frigatebird, Baja's first, was found as it arrived with Magnificent Frigatebirds to bathe at Lagunas de Chametla on 17 July 2007. Note the buffy head and yellow-flesh feet, which are two of the marks that separate it from Magnificent Frigatebird.  This bathing on the wing routine must be seen to be believed. (Photo taken by Steven Mlodinow using a Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ50 with an Olympus 1.7 teleconverter)

The more modern sewage ponds, such as the delightful Lagunas de Everett, a.k.a. Everett Sewage Ponds, near my house are entirely deepwater impoundments. These, too, are rich in organic matter and thus invertebrates. Because the water is usually quite deep, shorebirds are generally not numerous here, though some puddles along the sides have padded the bird list nicely. This deeper water does, however, attract an impressive array of waterfowl, gulls, and even terns. Even the odd marine bird, such as Leach’s Storm-Petrel, has been found here. The real emblem of the Everett Sewage Ponds, however, is the Bonaparte’s Gull, named after Napoleon’s nephew. This small elegant gull can occur here in numbers exceeding 10,000. The odor wafting about you is easily forgotten as hundreds of Bonaparte’s Gulls swoop through the air after airborne insects. When not bathing, these flocks bathe (yes, bathe) in the water all the while quacking quietly among themselves. The Everett Sewage Ponds has hosted approximately 200 species, which is more than 40% of the species recorded in Washington. Finally, sewage ponds are beloved by birds for reasons beyond their organic richness: they are often surrounded by riparian-like habitat, which attracts birds fond of trees. They are also somewhat protected, as human activity is generally low, especially gun-bearing human activity. 

At times it seems as though most of the world population of Bonaparte’s Gulls is on the Everett, Washington sewage ponds. It is a great place to study and learn to full array of plumage variations one might see in this species. This lovely hatch-year bird, photographed there in October 2008, is still showing a smattering of brown juvenile feathers on its crown, nape and back. (Photo taken by Steven Mlodinow using a Nikon D300 camera with a Nikon 300mm lens and a 1.4 teleconverter)

“But garbage dumps?” you ask.  “Leftovers,” is the answer, at least in temperate climes. As unsavory as sewage ponds seem on the surface, some are actually attractive. Okay, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but many at least are not downright ugly. Garbage dumps, however, are never attractive, at least aesthetically. They can be smelly, fly-ridden, dangerous, and occasionally in flames -- but pretty -- not even remotely. In the U.S.A. and Canada, garbage dumps are mostly known for attracting gulls, which will eat almost anything from Doritos and Wonder Bread to “I wonder what that once was.” Even vultures look askance at some of the ex-animal material that gulls scarf down. But if you live in places that are frigid in winter, gulls are a winter birding staple, and few places bring in the gulls like piles of fetid garbage. Interestingly, in tropical climates, garbage dumps often have a completely different bird-allure. From the Belize to Malaysia I have visited small to medium sized dumps looking for insect-eating birds. All that rotting food attracts bugs, and bugs attract insectivores, especially if there are trees or brush nearby for cover. I have many fond memories of tropical/ sub-tropical garbage dumps. 

For instance, there was this garbage dump on Andros Island in the Bahamas. The edges were active with warblers and flycatchers, but in the middle, lording over this splendor, were dozens of Turkey Vultures, Turkey Vultures that happened to be perched on a rusting school bus sitting askew amongst the heaps of trash. The bus was clearly a favored vantage point from which they surveyed their domain, perhaps hoping that small children in poor health would suddenly appear. By itself, that image was sufficiently bizarre, but there was also the Barbie Doll that looked half eaten, causing me to wonder what frustrated predatory lurked nearby. Stranger yet, though, was a battered copy of Moby Dick. Peering at the exposed pages, I read “In one word, Queegueg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple dumpling; and since perpetuated through the hereditary dyspepsias nurtured by Ramdadans.” I wondered what some Bahamian high school student made of that. Heck, I wondered what the vultures made of it, being the experts on dyspepsia that they are.

My favorite “dump experience,” however, was in Malaysia at Bukit Fraser. Bukit Fraser is in the mountains and formerly served as a place to which the ruling Brits could retreat and seek respite from the steaming hot lowlands. In general, Bukit Fraser is incredibly scenic. One of the best birding sites, however, was the local dump, called The Rubbish Tip, partly because of the British influence, and partly because the garbage there had simply been tipped down a hillside. My friend Charles Hood and I found it not nearly as odiferous as we’d been warned it would be, but it compensated for this by smoking continuously. We wondered precisely what festive toxins might be buried within the rubble as gray-brown tendrils spiraled upwards, especially when we found dead leeches strewn around the dump’s edges. Nonetheless, it was packed with flycatcher-shrikes, shrike-babblers, minlas, drongos, yuhinas and other such exotic birds, so we were delighted. On our last morning, though, the rubbish tip added to the air of excitement by bursting into flames. Our recently met companions were unfazed by this sudden inflammation and continued to look for the White-tailed Robin we’d seen the day before. Charles and I, pondering the possibility of exploding paint cans, fled, not embarrassed by our relative cowardice.

So, next time you consider asking a birdwatcher about their favorite birdwatching spot, be prepared to hold your nose.