I AND THE BIRD #114 "Soaring Survivors: Pelican-Watching in San Francisco"  Fog begins to lift above the Golden Gate Bridge I'm standing on the coastal trail just west of San Francisco's Golden Gate. Fog obscures most of the famed structure, though now and then a blazing patch of red is revealed as a gust of wind pushes aside a corner of the low-lying cloud. My goofy grin and slightly elevated heart rate are reminiscent of the symptoms I used to experience on a promising second date. I indulge the emotions, for they are familiar and sweet. In a way, this city is like a long-lost lover. Although my new sweetheart—Minnesota—is also full of charms, some part of my heart will always remain here. The Golden Gate Bridge is an iconic structure known around the world, and I never tire of this view. Yet there are countless more delights to be found across the landscape leading into this narrow, rocky passageway. Craggy cliffs, hidden beaches, and patches of woodland are revealed to those who explore the ecotone where land meets sea. Every stretch of the San Francisco coastline offers breathtaking views, and crowds are often minimal.  Brown pelicans fly in formation as the sun peeks through dense fog, San Francisco If I were asked to choose a mascot to represent this landscape, the brown pelican would have no rivals. To the inexperienced observer this might seem an odd choice. Weighing up to eight pounds, with a wingspan greater than 7 feet and a curving neck that culminates in an improbably long, hooked bill, brown pelicans look like make-believe creatures from a child's storybook: gangly, disproportionate, and comical. Yet airborne pelicans are the epitome of grace—flapping with slow ease; making fast, steep plunges in pursuit of fish; flying in long, curving formations that follow the breaking lines of waves. In the 1820s and '30s, while traveling across the nation to study and paint avifauna, John James Audubon had many opportunities to observe brown pelicans. He found them to be "one of the most interesting of our American birds," and had this to say about pelicans on the wing. "The flight of the Brown Pelican, though to appearance heavy, is remarkably well sustained, that bird being able not only to remain many hours at a time on wing, but also to mount to a great height in the air to perform its beautiful evolutions. Their ordinary manner of proceeding, either when single or in flocks, is by easy flappings and sailings alternating at distances of from twenty to thirty yards, when they glide along with great speed. They move in an undulated line, passing at one time high, at another low, over the water or land, for they do not deviate from their course on coming upon a key or a point of land. When the waves run high, you may see them "troughing," as the sailors say, or directing their course along the hollows. While on wing they draw in their head between their shoulders, stretch out their broad webbed feet to their whole extent, and proceed in perfect silence." Audubon was not alone in his appreciation of pelicans. Women of the nineteenth and early 20th centuries considered it the height of fashion to festoon their hats with feathers. Pelicans, among many other bird species, were hunted by the thousands to fulfill orders for the millinery trade. Pelicans were vulnerable to other threats, as well, including egg collection and hunting by fishermen who considered pelicans to be their competitors for fish. Passage of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act in 1918 curtailed these forms of collection. Yet surveys in the 1960s showed that brown pelicans had all but disappeared from California. Only a small nesting population remained on one of the Channel Islands, off the coast near Ventura. The birds' killer this time was almost invisible—carried on the wind and in water, hidden in the tissues of fish which the pelicans consumed. It was dichlorodiphenyl-trichloroethane—better known as DDT. First synthesized in 1873, DDT was virtually forgotten until the 1930s when Swiss chemist Paul Müller discovered its effectiveness as an insecticide. In World War II DDT was applied to protect Allied troops from diseases spread by mosquitoes and lice. Dr. Müller won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for his work, which was seen as a life-saving advancement in the fight against insect-borne diseases. After the war, and through the 1960s, DDT was widely used in agriculture and advertised as a safe treatment for household pests. Human health risks from the chemical were not immediately apparent, but evidence of environmental hazards soon began to mount. DDT has a long life in the environment, as do the products of its chemical breakdown, DDE and DDD. These chlorinated hydrocarbon chemicals move up the food chain from microscopic organisms to fish and thus to pelicans and other piscivorous birds. They accumulate in fatty tissues over time, so that larger and longer-lived animals—such as pelicans—accumulate proportionately greater chemical loads than smaller, shorter-lived species. Humans are also affected by this process, called biomagnification. Biologist Rachel Carson reported the effects of DDT in her ground-breaking book, Silent Spring, published in 1962. She wrote about the sudden decline among populations of American robins and other ground-feeding birds after DDT was used to treat Dutch elm disease in many communities during the 1950s. Direct exposure to the insecticide caused many of these small birds to die immediately. But Carson was also concerned about long-term effects. She noted that for many years DDT had been sprayed along the Atlantic coast to combat marsh mosquitoes, and knew the effects on marine species, and reported the situation in Silent Spring: "Fishes and crabs were killed in enormous numbers. Laboratory analyses of their tissues revealed high concentrations of DDT—as much as 46 parts per million." Carson knew that fish make up a significant part of the bald eagle's diet, and extrapolated that by virtue of their long lifespan eagles and other fish-eating birds would store proportionately larger concentrations of DDT than small, shorter-lived marine animals. As a consequence, she wrote, "they are less and less able to produce young and to preserve the continuity of their race. (Carson 122)" Declines in the rate of bald eagle reproduction had already been observed. Carson felt certain DDT was to blame, though she could not explain how the chemical caused physiological damage. Research in the late 1960s revealed the mechanism by which DDT affects bird reproduction. Calcium carbonate is the primary mineral component of eggshells, and serves as a crucial source of calcium for embryonic skeletal development. Calcium carbonate is secreted by the bird's shell glands during egg formation. It is apparently blocked by the presence of DDE, a chemical that results from the metabolic breakdown of DDT. By the late 1960s, brown pelicans nationwide produced eggshells that were, on average, 20 percent thinner than in years prior to DDT use. Some populations of California brown pelicans were found to have shells only half as thick as normal. Brown pelicans build a stick nest on the ground or in a tree. The male and female of each pair take turns on nest duty, sitting on the edge of the platform and incubating the eggs beneath large, webbed feet. DDE-thinned eggs were delicate and susceptible to cracking under pressure, making pelican reproduction an abysmal failure. Brown pelicans might have gone the way of their ancient dinosaurian kin. But thanks to a 1972 ban on DDT and protections under the U.S. Endangered Species Act, extinction of the species was averted. The intervening decades have seen a slow but sustainable recovery of brown pelican populations, significant enough to lead the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in 2008 to propose delisting of all brown pelican populations from the Endangered Species list. That process was finalized on 17 November 2009. On your next visit to San Francisco, tear your eyes from that big, beautiful bridge for just a few minutes. Watch instead the narrow valleys between cresting whitecaps, and look to the sky at hilltop level. Better yet, wend your way westward and south through city neighborhoods to China Beach, Lands End, or Fort Funston. It won't be long before an undulating line of pelicans drifts in, skimming silently across the water or plunging-and-plundering in search of fish. Don't be embarrassed if your heart starts to beat a little faster. It's appropriate to be thrilled when you witness a miracle.  Fog begins to clear along the Golden Gate, revealing the full bridge and the hills of the Marin Headlands beyond SKYWATCH FRIDAY: "Head in the Clouds"  Autumn weather is as changeable as a teenager's moods. On Sunday night a heavy bank of clouds rolled in just as the Harvest Moon began to peek over the eastern horizon. The low pressure system parked over our heads and remained in place for two days, bringing two inches of much-needed rain. Wednesday dawned fresh and golden. By early afternoon warmer air had caused unusual cloud formations to build up. Altoculumulus undulatus clouds are named for their resemblance to rippling wave trains along “Actions Speak Louder” I recently read a remarkable, true story about William Kamkwamba, a young man from Malawi, Africa. William was forced to quit school at age 14 because his family could not pay the $80 annual school fee. Instead of becoming dejected or angry, William began to spend time at the library. When he noticed a picture of a windmill, William got the idea to build one. He realized that the windmill could provide a little electricity and pump water, both of which were in short supply in his community. SKYWATCH FRIDAY "Read Across America (or, William's Solar-Powered Adventure)"  The desert of east-central Nevada is lovely, cold, and deep. But as the first sunlight tinges thin clouds above, it’s time for William Grote to get moving. Quickly packing his belongings into the back of his Hauler, he hits the road. This three-wheeled bike looks a bit like an overgrown Mars Rover—and it’s got some of the same features. Wide tires enable the Hauler to traverse off-road terrain. And like the Rover, this vehicle carries a solar panel connected to a battery pack, which stores energy for later use. The battery powers an electric motor to assist the rider through challenging conditions, and also provides connections for AC power. (William’s pedal-power also contributes to battery storage.) The Hauler’s frame is designed to carry 500 pounds, in the form of passengers or cargo behind the recumbent driver’s seat.  William and the Hauler. (All photos in this post courtesy of William Grote) “Peddling Away Down the Road of Life” Raise your hand if you like to ride bikes! Chances are, many of you responded positively to that question. If I could get everyone in the U.S. who purchased an adult-sized bicycle in 2008 to read this blog, there would be more than 13 million hands raised at this moment. America’s love affair with the “dandy horse” goes way back. After its initial wave of popularity in the 1880s, the bicycle experienced a resurgence in the wake of the Great Depression. In 1936 the magazine Popular Science provided a summary of biking in the states. "Four "Passing Thoughts”  "Beauty has as many meanings as man has moods. Beauty is the symbol of symbols. Beauty reveals everything, because it expresses nothing. When it shows us itself, it shows us the whole fiery-colored world." —Oscar Wilde In the early morning hours I stand at the kitchen window, alone with the silence and my thoughts. The last few stars fade overhead as a pale glow touches the treeline across the lake. To my surprise, a late-feeding bat appears over the meadow, making a wide sweep at canopy level. The bat passes just a few meters in front of the window. Suddenly it lurches to the side, down, then rapidly forward. Such maneuvers make bat flight appear haphazard SKYWATCH FRIDAY: "Pull Over, Ma'am" Thankfully, those words—"Pull over, ma'am"—are not the reason I find myself on the shoulder of Interstate 35W at 7:00a.m. Nor is my action the result of car trouble. A different voice has caused me to stop the car on this Sunday morning-quiet stretch of highway. I have heard the call of beautiful scenery. I resisted as long as I could. I’ve been driving through a pervasive layer of ghostly ground fog, which hovers like thin smoke over farm "On the Wing" For weeks the yard has hummed (yes, that's a pun) with ruby-throated hummingbirds. Throughout the day males, females, and juveniles zipped between feeders, flowers, perches, and hideouts. The chase was always on, and tiny birds whizzed past us, in pursuit or retreat, whenever we ventured into the yard. Actual fights between hummingbirds are apparently uncommon, though they seem to expend endless energy keeping each other from nectar sources. In Birds of America, John James Audubon described this habit. “They are quarrelsome,” he wrote, “and have frequent battles in the air, especially the male birds. Should one be feeding on a flower, and another approach it, they are both immediately seen to rise in the air, twittering and twirling in a spiral manner until out of sight.” A few years back I read an article about hummingbirds in Smithsonian magazine. The author commented how fortunate it is that "Afternoon Delight" Rain or shine, subzero or sweltering, around 2:00 p.m. each weekday some internal alarm prompts me from my chair toward the kitchen. Although this is a short migration, it involves a radical shift in habitat. My office is tucked on the north side of the house and flanked by an Entish pin oak tree. Those with an aversion to low light might find the room too solemn, but I enjoy its cool, shady attitude. It feels as though I have my own little bower among the branches of the house. I work here for hours at a stretch, cocooned in a silence that is conducive to concentration but not oppressive. There’s a palpable shift in my awareness when I enter the kitchen, which is flooded with light throughout the day and in all seasons. Wide windows on its east and west walls, and exposure from the south through an adjoining mudroom, make the kitchen open and lively. This is the real heart of our home. Even a quick infusion of its light, color, and space gives me just the dose of energy I need to remain focused through the afternoon. A cup of tea doesn’t hurt, either. Teatime is not a fancy affair. I don’t prepare food, and never even sit down. But there is a ritual associated with this break. I take down two mugs from the cabinet. One is chosen randomly, though it can’t be too large. The other is my favorite mug, made of thick, cream-colored ceramic with a handle that looks like a twisted twig. Across its surface are painted two of the birds that commonly appear in our yard: the Baltimore oriole and the blue jay. The style of painting looks somehow old-fashioned, like it belongs in a dusty field guide you might find tucked away in your grandparents’ library. I choose a bag of good black tea to go in the first mug. Something fruity or spicy goes in mine—but no caffeine allowed. Finally I fill the burnished metal teakettle and place it on the burner. Now begins my favorite part of the routine. Until the kettle sings I have a few free moments, with nothing more important to do than watch. What's the Buzz in the Garden? It's not for naught that the Monarda plant is also called beebalm. I spent half an hour on Monday morning photographing massive and beautiful bumblebees as they tottered and swayed in flight between scarlet-flowered plants in our upper garden. Although my huge black lens and I often came within 6 inches, the bees were too consumed with sipping nectar to take any notice. Must have been a good vintage! The bees may have been tipsy, but they were highly efficient. How can I be sure? Today the Monarda patch looks scraggly and sad. Each inflorescence is almost bald, with only a few withered and fading flowers forming a crown around the perimeter. But it's all good. When flowers fall away it's a clear indication that the hard-working dumbledores (that's Old English for bumblebee) did their work of pollination. The plant can now direct its energy toward making seeds.  The bee shown above is a queen of the species Bombus auricomus. It's one of the largest bumblebees in Minnesota. Bombus means "boom," referring to the bee's loud vocalization (as compared to the murmuring buzz made by bumbles of other genera.) Auricomus is from the Latin, and translates as "with golden hair"—probably describing the distinctively wide swath of yellow hair covering the central tergites. (Tergites are armor-like segments of exoskeleton that form parallel rows down the bee's abdomen. Females have 6, males 7. Good luck counting them!) For some reason, scientists have never bothered to give this bee a common name. So we'll call her the golden-haired booming bee. A proud name for a lovely creature.  For comparison, this is the much smaller Bombus bimaculatum—the two-spotted bumblebee. It's pollinating my prairie blazing star (Liatris). I hope you can see the shining flecks of orange-gold pollen scattered across the bee's lower abdomen. Text and images © 2009 Christine Petersen | 
Christine Petersen is a writer, naturalist, and environmental educator who works from her home in Minnesota—when she's not too distracted by the view out the window.
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