BIRD YEAR

Rain is a pain

2010-09-25T12:47:00.001-07:00

A semi-trailer packed with cattle thundered by, enveloping me in a brownish mist reeking of cow feces. Being passed by a livestock truck is bad enough when its dry- when it’s raining it’s an experience. There are plenty of other unpleasant realities of cycling through day after day of rain; panniers full of wet and musty nylon clothes, leather cycling gloves that are slimy when soaked, sleeping in a damp and clammy sleeping bag… the list goes on monotonously like a prairie highway.
It rained during eight of the ten days it took me to cycle from Rocky Mountain House, Alberta to Avon, Montana. Rain isn’t all bad though- the chronically cloudy weather helped me save money on sunscreen and reduced my susceptibility to skin cancer.
A few mornings ago I even found myself actually appreciating the rain. I’d miscalculated my water supply as I cycled south from Glacier National Park, ending up on a desolate stretch of highway with only half of a nalgene of water. Once it got dark I pulled off to a clearing next to the road and set up my tent. I poured two thirds of the valuable liquids into my pot to cook linguini, then wasted little time in knocking the pot off my stove and spilling the contents into the dirt. I salvaged most of the noodles but the water was gone. I couldn’t afford to use any more water to cook the pasta so I ate the noodles half raw, chewing carefully and spitting out the gravel that had stuck to the spilled pasta.
I was out of water by the morning- but thankfully it had rained overnight. For breakfast I ate handfuls of dry raisin bran, sipping water droplets off tree leaves to help the cereal go down. I cycled for thirty kilometers before finally reaching Seeley Lake, Montana: population 1,580. I searched for a grocery store where I could fill my water bottles and stomach, but I was out of luck. If however I wanted to go to church, I’d have four to choose from.
At the far end of town I found a gas station with a convenience store. I refilled my water bottles from the sink in their dingy bathroom, then searched the shelves of food for something edible. Chips? No. Cheesies? No. Little Debbie’s doughnuts? Not quite that desperate. “There’s more food over there,” said the woman behind the counter, pointing towards cases of hot dogs, hamburgers and beef burritos. I wasted a minute inspecting the cases for a meat-free option, but I should have known better. Finding vegetarian food in small-town Montana is as hard as to find as a mosque in Manhattan. In the corner I spied a tray of what appeared to be doughnuts, though it was hard to tell under all the icing. They looked disgusting. I bought three and sat at a picnic table outside to eat.
The flavour of the goodies gave no clues to their identities, so I dissected one. It was a cinnamon bun. I looked up at the stars and stripes flying against a backdrop of gray skies, then back at my cinnamon bun. Was today an unpleasant ordeal or part of the American experience?

The Alaska Highway

2010-09-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

I'm in Fort Nelson, BC. I've made great progress down the Alaska Highway, covering 1060 kilometers during my first week. I've attributed my good progress to four factors, which will either result in me reaching Montana ahead of schedule, or will land me in a psychiatric ward.

i. I'm the sort of person who will return from a run and drink an entire litre an a half nalgene of water, or, upon finishing a bike trip, will eat three foot-long subs. Once I no longer feel sick I am filled with an ever lasting feeling of success. On day two of this trip I cycled for nearly fifteen hours, covering 257.73 kilometers. I was left with a short feeling of accomplishment and a sore knee that continues to persist.

ii) Before I left I made several adjustments so improve cycling efficiency at the expense of comfort. I installed aero-bars on my bike, which give me a more aerodynamic riding position and a sore neck and shoulders. I attached a yoghurt pot to my handlebars which I can put my lunch inside, so I can eat while cycling, thereby ensuring that I do not waste valuable minutes on a lunch break. I also swapped my mountain bike pedals for racing pedals, My new pedals are lighter and more aerodynamic, but are practically impossible to walk in, making me look like even more of a nerd whenever I clip-clop into a store.

iii) You know you're hungry when you enjoy power gels. They are the consistency of algae and taste like chocolate mixed with the chemical dispersants used to treat the Gulf Oil Spill. I consumed three gel packs yesterday, and managed not to throw up!

iv) It can be very lonely and dull cycling alone through the BORE-eal forest. I've passed many hours pretending I'm talking to Stephen Harper or Jim Prentice. I say things to the Prime Misister like, "you have ashma so you care about air quality, but you also have children so I can't understand why yuou don't care about climate change," or "can you look me in the eye and tell me that your government is doing enough to prevent my generation from inheritng a world devastated by climate change?" In my imaginary meeting with Jim Prentice I ask our Environment Minister if he sees a link between climate change and the Russian Wildfires or Pakistan Flood, and I give him a copy of Climate Wars to see if he is interested in learning about how climate change is a human rights and global security issue.

That sums up my first week on my bike, now its time for me to start cycling again!

We are writing the Bird Year book

2010-01-10T11:24:00.000-08:00

Snow is swirling outside our windows. Inside, we are writing a book about Bird Year. We hope to have it finished by the end of next summer. We will keep you posted here!

Borscht

2009-08-29T13:39:00.000-07:00

Some people try the "100 Mile Diet", where they eat only locally grown food. I'm on a 120 kilometer diet, after cycling a long distance I can eat anything and everything I want. When you are constantly hungry everything is delicious. This is fortunate because under normal conditions, our menu would get repeditive very quickly. Our breakfasts and lunches are the same every day, oatmeal then wraps. Our suppers vary slightly more, we rotate between curry, pasta and burritos. These dishes should each have their own unique flavour, however due to our limited supply of ingredients and cooking supplies, they taste pretty much the same.
A few days ago I made something really different, borscht. Or the closest thing to borscht considering the circumstances. In case an upper class restaraunt would like to serve this borscht variation, I'll share my recipe:
* Two week old beets. We'd purchased them before Winnepeg. They'd been kept in the same scuzzy bag ever since, along with the disgusting end of an old cucumber.
* Two week old onion, same life story as beets.
* Celery
* Oriental snack mix with pumpkin seeds. I'd been carrying this since the Alaska Highway. They had been pulverized, then soaked during our week of rain. The snack mix had found a dark, mildewey spot at the bottom of a saddlebag, only to be discovered when I was on the hunt for ingredients.
* Thai seasonings, left over from a noodle package.
* Curry powder
* Coconut milk
* Olive oil, purchased before Edmonton.
I got hungry before I could wait for it to cook properly. Strangely, some may not have enjoyed it. Admittedly, it does resemble a compolation of ingredients that could be fished from a dumpster. But I loved it.

Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain

2009-08-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

"Summer" isn't the right word to describe this season. Winter and spring have come and gone in Ontario, yet summer is missing in action. It has rained on us for eight miserable days strait. If scientists can prove weather like this is linked to climate change, then a mass of Ontarians will probably join pedal for the planet.
But everything the rain brings isn't bad. Really, the rain has been a positive phenomenon. Due to the cold and the wet, the bugs aren't terrible. They're only really bad. None of us have to worry about getting skin cancer, or bad cycling tan lines. Nadia doesn't have to worry about keeping her phone dry anymore. It could be put under a waterfall without the risk of any further damage.
You see, cycling is a great way to spend a "summer"!

Showdown in Regina: Tar Sands vs Mother Earth

2009-08-14T19:21:00.001-07:00

A throng of Greenpeace protesters lined the fence that kept the public away from Government House. Some lay like corpses on the sidewalk; their hands painted red, paper tombstones over their heads inscribed with "Dying for Climate Leadership" The Canadian premiers were behind the fence for the Council of the Federation meetings.

Numerous organizations had united to plan rallies and protests during the week of the meetings. Our goal was to make a huge racket and force climate change on to the agenda. We hoped that at least one premier would speak out against the tar sands and take the first step down the "green brick road".

For most of the week I would be a protester, but this time I had left behind my placard and my Kyoto Plus t-shirt. Instead Martina and I were disguised as reporters, hoping to get up close to the premiers. I was hoping to ask one of them a tough question, Martina was hoping to get a photo of one of them looking awkward.

We were soon being grilled by security guards. Our identities were scrutinized, phone calls were made and our bags were searched. We were supposedly with a university radio station, yet I had no recording software. I didn't even know where I was supposed to go. I was hoping that mycluelessness would be overlooked, or that we'd pass as dumb, harmless students. They finally gave us our acredditation passes and we were free to go.

A forest of reporters and photographers surrounded Manitoba premier Gary Doer. He answered a few questions then vanished through a door. Quebec's premier stepped up to speak. Soon Saskatchewan premier, Brad "climate criminal" Wall approached the mic.

I heard the protesters shouting from outside the compound. "When I say fight for you say justice. Fight for! Justice! Fight for! Justice!"

"When I say climate you say justice. Climate! Justice! Climate! Justice!"

"When I say Wall you say criminal. Wall! Criminal! Wall! Criminal!"

"Mr Wall, as you can hear, the protesters are demanding stronger action on climate change." called out one journalist. "What would you say to them?"

Premier Wall launched into a lengthy answer. I couldn't believe the nonsense he spouted. He assured us that Saskatchewan's leadership on combatting climate change is as good if not better than any other jurisdiction in the world.

How could he get away with such blatant hogwash? Saskatchewan's target for greenhouse gas emissions reduction for 2020 is 12% higher than than its 1990 levels. The scientists are telling us that we need to cut our emissions by 25-40% below 1990 levels. Brad Wall's head is stuck in the tar sands. He would love for the destructive industry to expand from Alberta into Saskatchewan. The tar sands already releases dozens and dozens of megatonnes of greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere, and leaks deadly toxins into water systems.

It is easy to get depressed by the tar sands, by Brad Wall and other short-sighted polititions, yet my week in Regina gave me great cause to hope. I met hundreds of activists and citizens who are part of a grassroots uprising. Our voices are being heard in across Canada; our political leaders will no longer be able to ignore us.

I remember a first nations activist, Clayton George Thomas Muller speaking at our rally. He told that during during the civil rights and womens' rights movements, and in every struggle in the history of humantiy there have been tough times. There have been times when bringing about change has been impossible, when the opponent has seemed overwhelmingly powerful. But Clayton reminded us that every time the hard work of grass roots foot soldiers has prevailed, and that change will come.

The fight against climate change will be no different.

Rocking Prentice's Constituency Office

2009-07-23T13:56:00.000-07:00

Jim Prentice’s photo smiled at us from above the entrance to his office. The environment minister wouldn’t have been smiling so broadly now, if he knew what pedal for the planet was up to. 20 banner waving activists cheered and chanted anti-Prentice messages.
The Canadian Government is consistently ranked at the bottom when it comes to climate action. Canada’s GHG emissions reduction target is only a 3 % reduction from 1990 levels, when many countries have promised to cut there emissions in the range of 25 – 40%. Last year Canada “won” the Colossal Fossil Award for embarrassing lack of action, and Canada is it’s best to defend the title.
Our press releases and pitch calls had succeeded in luring the media. The handful of reporters and camera people starred at the more eccentrically dressed of us with bemused expressions. Steve had become Windy the Unemployed Wind Turbine. Nadia and Martina were Climate Action Super Cyclists, with green tights and superman capes. Someone wore a Grim Reaper outfit; I wasn’t sure which politician he was impersonating.
“OK, now we’re going to rock the Constituency Office!” called Jeh. For Jeh, simple verbs such as enter or visit are too boring. When you’re with Jeh, you don’t go grocery shopping. You rock the grocery isles.
Our delegation rocked its’ way into Prentice’s office. Jeh rocked over to Prentice’s desk and placed a wad of papers on his desk. “OK, now we’re going to give you guys a chant!” announced Jeh, turning to one of Prentice’s aids.
“Sorry, but there are people taking calls from constituents. I’ll have to ask you to be quiet.”
“We understand, but we really want to give you this chant so…”
“Oooh, it’s hot in here, there’s too much carbon in the atmosphere!... When I say Jim you say where are you?... Jim!… Where are you?... Jim!... Where are you?...When I say Climate, you say action… Climate!…Action!... Climate!...Action!...
I guess that Jeh was right when he said we’d be rocking the constituency office.

Day 17 - Km 2019 (Wendy)

2009-07-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

I have just rolled into Edmonton with Malkolm. My leg of Pedal for the Planet is over. I am proud to have made it. Tonight I will catch the bus back to Whitehorse.

I came along mainly to provide safety in numbers when passing bears along the Alaska Highway. No sensible bear will get between a mother cyclist and her son. All 16 bears we saw were sensible.

Having safely passed all the bears, I felt really bad the other night when we cycled into the thick of a lightning storm. The lightning got worse as we headed closer to it. Apparently being on rubber tires does not protect you from electrical shocks. The road we were on offered no shelter. I felt very vulnerable.

We stayed in a hotel that night. You could smell smoke. Yikes - the hotel's computer system had just been fried by the storm.
Pedalling the Alaska Highway is not all hardship. Not at all. Wild strawberries for breakfast, for example.

Nine days in...

2009-07-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

This is the ninth day of my leg of Pedal for the Planet". My mom and I are in Fort Nelson, BC. We've cycled 979 kilometers so far. On an average day we spend 9 hours on the highway and 10 to 11 hours sleeping. The leftover hours are spent eating, or thinking about eating.
There are three notable events to describe.
1) Some friends of mine, Pete, Anne and John cycled with me on the first day. We stopped at a rest area, and John started up a conversation with some RVers. He told them about Pedal for the Planet. "Malkolm is cycling from Whitehorse to Ottawa to pressure the Canadian Government on climate change, ahead of the huge meeting in Copenhagen."
"So, you're biking across the country for climate change..." said on of the RVers. "What side are you on?"
Wow. How many people to long bike trips to raise support for Tar Sands deregulation?
2) I had a dream that we were cycling along, getting passed by RVs and Semi's. The trucks were loudly revving their engines as they passed us. I woke up and found out that the sound was not roaring engines, but my mom snoring.
3) We've passed 15 bears so far, 5 of which have been Grizzlies. Once, an RVer warned us about a Grizzly and two cubs ahead on the road. They told us that the bears were only "a mile and a half ahead"
We cycled for ages, wondering when we were going to pass the bears. After 10 nervous kilometers we figured that we must have missed them. After 13 kilometers we finally saw the bears. The moral of this story? Don't trust motorists to judge distances!

The Continental Divide

2009-06-30T08:11:00.000-07:00

Another message from Ken, Malkolm's father. I got a message last night that Malkolm and Wendy had made it as far as the "Continental Divide" last night. They had helpful (unusual) tail-winds which helped them travel 120 km - great going for fully loaded bikes on the Alaska Highway.

Small note - it seems odd, but they cycled south from the Pacific watershed into the Arctic watershed. The Yukon River flows north and west to the Bering Sea (Pacific), but now the water where they are now flows into the Liard, the Mackenzie and north to the Arctic Ocean.

I expect Wendy will be tired today . . . (Malkolm wanted to go further yesterday, but she put her foot down (off the pedals).

The photo is of Malkolm's friends who joined him for Day 1 ride to Teslin (John Streiker, Peter Heebink, and Ann Middler), with the respective distances they each cycled . . .

Pedaling for the Planet

2009-06-29T08:25:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm Malkolm Boothroyd and I just finished grade 11 in Whitehorse, Yukon. I'm very concerned about climate change and try to reduce my personal carbon footprint. I recently collected more than 400 signatures from concerned northern Youth on a petition asking the Canadian and Yukon Governments to do more about climate change. We presented the petition to the Yukon Minister of the Environment. I've been an avid birder since I was 7, and last year my parents and I cycled more than 20,000 kilometers during our "Bird Year." I identified 548 species and raised more than $25,000 for bird conservation. I also hope I helped to raise awareness about climate change.

I'm excited to be joining "Pedal for the Planet." I'm leaving on June 28th from Whitehorse, aiming to join others in Edmonton on July 16th . . . and then on to Ottawa to light a fire (or is that put out a fire?) under our government. We need to take climate change seriously!

Note from Ken (M's father) - Day 1, Malkolm made it 180 kilometers through the wind and rain to Teslin. His blogs will be sporadic until he gets off the Alaska Highway . . .

Ski-cycling (Ken)

2008-11-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

After returning home from Bird Year, we’ve decided to continue our car-less, though not necessarily careless existence. We aren’t sticklers for traveling solely by non-fossil-fuel power, but usually we hop in a vehicle with someone only if they are heading the same way we are anyway.

A couple of days ago I decided to cycle through Whitehorse and up to the cross-country ski trails. With 13,000 miles of cycling behind me, I thought that the trip would be easy. I shoved my boots in the bottom of a backpack and wedged my skis and poles in beside them. I wobbled out of the driveway with the ski tips wobbling above my head like willows bending in a stiff breeze. A flock of Bohemian Waxwings in the spruce trees across the street ignored me as did a solitary Raven out on business of its own.

The side streets were clogged with snow – no problem for the trucks and snow-machines that whizzed by me. I tried the sidewalks which were mainly clear of snow. That worked well, until my skis listed to the side and smashed into a road sign. I slithered to a stop. I never had to cope with this problem last June in Texas.

After that I paid more attention to my unwieldy load, weaving carefully around signs and overhanging branches. I only made as far as downtown on the bike. I locked it outside the grocery store and hike the last few kilometers to the trails.

The next day our friend Lewis cycled to our place with his skies safely and cleverly bungee-corded along the frame of his bike. I’ll try that next time.

Haines Report (Wendy)

2008-08-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

YA-HOO! We just returned from a week in Haines, Alaska. We picked blueberries with the determination of blueberry lovers who didn’t get to pick last year. Now we have 18 “blueberry pie equivalents” neatly stacked in the freezer. Also, sour cherries and pesto made from beach lovage. We have jars of dried mushrooms –cauliflower, chanterelles and boletes.

Ken usually catches enough pink salmon to fill a cooler. Last week a young brown bear with blond ears interfered. This bear swam out to the island where Ken was fishing, chewed on his box of lures, and then returned to shore and lay down at the place where he would walk back. Ken realized if he caught anything he couldn’t bring it home. Our friends made up for our shortage of pinks. They gave us sockeye salmon, halibut and crabs. We are lucky ducks.

The front page story in the Chilkat Valley News was about the outdoor ping pong table that our friend Eric built out of concrete. We helped rig up a canvas tarp over it – the tarp weighed about as much as the concrete table. We had a table tennis tournament while a winter wren chirped from the wood pile.

When we landed in Haines, curtains of rain glistened in front of the dark green forest. This has been the coldest summer there since 1974, with only 16 days reaching 60 degrees Fahrenheit. I put on all my long underwear. I thanked Malkolm for reminding me to bring rain pants. I got chilled, riding the ten miles out to our friends’ place outside town.

Cruise ship passengers also cycled in Haines that day. One guide led a bike tour along the Chilkoot River.”I apologized about the rain,” he said. “But they did not mind it at all. They were happy to experience rain. They were from southern California.”

All Media is Good Media (Malkolm)

2008-07-31T11:38:00.000-07:00

“Admittedly, there are few would ever undertake a year-long journey in search of different species of mice.”

That was printed in the Yukon News, just after we arrived home in Whitehorse, Yukon. We were joined by friends and family for the final 70 mile ride back home, after we cycled over the White Pass from Skagway. Then we were greeted by a flurry of interviews. But that whacky statement in the Yukon News was not the first of its kind.

Supposedly any press attention, whether it is positive or negative, accurate or riddled with errors, helps your project. We’ve been blessed with plenty of media attention during our travels, but nearly every time there have been mistakes, such as:

A TV program from our home in Whitehorse superimposed a silent clip of us all chuckling, when our voices were discussing the decline of Spotted Owls.

A news station in Florida showed footage of a Turkey Vulture while I said, “There’s a Bald Eagle!”

A newspaper in Florida wrote that the big year world record holder traveled 100,000 miles, (he traveled 270,000 air miles) and mentioned that he raised 60,000 dollars (as far as I know he raised no money, though probably spent way more than that amount on travel expenses).

An article that was syndicated to big city papers throughout Texas diminished Ken’s 57 year old age to 16.

But not all articles about us are flawed. Jane Braxton Little, the author that wrote the Audubon Magazine article (March/April 2008) meticulously went over every quote with us, and Audubon’s fact checker made sure the article was completely accurate.

If you find any inconsistencies in this blog, shhhh!

Memory Lane Blues (Ken)

2008-07-18T13:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we cycled north down Memory Lane. Memory Lane, aka Chuckanut Drive, just south of Bellingham, Washington. The Chestnut-backed Chickadees, Swainson’s Thrushes and Winter Wrens were singing, just like a year ago when we were heading south.

“Today I feel sad,” Wendy told us. “When we were here before we had a year of feedom before us, and now it’s almost over.”

Malkolm looked into his bowl of cereal, bananas and orange juice. We had forgotten to buy milk yesterday. “I don’t know if I can finish this,” he said, gazing into the brownish-orange glop in his bowl.

I didn’t ask him if he was missing the freedom of the road.

Later today we are boarding a ferry north to Skagway. We’ll taste freedom again for a couple of days when we ride over the White Pass back to Whitehorse. Then, I hope, we’ll start thinking of the next adventure.

CBC, Kiwis & a Coincidence (Wendy)

2008-07-13T20:01:00.001-07:00

A security guard buzzed Malkolm and I through the bullet proof doors at Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s Vancouver building. He directed us down a long corridor to Studio 5. We passed a lot of other studios on the way, but what I noticed was the large room for storing bikes. At studio 5 we met Rick Cluff, who has a huge smiling face. He interviewed us for “Sounds Like Canada”. It airs right across the country.

Think globally, act locally. Neil and Hazel MacMillan are sheep ranchers near the Bay of Islands in New Zealand. Hazel volunteers in the annual kiwi census, sitting up at night and listening for the whistles of these rare birds. They wrote to our website. “We have fenced one area of native bush this year (from our stock getting in there ) and are about to do a second one where we often hear the kiwi” Habitat protection at home....Way to go, Neil and Hazel!

Flashback - We rode the Greyhound bus from Ft Stockton TX to El Paso. Lugging my bulky, heavy carry-on bags, I sqeeezed into the last empty seat, near the back of the bus. The bus was full of young families. A baby squawked. Beside me sat a friendly young man heading home from auto mechanic’s college. “Where is Albuquerque?” he asked. Anticipating the long ride to Vancouver, I had decided this was the right time to tackle my book club’s chosen book. I pulled out War and Peace. Pencil in hand I started to read, scribbling notes in margins and cross referencing names. The man behind me tapped my shoulder. “Want to see something funny?” he asked. He showed me his book: War and Peace. Two War and Peaces in one Greyhound bus. What are the chances of that?

Boring Blog (Makolm)

2008-07-07T09:02:00.000-07:00

Its a cold and nippy 70 degrees here in Vancouver. Brrr! But its a nice change from 110 degree heat that we were slogging through a few weeks ago. I know that my blogs are getting repetitive so I promise that I will I never mention the"heat", "degrees" or "110"again!
In Vancouver we've seen things that we haven't seen in ages, a Yukon liscence plate and thousands of cyclists (are there that many cyclists in all of Texas?)
Then we'll take the ferry down the coast to Skagway, Alaska and cycle over the pass back home. Then we'll embark on the task of figuring out who gets the Bird Day Challenge prizes. That will be fun. Sorry about this boring blog.

You know it ain't easy . . . (Ken)

2008-06-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

We thought that the challenging part of Bird Year was behind us. We’d survived January’s bitter cold and headwinds. We’d dodged drug-runners and illegal immigrants crossing the Rio Grande. We’d coped with the searing Texas heat. We should have known that we faced one more hurdle: getting home from Big Bend.

We didn’t have time to cycle since Malkolm has to be back for Grade 11 at the end of August. We knew that jetting north would be the least fossil-fuel-friendly. Eventually we decided to take a Greyhound bus to Albuquerque, a train to Vancouver and a ferry to Skagway, Alaska. Then we could ride 110 miles over the White Pass back home to Whitehorse.

We quickly learned that ground transportation isn’t as easy as it sounds. When we tried to switch busses in Fort Stockton, the driver calmly informed us that the bus was full. It didn’t seem to matter that we had reservations. In El Paso, our bikes and duffle bags were almost left behind. Today we learned that our train is 6 hours late. We don’t know what that means for our connections, and no one is answering the phone at Amtrak.

I wish we were still cycling.

Building Character (Wendy)

2008-06-24T14:52:00.000-07:00

Big Bend National Park was every bit as hot as we were afraid it would be. Three good things about the heat: (1) We learned that we could survive in that harsh environment - it built our characters. (2) I never had to use a towel for the last 6 weeks of the trip. (3) Dousing yourself in cold water is fun.

We stayed one day longer than we had planned at Rio Grande Village, the hottest place. Beside the Rio Grande I felt like I was inside a salon hair dryer, set on “high”.

We ended Bird Year at Carolyn Ohl-Johnson’s oasis in the Christmas Mountains. The day after Bird Year ended, we rode into Alpine: 71 miles into a head wind and up 2000 feet. That built character too.

We have become strong riders, but not strong bike mechanics. Ken, Malkolm and I attempted to remove pedals, seat posts and handlebars that were firmly fused to our bikes after a year of hard use. After 2 hours of struggling we had removed 2 seat posts. Humbled, we carried our bikes around the house to where Carolyn’s husband, Hugh, was working in his shop. “Hand me that cheater”, he said. Within minutes, he had our bikes apart. Dismantling bikes is about as stressful as a moderate headwind.

Flames in the forest (Malkolm & Christianne)

2008-06-14T06:52:00.000-07:00

Carrying our sleeping bags in our hands and our food and water in a small day pack, we hiked high to camp in the Chisos Mountain back-country. We decided to leave our tent behind and hoped there would be no thunder or lightning. The forest here is very dry and the fire danger extreme. Just as we were falling asleep we heard a chilling scream, most likely a mountain lion. All night we wondered if something was creeping around just beyond the reach of our flashlights. As a comfort, we heard tons of Whipoorwills and Flammulated Owls - both new birds for me.

When we woke up I caught a glimpse of what looked like a Flame-colored Tanager. It's a bird that's supposed to live in Mexico and has only been seen a 1/2 dozen times in Texas. However, the bird flew away before I could get a great look. After an hour of tramping around in the forest, we managed to hear a different Flame-colored Tanager singing - a female. I was able to get some good photos of this ultra-rarity.

Fortunately, the only fires in the forest were Flame-colored Tanagers and Flammulated Owls!

My total is now 545 species, 200 short of the Big Year record.

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The picture was taken in the mountains SE of Albuquerque this spring using a motion sensor/camera.

Next week Malkolm, Ken & Wendy will bicycle down from the relatively cooler Chisos Basin to Rio Grande Village, where temperatures are 105 degrees F. They will be looking for the Black Hawk and Zone-tailed Hawk.

My thanks to the BBNP personnel who have been so helpful in getting phone messages to the Bird Year!

Bear Facts (Malkolm & Christianne)

2008-06-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

You will undoubtedly notice that this blog is written in the third person. As Mission Control, it has become one of my duties to appear from behind the curtain and write from Malkolm's dictation taken during our scratchy phone calls from the borderlands.

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Since their last post, Ken, Wendy and Malkolm rode from Sanderson, TX to Chisos Basin in Big Bend National Park. It was a brutal ride! At one point Ken was carrying an extra 44 lbs. (20 kg) of water in the bike trailer in addition to his regular load.

Sunday morning they hiked towards a scenic viewpoint hoping to find Black-capped Vireos. The only black thing they saw were four bear cubs sitting in a tree above the trail! They were very cute - they yawned, they stretched, and they looked adorable. Ken and Malkolm saw no reason not to continue on, but Wendy the Safety Officer said "No Way!"

Scenic viewpoint being unavailable, they went to the sewage lagoon. There, Malkolm found a Black-capped Vireo.

Monday they hiked 12 miles in search of the rare Colima Warbler (these birds are found only in the Chisos Mountains and there are probably fewer than 100 of them in the United States). Miraculously one of these birds landed right at Malkolm's feet - actually too close to take a photograph!

Malkolm has added 7 new species to his list (his current total is 541) since arriving at Big Bend National Park.

........................................

As Team Bird Year was riding through the toughest and most intense part of their trip I was fortunate to be paddling Southwestern rivers running high with spring snowmelt. It was a hard three weeks to be out of touch with them. Phone conversations about heatstroke symptoms with a family practice physician (who should know better than to ride towards the Texas desert in June) were frequent and worrisome. But, as always, Ken, Wendy and Malkolm survive with a huge grin and eye-popping stories. I'm including a picture of some bear-paw petroglyphs from the Dolores River in Colorado, carved by another enduring Safety Officer a thousand years ago.

Out of the fire, and into the ... ? (Malkolm)

2008-06-04T12:31:00.000-07:00

I don't want to write another blog about heat and I'll try not to. But in this stifling Texas heat wave, it's everything. It fills every pore in your skin, it fills your stomach and it fills your mind. We do everything to avoid it; we're on the road before the sun is up, and we seek shade an air conditioning in mid day. But when I step out of this library from which I write, I'll be greeted by the familiar wall of heat.
We've re-traced our steps through Texas, following the same roads that we took through here in December. But soon we'll head into new country as we leave our old path to cycle down into Big Bend National Park. So the final few hundred miles of our trek are veiled in heat mirages, and around ever bend and over every hill there will be a new surprise. But I know that on the far end are the Chisos Mountains. They'll be like islands in a sea of desert and a refuge from the heat. A bit. Hopefully it will cool down at night and I hope my sleeping bag will no longer be dead weight.
We'll relax at altitude for a week, then brace ourselves for the journey back down to the desert and to the Rio Grande River, where we'll seek out the last few birds for our year.
We won't have internet access again, so this will be my last post, but we'll try to phone in updates to Christianne, our mission controller. Then she can update you on our progress.

Statistics, etc (Ken)

2008-06-03T13:41:00.000-07:00

Since we are about to cycle into the West Texas internet desert, I thought I’d mention a few pertinent Bird Year statistics:

Days on the road: 348

Number of days that we have had to drink Budweiser rather than a beer with some flavour: 2 (the last 2 days in West Texas – tonight there will be NO beer!)

Number of bird species identified: 534

Distance cycled: 12,674 miles (20,405 kilometers)

Hottest day: 104 F (40 C) – heat index about 120 F (48 C)

Coldest day: 20 F (-7 C) – don’t know the wind chill, but it was wind chilly

Number of days that we have melted into blobs of fat on a desert highway: 0

Number of days in a tent: 298

Number of flat tires: about 70

Number of meals of rice & beans: too many (and we love rice and beans)

The next few days could be among the toughest of the trip. We’ve cycled up many hills. We’ve cycled on many hot days. We haven’t had to cycle up many hills on a hot day. That’s what lies between us and Big Bend National Park. Wish us luck!

Border Birding (Wendy)

2008-05-31T17:18:00.000-07:00

In today’s top blog story, Birding at the Border has extra excitements.

But first: I am guilty of telling people that cycling across the country is not hard. I TAKE IT BACK!!!! Cycling may gentle on your body, but it is hard work. We rode one of our difficult stretches yesterday – the 76 miles between Laredo and Carrizo Springs. We started before sun up. Seven hours later, at 1:15, we were off the road. At that time the heat index was 99 degrees. We were sweating like a glass of cold beer put out in the sun.

Speaking of cold beer . . . in Laredo, instead of relaxing around the pool sipping cold beer, we did a huge grocery shop. We shipped 50 pounds of food to ourselves in Big Bend National Park. We cannot carry in all the food we’ll need there.

Now to the headline. A couple of days ago we were still in the Lower Rio Grande Valley, home of “specialty birds” such as Red-billed Pigeon, Hook-billed Kite and Muscovy Duck. We asked for local advice. “Take your breakfast and take your lunch”, we were told, “you have to be patient.” At daybreak we cycled down the hill to the tiny village of Salineno. A dirt track led to a boat ramp on the river. The Rio Grande is about 40 meters wide here. Another dirt track led to the river on the Mexican side. It seemed peaceful, even though over the past months many people had warned us about the dangers posed by illegal immigration and especially drug smuggling.

We found the pigeons right away but the others were harder. We sat on a flat rock in the shade and scanned with binoculars and spotting scope. We noticed a lot of boat traffic. We watched a flat bottomed boat chug up from the Mexican side and nudge onto shore. A young couple jumped out. The boat sped away. The man put his arm over the woman’s shoulders as they hurried up the road. They carried nothing with them.

After lunch, we cooled down with a dip. An old dented boat approached. Three men jumped out and snuck along the shore and into the woods behind. They carried walkie-talkies. It occurred to us that maybe it was not so smart to hang out all day. “I have to get changed,” I said. “We need to get out of here”, returned Ken. The dented boat hovered just offshore, the men in it standing up. As I wheeled my bike back onto the road, a car sped down the hill, bouncing over the ruts and sending gravel flying. I turned my head away and fumbled with my ball cap. A few seconds later, the car roared back up the hill and the other men tumbled back into the boat.

“The package is delivered”, said Ken,”you can change out of your wet bathing suit now.”

Bird Year Lunches (Malkolm)

2008-05-29T18:08:00.001-07:00

Bread lore hasn’t reached Texas. Most bread and bagels we eat are shipped from places like Illinois. But clearly, the Illinoisians don’t want to send their good bread south. On the west coast, even teeny tiny towns have an artisan bakery or a funky cafe. Not in Texas.

Fortunately, we only have 22 lunches to go. The vast majority of those lunches will resemble the lunches that we’ve been having for the past few months. Stale bagels (baked in Illinois). But when I read the package more closely I saw that it was merely distributed in Illinois. I saw to my horror, “Product of Canada.” Oh no! What’s happened in Canada?

They taste like they were made back when we still had 42 lunches to go. Occasionally you can find an artisan loaf at WalMart, which means that it’s only 8 days old, and that a bread artist stuck a bit of garlic on top.

Inside the sandwiches is spread the contents of mayonnaise packets that we borrowed from a Burger King. According to another long distant cyclist, it takes 317 borrowed mayo packets to equal one mayo jar. Then we bring out the cheese sauce – the soft, oily product that is the outcome of keeping cheese unrefrigerated in the 100 + degree heat.

But don’t get me wrong.

I’m not complaining.

If Wendy heard me complaining, she’d use it as excuse to eat some of my artisan sandwich.

Problems with tents (Ken)

2008-05-24T10:50:00.001-07:00

I like tents. In our basement in Whitehorse half-a-dozen tents dangle from the ceiling, waiting their turn. Malkolm’s blue tent, a Roadrunner 2, has been to many places. It has travelled to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, down the Grand Canyon (twice), to Yosemite, Joshua Tree and the Nahanni River. It is brittle and old and after this trip it will be put out to pasture. Wendy and I chose an inexperienced orange tent called a Mutha Hubba.

I like tents so much that I feel cheated if I don’t spend at least three months in a tent every year. During Bird Year, that will not be a problem. During our 336 days on the road, we have slept 296 days in our tents.

When it is cold, there is nothing better than diving into a tent to warm up. When the mosquitoes swarm, there is nothing better than being inside, laughing at the bugs. Ditto rain. Unfortunately, in southern Texas in May, our tents are not a place of refuge.

It is so hot here that the birds loll around with their beaks open, panting like tiny feathered dogs. When the bugs swarm it is a test of will to unzip the tent and crawl inside. The worst is when it thundershowers and we have to put on the fly. Our tents become saunas and we sweat inside, dripping like the walls of a hot spring.

We are looking forward to ending our trip in the high elevations of the Chisos Mountains where (hopefully) our tents will once again welcome us with a cozy embrace.

Like a Duck on a Wire (Wendy)

2008-05-19T15:10:00.000-07:00

We are in the southern Rio Grande Valley, where the Texas summer is as we had feared. Hot. However, Texas has cool birds.

Take Black-bellied and Fulvous . They are called Whistling-Ducks now. They used to be called Tree-Ducks. Ken is a Fulvous fan. “They are so fulvous!” he says. “You know what? My old Peterson guide said Fulvous Tree-Ducks are seldom seen in trees.”

They are noisy ducks. With my head down, pushing into a headwind, I can still hear a flock of Black-bellies flying overhead. They don’t whistle, really. They squeak.

Black-belly’s plumage is elegant: rich brown and black. White flashes show when they fly. But wait! Their bill and feet are bright coral pink. I think it’s what inspired cosmetic designers to make that lipstick that was so popular in the early seventies.

I glance up from the road and see a duck perched improbably on a telephone wire. It is swaying dangerously in the wind. Duck on a wire? I pull out my binoculars. Hey - it is a Black Bellied Whistling-Duck.

We stop to watch a heavy bird hovering three feet above the prairie, sort of like a kite. It has a bright pink bill. It drops down and disappears in the long grass. Black Bellied Whistling Ducks apparently don’t know how ducks are expected to behave.

The American Birding Association’s North American checklist puts Black-bellied Whistling-Duck in the number one spot. I agree.

Tradition (Malkolm)

2008-05-16T15:07:00.000-07:00

It's traditional. Nearly every birder who has embarked on a Big Year has done it. Has braved the dust and the heat and the stench. To seek out the Tamaulipas Crow. At the Brownsville Dump.
These crows belong in Mexico, but a flock strayed northward to enjoy feasting on America's plentiful waste.
So we followed in the footsteps of all the other big year birders to the gates of the dump. We waited while a few dump trucks checked in with the man in the booth. We followed. Wendy received a birding map of the area. We followed the directions to the "Birdwatching Area" atop a huge mound. We set up our scope and scanned the swarms of gulls circling the dump. A few ravens appeared in the blizzard of Laughing Gulls, but there was no sign of the crows.
Actually, the flock of crows had diminished to a couple pairs, after some change at the dump made feeding tougher. I don't know if the Brownsville Chamber of Commerce realizes it, but should the crows leave, then Brownsville the stream of crow crazed economy contributors will stop appearing.
Even though we missed crows, we got the rest of the Brownsville Dump birding package (90 degree heat, dust from the machines...)
Oh yeah, apparently this is our 100th post!

Just another day. . . (Ken)

2008-05-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

You see lots of things while you are cycling. Some are wonderful, some are annoying, some are bizarre. One day in May we see several from each category as we pedal south along the central Texas coast. . .

Wonderful: Five scissor-tailed flycatchers fly from a barbed wire fence and swoop upwards in formation, five rosy breasts arched towards the sun, five impossibly long tails fluttering earthward. The tails flutter like the cloth tails I taped to the kites I flew as a kid.

Annoying: There is no-one else on the road when a blood-red pickup truck, about as wide as the southbound lane, thunders past us without bothering to swerve to the left (as every other truck has done all day). I can feel the hot rush of wind. Maybe he is hung-over. Maybe he is talking on a cell-phone and the conversation was more riveting than three bicyclists – even if we are a rare sight on Texas highways. Maybe he owns the road.

Bizarre: “Alligator,” yells Malkolm as we cross the first bridge over a series of bayous. I look, but all I see is a giant swirl in the dark water. In the next bayou, “Chocolate Bayou” an empty, wide-bottomed boat drifts lazily. Just before I whiz off the bridge I look back and see feeble splashes. A head encased in a red collar rotates slowly about fifteen feet from the boat. I yell to Wendy and Malkolm, check the rear-view mirror and turn around.

“Hey,” I shout. “Are you okay?” I can see now that the red collar is a ‘keyhole’ life jacket that appears to be the only thing preventing the man’s head from being at one with the muddy bottom of the bayou. “Okay,” he answers weakly. He looks to be about 60, out of shape and a non-swimmer. I can see his arms moving beneath the surface. He spins, like a phalarope trying to whirlpool insects the surface, but he gets no closer to the boat.

“I want to make sure you understand,” I yell. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m okay,” he gurgles, as if he always uses his submerged body as alligator-bait after church on Sunday. Wendy joins me and we watch as he wriggles and squirms. He is no threat to make the US swim team for Beijing. I swear it takes him five minutes to gyrate to the boat and grab it. We wait until he has a firm grip before wheeling around and joining Malkolm.

Wilting (Wendy)

2008-05-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

The flashing sign outside Texas Bank says it is 103 . The Weather Channel says it is 97 but the “heat index” is 109 . Is heat index like the opposite of wind chill?

We are sheltering inside Budget Hotel. The fan is turned on high.

We are making plans to try and get safely through southern Texas. If any of you live along the southern Rio Grande, or along the Del Rio to Marathon highway, please let us know if we could get water, or cold showers, at your place!

Special message to our friends who have joined us on our travels: Sa, Kirsten, Polly, Sam, Rachel and Christianne. Ken’s cutting edge technology - thick shirt wrap – kept our bottle of beer COLD today!

Dowitchers

2008-05-07T13:50:00.001-07:00

For those of you who haven’t heard of dowitchers, well, maybe we should leave it that way.

Identifying dowitchers is the migraine headache of birding. (Or does Empidonax Flycatcher ID gets that honour?)

Short-billed (SBD) and Long-billed (LBD) Dowitchers are large shorebirds that look very similar. Their names aren’t helpful. Both have long bills. You must resort to plenty of studying to figure out how it ID them. Luckily, there is plenty of reference material. If you care.

If you get bored of identifying them by field marks, you can read up on how to ID them by, (deep breath)... the angle formed by drawing a line between the tip of their bill and the back of their head, and another between the beginning of the bill, though their eye and to the top of their head. The degree of the angle averages higher on SBD.

Rehearsing the rules in my head I ventured out to find a dowitcher to ID. One probed the mud across a slough. I zoomed the spotting scope onto it. I studied its characteristics. It was a Long-billed Dowitcher. It flew off, chattering the flight call of a Short-billed Dowitcher.

I can identify dowitchers with confidence and sometimes accuracy!

Red Eyes (Ken)

2008-05-03T16:12:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago we dropped in on Jim Stevenson in Galveston, Texas. Jim’s place is a refuge from the gluttonous development that is devouring much of Galveston Island. A refuge for Jim, the birds he loves as well as human visitors.

We hadn’t seen Jim since December, when he kindly lent us his place while he was away visiting family in Florida. This time, Jim looked tired, worn a little ragged by the rush of keeping up with spring migration. If I looked closely, I might have seen red rims around his eyes. It’s a common theme amongst birders. Bob Duncan from Florida had summed it up when we’d stayed with him and his wife Lucy in early April. Bob had recently been invited to a wedding and said, “I can’t go to a wedding during spring migration!”

Jim knows a lot about birds. He knows a lot about bird migration. Malkolm peppered him with questions about where to find birds, and Jim answered patiently. When Malkolm asked about Gull-billed Terns, he led him up to his “sky deck” and pointed one out. When they got back downstairs, Jim plopped down on a couch while Malkolm pointed his camera lens outside.

“There’s a Yellow Warbler,” said Malkolm, “and a Red-eyed Vireo.”

“Malkolm, you seem to know quite a lot about birds,” said Jim. “Can you tell whether that vireo is exhausted from crossing the Gulf?”

Malkolm thought for a minute. “No.”

“At least I’ll be able to teach you something,” said Jim. “Sure it is. It just took the red-eye on the Yucatan Express!”

And the Winner Is....(Wendy)

2008-04-28T19:47:00.001-07:00

We are on a biking/birding trip, but this blog is about bathrooms.

I feel qualified - now that we have spent 10 months crisscrossing the continent, and stayed in hundreds of campgrounds - to elect North America’s best campground bathroom.

We have encountered a variety of restrooms. Some are unclean and uncared-for, and you are scared to touch the surfaces. One bathroom in southern Florida would have delighted a zoologist. It had mosquitoes crawling the walls, cockroaches scuttling over the floor, spiders hanging from the showerhead and a cute little green tree frog on the toilet. Many campground managers maintain sparkling clean facilities: if I dropped a cookie on the floor of one of these I could safely pick it up and eat it. Most bathrooms are unsupplied. Half the time there is no hand soap.

Everyone knows that long distance travellers crave a home cooked meal. I think there is comfort too in a homey bathroom, and that is why I am choosing High Island RV Park’s as the winner.

This bathroom is decorated with a personal touch. I admired the leopard spotted shower curtains. (“Dollar store”, whispered Marie.) The floor is covered with botanical design mats. Marie changes the mats every day.

The shelf above the sink is lined with tiny bottles of lotion, shampoo, conditioner, also shower cap, shoe shining cloth. They are the kind you bring home from a hotel – and these ones are quality. There is a bouquet on the toilet, and a bird ornament over the sink.

A notice on the paper towel dispenser says “You are welcome to use the soap and shampoo. “

There is a drawback, of course. Everyone wants to use the classy bathroom, even if they have one of their own in their RV. There can be a line-up.

Come to think of it, this blog may worsen that problem......

Golden Plovers (Ken)

2008-04-24T06:21:00.000-07:00

I pulled my wool hat low over my ears and zipped up my windbreaker. The icy north wind shredded the fog and we could finally make out the bird’s dim silhouette on the ridge. It bobbed up and down like a marionette-bird and called, “too-lip, too-lip.” As the mist lifted, I saw a dozen caribou including several butter-colored calves feeding in a draw behind the American Golden Plover . . .

Okay. I know you’ve already figured out that this scene didn’t happen as we cycled across Louisiana. If I put on a wool hat in the steamy April warmth of the Gulf Coast I’d melt like a blob of butter. We did see three American Golden Plovers though, in a muddy field sandwiched between emerald-green rice fields brimming with yellowlegs, dowitchers and other assorted shorebirds. We saw these birds on a day when we had to cycle 83 miles, mostly against a headwind. A tough day, but nothing compared to what plovers do on a regular basis.

I can’t help but associate American Golden Plovers with the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Up north is where they are born. It is where they set out from on the first leg of their incredible migration when they are just a couple of months old. They fly eastward to the Atlantic coast, then launch into the void for a non-stop flight across the ocean to South America.

Our own “migration” across the continent in search of birds has given us a little insight into the difficulties faced by migrants. The biggest problem has to be shrinking habitat in wintering grounds, nesting habitat . . . and everywhere along migratory pathways. That is now compounded by climate change. It is no wonder that so many people have lamented that they aren’t seeing as many birds as they used to.

Since it was just Earth Day, I raise my coffee cup in a toast to all of the people we’ve met (and those we haven’t) who are doing great things to heal the earth so that wild creatures can survive into the future.

Migration (Malkolm)

2008-04-20T18:34:00.001-07:00

I can sympathise with migrating songbirds on a new level now.

8 PM, April 17^th I stepped into my nice, cozy tent. Around this time millions of birds took flight from the Yucatan Peninsula.

6 AM, April 18^th I woke up, contemplating a long day of cycling. Those birds had flown all night, now they were contemplating a long day of flying.

7:05 AM, We cycled off, 82 miles of road ahead of us. That’s a long ways. Those birds still had hundreds of miles to go.

Mid Moring, It started to rain. We had a headwind. Luckily for those birds, the rain hugged the coast- so that last difficulty wasn’t a factor- yet.

3:30 PM, The road parelled the sea. We were getting tired. Suddenly I spotted a tiny songbird fluttering across the road. But as we cycled on I noticed more and more. Indigo Buntings, Orchard Orioles, unidentified flashes of yellow...

4:30 PM, We arrived, exhausted at Peveto Woods Sanctuary. We were hungry. Ken and Wendy had a beer. But I was more hungry for birding than for food. I snuck through the woods. Exhausted birds were everywhere, a Blackburnian Warbler, Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Scarlet Tanagers... they feasted on bugs, and I soaked in the incredible scene.

Good Bird Jokes (Wendy)

2008-04-15T08:42:00.000-07:00

Today we are pedalling south of Baton Rouge. Our bellies are full of grilled redfish and fried catfish, thanks to Grill Master Craig Houston and his talented family. This blog is about something that happened a month ago, but the jokes are timeless.

March 21 was a big time for us. We were three-quarters of the way through Bird Year, and had just passed the ten thousand mile mark. We visited the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Gainesville. At our presentation there, we enjoyed the most entertaining introduction ever.

A hundred people sit on stackable chairs in the high-ceilinged Sanctuary. A woman with a long blonde braid walks to the front. She wears a blue peasant skirt, white blouse, blue print over-blouse, and a name tag: LoraKim Joyner. She is a co-minister. She picks up the microphone.

“I understand”, LoraKim starts, with a mischievous look, “that Malkolm, Ken and Wendy have not been alone in understanding the need for habitat protection and reducing the use of fossil fuels. They’ve found some special birds along the way in your Bird Year.”

First-time visitors to UUF look puzzled. Church members smile. They know that LoraKim Joyner loves birds – and bird puns. They know what is coming.

“Like the birds who were so sad about climate change and losing their habitat,” she continues. She peers out into the crowd.

A church member calls out, “Mourning Dove?”

“Sure”, says LoraKim, “and Blue Bird. Then in Texas you worked with a clergy bird who spoke out against pollution. Who was that?”

No one knows.

“The Cardinal!” LoraKim cries. “Alas, there have been some detractors – those birds that want to build and expand human structures for economic gain - the Crane, the Shoveler.

And what about those birds that want to develop the Arctic Refuge for oil?”

”Bushtits” says a woman in the second row.

“No comment!” laughs LoraKim. “What about Petrels?”

“A marijuana smuggler’s boat got shipwrecked in a storm,” she continues. “It crashed on a bird rookery in the Florida Keys. All those drugs went ashore. The Drug Enforcement Agency was concerned about the effects on the nesting terns, and called the Audubon society. Their fears were confirmed.....no tern was left unstoned.”

“Now I will turn the microphone over...”

Guest Blog #5 (Sam Skinner)

2008-04-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

By the time this is posted, I’ll have been discharged (with honour?) from Team Bird Year, and will likely be somewhere near the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans eating. Speaking of eating, at Malkolm’s urging, I’ll write about “Feeling Alive!” Originally, I used this expression to refer to when one has eaten something with a flavour so intense that all else escapes your mind at that moment. One such moment on our two weeks with Team Bird Year was biting into a Florida-grown kumquat. The sweet-sour zestiness put me right into the moment. However, after riding for 2+ weeks, I’ve come to realize that “Feeling Alive!” can happen independently of food, and could be better described as when your entire consciousness is focused on the razor-sharp edge of the present, with no thought of the future or the past.

The razor analogy fits frighteningly well with a situation where I sometimes found myself “Feeling Alive!” with Team Bird Year: riding along the very thin white line at the edge of the road with heavy traffic on one side, and on the other either an abrupt drop onto what’s left of a washed out shoulder (rural/suburban), or a series of hurricane-ready, skate-park inspired, bike-swallowing storm sewer drains (urban). “Feeling Alive!” also came in less abrasive forms. For a moment while riding up and over bridge (with a wide shoulder), nothing occupied my mind other than that one Brown Pelican gliding low over the wave-tops, pulling up a bit, flapping, and dropping into another glide. On many nights, I really did feel alive when going to look for alligators or Screech Owls, or even just walking to the bath-house, because the chorus of frogs and the warm humid night air were so alien to me yet so comfortable. I suppose even the pun-laden jokes that were past back and forth over dinner or while riding on a quiet stretch served to put me in the moment (so much so that I can’t remember any good examples – or maybe there never were any?).

Everyday riding with Team Bird Year was punctuated with dozens of moments of “Feeling Alive”, and, while I’m jealous of their whole year of wonderful (and lively) experiences, I feel lucky and honoured to have spent two utterly alive weeks on their journey.

Guest Blog #4 (Polly Madsen)

2008-04-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

Phew – it’s hot here in this trailer park at 8:00 p.m. It’s also loud with the sound of frogs. We are in Gulfport, Mississippi and it’s our last night with Team Birdyear. After more than 2 weeks of travelling with Malkolm, Ken and Wendy, we (Sam, Kirst and I) have fallen into a good rhythm of biking, birding, biscuit eating and beer drinking.

There are, however, some differences between us and Team Birdyear. Firstly, while we do occasionally sing, we refrain (and actually cringe a little) when Team Birdyear fuses bird names into rock and roll classics, such as the frequently heard verse of the Beach Boys ‘Barbara Ann’ with “bah, bah, bah, bah, bobolink” inserted into the chorus.

Secondly, while we are carrying what some may refer to as “extraneous items”, such as shaving razors and mascara, Team Birdyear carries such items as their favourite ‘pooh sticks’ (see Winnie the Pooh) as well as mason jars, which will be carried for miles, until some unsuspecting RV’er will be pressured (by Wendy) into becoming a food canner so that the mason jars won’t be thrown away.

Finally, while Team Birdyear is frequently armed (with binoculars) and ‘on a bird’ (meaning looking at a rare and interesting bird), we have one pair of sad binoculars between us and if we are ‘on a bird’ it is most likely to be of the fried chicken variety.

Differences aside, we will be sad to leave. Come next week we will be participating in the great adventure of birdyear from the sterile environments of our various computer desks and the only evening sounds we’ll hear will be the cold wind outside our house (or perhaps our cat Alice asking to be fed).

The Yucatan Express (Ken)

2008-04-07T11:32:00.001-07:00

The future was misty and unclear when we first started talking about doing a Bird Year several years ago. Malkolm, however, knew one thing. He wanted to be along the upper Gulf Coast during the spring migration. Now I know why.

Before we headed to Dauphin Island, a famous “migrant trap,” we stopped at the bird banding station at Fort Morgan. We were lucky to meet Scott Weidensaul (Pulitzer Prize nominated author of Living on the Wind), and Bob and Martha Sargent, the founders of the banding station. It was a slow day for birds at Fort Morgan.

“The songbirds are all being blown to the interior,” Bob said, pointing up at the trees swaying in the brisk south wind. “A front is coming through tomorrow though – things will be different this weekend.”

He was right. On Saturday the canopy at the Shell Mounds was dripping with warblers, orioles and tanagers. It was hard to know where to point your binoculars. Bird rumors rippled through the birders along the trails. “There is a Painted Bunting down at the bowl. Have you seen the Scarlet Tanager? I heard someone saw a Swainson’s Warbler near the Bee Tree!”

Most of the other birders had heard about Malkolm’s Bird Year and were chasing him down whenever they saw an interesting migrant. By the time the sun set on Saturday, Malkolm found 10 new species of birds – a tough thing to do when you’ve already identified 474 species. Sunday was the same and we were all frazzled at the end of the day.

We were almost relieved when the weather cleared and the south winds resumed on Monday. We could imagine the invisible migrants riding the northward Yucatan Express over our heads. Almost relieved.

Guest Blog #3 (Kirsten Madsen)

2008-04-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

Ken was scissor-jumping in the air as our Greyhound bus pulled into the station in Panama City, Florida, and two other brightly-colored cyclists were waving loonily (in the non-bird sense).
"I guess that's your people," someone on the bus said.

How did they know? Is it that obvious?

Ken, Wendy and Malkolm have become super bike mechanics and assembled our bikes in no time flat and we were off.

It is taking me a while to get used to how friendly everyone is. People ask lots of questions, like "Where y'all headed?" and KWM get to talk about how they've been biking for 9 months all the way from what we refer to as 'up near Alaska'. Then the people look at Polly, Sam and I with our white legs and clean bright shirts and we admit we've been biking at least a couple of days.

Biking yesterday we got at least one middle finger and a number of Springbreaker yawps. We stopped in Seaside (where The Truman Show was filmed, if that gives you any indication) and there certainly were a lot of white picket fences. On the lawn in the centre of town genetically modified children giggled cutely. I passed two women tsk-ing on a wooden boardwalk. "Look at that stain," one said, shaking her head sadly over a frothy pink splotch on the wood. "I know," the other woman said sadly. "It's been there three days now."

Through a birding connection, we ended up going from camping to lounging in a luxury condo development the next night. All I can say is I don't know how I lived without a private beach before; the public beach is just so tacky.

Those with a particular interest in my ass will be pleased to hear it is holding up okay. As long as I don't actually sit on my bike seat it hardly hurts at all. Yesterday we rode 63 miles. That's like ONE HUNDRED kilometres.

Oh yeah - birds. I think I have seen about 8 species so far. (It would be more like 11 but Malkolm tells me Hooters don't count.)

Hummingbirds and hummers (Malkolm)

2008-03-29T06:24:00.000-07:00

Spring time. Migration. Warblers, vireos, thrushes and hummers arriving back. No I meant Hummingbirds not hummers. We’ve seen 10 species of Hummingbirds so far this trip, meanwhile keeping track of the models and colours of hummers passing us would be tedious. I’ve put together a few comparison points regarding the 2 Hs.

1) Hummingbirds make a high pitched hum. Hummers don’t hum, they rumble.

2) Hummer trucks are huge. Hummingbirds aren’t. A Hummer weighs as much as 9 million and eighty thousand Rufous Hummingbirds.

3) Hummers get lousy gas mileage. About ten miles per gallon. Hummingbirds get good fat mileage. The equivalent weight of a gallon of fuel in body fat could fuel a Rufous Hummingbird nine hundred and eighty five thousand, four hundred miles. That is more than the equivalent of going to the moon and back twice.

Anyway back to bird year. We’re looking forward to seeing (not Rufous) but Ruby-throated Hummingbirds re-fuelling on nectar after their migration over the Gulf of Mexico. Soon the number of migrating warblers, vireos, thrushes and hummingbirds will outnumber the hummers. I’m looking forward to that.

Another election scandal (Ken).

2008-03-25T11:18:00.000-07:00

Until a couple of days ago, I thought that state or provincial birds were cute, folksy things that appealed mainly to primary school students and people who worked in tourism offices. I thought that – until I heard about the Florida State Bird election controversy. Maybe you are tired of hearing about yet another Florida election scandal, but this one is important, too.

I don’t have all of the details: dates, numbers, etc, but here’s what I’ve heard. The two front-runners in a Florida State Bird election a few years ago were Northern Mockingbird and Florida Scrub Jay. It was looking as though the jay might pull off an upset . . . until some developers suddenly threw their support – and campaign dollars – behind the mockingbird. I don’t know if the campaigning was as dirty as during political elections, but in the final polls the Northern Mockingbird was declared the winner.

I am going to go out on a limb (although not as far out as a jay or mocker would go) and say that Northern Mockingbirds don’t give a squawk about whether or not they are the Florida State Bird or not. The Mockingbird is already the state bird of Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, Texas, and Florida.

Here are some reasons why I believe that Florida Scrub Jays would make an excellent State Bird:

1) The Florida Scrub Jay lives only in Florida and is the state’s only endemic bird (Northern Mockingbirds are widespread across North America and Mexico and have been seen in every state except Hawaii and every province and territory in Canada except Nunavut).

2) The Florida Scrub Jay is beautiful: a misty, cerulean blue with a pale gray back.

3) I am the first to admit that a Northern Mockingbird is a splendid singer, but have you ever heard the Florida Scrub-Jay’s raucous, rising kreeeesh?

4) Most importantly, Floridians would make sure that Florida Scrub Jays survive into the future. They have been on Audubon’s 10 Most Endangered Birds list, and their numbers are still declining. They can’t afford to lose any more habitat, and what is remaining needs to be managed properly.

This may seem like a tongue-in-cheek blog, but I’m serious. I’ve heard that there is already a small (but hopefully determined) group of people who hope to rally support for another vote for Florida State Bird. I hope that anyone who reads this blog can find a way to help such as writing a letter to an appropriate politician or contacting your local Audubon or other conservation-minded organization. Good luck!

A Bittern-Sweet Moment (Wendy)

2008-03-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

“We don’t believe they exist” I said to Dave Fix last September. We were scanning Arcata Marsh in northern California with binoculars, searching for American Bitterns. We had been hoping to see them for eight years, ever since we first visited the Everglades. They are as long as snow geese, but streaky-brown and secretive. “Keep poundin’ the reeds” advised Dave.

“We suspect there is no such bird as American Bittern,” I told Todd Newberry, as we looked over Elkhorn Slough near Monterey. Todd nodded thoughtfully. “Ask local birders as you travel,” he said, “it will be a good way to break the ice.” One helpful birder from southern Florida, Ken Burgener, made a video of our stay with him. He taunted us by peppering it with subliminal glimpses of bitterns.

All fall and winter we asked local birders for advice and pounded the local reeds. Most people told us that they had seen one just last week, standing right out in the open. We visited great bittern habitat: Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, Mad Island, Corkscrew Swamp. Our luck did not change. “I think this bittern thing is a gigantic hoax,” I told Malkolm and Ken.

Late in February we returned to the Everglades. One morning, Malkolm left camp at first light. Ken and I finished our coffee and then followed. Malkolm waved his arms in semaphore fashion as soon he saw us. His eyes told the story. He had seen his American Bittern, but it was a bittern-sweet moment for Ken and me. We were happy that Malkolm had seen the bittern, but American Coffee had come between us and our bird.

Viera Wetland is an engineered marsh, used for the last stage of wastewater treatment. It is a pretty place, and not smelly. Jim Meyer and Eileen Riccio saw 2 bitterns here, two weeks before we arrived. They kindly joined us. I looked out over an expanse of reeds, and thought that there was no need for a bittern ever to show itself. Just then, a large streaky brown bird erupted from the vegetation, and flew quickly to its destination. Just as it landed, I saw its profile, so familiar from the bird books. Immediately, it melted back into the greenery.

“Did you see that?” we all asked each other. I am not sure whose grin was widest.

Now that we knew where it was, we caught glimpses of that bittern from time to time. It moved excruciatingly slowly. The photo at top gives you an idea why these birds are so darned difficult to locate (hint: it is in top right quadrant).

American Bitterns exist! Triumph at last!

Guest Blog #2 (Sa Boothroyd)

2008-03-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

This is Wendy’s sister Sa writing. I have a few things to say about team bird year that may not yet have been said. I have been riding, or vacationing, with these guys for nearly 2 weeks. I would like to enlighten those of you reading as to what Bird Year really seems to be about. Maybe I should start with their rules:

#1. No passing a bagel store unless you already have fresh bagels

#2. No passing an ice cream store on a hot day

#3. No passing a funky coffee shop unless you can blindfold Wendy

There are two topics of discussion on this trip, Malkolm talks about birds and the others discuss food. We talk about what we are about to eat, where we will eat it, where we should stop and buy food and how the meal was last night. This is a Food and Birding trip. Wendy and Ken make comments to Malkolm during the rides about birds they see but really these are distractions from the thrust of their thoughts.

Maybe I have just lucked into a lazy section of their trip but here is a typical day in southern Florida:

Get up and eat.

Pack up. I am always the last to be ready. Some members of Bird Year give me the hairy eyeball.

Ride 10-15 miles and talk about a nice coffee shop we might stop at.

Never find that coffee shop so we stop at the next Publix and buy lunch groceries.

Debate bagel over flat bread or both.

Ride 1 mile and stop to eat.

Talk about dinner.

Ride 5 miles and talk about swimming in the Atlantic. Check out the beach and decide it is too windy and cold.

Ride 5 miles to a Publix and get dinner provisions. I get ice for my mini-cooler and we put the beer in it to keep cold for the final 2 mile grind to the campground.

Pull in at 4pm. Have a shower. Open some beer.

Talk about dinner.

Malkolm takes off to see birds somewhere.

We drink some more beer.

Make dinner.

Wash dishes in cold water without soap.

Talk about the bird Malkolm saw that day and how far we rode.

Brush teeth, go to bed.

Think about tomorrow’s food.

That is all.

It is a good way to live. Slow and smooth. They put up with me and that isn’t always easy. I get tea brought to me in bed most mornings so I shouldn’t complain. But here, in this blog, I just wanted you to know the truth.

Contradictions (Ken)

2008-03-11T10:49:00.000-07:00

It was still dark in the morning in the RV campground when I was rudely awakened by a “thump” outside our tent. I couldn’t see anything out the door, so I tried unsuccessfully to drift back to sleep. I gave up and got up when the first light blushed the eastern horizon. I stumbled over the source of the thump on the way to the bathroom – a newspaper that had been hurled from a golf cart. First time we’ve ever had a paper delivered to our tent.

I fired up the stove for morning coffee and leafed through the paper. The morning headline read “State Board Approves Teaching of Evolution.” I suppose that is progress. On page 5 there was a long, scary article about global warming. Its headline was, “Mass Extinctions Forecast if Eco-crisis isn’t Tackled.” As I read that 40% of all plant and animal species could be extinct by the end of the century because of global warming, I heard a deep rumble. A huge, silver RV (towing a golden-colored Hummer) rolled past. I could feel the heat belching out of the chrome-plated exhaust.

We’ve seen thousands of RVs & big trucks towing trailers during our journey, but a motor home towing a Hummer was over the top for me. I hope that all of us can make the changes we need so that innocent plants and animal species aren’t banished from Planet Earth forever by our relentless consumption.

A few other contradictions I’ve noticed lately:

A car parked in the Anhinga Trail parking lot with a bumper sticker that said “Piping Plovers Taste Like Chicken.” Presumably the car’s inhabitants were enjoying the birds of the Everglades, while at the same time advertising that an endangered species was expendable.

The house we are staying in today has the air-conditioning on. It also has a presto-log burning in the fire-place.

Okay, I’ve finished ranting. Time to get back on the bicycle.

The Year I Met Ken Burgener (Malkolm)

2008-03-06T10:42:00.000-08:00

A photo of Ken Burgener's sleeping bag.

“If you guys write a book, what are you going name it?”

“I dunno. Bird Year?”

“No... call it The Year I Met Ken Burgener. Here, make sure you remember how to spell my last name- B- U-R-G-E-N-E-R. Got it?”

Ken Burgener, his wife Linda Warschauer, Ken M, Wendy and I had strolled along a boardwalk through Mahogany Hammock, a lush forest in the heart of the Everglades. Ken B brimmed with humor and off-the-wall ideas. I chuckled at another of his jokes. All the laughing erupting from our party must have scared every Flycatcher and Parula from far away.

“Hey Linda,” said Ken B. “You’re a beginning birder- have you seen an American Bittern?”

“Lots” she said.

“Now Malkolm, have you seen an American Bittern?”

“Nope. But I’ve been looking in the wrong direction twice when a supposed American Bittern has flown past.”

I marvelled at the wonders of social networking. Our friend Rachel Shephard had introduced us to Jim Meyers, who had arranged our presention on Cape Canaveral. Jim had gotten us in touch with Ken and Linda. Along with humour and fresh fruit, they had put us in touch with more of their friends: Ann Wiley and Holly and Jason Andreotta. Ann Wiley in Fort Lauderdale took us birding by bicycle while Holly and Jason had cooked up the best meal we’d had in ages. And Ann, Jason and Holly had been brainstorming about more friends to stay with further up the Florida coastline. Anyway, my goal in this blog was to write about something other than cycling, birding, camping, eating or the problems facing the planet. Something happy. Speaking of happiness- back to Ken Burgener.

“So I took a personality test. The psychologist said I was unbalalanced. He said people have happiness and sadness quotients- balancing each other out. But I’m unbalanced, I have too high of a happiness quotient.

Ken and Linda kept re-appearing along our way. After we stayed with them in south-western Florida they visited us on Sanibel Island, in the Everglades, then again at Ann Wiley’s house. And as usual Ken Burgener brought a batch of new jokes.

“So me and a bunch of nerd birders are sitting in a garbage dump, with our spotting scopes and our binoculars. And we’re looking at the masses of gulls feeding all over the piles of smelly junk. Twenty of us squinting through scopes, trying to find the rare Iceland Gull that showed up at this dump. Then some guy drives by and yells at us, “Get a life!” He was probably right.”

Later that evening Ken pulled out a DVD of footage he’d filmed of us in the Everglades. The film starred Ken and Linda and in very small print “also three nerdy birders/bikers” It was six minutes of hilarity, videos of us doing wierd stuff and half second flashes of an American Bittern. In the very last scene the film showed a nice clear view of the bittern.

“Have you seen one of those?” asked Ken Burgener

“Actually yes. On our last day in the Everglades.”

“Well have you seen one of these?” asked Ken, pulling out a photo of a long-tailed black bird with an enormously round bill. It was the 20^th time that evening that he’d pulled out the photo of the Smooth-billed Ani.

“Going to have to work on that one!”

Vulture Love (Wendy)

2008-03-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

“Don’t you think Black Vultures have soulful eyes?” Ken asked. We were leaning over a railing at Anhinga Pond in the Everglades, looking down at a bulky black bird. It was so close I could see his chestnut brown eyes, set in the deeply wrinkled charcoal gray skin of his head and neck. When he blinked, a bluish membrane came up from below. He did have nice eyes.

I apologize that the description that follows is unashamedly anthropomorphic.

A larger vulture swooped down and landed right beside the first, so close their sides were touching. At this, the first raised his wings out to his sides. He puffed his chest, stretched and curved his neck and looked coyly towards the ground. In this position, he slowly walked in a small semicircle.

“This must be a courtship display”, I said.

I wondered if I should get my little point and shoot camera. We were so close I could have filled the full frame. I didn’t, though. It seemed impolite.

Back facing the other bird, he jumped on her back. Their tail feathers ruffled and nestled together. The male gently pecked at the female’s neck. After ten seconds or so, he moved to stand on her shoulders, and stepped around a bit. Maybe he was giving her a back rub. He held his shoulders and head high. He seemed pleased with himself.

“Maybe those were not soulful eyes, “I said. “Maybe they were bedroom eyes.”

Peeing and Alligators (Ken)

2008-02-29T12:54:00.001-08:00

So far we have been too genteel to talk about things like peeing in our blogs. But here goes.

People ask us many things when we meet them out front of the local Albertson’s, Piggly-Wiggly or Publix grocery stores. “Where do you sleep?” “What do you eat?” “How far do you ride every day?” But they’ve never asked about our peeing adventures.

The other day I decided to count the number of alligators beside the road as we cycled eastwards across “Alligator Alley” – Florida Route 41. If you look at the map, they call I-75 by that name, but we’d been assured that we were cycling across the true, the original, the one-and-only Alligator Alley.

“Fourteen,” I yelled as I saw a 5-foot-long gator lounging across the creek. “There’s number fifteen – she’s a big one. Sixteen! I only saw the nose and the eyes, but I’m counting it as a whole alligator.”

I was riding in my usual position at the back of the Bird Year peleton. My job? To keep an eye on my rear-view-mirror and watch for dangerous traffic situations. Generally I’m pretty conscientious, but today I was too busy watching for alligators. Suddenly a transport truck materialized beside us, blaring its horn. We swerved onto the bumpy shoulder. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Seventeen! Wow, that one is huge!” As the alligator sank, I noticed that it was oddly pale. I yelled at Malkolm and Wendy to stop and we swerved across the road. A trail of bubbles rose from the murky depths of the pond, and suddenly we saw the nostrils of a manatee rise above the surface. It inhaled and sank back out of sight.

If there is one thing I’ve learned during Bird Year, it is to pee when a favorable opportunity arises. I waited until a red pick-up zoomed past, quickly pulled down my shorts and relieved myself. After we watched the manatee surface once more, we got back on our bikes and started pedalling.

“Another Manatee.” yelled Wendy. “And look at that! Those people got a nature show in more ways than one.”

I saw what she was looking at: a “swamp buggy” across the pond. Swamp buggies are long jeep-like vehicles with an elevated platform for passengers. A dozen pairs of binoculars were trained on the manatees. A couple of minutes before they were no doubt focussed on me peeing.

By the end of the two-day cycle across Alligator Alley, we’d counted 207 gators, three Snail Kites plus numerous Anhingas, cormorants, herons, egrets and hawks. We only saw the one swamp buggy, however.

Cycling Down Memory Lane (Malkolm)

2008-02-23T07:35:00.000-08:00

Everything seems familiar at Long Pine Key in Everglades Nat’l Park. I remember every bend of that back road, the sign for a Boy Scout Camp and the marsh at the end. It seems more like the 8 months than 8 years ago that I was last here. I guess those first memories of birding and bicycling are embedded in me.

8 years ago we toured (in a van) across the states, speaking about the need to prevent oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. In between shows in Key Largo and Washington D.C. we took off a week to experience the Everglades. Twice a day we’d cycle to Anhinga Pond . . . the total distance of 16 miles was the farthest I’d ever ridden in a day. I’d sweat along on my old red bike, longing for the shade of the forest around the pond.

Many of my defining birding moments occurred around the boardwalk and trails of Anhinga Pond. I remember staring at a dark ibis, wondering whether the pale gray around its face was enough to turn make it a White-faced Ibis. (Rarely found east of Mississippi) I sought a park ranger’s opinion. Instead of saying “No you idiot, that’s the common Glossy Ibis” he kindly encouraged me by saying “well it’s possible, it’s only separated by air”. I was awestruck by the amazing birds, I spotted a Limpkin camouflaged in the marsh and admired a gorgeous Purple Gallinule stalking over lily-pads. I stared into the thick reeds, hoping to spot the elusive American Bittern, but only saw egrets and herons. Missing the bittern would soon become a common thread, re-appearing whenever I birded in a southern wetland.

In a way not much has changed since then, Purple Gallinules still walk along the banks and Anhingas still swim in pursuit of fish. And just like my first time here, the American Bitterns are still hiding from me!

Loads (Wendy)

2008-02-19T11:37:00.000-08:00

My sturdy bike had carried me 8700 miles when we arrived in Venice, Florida. We wheeled into a bicycle store with a maintenance problem.

The bike mechanic moved my bike on to a stand. He looked alarmed. “Wow!” he said,” this bike is loaded way too heavily. It can’t handle this weight. I’m serious. It will break.”

I’m glad he did not lift Malkolm or Ken’s bike. Mine is the lightest, by far. We weighed our bags once. Mine weighed a reasonable 54 pounds. Malkolm’s weighed an unreasonable 88 pounds. Ken’s topped it off at 95 pounds.

You may wonder what the heck we are carrying. The picture shows some of our gear on the picnic table. It looks like a lot. In fact, we are being careful. We need clothes for warm, cold and wet weather. We have tents and sleeping bags. We have one stove, 2 pots, a frying pan and 4 bowls. We make sacrifices. Our towels, for instance, are hand towels, not bath towels. We drink our coffee black because we don’t carry cream.

Because of our conservation project, and my cautious nature, we do have more stuff than most bike tourers.. We have a computer and a SLR camera with two heavy lenses. We have an enormous first aid kit (opened twice).

We are not always careful. For awhile we took along the seventh Harry Potter book. It weighs 2.9 pounds. Ken may choose to buy a six pack of beer instead of two cans. We may carry a large bottle of wine, because we are bargain hunters and it costs the same as a small one. Some of you will think we have rocks in our heads, others will think we are sensible.

Ken is apt to say “Yeah, our loads are ridiculously heavy” in an offhand manner. In fact, he is right.

One last cold spell (Ken)

2008-02-12T14:35:00.001-08:00

We rode down the bike trail on Sanibel Island to J.N. “Ding” Darling National Wildlife Refuge. An Anhinga flew overhead. Reddish Egrets charged around out on the mud flats. Great Egrets, Little Blue Herons and Great Blue Herons waited patiently for fish to swim to them. Roseate Spoonbills swept their bills through the shallows. None of them looked cold.

“How are you?” Wendy asked the woman in the entrance booth.

“Cold,” she answered grumpily.

We stared at her, waiting for the punch-line that never came. It was about 70 (21 C). We were in shorts and T-shirts, soaking up the sun. Wendy and I mailed our long underwear home a week earlier, that’s how confident we were that we were done with cold.

“I didn’t come to Florida to shiver,” she added.

We didn’t tell her about the two-week cold spell that is squatting over our home in the Yukon. Last time I called home, it was 43 degrees below zero

The “cold” front came through when we stayed with our new friends Ken Burgener and Linda Warschauer in Cape Coral. I didn’t notice much change, although the humidity was a little lower and we had to pull our sleeping bags above our knees in the night. Linda has a precise internal thermostat. She told us she could tell when the front came through. Ken, who is relentlessly cheerful, was too busy laughing to notice anything. He once took a Scientology test that concluded that he was “unbalanced” because he was too happy.

One more thing about temperatures The price of campsites goes up proportionately to the mean winter temperature. Since I’m used to wilderness camping, I hate paying anything to set up a tent. Okay, okay – I don’t mind paying for a shower and a picnic table when I’m on a bicycle trip – but we were trying to find a place to camp up by Venice, Florida and the going rate was $50 (+ $5 for Malkolm). And that was for the privilege of sleeping on a concrete pad, surrounded by giant RVs. State Parks are cheaper, but they are impossible to get into unless you reserve months in advance, something that is tough to do on a bike trip.

Not that we’re complaining. Not when it is -40 back home.

Link for news clip (Malkolm)

2008-02-10T04:59:00.000-08:00

The link for Tampa Bay's 10 New Clip about us is http://www.tampabays10.com/news/local/article.aspx?storyid=72994

Media (Malkolm)

2008-02-08T17:39:00.000-08:00

After 7 months, 1 week and 4 days of nonstop birding you would think that I could tell a Bald Eagle and a Turkey Vulture apart. Until Tampa Bay’s 10 news channel threw a curve ball.

A pair of news makers tracked us down as cycled south. We pulled down a quiet lane while the reporters grabbed their equipment. I clipped a tiny microphone to my collar, slipped a chord under my shirt and clipped something else to my cycling shorts. The cameraman positioned his TV camera at an odd angle below my left pedal. He pointed an enormous lens up at me. “Now, what inspired you to take this on?” asked the interviewer.

“Well, uh, I guess reading books like Kingbird Highway and The Big Year about others who...” I said. The videographer held up his hand and moved the camera to a different angle. “... did Big Years earlier...” They peppered us with questions and filmed us from all angles.

“Now let’s get you guys looking at some birds!” Only a few butterbutts (Yellow-rumped Warblers) fluttered around in distant bushes. “Okay, say what they are and look at them with your binoculars.” I raised them. The cameraman crouched down and rotated the camera around me. “Okay, great! Now let’s get some shots of you cycling. Malkolm, keep that microphone. When I signal, give a ten second overview of what you’re journey is about.”

The cameraman braced his camera out of their car’s window as they cruised parallel to us. After several tries he got what he needed, and they stopped ahead of us. I coasted to a stop and fumbled to remove the microphone. I glanced at the vultures wheeling overhead. One of the birds was flying differently, with its wings held flat, as opposed to the upward tilted wings on the A Turkey Vutures. I focused on the bird. Its head and tail comfirmed my suspicions. “There’s a Bald Eagle.”

“Keep the microphone on! Say that again!”

“There’s a Bald Eagle!” He aimed his camera up.

As we cycled off I wondered how they would edit one hour of material into a one minute and forty-five second news clip. The next evening, we stayed with Barb and Steve Walker near Tampa Bay. They had recorded the news clip. It ran just as expected – until the final ten seconds. I saw a clip of me pointing skywards and saying, “There’s a Bald Eagle!”

Then I saw footage of a soaring Turkey Vulture.

Encouragment (Wendy)

2008-02-07T09:21:00.000-08:00

People often ask us what is the hardest thing about our trip. Malkolm answers “Cycling through cities”. I think the biggest challenges are (1) headwinds and (2) finding campsites in southern Florida (they are gridlocked with Snowbirds in RV’s). Ken says “Dealing with all the computer stuff associated with our website.” Ken has a point. Finding places to plug in the computer at the right time of day (outdoors in midday there is too much glare to see the screen), finding places that have WiFi, it all takes time. After a full day of cycling what I want to do is relax with a cold brewsky and a book. Instead, I have to take that beer to the computer. We need to computer in order to do our conservation project, but sometimes we wish we were not carrying it.

Fortunately, we receive tons of encouragement.

We were encouraged by Carol. She flagged us down beside Route 19, north of St Petersburg. “My mom said why are you pulling over? And I told her, I’m stopping because those are the Bird People! I’m so excited to meet you. I saw you on TV and I really like what you are doing.” She pushed a folded bill into my hand. (We are raising money for bird habitat protection.)

We were encouraged by Greg Harber’s message, one of the many that people have kindly sent to our website and our blog.

I have been following the tales of your travels and have been enjoying every moment, as I hope you are. The story of camping in the graveyard is a classic and Wendy’s description of the woman with the “Can’t Do Attitude” at the park reinforces the notion that we should associate more with the Jane’s of the world! Thanks for the opportunity to “peer over your shoulder” via your blog entries as you bike across America.

I would like to contribute to Malkolm’s Bird Day Challenge effort by making a pledge to contribute to Dauphin Island Bird Sanctuaries, Inc. I pledge to donate 50 cents/species to DIBS based on the total number of species Malkolm has seen by the time he returns to Alabama on his way back west. I am originally from Florida (Fort Lauderdale native but most of my family now resides in Sebastian, FL (home of the Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge, our nation’s very first refuge. I do hope you get the chance to visit the refuge on your swing up the east coast!) but now I live in Birmingham, AL. Like many Alabama birders, Dauphin Island holds a special place in my heart and we are trying to preserve and protect as much of it as we are able. So, here’s hoping you hit 500 species before your return to Alabama!

Take care and be safe, Greg

Keep encouraging us! We still have a long way to go.

Out of the panhandle . . . (Ken)

2008-02-03T06:53:00.000-08:00

Warning – if you are a member of the Florida Panhandle Tourist Bureau, don’t read this blog.

We woke up at Manatee Springs State Park to the croak of a crow. “That’s a Fish Crow,” yelled Malkolm from his tent. “Listen to how low pitched and croaky it is.”

“That’s a Fish Crow all right,” answered Wendy groggily. Wendy is not at her brightest early in the morning, and this was her day to sleep in. “Definitely a Fish Crow.” She rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. This blog is not about birds however, even though the crow was Malkolm’s 439^th bird of the trip. I just put it in to appease Malkolm, who thinks that every blog should feature birds.

This blog is about Wendy’s toes. Two summers ago we went on a six-week canoe trip on Banks Island. Banks Island is north of Inuvik in the Arctic Archipelago. It was a cold, wet, windy journey and most of us suffered from “chilblains.” Chilblains are red, puffy sores that break out on exposed skin during prolonged chilly weather. Sometimes they turn black and look like the first stages of leprosy. Not that I’ve ever seen any stages of leprosy, I’m just trying to be dramatic.

We were not surprised to get chilblains in the Arctic. We were surprised to get them in the Florida Panhandle. Wendy’s toes became red and inflamed after a couple of weeks of cycling in the cold, damp weather. To be fair however, we can’t just blame Florida – it had been cool and damp since we crossed into Louisiana early in January.

Just two more comments:

Our friends back in Whitehorse would not be sympathetic - we just heard that it is -45 degrees there.

My credibility is at an all-time low. I've been saying things like "this is the last cold spell of the year,"since we hit Texas in November.

We are now heading out of the panhadle - and into the frying pan. It is supposed to get up to 80 degrees today here in Clearwater, Florida. We've had our last cold spell of the year for sure.

Heroes (Wendy)

2008-01-31T17:40:00.000-08:00

Rain pounded on the tent fly but the sky had lightened to dull gray. I could not stay inside any more. I put on all my warm clothing and covered it with raincoat and rain pants. I dashed to the picnic shelter. While I was priming the stove, a gray haired woman poked her head out of the big log building next door. “There’s hot coffee here in the clubhouse,” she called. I hurried in. An electric heater on the wall glowed orange, but the room was cool. A handful of men clutched coffee mugs and huddled near the heater. Two women hunched over a puzzle at the far end of the hall. One of them straightened up. “Hello, I’m Jane,” she said,” Come on in and warm up. Help yourself to donuts and danishes. You’re not cycling in this weather, are you? It’s supposed to drop to 27

I warmed up my hands on a mug of coffee and gobbled a couple of goodies. Then I gravitated towards the jigsaw puzzle. I learned that Jane makes coffee every morning and organizes the social life of the park. It is difficult, though. The clubhouse is a beautiful room with glossy wood tables, but it is seldom used. “The management,” she says,” is interested in profit. They don’t care about people. I have to lock up this clubhouse right after coffee hour. And if people use it later in the day they can’t turn on the heater.”

I had personal experience with the management, when I went to the office later that morning. The assistant manager was working. I asked if we could stay a second night on site 20, the only high, well drained ground in the park. I explained that moving wet tents is a pain. “No ma’am,” she replied, “you sure can’t stay there. It’s reserved.” She continued: “I was surprised to see your tents here this morning. We do not allow tent camping anymore.”

Slightly daunted, I asked my next question: “Is there a pay phone?” “No, ma’am. The nearest pay phone is three miles away.” I looked out at the leaking sky. “Would it be possible to use your phone? I have a calling card.” “No, ma’am. We cannot let the public use this phone.”

Next morning we hurried over hard frozen ground to the clubhouse. “Miss Jane,” as they call her here, was at her station by the jigsaw. The coffee pot burbled. “They made you move over there? In this weather?” she asked.

I was frustrated after one day of dealing with the woman with the “Can’t Do Attitude”. Imagine how much worse it is for Jane. She tried hard to make our stay more enjoyable. After we put the last piece into the puzzle, Jane announced, “I’m leaving the clubhouse open so you can stay out of the cold today”.

We spent two more nights at that campground, in our site in the farthest corner. No one moved into Site 20.

Jane is a hero in that park.

Guest Blog #1 (Louise Bauck)

2008-01-29T13:28:00.001-08:00

My Bird Day Challenge:

This year I took up the challenge again – birding

on bicycle. Normally I participate in a bizarre form

of road cycling, somewhat akin to the exercise a

hamster gets on a “wheel”. I find a local scenic

park, and cycle around and around on the park road

(about 1 mile for my favorite lake-side park), safe

from most speeding drivers. The biggest danger is the

maniac who suddenly backs out of a parking space –

quickly! But park cycling is a great way to exercise

and see birds, as you can relax enough to listen and

to look around you. Our local Georgia parks are full

of wonderful jays, woodpeckers, thrashers,

mockingbirds, titmice and bluebirds.

I have been avidly following the adventures of

The Bird Year tour, as Wendy has been a good friend

since our high school days. In fact, as a “senior

trip”, a group of about 10 of us went tenting and

cycling through the gulf islands in British Columbia,

an adventure I still remember vividly. I saved up for

a 10 speed to use on that trip – and I still have it!

So when I heard the Bird Year tour was approaching the

Florida Panhandle, I decided to try and bring my

trusty bicycle down for a reunion with Wendy. And a

great chance to see some early spring birds!

My new SmartCar has not arrived yet (I am # 983

on the waiting list here in Atlanta) so with some

reluctance I bundled my bicycle friend in the back

seat of my husband’s tiny BMW, and drove at a

fuel-saving pace down to Holt, Florida. It was a bit

embarrassing pulling up to this obscure campground in

the middle of NOWHERE with my fancy vehicle, but Wendy

and Ken and Malkolm were all extremely gracious about

it. Their entire journey has been made without the

use of fossil-fuels, and it was very humbling to see

how easily they managed everything. I couldn’t

possibly be as tough.

I was excited to hear all about their

adventures, and was immediately treated to both

fascinating stories and a delicious lunch. I

eventually extricated my enormous disassembled friend

from the back seat, put all of its missing limbs back

on, and parked it proudly beside the Bird Year

official bicycles (dwarfing them). Wendy and I

chattered away like a pair of grackles, although the

bitter cold – yes, in Florida! - soon had my teeth

chattering as well. We went for a quick brisk walking

tour of the local pine and palmetto swampland, looking

for ivory-bills no less, and marveled at the white

sandy soil and overflowing river. We spotted some

great red-bellied woodpeckers, a white-throated

sparrow, and busy flocks of ruby-crowned kinglets.

Next I was treated to laptop photo highlights of the

monumental bicycle journey that started in Whitehorse

and had made it all the way to the deep South.

Breathtaking pictures of their ride through the

British Columbia wilderness, the spectacular Oregon

Coast, their crossing of the Golden Gate bridge, the

deserts of Arizona, the urban ruins of New Orleans,

and even the endless acres of Texas were all stunning.

The bird photographs were enough to make me want to

quit my job and join them – they are simply amazing.

Not having a nice down sleeping bag, I finally slunk

off to the local skuzzy motel and managed to raise my

core temperature back to normal levels. The next

morning I insisted on bringing a hot breakfast to the

travelers (which they ate with good grace despite its

dubious origin at the golden arches) and then – an

omen! Just before we headed out on our bicycles, I

suddenly spotted a huge river otter bobbing his way

across the grass, about 10 yards away. He must have

felt unsure when crossing the sandy road near me, as

he suddenly did something my ferret used to do all the

time – he “flopped”. His back end plastered itself to

the road, while he propped his head and front legs up

– in a sort of mustelid yoga pose – and he paused

there while evidently collecting his thoughts. My

ferret (Douglas Fur) used to do the exact same thing

when he had a moment of indecision. (“Should I steal

the wallet or destroy the rubber squeaky ball?”)

Finally the otter undulated away again, like a

chocolate slinky. I unfroze and directed a muffled

scream at poor Wendy, who immediately notified Malkolm

(the keeper of The Lens) and we hovered while he

stalked the bold creature with great skill. I can’t

wait to see his photos (400 mm Canon). ..

Eventually, after I had put on every single piece

of clothing I had brought with me, we braved the

bitter cold and set off on our bicycles. I don’t

recall seeing many birds on the way out, possibly

because Wendy and I rarely stopped talking, but on my

return journey I suddenly noticed literally hundred of

American robins, one of my favorites. Growing up in

British Columbia, robins were like a lovely and

melodious alarm clock. Here in the South they are not

as common, and they have a distinctly different

accent! It is a rare treat to see so many at once,

and they arrowed up and down amongst the pines with

great enthusiasm and chirping cries. Blue jays,

mockingbirds, grackles, crows, cardinals, and a hairy

woodpecker also accompanied me. A gigantic turkey

vulture soared ominously over my car, still parked in

the backwoods campground, but I made it out of their

alive and very well. Now longing to ride my bicycle

again, I eagerly await the return of warmer weather,

and many more bird-cycling adventures. Follow the

rest of Wendy, Ken and Malkolm’s journey at

www.birdyear.com !

Sleeping in a graveyard (Malkolm)

2008-01-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

Our first night in Florida topped the night behind a Wal Mart, the night on top of Sandia Crest and the multiple nights behind “No Trespassing” signs as the most memorable night of our trip.

“Stopping!” Ken called. “There is something wrong with my trailer wheel.” I steered my bike into the grass beside the road. Ken leaned over his trailer, and felt the wheel. “There aren’t any broken spokes,” he mused. He pushed his bike forward and produced a terrible jarring sound. Wendy came to help.

“It’s seized up,” she said. “We’ll have to take it to a bike store.” We lifted Ken’s trailer, so that he could move his bike forward. On the other side of the road was a massive, yet delicately manicured graveyard. On our side, a convenient pullout and a trailhead. We rested our bikes against the railings of a boardwalk. It seemed the ideal place to “stealth camp”. It was getting late, and it didn’t look like we’d be able to get Ken’s wheel fixed and still make it to the nearest campsite.

Ken removed the tire, and strapped it on to Wendy’s bike. Ken remained with our gear while Wendy and I cycled off. Yet the bike shop couldn’t fix our problems. The wheel was completely busted and they didn’t carry any more of that size. Luckily another store across town had what we needed. A job for the morning. We cycled back to the trailhead.

A few shiny cars were parked in the pullout, and two men loitered at the top of the boardwalk. “It’s kind of weird, “Ken told us. “Many of these people don’t look like hikers, they look more like movie stars. Anyways, we should wait till these people are gone before we roll out our sleeping bags on the boardwalk.”

Through a gap in the thick forest I could see the boardwalk winding down a steep slope towards the sea. I walked down in search of a more secluded site. But all I saw were people sitting on the railings, looking out to sea. It was overcast, with no sunset to watch. Strange. I turned around and walked back with a spring in my step, eager to get away from the strange people. As I bent over a bag, digging out food, a silver sports car cruised in. A young man stepped out. He was clad entirely in black, from his shiny shoes, to his long leather jacket and his dark glasses. His hair was the same colour as his shoe polish. Only his skin was white.

“I can’t believe that I didn’t clue into it earlier,” whispered Ken. “There’s some major drug dealing going on down there.” It was getting dark now and there was nowhere to go.

Except a graveyard. Wendy and I walked over to ask for help at the funeral home. Stepping through the doors was like striding into a different atmosphere. Soft music drifted from an expensive stereo, and vases with roses lined the sills of stain glass windows. Two men in immaculate charcoal gray suits said polite farewells to well dressed mourners.. Engraved on a plaque was “Dignity Memorial”. I looked over at Wendy. Her hair was dirty and tussled and a smear of bike grease underlined her scruffiness. I must have looked just as untidy. I guess we didn’t fit.

Red-cockaded Woodpeckers (Ken)

2008-01-21T15:39:00.000-08:00

Just north of Lake Pontchartrain we saw our first Red-cockaded Woodpecker. It was the bird I most wanted to see on our trip (with the exception of an Ivory-bill of course).

I first heard about Red-cockaded Woodpeckers north of the Arctic Circle, where there are few trees and no woodpeckers. We were paddling down the Firth River in Canada’s Yukon Territory, just east of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. One evening a large herd of caribou crossed the river. The calves, a couple of weeks old, were whirled downriver by the strong current. They bobbed alongside their mothers like buttery-brown corks. Later, a grizzly killed a calf across the valley. We watched the drama while one of the other paddlers told us about another drama, a courtroom battle centered on Red-cockaded Woodpeckers.

“Red-cockaded are the only woodpeckers in North America that nest in living pine trees,” Doug Honnold told us. “They need mature trees, generally 80 years or older. They chip holes around their nest cavities, which causes resin to flow out. The resin coats the trunk, creating a physical and chemical barrier to the Red-cockaded Woodpecker’s main predator, rat snakes.”

It was hard to imagine tree-climbing snakes at nearly 70 degrees north latitude, but I was fascinated by a woodpecker that had evolved such an incredible means of protection. But of course, industrial humans also wanted the mature pine trees, and longleaf pines were logged to within an inch of the lives of Red-cockaded Woodpeckers. With less than 3% of the longleaf pine ecosystem remaining, something had to be done.

And Doug Honnold was one of the people who did it. You see, Doug was the Earth Justice lawyer who took the US Forest Service to court over their logging practices in the habitat of the endangered Red-cockaded Woodpecker. Jerry Jackson, a leading expert on both Red-cockaded and Ivory-billed Woodpeckers was the expert witness who provided the scientific background for the case.

I wish I could tell the tale as Doug told it. He is not only a great lawyer; he is an excellent story-teller. We were all with him, in the warm, humid forests of the south and in the solemn courtroom – even though across the river a pair of timber wolves appeared on the tundra. To cut to the chase, Doug, Jerry – and especially the Red-cockaded Woodpecker – won the court battle. The Forest Service had to change its logging practices . . . and Red-cockaded Woodpeckers have not become extinct.

To save a species is about as noble a thing as I can imagine. I felt privileged to be in the same campsite as Doug. And we all felt privileged to see Red-cockaded Woodpeckers still living in the forests of the south.

Bogalusa (Wendy)

2008-01-15T12:03:00.000-08:00

For those of you on tenterhooks after reading Malkolm’s tornado blog, breathe easy. We survived. The events I am about to describe took place right before the tornado day.

Rain bashed noisily above our heads, and thick clouds dimmed the dawn. Ken crawled out of the tent to make coffee and found a note under our stove. It was written with large neat handwriting. “Go back to bed. We’re doing B’fast: Ham, Eggs, Grits, Coffee, Juice Etc. Hot showers???”

We hadn’t planned to come here to Bogalusa. The day before, we’d been sipping coffee in Starbucks in Slidell, joking about getting arrested for cycling on an interstate. We just wanted to nip over the Pearl River into Mississippi, and we thought the interstate bridge would be safer than route 90.

It took determination to get on to the interstate. Two lanes of transport trucks thundered past as we wove our way over the potholed shoulder. One truck driver blasted his horn angrily right behind me. I nearly swerved into the ditch. When I saw the bridge, I suddenly felt frightened. There was no shoulder and there were no breaks in the traffic. That bridge did not reach the standard required by Team Bird Year Safety Officer.

I nervously suggested that we detour north 35 miles to Bogalusa where there was a recommended bicycle route . . . nervously, because Bird Year has had its share of detours lately.

Late in the day we pedaled into Bogalusa. A steely-haired man leaned out of his car window and yelled. “Where are you from? Where are you going?”

“Yukon. Florida.” I shouted back. He caught up to us at the next corner and invited us to camp in his yard. As I cooked a curry supper, Charlie d’Aquin brought out platters of hors d’oeuvres: spinach dip surrounded by a rings of celery and rye bread, and a plate with chunks of fresh fruit. Two of the fruits were new to us – kumquats and tomatillos. Next came buttered mirliton (chayote), a home-grown squash. We hardly had room for the curry. Chai tea followed, made with whipping cream.

Before we got the breakfast invitation, I was already happy we had made the detour. When we cycled to the Pearl River and found a quiet bridge with a huge shoulder, I was even happier.

Tornado Warning (Malkolm)

2008-01-12T11:36:00.000-08:00

“Y’all know we’re in a tornado watch zone?”

A man leaned out of a truck window. We must have looked an odd sight, three sopping cyclists, squatting in the mud, eating lunch. “Just letting y’all know.” He pulled away, leaving us alone with the rain. Texas had greeted us with headwinds, Louisiana with freezing temperatures, now Mississippi was welcoming us with a downpour and a tornado threat.

We packed up our lunch and cycled on: puddles and pavement below, and massive, dark thunderheads above. I remembered a line from a comedy paper, “If you see a tornado coming, lie in a ditch. If you are already lying in a ditch, do not sit up.” I had laughed when I had read that, but it didn’t seem that funny now.

A few hours later we pulled in to a small town, and headed for an RV park. Wendy walked into the office, I stayed outside and minded our bikes. Through the window I could hear Wendy’s conversation with the clerk. “The weather will be gettin’ worse.” The clerk said. “It’s a tornado warning now. Our other RV park up in Hattiesburg was hit by two tornadoes today – that’s just twenty miles north. Watch out.”

We decided against tenting, and traipsed into a small cabin. If we see a tornado we plan to take refuge in the bathroom of the cabin, which is less likely to get smashed into a pile of sticks. If you want to find out if we survive – y’all will have to read a future blog!

New Orleans (Ken)

2008-01-07T07:26:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I used to lay awake at night worrying about bicycling to school in the morning. I’d think about all of the warnings my parents had told me about the dangers of speeding cars and swear that I’d walk to school instead. Of course, in the bright morning I’d forget my nightmares and hop on my bike without a care.

Our trip to New Orleans reminded me of that. When you are in Canada, or California, or New Mexico, you hear all sorts of scare stories about the dangers of post-Katrina New Orleans. We pictured roving gangs in dark T-shirts, ready to pounce on unwary cyclists. We had a date to do a presentation with the New Orleans Society for Conservation Biology, but we were all worried about surviving the streets.

We were pleasantly surprised by the smooth bike trail we found along the Mississippi River Levee. It was an easy cycle into town (although the streets in New Orleans are badly rutted and pot-holed). We met numerous people who offered to help us. They gave us their cell phone numbers and urged us to call if there was anything that we needed.

We were only in the city for two days, but my impressions were wildly contrasting. Opulence in the Casino district and the huge mansions in the plantation district and along certain streets. Poverty in the tent camps under the I-10 bridge and in the abandoned houses along the side streets. Non-stop parties in the French Quarter with live music blasting from the bars even at two in the afternoon. Non-stop work for people trying to rebuild their shattered lives and destroyed homes.

We’d planned to cycle east on Highway 90 towards Mississippi, but a “swing-bridge” was out of commission. This wasn’t Katrina related, but when something goes wrong with the aging infrastructure around New Orleans, it doesn’t get fixed quickly with so many other things to attend to. So, we had a little 100 mile detour around Lake Pontchartrain since there was no other safe cycling alternative. After seeing what the people of New Orleans were dealing with, we thought we got off lightly.

Places We Sleep & Another Police Story (Wendy)

2008-01-04T06:47:00.000-08:00

A car drove on to the grass and shone its bright lights on the thin orange fabric of our tent. “Come out” boomed a loud deep voice. I clambered out. A burly police man was waiting to talk to me. Two minutes earlier, the Walmart security man had come to evict us. Ken left with him to talk with “management”. A second police cruiser arrived. Security must have sent for back-up. We could be dangerous.

Ken did some good diplomacy and we were allowed to stay on Walmart’s back lawn, behind the containers. We shared to area with mice. Twice in the night, I woke up and saw a mouse running right over the top of our tent.

It turns out that while Walmart welcomes “overnight campers” that does not include those in tents.

In this region of few campgrounds, we have stayed in interesting places. These are the places we stayed in the holiday week.

Dec 25 was our last night house-sitting Jim Stevenson’s very comfortable home in Galveston. We had room to spread out, all modern conveniences, and most important, a 4 burner stove and oven.

On Dec 26 we camped on the expansive lawn behind derelict batteries at Ft Travis, built to protect shipping in Galveston Harbor. It was windy and we sheltered behind a small tree.

Dec 27 we stayed at a neat and tidy RV park. The bathroom was full of tiny jars of potions and lotions, the kind you get at fancy hotels. The shower curtain had leopard spots. During the night it poured with rain and the lawn turned into a puddle. Our sleeping bags were soaked. The laundry room came in handy in the morning - we dried everything in the machine.

Dec 28 we arrived in Port Arthur (Janice Joplin’s hometown) as the sun was about to set. No campgrounds were nearby. The kind women at the Visitor’s Center stayed open a few more minutes and arranged for us to stay behind the YMCA. You can guess what I was singing all evening.

Dec 29 we rode into Samuel Houston Jones State Park near Lake Charles LA in the dark. I was thrilled the next morning to find that we were beside a bayou. I’ve heard so much about southern swamps, but never seen one. This was exactly like what I’d imagined. Malkolm made a thorough search for Ivory Billed Woodpeckers .

Dec 30 we arrived in Crowley just as the sun was setting (hmmmm). We asked at a gas station and a boiled crawfish stand whether there were any camping spots available. The crawfish vendor referred us to the Sherriff’s office, which we did not find. However, we did find the Firehall. The firemen invited us to stay with them. They couldn’t believe we preferred to sleep outside than indoors on a couch. They invited us to share their meal. “This is real Cajun food”, said the fireman stirring a blackened cast iron pot of bubbling shrimp gumbo. It was a very enjoyable evening.

On New Year’s Eve we didn’t want to combat camp when everyone would be setting off all those fireworks we’ve seen for sale. Not to mention guns - we heard people like shooting guns to welcome the New Year. We phoned all the motels in New Iberia, and chose one. It was $25 cheaper than one big chain hotel and $75 cheaper than another. The management was relaxed; no-one minded when I fired up the camp stove outside our door to make supper. The only thing about the room was you didn’t want to walk barefoot.

As usual, we went to sleep well before midnight on New Year’s Eve. We did not even get woken up at midnight. Heck, Canadians are noisier than the folks in this neighborhood. In Canada, people hollering and hoot and bang pot lids. Here, nothing.

Bird Year Insider (Malkolm)

2008-01-02T10:07:00.000-08:00

“Fun with letters and states- let’s quiz each other’s knowledge!” called Ken cheerfully. “Quiz # 1, how many letters in the alphabet are not used at the beginning of a state?” We were on a back road without much traffic. It was even quiet enough to talk. To pass the endless miles of flat, agricultural land (mainly rice and cattle) we played guessing games. We tried to name as many state capitals as we could, we even tried to figure out how many two letter words we could make using the first letters of states and their capitals. For example the Texas combination makes the word AT. Very exciting. We also tried to name as many countries beginning with a given letter. But we were trying to name obscure places like Myanmar and Omen, so we missed obvious countries like Iraq, Italy, Iran and Germany. I guess that means that we haven’t been watching much soccer or political debates! We also had long arguments, such as the status of Singapore. Is it a country? If you think that this is boring, you are correct! But it ought to give you the impression of what life is like on the road. Usually there isn’t much to do other than peddle and watch out for cars. And of course to mull over complicated academic theories. If Einstein had been a long distance cyclist he’d have had enough time to himself to come up with even more revolutionary discoveries.

Christmas in Texas (Ken)

2007-12-26T09:43:00.000-08:00

Jim Stevenson kindly left his house to us while he went to Florida to visit his mother. Jim’s place is a wooded oasis in a desert of new subdivisions spreading like cancer the length of Galveston Island. Before he drove off he casually said, “By the way, watch where you put your feet. I just saw a big cottonmouth in the yard.” From the wooden observation deck above the house we watched Roseate Spoonbills and egrets out in a marsh, White-tailed Kites hovering over the fields, and cormorants and ducks swimming in a pond. We’ve had four days to rest here. We think we deserve it.

Christmas day in Galveston dawned clear and cool – at least cool for Texas. Not as cool as we are used to however. The typical December 25^th in Whitehorse is about 0 F (-18 C). In Texas it was about 60 F (16 C). Instead of skiing out past Hidden Lakes, we went down to the beach. A couple of men were sitting shirtless on lawn chairs. They toasted us with Bud Lights and said that it doesn’t get any better than this.

During Bird Year, we never get a holiday from birding. We scanned every gull, hoping that one of them was a Lesser Black-backed. Unfortunately Santa Claus only left us Ring-billed and Laughing Gulls, although we did see a Mottled Duck, the first one of the trip.

The best part of the day was using the stove in Jim’s kitchen. We are cooking a real holiday meal, instead of our typical one-pot-glop using the camp stove. It is almost ready as I type this: nut loaf, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, broccoli, cauliflower and yams. It is time to go set the table. . .

Police Escort (Wendy)

2007-12-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

Dec 21: Winter solstice and the half way point of Bird Year. We have travelled 6924 miles and Malkolm has identified 417 bird species. We have had about 40 flat tires, and exactly 13 broken spokes. We have consumed 1,800,000 calories and burned up slightly more. We have slept 147 nights in our tents and eaten rice, beans and tortillas sixty times for supper, thirty times for lunch and once for breakfast. We were in Galveston when we took our official half-way portrait. It was 66 and pleasant T-shirt weather.

Before we started Bird Year, I worried most about angry drivers, the kind who might want to rid the world of cyclists. We have encountered very few of those.....and NONE HAVE SUCCEEDED! Two drivers in a Texas border town came pretty close, within half an hour. But this blog is about the happy encounters we have had on the road.

Several times, in a construction zone, we have coasted alongside a line of parked cars and been stopped by the flagger. The flagger has waved us through, giving us the whole lane. Other times, a pilot car has followed us, keeping the other vehicles back. That’s fun.

Out on the open road, train engineers toot their whistles at us. The first time it happened, I didn’t think the train was whistling at us. I figured it out when the whistling stopped after I waved back. Truckers honk their horns in a friendly way. It’s like there’s a fellowship of the less-travelled road. Motorcyclists wave when we are out in the country, but not in town.

On the Texas Gulf Coast, causeway bridges cross many of the bays. We knew there was a bridge several miles long outside Port Lavaca, so we went into extra-safety mode. We put on our bright yellow jackets. We rode in a tight little line: me, Malkolm, Ken. The shoulder was narrow and dirty. I concentrated on riding straight, just outside the white line. When I dared to glance in my rear view mirror, I saw black pickup close behind Ken. Ken shouted that it had veered over from the outer lane. It followed Ken, forcing the other traffic to go around us. Dang! It was protecting us. With considerate drivers like that, who needs extra-safety mode? Before the end of the bridge, the black truck took off. Instead flashing blue and red lights brought up the end of our procession. This must be how it feels if you’re a visiting head-of -state! Without even asking, Team Bird Year had a Police escort.

Bird Year Breaks Barrier (Malkolm)

2007-12-15T17:15:00.000-08:00

(image courtesy of Bird Year Instant Replays Inc.)

Team Bird Year shattered a milestone Saturday, becoming the first fossil-fuel free team to break the 400 species barrier. “It was huge,” commented Wendy Boothroyd in the post game press conference. “Now that we’ve broken 400 we can start focusing on the long, tough process of reaching 500.” When asked what was more important to her, breaking 500 or having fun, she answered “Obviously 500!”

At 177days: 11hrs: 21min: 35sec into the game, Bird Year made the milestone when Malkolm Boothroyd spotted two Fulvous Whistling-Ducks circling above an Aransas NWR wetland. “We were hoping that the endangered Whooping Crane would be our 400^th and we were planning our birding so that we’d be at 399 when we headed to the crane stakeout,” he said. But there was a misunderstanding between the team and the scorekeeper, so they reached their milestone earlier than planned.

“It was a disappointing not to have the (Whooping) Crane as the species that broke it, but it was a pleasant surprise to find that we one higher than we thought!” said Ken Madsen. The Whooping Cranes were so distant that they had to “go upstairs” to check the bird. The instant replay told the truth, showing the tall, white crane clearly. The judges let the bird stand.

A team Bird Year statement released by coach, Christianne Hinks said that Bird Year plans to “dig deep and to give 110%”

Hazards of the road. (Ken)

2007-12-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I started to read Kayaking the Vermillion Sea, by Jonathan Waterman, which someone had left in the bunkhouse at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. This is what he wrote about the hazards of paddling in the Sea of Cortez (not counting stormy seas) … “We have also been warned about rattlesnakes dozing under sleeping bags, neuro-toxic sea snakes curling under kayaks, scorpions crawling into shoes, seventeen-foot-wide manta rays jumping out of the water and capsizing kayaks, whirlpools forming out of the tides, elefante winds blowing small boats out to sea, and tarantulas nesting as copiously as ground squirrels. We are also wary of stepping on poisonous sea urchin spines, getting between a killer whale calf and a protective mother, encountering thirty-eight different species of shark …”

I won’t go on. You get the idea.

We too have been warned about hazards… about getting thrown in jail for camping behind a WalMart in Texas, about the bears in the north, about being caught between a motorhome and a guardrail, about being flattened by a transport truck, about Los Angeles drivers suffering from road rage, about the desert heat, about toxic fumes from the Salton Sea, about winter storms in the mountains of New Mexico, about cycling through Texas in general, about being assaulted by “illegals” near the Mexican border, about being harassed by the Border Patrol, about the insane traffic in Florida, about rattlesnakes and scorpions and killer bees…

I won’t go on. You get the idea.

When I told Malkolm that I was writing this blog he was silent for a minute. Then he said, “You forgot to mention the biggest danger of all… getting between Wendy and her morning cup of coffee.”

Owls, Oil, Close Call (Wendy)

2007-12-06T05:31:00.000-08:00

Before leaving New Mexico we had a “rest” day. We took a side trip which involved cycling 77 miles. We rode to some hills with red soil. We walked through arroyos lush with mesquite, agave, and bushy grasses. They reminded me of miniature Grand Canyons. Mesquite trees grow on the arroyo rims, their roots growing over the edge. We were looking for long eared owls, and we found them, sitting on those roots. They were so well camouflaged that I thought the owls and mesquite must have evolved together. The owls’ plumage matched the texture and colour of the roots. They sat still, but followed us with their big yellow eyes.

Cycling south east from Carlsbad into Texas, we entered oil country. Oil pumps – known as “Grasshoppers” but we are calling them “Mosquitoes” – dot the countryside. “Dot” may be the wrong verb. In half an hour, I counted 61 “Mosquitoes”, while Malkolm counted 10 birds. The road was lined by barbed wire fences. Every side road was guarded by a closed gate. It was uninviting to cyclists looking for a place to spend the night. Signs warned “Poison gas may be present”. I learned what sour gas smells like.

Close to dusk we found a dried mud hollow in which to set up our tents. Before going to bed, I shone a flashlight around our kitchen. I saw movement and shone my light on a rat, a large Norway rat. The rat stared back at me, insolently. There were no trees in which to suspend our food, so we took it in to our tents. (Yeah, yeah , I’m a northerner, I know it is wrong to bring food into your tent. But bears are not a concern here).During the night, something chewed right through the netting of our tent to get our bananas. I never have liked rats.

We really notice the short hours of daylight. We get up before dawn in order to cover lots of distance. Approaching the Rio Grande, the land south of us was desert scrub, grayish green. Blue misty mountains in the distance were in Mexico. The land undulated. Those undulations were canyons. For a whole day, we rode down a canyon and up the other side. The road was chip sealed , a little rough. We cycled 83 miles. My legs got really tired. I knew I was really beat when the last 4 miles were downhill and I thought they were difficult.

Yesterday, in Del Rio, I had my first close call with a car which almost side swiped me. I was pulling into the left hand turning lane on a deserted city street. The car pulled out of some hidden driveway. I don’t think she saw any of us. I was shaken up. Most of the drivers in Texas have been really polite. I meet a few impatient ones and it freaks me out. I will be glad to get back on a highway today.

Stuff on the road. (Ken)

2007-12-01T16:47:00.000-08:00

Wendy’s sister Sa is a great and eclectic artist. If you think I’m biased, check out her website: www.saboothroyd.com. Sa lives in Gibson’s, BC with our friend Jody and their two daughters Lucy and Pippa. Sa spends many hours on her bicycle. I don’t know everything that goes on in her head as she stares at the road ahead, but part of her brain is analyzing the treasures on the shoulder. She frequently stops to collect stuff – and if you buy her a good cup of coffee and a delicious scone I’m sure she’d be happy to tell you about it.

Don’t tell Sa, but the other day all three of us peddled past a quarter lying on the pavement. It was on an uphill and none of us wanted to lose momentum – especially now that a US quarter is worth less than a Canadian one. However, just south of Roswell, NM I saw a treasure trove beneath my tires. I immediately thought about Sa and wheeled back to check it out. It was a heap of coins: 7 quarters, a dime and four pennies. I couldn’t figure out how it got there in a neat, discreet pile. I almost checked behind the nearest cactus to see if someone from “Candid Camera” was hiding with a video camera. I picked up the cash anyway and bought scones with it at the next grocery store.

If you are in the mood for light-hearted reading, STOP now.

The other things we found along the shoulder of the highway were not treasures at all – but birds that had been hit by speeding vehicles. I guessed that more birds than usual had been concentrated along the road after the recent snowfall. The first was a stunned Cactus Wren. Malkolm picked it up and gently placed it behind a creosote bush away from the road, hoping it would revive. The rest of the birds were dead. Half-a-dozen Horned Larks, three Mourning Doves, a couple of Lark Buntings, a Harrier, a Short-eared Owl and a pair of Meadowlarks. There were many other unidentified piles of feathers.

The speed limit along that stretch of Highway 285 is 75 mph. As I cycled south, I wondered whether anyone has studied the relationship between high speed limits and road-killed birds. We know that slower speeds result in better gas mileage and less production of greenhouse gases. I wondered if people who cared about birds would slow down if they thought that might save a Horned Lark’s life. I hope so.

Polar winds. (Wendy)

2007-11-28T20:00:00.000-08:00

We heard the weather forecast for the weekend: “polar winds will produce a potent storm.” We knew a potent storm would slow us down. Nevertheless, we lingered an extra day in Bosque del Apache. The volunteers had invited us to their Thanksgiving feast – too good an offer to miss. We cycled eastward the next day trying to ignore the oncoming cars plastered with snow.
Despite the ominous signs, we delayed some more. Local birding expert Jerry Oldenettel guided us to a cattle-watering tank in the desert. It was a great place to see hard-to-find longspurs. When we left in the mid-afternoon we really needed to get some miles behind us. Then we stopped at a sign commemorating the first ever atomic bomb blast, which occurred a few miles south of our route. Then we stopped for a mountain bluebird that crossed our path. We had been watching for this bird since we left Whitehorse. We had to drag Malkolm and his camera away from incredibly blue bird. Finally we set up camp on a flattish, silty spot in the lee of a small hill. I hoped we would not get pinned down there.
Yukoners will not sympathize with us, having to endure one day of winter.
Next day the storm hit us. I washed our breakfast dishes, and the water turned to ice. When I put them on the ground, the silt turned to mud and froze to the bottoms. I rewashed them. Then I had to warm up my hands in my armpits. We pushed our bikes out from the lee of our little hill, and got blasted. The wind gusted to 30 mph and the temperature was 19 . The wind chill was well below zero (that’s zero Fahrenheit). We wore windproof layers for warmth. Malkolm wrapped long underwear pants around his face. It was 33 miles to Carrizozo, normally an easy day’s ride.
Malkolm said, “I’d like to get past Capitan today, so we can camp in the hills and listen for pygmy owls.”
“Is he serious?” I wondered. “It’s going to take all my energy just to get to Carrizozo.” I’d heard there was a motel there. I was flabbergasted at the suggestion we go 24 miles further than we needed to. We’d never hear an owl anyway; our tent is really noisy inside when the fly flaps in the wind. That polar wind! Sometimes it stopped me, sometimes it almost pushed me off the road. We walked up hills because it was too difficult to ride. I was miserable. My shoulders were hunched up and tight. I thought about hot tubs.
Malkolm said “I can’t feel my toes”. We stopped to give him the better footwear.
“Phewf,” I thought, “at least now he’ll want to stop in Carrizozo”.

Raven about birds. (Ken)

2007-11-26T09:14:00.000-08:00

Today Wendy and I decided to get off our butts and go for a walk, especially since our butts were sore. A few ne’er-do-well snowflakes drifted past lazily, and a bazillion Snow Geese flew overhead in industrious Vs. We decided to see if there really was a difference between Common and Chihuahuan Ravens. We are friends with the northern Raven who stars in many legends (and is smarter than our politicians – and MUCH smarter than yours), but we haven’t gotten to know the Raven of the desert.

First we consulted our Sibley Guide to Birds. The first word he uses to describe the Common Raven is “uncommon.” The first word he uses to describe the Chihuahuan Raven is “common” (I'm taking some liberties here - Sibley's descriptions are accurate if you read more than the first word). Clutching that helpful information, we trained the scope on a Raven perched on a dead limb. It appeared to be reading a People Magazine, which led us to believe it was one of the Chihuahuan Ravens that is so common. However it wasn’t a People Magazine after all, but a bunch of dried leaves. Then the bird started preening, which ruffled its black feathers, which turned out to be white under the black, if you know what I mean. Its massive beak was much less massive than the huge beak of the less common, Common Raven so we concluded that it was a Chihuahuan for sure.

During the time that Wendy and I were reaching this startling conclusion, Malkolm added a bazillion birds to his “day-list” and found a new bird for his Bird Year list. It was an Aplomado Falcon which was glaring at him from the top of an AREA CLOSED sign. Unfortunately, Aplomado Falcons are not “countable” (don’t ask me, ask the American Birding Association). I don’t think that countable is even a word, but Malkolm decided that it didn’t count. I put it on his list anyway, especially since it was performing a valuable service for the National Wildlife Refuge system.

Cranes and Cameras (Malkolm)

2007-11-22T12:48:00.001-08:00

“Two Sandhill Cranes flying in low to the left” called a voice, hidden behind an enormous lens. “Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatat” - twenty cameras rattled off continuous shots as the birds approached. The cranes fanned their enormous wings, slowing themselves down and landed amongst the swelling flock.

Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge was at its prime. Hundreds and hundreds of cranes were returning for the night, ready to rest after feeding on fields throughout the Rio Grande valley. Another crane swooped down, the birds below raised their heads and honked in welcome. More cameras rattled. “I’m really eating up my CF card,” commented somebody dryly, “I’m going to have to spend all day tomorrow deleting bad pics.”

“We’ve got some blackbirds coming in from the right” called Ken, as a few small birds fluttered over the cranes. There was an icy silence, some of the serious photographers glared at Ken.

“Four cranes flying strait at us.” Cameras clicked. Cranes honked. The sun slipped behind a cloud. The golden light faded to a dull gray. Several photographers left in disgust. I couldn’t understand, even though the light wasn’t as pretty, there was still an amazing spectacle going on.

Ken leaned toward me and whispered, “I don’t know which is more entertaining- the cranes or the photographers.”

Two Mile High Birding (Wendy)

2007-11-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

Sandia Peak is a long mountain ridge to the east side of Albuquerque. In the evening it glows red, like a watermelon. Four “high altitude specialties” can be seen on Sandia Crest. Three of them are Rosy-Finches. These are reliably seen at the Crest House Restaurant bird feeder. This may sound like easy birding.... except that Sandia Crest is a vertical mile above the city. The fourth speciality is Clark’s Nutcracker. This was our last chance to find a Clark’s Nutcracker. We were about to leave its range. Cole Wolf, local teenage bird expert, told us, “If you’re lucky, one or two may fly high above. You almost never get good looks at them”.

Cycling up Sandia Peak was my first experience of exercising at altitude. I gulped for air. My thighs screamed “We need more oxygen!” The sign at Crest House said “Elevation 10,678 ft. “I felt like a hero.

Malkolm ran onto the deck of the restaurant. Within minutes he had identified all 3 species of Rosy Finch: Brown-capped, Gray-crowned, and Black. We walked along a path to the Stone House, built in 1936 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Perched on the edge of a precipice, overlooking Albuquerque, it has a wide open door and unglazed windows. It is built of native limestone, the floor and benches worn smooth and shiny. A flat topped buttress on the lee side of the building made a convenient place to cook.

We set up our tent on the edge of the cliff – until the wind picked up. We decided to take down the tent and sleep under the stars. Ken set up our sleeping bags and weighed them down with our loaded panniers.

We ate our supper, the lights of Albuquerque twinkling on the plain below. The wind gusted. Our sleeping bags flew up into the air, and our heavy panniers rolled down the hill –away from the cliff, luckily.

We decided to move into the Stone House to sleep. The wind increased. I didn’t sleep. I listened to the wind. The wind gusted, then died down. Over and over, all night long. During a lull, I’d lie in suspense wondering when it would start again. Then, it built up slowly and roared in through the windows. It swirled around the Stone House like a giant toilet. It snuck into the space between my neck and my bag. Then it flushed out the door, carrying any of our possessions we hadn’t secured adequately. By morning, I was a wreck. How did Ken and Malkolm sleep through that?

In the morning, Cole came up. He politely declined Malt-O-Meal for breakfast. He told us where we could go to look for Clark’s Nutcrackers. As he spoke, he scanned with his binoculars. Suddenly his voice sped up, ”There’s one right there, on top of that tree!.” The bird that never poses posed for us, in the morning sun.

Monday pedal, Tuesday pedal . . . (Ken)

2007-11-15T07:20:00.001-08:00

We had to hurry to make it from Albuquerque from Silver City. On Saturday morning we set out about 7:30, cycled over 8,000 foot Emory Pass and arrived at our home for the night just before the sun set. Wendy, the keeper of the cycling log, calculated that we’d pedaled 73 miles. On Sunday we mounted our bikes at 7:20 am, cycled under the interstate and turned north towards Bosque del Apache. We set up our camp near the small town of San Antonio at dusk. Wendy added up the mileage: 83 miles. The next morning we were away at 7:15. We rode up the shoulder of I-25 until lunch. We then detoured to smaller roads which made Wendy’s arithmetic at the end of the day in Albuquerque more difficult. “We did 98 miles,” Malkolm told her.

While we were relaxing with our friends Christianne and Chuck, I remembered the email we had received from our friend Eric in Haines, Alaska:

Also, do you know the old Yiddish chant: Monday pedal, Tuesday pedal, Wednesday and Thursday, pe -e - e -dal. Friday for a change a little more pedaling, Saturday, Sunday pedal. . .It's in a minor key to give it a nice dirgelike sense of monotony and gloom.

I’m not sure if Eric (who is a great musician) made up the chant or if it is a take-off on a real Yiddish dirge. Surprisingly, it usually doesn’t feel dirge-like while we are cycling. Going for an eight-hour exercise cycle back home would be excruciatingly boring, but when you are traveling it is different. New territory, new birds, new people, new aches and pains – it all makes it surprisingly entertaining. Small things make it all worthwhile: a flock of Pinyon Jays, mayonnaise on a bagel, a home-made sign erected by Larry Brooks (father of Matt Brooks from Tucson Audubon) who knew we’d be rolling through his small town. I know that we will have attained a Zen-like state if I feel the same way after pedaling through west Texas . . .

Orange-headed Warbler (Malkolm)

2007-11-13T06:45:00.000-08:00

I dismounted from my bike. Nearly a vertical mile below lay the Sonoran Desert, and our campsite in the foothills of the Chiricahuas. We had cycled up an arduous twelve mile dirt road, high into the mountains, in search of Olive Warblers. The going was incredibly slow – it took us three hours of bumpy slogging to reach the top.

I scanned the pines for any sign of movement. “There’s something,” said Ken, pointing. Something small flitted high in the tallest tree, but it always had a bunch of needles screening it from view. I craned my neck. My neck screamed in protest. “It must be a warbler, because I’m getting warbler neck.” Moments later it flew onto an open branch, flashing its orange head.

“YES!” all three of us shouted together. The Olive Warbler paused for another few moments, long enough for us to admire its contrasting black cheek and its subtle gray plumage. It was our 353^rd species, well beyond my dream goal of 350 before leaving Arizona.

It fluttered to a lower branch, its orange head glowing in the sunlight. I let go of my binoculars and raised the camera. It even cooperated enough to open its mouth for the camera. “It is orange, not olive,” commented Wendy. “The ornithologist who discovered it must have worn dirty glasses.”

Distinguishing Difficult Flycatchers (Wendy)

2007-11-08T16:01:00.000-08:00

We cycled into New Mexico yesterday. We’ve now travelled 5000 miles and Malkolm has identified 357 birds.
For the last couple of weeks we enjoyed Arizona’s “sky islands”(mountains that rise high above the desert plain). I knew these would be refuges for pines, firs and ferns. What I didn’t expect were maples. The creeks are lined with glowing orange and red trees. If you couldn’t see the crags rising behind, you’d think you were in New England.
We hiked up Miller Canyon with Tony Battiste, Joe Woodley and Rick Romea, all local hot birders. Tony took up birding later in life, but he certainly knows his way around a pair of binoculars. When we showed him our slide show, he named each bird immediately. I was impressed. In Miller Canyon, Malkolm wanted to find some flycatchers. There is a group of 11 flycatcher species – Empidomax flycatchers – that I think look identical. Malkolm wanted to find two of them. I was happy to be a fly on the wall in this identification process.
Tony: “Another empid.”
Malkolm: “It could be a Western type.” (He meant Cordilleran or Pacific-slope Flycatcher – they are impossible to differentiate if they aren’t singing.)
Joe: “It could be a Dusky.”
Rick: “I thought I saw the teardrop shaped eye ring. But the bill is too narrow for a Western. And the bill wasn’t yellow on the bottom.” Rick opened the bird guide and showed me drawings that differentiate the appearance of flycatchers’ bills when viewed from below.
The bird flew away. Joe pulled out his bird I-Pod and connected it to a compact speaker. He played the song of Cordilleran flycatcher. The bird ignored it. Then he broadcast the Dusky Flycatcher’s song. Suddenly, the flycatcher flew in and landed above us.
Tony: “It’s in the sun! Get a picture!”
Malkolm snapped a couple of photos. Digital photography has important strengths when you are using it for bird identification. Malkolm zoomed in on specific bird parts.
Rick: “Yeah. Look at the short primary projections. And I saw the eye ring really well. It’s not pinched at the back. I agree it’s a Dusky. This is the best part of birding, putting individual clues together to come up with an ID. ”
Joe: “The most convincing thing was the way it reacted when I played the Dusky tape.”
It was like listening to fluent French speakers. I could understand what they were saying, but I could never say it myself.

Meeting with the Military (Ken)

2007-11-01T14:56:00.000-07:00

We traveled 4500 miles before someone threw something at us. We had just cycled up to the main gate of the Fort Huachuca to see if we could explore Garden Canyon. We had heard that some of the best wildlife habitat left in the lower 48 states is behind the barbed wire on military bases. Our Tucson Audubon bird finding guide said that we should not stray away from the road or trails since there may be live ammunition lurking in the grass.

We stopped at the checkpoint, clutching our photo ID, which included Wendy and Malkolm’s Canadian Passports. Foreign nationals, it turns out, are not allowed to look for birds on the military base. It wasn’t good enough that I am a dual citizen and was willing to guarantee their good behaviour. They are a dangerous-looking duo, with their front and back panniers and binoculars around their necks.

We rolled back down into Sierra Vista, a town that sprawls down from the mountains and across the San Pedro Valley. There was no place to camp in Sierra Vista. Wendy had already asked at the Sherriff’s office if it would be okay to set up our tents in the park in town. No luck. Fortunately, Tony Battiste had generously offered us a night in his Bed and Breakfast down the road in Hereford.

We cycled southward. Something that looked like the Goodyear Blimp floated ominously above our heads. I looked nervously at it, wondering whether the eye in the sky was monitoring our conversation. We passed pawn shops, tattoo parlors, six “Dollar Stores” and one 98 Cent Store for those on a budget. A small truck zoomed by on the highway and someone flung a two-quart plastic soda bottle right at us. It floated over our heads and bounced around in the ditch. I imagined the people in the truck yelling, “And don’t come back!”

We felt better after a welcoming night at Battiste’s “Bed, Breakfast and Birds.” In the morning Magnificent and Anna’s Hummingbirds zoomed around the feeders and Yellow-rumped Warblers fluttered in the trees. We cycled up to Tony’s friend Mary Jo Ballator’s place. She also runs a birdy B & B. Woodpeckers circled her trees, wild turkeys visited and Malkolm identified the first Scott’s Oriole of the trip.

Before we left, I asked her about the blimp in the sky. “It’s called an Aerostat,” she said. “I think it is used mainly for drug-running surveillance. Fort Huachuca is the center for US Army Intelligence . . . if you don’t mind the contradiction in terms.”

Dogs and Owls (Malkolm)

2007-10-28T13:48:00.000-07:00

(The photo of a Burrowing Owl has nothing to do with the story, other than it’s another cute owl)

“Malkolm, wake up! There’s an owl,” shouted Wendy. I opened my eyes groggily. “Whoo-whoo whoo whooo,” boomed a Great Horned Owl.

“You aren’t supposed to wake me up for Great Horns” I snapped.

“No, there was a different kind of owl,” she persisted. ‘Woof woof,’ barked a distant dog. “Oh, sorry. I woke you up for a dog,” she apologised. I rolled over and fell back asleep. But soon Wendy yelled again, “Owl! No, it was an owl this time but it’s gone. I heard a dog flying overhead, then I realized that dogs don’t fly. But the owl had gone, so I woke you up.” I shook my head as I lay down again.

We spent the next night camping in the San Pedro Riparian Conservation Area. Again the owl drama continued. I awoke to the sound of a different owl. “Hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo whoohooh-h-hoo.” It started as a regular monotonous hooting, but then accelerated. It sounded like a Western Screech Owl, a bird that I was worrying about missing on our year. “There’s an owl,” I said.

“I heard it,” Wendy said. “But I didn’t wake you up, in case it was a dog. I didn’t want to get ridiculed again.”

In Patagonia/Wildfires/Plans (Wendy)

2007-10-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

Oct 24, Patagonia, AZ. We are surrounded by yellowed grasslands, dotted with mesquite and desert broom. If we were in southern California, the very country we travelled through 3 weeks ago, we would be surrounded by wild fires burning out of control. More than half a million people have been evacuated from their homes. I am worried about the people we met who live there, and the people we didn’t meet, and the wild animals. I’m worried about the spotted owls we heard near Julian. Gusty winds are blowing here, and probably there as well. Rain is an impossible dream. It is frightening.
One thing about Bird Year plans is they change. We have just decided on a major change. Instead of going to Florida in May and June, when it will be hot, humid and buggy, we will go in Feb and March when it will just be hot. Our route will now take us to Florida and back to Texas. If someone had sponsored us for a dollar a mile, they would now have to donate $12000 instead of $10000. But, nobody has.
Malkolm is pushing to go to Big Bend National Park at the end of our trip. We hear Big Bend in May/June is “hot as blazes”. Like, 100-115 degrees in the lowlands, and 90-100 up high. Plus, we have to get there, along a highway with few towns. As Bird Year Safety Officer, I will be checking for availability of shade and water along the route. Air conditioning would be even better. (Yeah, yeah, I know the electricity for the air conditioning has to be produced without fossil fuels.)
Would you cycle through Texas in June? Would you take the opportunity to learn first hand about the various afflictions caused by heat? As our friend Chuck observed, “You won’t see any birds from a hospital bed”.

Bird Names (Ken)

2007-10-20T13:39:00.000-07:00

Today I walked over to the bathroom in the late afternoon after hiking the birding trail in Catalina State Park. A man was sitting on a lawn chair, wiping down his shiny car with a sponge. An hour later, when I went back for a shower, he was polishing the door with a chamois. I don’t know what he was thinking about, but I’m sure it wasn’t about Northern Beardless-Tyrannulets.

I wonder who thinks up bird names? Take Northern Beardless-Tyrannulet. Northern? It is only found in extreme southern Arizona and Texas and points south. Beardless? Apparently it lacks the sprouting feathers around its beak of other flycatchers which makes it beardless – although you need powerful optics to tell the difference. Tyrannulet? No comment.

I don’t approve of the habit of naming birds after people. Who was Wilson anyway? Did a warbler, storm-petrel, phalarope, plover and snipe all have to be named after Wilson? Instead of Wilson’s Warbler, we could call in Black-crowned Warbler. Although maybe that wouldn’t work since its black crown is clearly visible. Has anyone seen the orange crown on an Orange-crowned Warbler?

I like the name Thrasher. I walk carefully in the desert when there could be thrashers around. I don’t like tangling with a cactus, and I certainly wouldn’t take on a thrasher. For my spiritual needs, I always turn to Godwits. A higher being with a sense of humor.

Thrashers and Date Shakes (Wendy)

2007-10-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

I really like the desert, for 16 hours each day. People around here laugh and say “You think this is hot? You shoulda seen it last week!” But we’re northerners, and the nineties are pretty unbearable.
We passed a billboard proclaiming WORLD FAMOUS DATE MILKSHAKES! And in smaller letters “Shaded Pet Facilities”. Fortunately, our blog readers had advised us to try date milkshakes. We did. Wowsers Bowsers Triple Trousers! They have an unusual flavour, but date shakes are very good. Not too sweet. Perfect for hot desert dessert. Thank you blog commenters.
We had a rest day in Anza Borrego Desert State Park which we devoted to searching for an elusive bird of open arid land, Le Conte’s Thrasher (LCT). We set off soon after sunrise and checked the mesquite groves where the park ranger had told us to go. No luck. We decided to phone an expert for advice. He didn’t seem to mind being asked a bird question at work. He told us another place to look. “You’ll see them out in the open, running between bushes, with their long black tails sticking up. Sometimes they hop.” By the time we arrived at his spot it was getting hot. I stood quietly in the partial shade of a mesquite and scanned an arc of sand and low creosote bushes, back and forth. Nothing moved. If I was a LCT, I’d be hiding in the shade. I looked some more. Suddenly, I saw something running between bushes, and hopping, and it had a black tail that stuck up! But it wasn’t a bird. It was a jack rabbit.
By noon we were fading, and we cycled the 8 miles back to camp, stopping on the way for ice cream and cold drinks. A few hours later we were out again, thrashing though the desert in search of our bird.
We were sad to leave Anza Borrego stumped. Soon we would be out of LCT range.
A few days later, we cycled down a sandy track in the saltbrush desert, near Tacna, AZ. We had a tip from another local expert. We found a good place to camp. I had had it with walking through desert looking for LCT, but Malkolm and Ken must have felt that 46 miles of cycling was not enough exercise for the day.
“It’ll come to our camp”, I told them as they set off.
I puttered around, cleaned up the mess from a shampoo bottle exploding in our food bag, cooked pasta salad with only a bit of sand for seasoning, and after awhile Malkolm and Ken reappeared. They had seen very few birds. Little wonder, it was about a million degrees.
The sun set as we ate. A few minutes later, Malkolm jumped up. “Where are the nearest binoculars?” He had seen something running over the sand. We all looked. We saw two birds with dark tails sticking up, dashing to and fro. They’d stop to peck at the ground with their long down curved bills. Le Conte’s Thrashers!
We were all so excited and relieved that I forgot to say those four precious little words:“I told you so”.

Salton Sea (Malkolm)

2007-10-15T19:09:00.001-07:00

“Don’t touch the water, you might dissolve,” warned Wendy as I strode towards the edge of Salton Sea. Dagger like shells coated the shore, piercing my feet. Hundreds of dead fish were littered about, presumably poisoned by the waters of Salton Sea. Agricultural run-off, packed with pesticides has concentrated toxins in this land-locked sea. Yet birds love the place. Rarities such as Blue-footed Boobies from Mexico and a Ross’s Gull from the Arctic have been seen here. And Salton Sea is the only place north of the border where Yellow-footed Gulls can be seen. And so I talked Wendy and Ken into cycling through the mud and the heat to bird here.
I raised my binoculars and scanned the area for any sign of the Yellow-footed Gull. There were Ring-billed and California Gulls everywhere, yet I couldn’t spot our target bird. “There’s one!” called Ken, pointing at a boulder. Two Yellow-footed Gulls rested there, huge, with very dark backs and bright yellow legs. I wandered towards them, snapping photos every few seconds.
“Let’s get out of here and find some shade,” Wendy said. We returned to our bikes, and cycled down a bumpy road towards the Sonny Bono National Wildlife Refuge headquarters. We found a picnic table under a palm frond roof and relaxed. Gambel’s Quails and Abert’s Towhees scratched for food underneath bushes, two new species for our list. Ken unearthed a deck of cards, and we put up our feet, happy about the day’s birds, and thinking that the excitement was over. Suddenly there was a violent rustle from above, followed by series of agonized squeaks. Ken leaped back from the table, shocked. A snake had caught a rat in the roof of the shelter. Surprises never stop coming!

Chasing a good, "staked-out" bird (Ken)

2007-10-09T19:22:00.000-07:00

In case you are not a fanatic birder, here are a couple of definitions so you can better understand this blog.
A “good bird”: a good bird is a bird that is rare, or far away from its normal range. A Blue Jay in San Francisco is a good bird. A Blue Jay in Pittsburgh is not a good bird, although I don’t think a Blue Jay is bad under any circumstances.
A “staked out” bird: when a birder discovers a rare bird (or one out of its range) and reports its location, it is staked out. It isn’t literally tied to a stake.
“Chasing rarities” aka “twitching”: when a birder goes to great lengths (usually literally) to look for a bird. The bird need not be a rare bird (although those are most highly prized); it could also be a bird far away from its normal range. A Blue Jay is ho-hum in the east, but if it wanders to San Francisco, watch out for stampeding birders.
When we were in Orange County, we heard via the birders grape-vine that a Bar-tailed Godwit was staked out in San Diego. Bar-tailed Godwits breed in northern Alaska and set off on an incredible migration to the South Pacific. Every year a few Bar-tailed presumably get lost and land on the west coast, but rarely as far south as San Diego. Several birders we met had already made the trip south to see it. “That’s a great bird for San Diego,” we heard. Malkolm decided then and there that he wanted to chase the godwit.
Chasing a rarity by bike isn’t as easy as by car. Our friends from Orange County had hopped in a car, motored south to see the godwit, and presumably been back for lunch. We cycled south from Orange County, accompanied by Scott Thomas and his son Ryan. At the end of the day we had made it as far as San Clemente. Scott and his wife Cheryl had looked after us for days, but now Scott had to return to his real life. We waved goodbye, stopped at the local library and checked the internet birding hot-line. The Bar-tailed Godwit was still staked out, and now there were two bonus birds: a Yellow-green Vireo and a Tropical Kingbird (both birds usually seen south of the Mexican border). Both good birds.
We cycled hard the next day into a strong headwind. After a few nagging bike problems including my back wheel almost falling off, we reached our campground at dusk. We were still about 20 miles north of the staked out godwit. The Tropical Kingbird was conveniently close to the godwit, but the vireo was 10 miles further south.
We set off at first light, with the description of a bike route taken off the internet scribbled on the back of a scrap of paper. We cycled up a long hill and found our way to a visitor information kiosk. Malkolm called the birder’s hot-line and listened to the recorded message. “The godwit and the kingbird were still there yesterday,” he told us, “but the no one saw the vireo.” I didn’t say so to Malkolm, but I was secretly relieved that we didn’t have to cycle 10 miles south of the godwit stake-out.
On our final leg south, I caught a glimpse of a dark heron standing next to a Snowy Egret. I yelled to Malkolm and Wendy that I thought I might have seen a Reddish Egret. We wheeled around to take a look. “It’s a Little Blue Heron,” said Malkolm. “According to the bird book it is rare here, although not as rare as a Reddish Egret. “A good bird,” I thought.
Our instructions were that we could see the godwit from a 7-11 store overlooking the Famosa Slough. We knew we were in the right place because several people stood by a fence, staring through a spotting scope. We rolled up to them and asked whether the godwit was still in residence. They said that it had just flown over to the other side of the slough. “We just saw a Little Blue Heron,” I told them enthusiastically. They stared at me as if I had just told them about a starling. They packed up their scope and walked quickly to their car.
Malkolm quickly found the Bar-tailed Godwit which was conveniently feeding near a larger Marbled Godwit for comparison. It was a juvenile, and the differences were subtle. I never would have picked it out. Then I noticed another Little Blue Heron behind the godwits. I guess maybe it wasn’t such a good bird after all.
Two days later we had cycled over a pass and camped in the woods near Julian,California. As we crawled into our sleeping bags we heard the distinctive, raucous calls of a pair of Spotted Owls. We’d been hoping to hear them for months. We hadn’t chased these endangered birds. I’m sure they were good.

Livin’ it Up in Orange County (Wendy)

2007-10-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

We opened our five-star hotel room door and noticed that someone had visited. The clutter on our work table had been pushed back. “To the Boothroyd Family” read an envelope propped on a wooden plate of fruit and flowers. Behind this sat two glass bottles of “artesian water from Norway”. Beside it sat a plate with five chocolate covered strawberries resting on a brown sugar beach. A curving band of blue gel–candy was the sea, and on the beach, made of different colours of chocolate : a palm tree, a turtle, a seashell and two surfboards.

“This is not ordinary brown sugar” mumbled Ken, his mouth full. “This is maple sugar!”

Our bed covers were drawn back, and our pillows (6 per bed) had been stacked on edge like the battlements of an ancient castle.

We took about 100 photographs. Normal photos, like the one of Malkolm’s tent pitched in the bathroom. (You would have done that, wouldn’t you? Just because there was more than enough free floor space to do it). Most of the photos did not turn out, or this blog would have been adorned with a picture of me, reclining on the 6 pillows of my puffy white king sized bed, while Ken fed me grapes.

We are such hicks.

The Sea and Sage Audubon Society in Orange County was looking after us for two days. They are hospitality wizards. They took us seriously when we told them we had big appetites on this trip, and they fed us at every opportunity. They arranged for a complimentary dinner at Dukes, an renowned seafood restaurant, and they got Hyatt Regency to donate a “deluxe room” (I’m calling it the royal suite). They fretted about our route south of Orange County to Salton Sea, and gathered all sorts of road information. They worried more about our safety than I do, and I’m the safety officer.

Los Angeles (Malkolm)

2007-09-30T17:43:00.000-07:00

“I think I need to pump my tire again” said Ken. He leaned his bike against a lamp post and fumbled with the pump. Ken’s back tire had started the day with a very slow leak, having to be pumped once an hour. But the leak had got faster and faster during the day now Ken had to re-inflate his tire every five minutes. I glanced at the sun, trying to estimate how much time we had before dark. Not long. We were somewhere in Los Angeles, trying to reach our hotel room, before darkness would make the scary ride worse.
“The pump’s stopped working,” groaned Ken. He dug around in the trailer for the less efficient spare. The sun dropped behind a building, casting shadows about us. Ken finished pumping. I swung my leg over the bike, pushed off and followed Wendy and Ken down the street. I tried not to worry about the current situation. Instead, I thought of the morning’s excitement.
I had photographed a Gray Catbird near our campsite, a species WAY out of range. After Jennifer Klausner and Kevin Kohler from the LA bike coalition had escorted through us to Santa Monica, we met some birders from the LA Audubon. Many of our Californian events wouldn’t have been possible without their help. As soon as I had mentioned the Catbird, one of them whipped out his blackberry and posted the report online.
Finally, we saw the hotel. It didn’t matter that hours had been wasted taking photos of us cycling along the crowded LA beaches, or that Ken’s tire hadn’t been fixed back in Sana Monica. The sun had just set, but we had reached our destination. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had tomorrow to rest, write my blog and to enjoy the LA smog!

Wrens before breakfast (Ken)

2007-09-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

We were hungry when we cycled into Gorda. We’re used to eating plenty of food because of our bicyclists appetites, but we’d chosen to go light after we left Monterey. We knew that we had to cover some miles. All we’d had to eat that morning (after a less-than-adequate supper the night before) was two-thirds of a muffin each.

Believe it or not, this was the first time we’ve gone out for breakfast since we left the Yukon. We sat down and ordered eggs, home-style potatoes and toast ($9.95 + tax). The server wore a T-shirt with what looked like a sea-lion on it. Below it said The Great Seal of the Gorda Springs Resort. A sign post outside the window had arrows pointing to Los Angeles, Monterey, the bathrooms (Bouys and Gulls) – and straight out to sea – to whales. A painted wooden sign behind Malkolm said,

”the Gods do not deduct from Man’s allotted time – the hours spent in whale watching.”

“What about the hours spent in watching birds?” I thought.

Four people walked in, speaking German. They sat down next to us. The two men were dressed casually, but neatly. The women were straight out Vogue. The strawberry blond was dressed all in white. Her nails were the color of the smoked salmon on her bagel. The brunette wore tight jeans with a black blouse and jacket. Her nails matched the Heinz catsup on the table. It had taken us 45 minutes that morning to take down our tents, swill a cup of coffee, eat our meagre breakfast and load our bikes. I wondered how long it had taken them to get ready that morning.

Wendy leaned towards me and whispered, “They’re starved to perfection.” Then she said, “your shirt is on inside out.”

Our meals arrived. The “home-style potatoes” were straight out of a freezer – but maybe that is home-style these days. Our overpriced meals were every bit as good as a $2.99 Grand Slam at Denny’s. An Anna’s hummingbird buzzed past the window and hovered beside a profusion of honeysuckles and geraniums. Several crows squabbled over something. An orange tortoise-shell cat stood watchfully, hungrily. A bird fluttered against the transparent plexiglass lining the courtyard outside the restaurant.

“It’s a Bewick’s Wren,” said Malkolm.

The bird battered against the plexiglass and fell back under a table. Malkolm left his breakfast without a word and darted outside. He gently threw his light cycling jacket over the wren, reached inside and grasped it in a bird-bander’s grip. He walked quickly across the highway and found a cat-free resting place in a patch of Monterey Pines. He set the bird down and watched until it recovered enough to fly away.

For Malkolm, birds come even before breakfast.

CA Condors & Lead Shot (Wendy)

2007-09-25T11:21:00.000-07:00

We cycled down the Big Sur coast, scanning the skies for California Condors. These endangered birds are ginormous black vultures with white under their wings. From a distance, a condor may be mistaken for a small airplane.
Disclaimer: I have not checked these facts! Condors almost went extinct - many were shot by humans, others got poisoned by lead shot. Condors are scavengers, and they were eating animals that had been killed with lead bullets. There was a captive breeding program for years, and recently condors have been released in the wild. They are still being fed, and closely monitored.
We toiled up a hill, watching for a pullout we had been told was a popular condor hangout. I rounded a curve and knew we were in the right place. It was marked by that never-fail sign, people with a spotting scope. Sure enough, one red headed condor (#71) sat in the top of a pine tree. A gray headed one (#36) sat on the top of the framed roof of a house under construction. Four more soared in slow circles above the ridge – a “kettle of condors”. “Hey look!” called Malkolm, “there goes an airplane for comparison”.
I brought out our bagels, and we sat down for the show. The condors did not let us down. They all glided down and circled low over our heads before settling on the cliffs right below us. The thick, fluffed out feathers on the neck of one juvenile made it look like it was wearing a feather boa. One of the biologists who is studying the condors arrived, guiding a group from the Monterey Bay Birding Festival. “These condors still get lead toxicity”, she explained, “and some of them even need chelation therapy. A bill before the California State Government will be voted on Oct 14. The bill would ban lead ammunition for people hunting within the range of the condors”.
We’d heard that the bill seemed sure to pass, until recently. The National Rifle Association (NRA) is opposed and has a powerful lobby. It seems they don’t want hunters to have to pay more for safe bullets within the limited area of the Condor’s range. It’s Big Guns against Big Birds, and the birds don’t stand a chance unless people speak up. So please contact Governor Schwarzenegger and ask him to support bill AB821 and Get the Lead Out!

Sailing and seabirds (Malkolm)

2007-09-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

“Look!” exclaimed Tim Amaral, our seabird expert (Redtail Adventures). “White belly and underwing, ‘M’ pattern on back...”
I raised my binoculars. Six light shearwaters stood out from amongst the hundreds of brown and silver Sooty Shearwaters that flew alongside our boat. One of the light shearwaters tilted its wings, flashing its boldly patterned gray and brown back. “Buller’s Shearwater!”
We were on a small sailboat, somewhere off Monterey. We’d chartered the craft for a day of pelagic birding. Our captain, Eric, tightened some ropes, let another loose and with a flick of the tiller laid us on a new tack. The boat leaned over at an alarming angle, I grabbed the railing to stop from sliding down the deck. The boat pitched frighteningly as it lurched into the trough of a wave. I fought to keep sickness at bay. “Pelagic sailing isn’t for the faint of heart,” said Tim.
Eric steered us into the heart of a flock of Sooty Shearwaters resting on the water. The birds directly in our patch fluttered away, but most remained seated, giving us spectacular views. “This is a definite advantage over a power boat,” commented Tim. “Whenever we motor into a resting flock, all the shearwaters scatter.”
Ken reached into a garbage bag full of burnt popcorn and tossed a handful overboard. A couple passing Heermann’s Gull wheeled around and swooped at the food. We soon had a trail of gulls following the boat. By having a flock of gulls behind us we hoped to attract albatrosses or skuas that wanted to check out what the frenzy was all about. But we were distracted by lunch and chumming was forgotten. We lost the trail of gulls. We reached the edge of an underwater canyon, where rising currents brought nutrients to the surface. Ken threw some popcorn at a passing gull. It turned excitedly, then flew on, as if it had caught a whiff of the burnt food. “Snob,” muttered Ken, “Why wouldn’t a gull gorged on sardines and crustations want to eat gross popcorn?”
New species continued to trickle in, hundreds of Pink-footed Shearwaters, a South Polar Skua that barrelled past, and then, our day’s highlight... “Over there!” called Ken. I looked away from a small flock of phalaropes and saw a tiny, dark bird. “Ashy Storm-Petrel!” called Tim. The bird flew in a direct line, with shallow, rapid wingbeats. It circled and followed the boat for a minute before disappearing. While I desired a better view, I did see enough of the flight pattern to determine that it was an Ashy Storm-Petrel. “That’s the find of the day,” exclaimed Tim. “That’s our ‘needle in the haystack’ bird!”

Magic (Ken)

2007-09-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

Last Friday we had the privilege of birding with Todd Newberry near Elkhorn Slough (north of Monterey, California). Todd is the author of "The Ardent Birder". Todd shared most of a day of his life with us – a generous gift. Along the way he helped Malkolm identify 7 new species for his Bird Year list, including a Nuttall’s Woodpecker that appeared as if by magic when Todd played a brief recording of its call.
We know about magic since we just finished reading the last Harry Potter book out loud. Reading books out loud is a family tradition every morning and evening. And since all is well with Harry Potter, we started reading "The Ardent Birder". We’re not only learning birding tips that Todd learned over a lifetime of enjoying birds and their habitat – we’re also absorbing his quiet humor and wisdom. ("The Ardent Birder" is published by Ten Speed Press. If it is not at your local independent bookseller’s, you can order it from Amazon).
We’ve just entered the beginning pages of Todd’s book. He describes four levels of birders: beginners, intermediates, varsity and the Major Leagues. I think Todd modestly puts himself into the varsity (I’m proud to be a solid intermediate). Yesterday morning, we happened upon a major leaguer. Coincidentally, we were about to call Brian Sullivan who C.J. Ralph had introduced to us via cyberspace. Instead, as Malkolm and I cycled along the coast near Monterey, he (magically?) appeared, wearing rubber boots and carrying a scope.
Brian is able to talk with you while his senses are also tuned to bird clues. In the middle of a sentence he paused, pointed upward into an apparently empty sky and said “Townsend’s Warbler.” I hadn’t heard a thing over the pounding of the surf and the chattering of blackbirds. He wasn’t showing off – his awareness of another world that most of us miss is an ingrained part of him – at least that’s my impression after knowing him for half an hour.
You seldom meet a “major league” athlete or a “star”. You can find major league birders however, down at your local wetland, beach or forest. They’ll even talk to you.

Fossil Fuel Free Birding & Mushroom Ice Cream (Wendy)

2007-09-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Have you ever tried mushroom ice cream? We did. They make it at Cowlicks in Fort Bragg. I recommend it.

Since coming into California, people have given us a warm welcome. They have treated us as though we are doing something special. It's flattering. There is not space in the blog to thank everyone, so we do that on our web site acknowledgments page.
Time for statistics. Today is the 87th day of our trip. We have slept in a tent for 77 nights. We have travelled 3182 miles. We have had 11 flat tires. Malkolm has 248 birds on his list - that works out to 13 miles per species. The ABA Big Year record holder, Sandy Komito, travelled approximately 360 miles for each of his species.
Fossil fuel free birding is not new. We have met some champions. CJ and Carol Ralph, in Arcata, have a “yard list” that is one bird less than the total Yukon bird list. Keith Hansen, in Bolinas, counts birds from his one room art gallery (plus the top steps). He is at 207 species. Mind you, Bolinas is a birdy place.
Keith is a wildlife artist who does wonderful, intricate bird paintings. He is a self taught “birdologist”. He is one of those people who can’t keep still. He bounces as he talks. I think he has new ideas popping into his brain all the time. One of his joys is the “Big Foot Hour”, in which he walks,runs, and counts. His record is 83 species. We hope we can use some of Keith’s cool ideas to promote our “Bird Day Challenge”.

S.O.S. (Ken)

2007-09-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

We just passed the 3000 mile mark on our Bird Year journey. Some days my legs feel as if we’ve traveled a long way. It’s our own fault, but we’re carrying too much stuff (including a heavy camera with a telephoto lens, a scope, a tripod and a laptop computer to update our Bird Year website). Yesterday we cycled 60+ miles. We went up and down a series of short, steep hills and winding corners. We needed a place to rest at the end of the day.
A few days ago in Fort Bragg we joined some members of the Mendocino Coast Audubon Society on their S.O.S. (Save Our Shorebirds) project. They’re keeping track of the shorebirds that stop to feed and rest at “stop-over” sites along the coast. They are also communicating with people about how to care for these important places along the bird’s migratory path. Among the birds we saw were Red-necked Phalaropes, Whimbrels, Semi-palmated Sandpipers, Short-billed Dowitchers and a Buff-breasted Sandpiper.
The shorebirds are traveling a lot further than Malkolm, Wendy and I. And our “migration” is by choice. The shorebirds don’t have a choice – they have to rest and fuel for the next stage of their long migration. Our best wishes go out to the great people who give up their time for projects like SOS.

Arcata Marsh (Malkolm)

2007-09-04T13:03:00.001-07:00

The roar of heavy machinery disturbed the peace of the marsh. I glanced over at the construction zone, wondering how much wetland was being destroyed.

“This is a rare example of where development is helping birds,” said Dave Fix, an expert who was showing us around Arcata Marsh. “That used to be moo-cow habitat, but the City of Arcata bought it and is turning it into a wetland. They’re doing a good job too. See those big piles of dirt- they’ll be islands, which the shorebirds will love.”

Of course, “re-wilding” isn’t as good as leaving a place alone to start with, but it’s a start. It’s great that a City Council would do something progressive like making developed land wild again, instead of filling in the entire wetland, to build a something like a giant strip mall.

We wandered through the wetland, marvelling at the flocks of Marbled Godwits, Willets and American Avocets, and glad that this place wasn’t covered in pavement.

Oregon State Park Biker Camps – YEAH! (Wendy)

2007-08-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

We have been in California for 3 days now, and I want to talk about Oregon before it is too late.
The photo has nothing to do with my story, but it does show that Oregon is cool. Have you ever seen a bike rest area before? I havn’t.

This happened awhile ago.We’d passed by two other state parks early that Saturday afternoon, and struck out for the Nehalen BayState Park, twenty miles further on. It was as far as we wanted to go that day. Our route took us up,up, up and up, over the second highest hill on the Oregon coast. Drizzly rain fell. My legs were tired. It was time to stop. Finally, I spotted the small brown sign I’d been waiting for: “ State Park Turn Left ¼ Mile”. Below it, “Campground Full”.

“We’ve got to got check it out”, I said,”There are no hotels or RV parks here”.

At the kiosk, another sign in block capitals: ALL CAMPSITES ARE FULL. THE ONES THAT LOOK EMPTY ARE RESERVED.

Dispirited, we waited while the ranger checked in a man who had reservations to camp with his horses.

“Do you have any space for bikers?” We tried not to sound like we were begging.

“Always!” the ranger replied cheerfully.

It feels so good to be the privileged ones.

The hiker/biker sites are cheap ($4 each includes hot showers)and are in the best location in most parks –quiet clearings in the trees, removed from the congested loops of RV’s. And, your neighbours are quiet, because they are dog tired, just like you.

Bird Year Sporting News (Ken)

2007-08-27T14:39:00.001-07:00

“When we were approaching the 19th hole, we wondered whether we’d break par, but birders in Oregon gave us 110%,” said Malkolm Boothoyd yesterday. “Tim Rodenkirk pulled off a string of birdies at the Coos Bay course (including Pacific Golden Plovers, Buff-breasted Sandpipers, a Baird’s Sandpiper and hundreds of Red-necked Phalaropes).”
With time running out in the fourth quarter, Diane Pettey in Florence pulled out all the stops. “Diane wanted it more than we did,” said Wendy. “We finished a strong second place with the Anna’s Hummingbird – but I admit to be Bitternly disappointed that no American Bittern showed its beak.”
Up in Seaside, Mike Patterson skated hard and really put the birds in the net. Well, he actually took them out of the net (gently) in an ongoing banding effort to learn more about songbird migration in northern Oregon. “I couldn’t believe how much Mike knows about birds,” said Ken. “No matter how many times we thought we had him down with a hard question, he always bounced back with the answer." As Tim later told us, “he’s a walking encyclopedia.” Mike was also enthusiastic enough to ride with us and show us Western Grebes, Clark’s Grebes and Black-headed Grosbeaks.
Thanks to all the Oregon Birders the ones we met and the ones we didn’t meet this time (and the birds)!

Lotsa Blackberries, no Hermits. (Wendy)

2007-08-24T09:30:00.000-07:00

Serious birders talk in a certain way. Malkolm"needs to get Hermit Warbler”, and soon. The trouble is, Hermit Warblers are no longer singing. A local expert gave us some tips. He showed us the type of forest Hermit Warblers like. They hang out in mixed feeding flocks with chickadees. We would need to hear some chickadees, and then call them in by “pishing” or hooting like a screech owl. Hermit Warblers would follow the chickadees to us.
At Cape Perpetua, we found the right kind of forest. For two hours we climbed through that forest, hooting and pishing. Plenty of chickadees came to see us, but no Hermits.
Cape Perpetua is also the home of the most profuse, luscious, easy-to-pick blackberries on Planet Earth. Our Hermit Warbler search suffered as a result.
Next morning, we ate a gourmet breakfast: commercial whole wheat (just add water) “crepes” heaped with fresh blackberries and whipped cream.

Refreshing weather (Ken)

2007-08-20T15:01:00.000-07:00

“It has rained 14 of the 16 days we’ve been gone so far,” said one of the cyclists we met at the state park campground near Manzanita, Oregon. “We’re staying put until the sun comes out.”
Those cyclists have been on approximately the same route as us – so I guess we’ve had the same number of wet days. On the other hand, there has been some sun on all of those days. Plus, as Malkolm learned in A.C.E.S, his Outdoor Ed course, there is no such thing as bad weather, only different types of good weather! Apparently rain is “refreshing.”
During one of those wet days, we had a great day of observing bird banding with Mike Patterson in Seaside, Oregon. Mike is the kind of expert who can tell you not only what species of bird you are seeing, but what sex and age. He kindly took us out into the rain after the banding was done to look for Hermit Warblers, Clark’s Grebes and anything else we could find. Thanks Mike!
Since we met the two cyclists, we’ve had a several more “refreshing” days of peddling southward. I suppose they’re still back in Manzanita.

Oops (Malkolm)

2007-08-20T14:58:00.000-07:00

After Mike Patterson read my blog about finding the house wren, he noticed a mistake. “This is a very common mistake that I've seen some pretty high-end birders make,” he emailed to me. “What you photographed is a hatch-year MARSH WREN. Note the yellow gape which gets you to hatch-year. If one looks at the photo and thinks Marsh Wren there's the faint striping of mantle, the hint of broad, rather than fine barring on the primaries.”
Thanks for the correction Mike! Luckily we managed to reach 200 before we left Washington, we found and correctly identified (I hope!) a Snow Goose.

"Mile"stones (Malkolm)

2007-08-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

We’ve reached two big milestones in the past few days, the first one a “mile”stone.
We passed our 2,000th mile in Ocean Shores, Washington after a day of birding in the dunes and beaches at the end of the peninsula. We had strolled along a beach, finding species #197, a Red-necked Phalarope amongst a flock of Least Sandpipers. After admiring the shorebirds we turned our attention to the ocean, where we found two more new species, a Red-breasted Merganser and a Black Scoter.
We looked hard for Pacific Golden-Plovers and Snowy Plovers, but the 200th species remained hidden. The next day we cycled to Grays Harbour NWR and walked along a boardwalk through a marsh. There were lots of Marsh Wrens, surprisingly easy to see, for a species seldom seen in the open. However, they were too far away for a good look. Finally one fluttered towards me. It was an overall reddish brown, with little contrast in its plumage. I suddenly realized that they weren’t Marsh Wrens but House Wrens... our 200th species.

Optics & Eating (Wendy)

2007-08-14T14:44:00.000-07:00

It started out as “Bird Year”. Soon I came to think of it as “Exercize Year”. Those names still apply, but now I am calling this “Eating Year”. Being on our bikes all day is making us ravenous. (Hey, raven-ous, a bird word). I have always been an enthusiastic eater, and now I can eat as much as I want and not worry about my weight. I love it!
The raven in the photo was chowing down on grasshoppers, high on Hurricane Ridge.
Christianne brought new “optics” with her when she visited last week. What a difference good equipment makes! We are very grateful to American Birding Association Sales for donating a pair of Vortex Diamondback binoculars to Bird Year.
The high point for me has been the visit from the Tufted Puffin, that Ken wrote about in his last blog. We work so hard to try find certain birds, and that puffin gave us a great reward.