Marsh Slinkers
May 23rd, 2014
Here in Ottawa we have an ostensibly common bird called a Virginia Rail. It took me over a year of trying to see one. And it has taken me over five years of trying to get a picture of one.
Rails are incredibly bashful. They spend their lives creeping, mouselike, through thick stands of cattail. Their bodies are laterally compressed to allow them to squeeze through narrow gaps between reeds. (Supposedly, they're where the phrase "skinny as a rail" comes from.) You never see them in flight. They don't flush when disturbed, they just slink away.
The trick, as it turns out, is sound. When you play back a recording of their mating call at the right time of year (spring, mainly), they just can't resist checking it out. And that is to thank for this:
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This handsome fellow came all the way out to the edge of the marsh for me. He and his mate had responded vociferously to my playback, and he emerged with the intent to send his (imaginary) rival packing. A car going by quickly sent him scurrying back into the reeds. Having had my one good look, I stopped playback. It's important to let the territorial male think he's "won" the exchange.
Look carefully in the water--you can see his toes splayed out. Rails are closely related to gallinules (such as the young Purple Gallinule I showed from the El Rey wetlands), and like them, have long spindly toes suited for walking on boggy ground.
It was only a few days later that I got my first picture of a Sora rail after five years of trying. Soras are the answer to the question, "could any birds be more impossible than Virginia Rails?" They're less common, and in my experience, even shier. I have read field guides claiming that Soras are bold and confiding (y'know, for rails) and will readily feed out in the open. I don't know what kind of cruel joke those field guides are trying to pull, but needless to say, that has not been my experience. Even Sora calls are a form of camouflage. Their most common spring vocalization is a plaintive "ker-wee?" that sounds just like a spring peeper.
(And neither Virginia Rail nor Sora can hold a candle to the famously impossible Yellow Rail. In Larry Neily's words, "to actually see one, you'll need a miracle." It is not yet on my lifelist.)
At the Nortel wetland, a Sora began to vocalize nonstop soon after I started playback. I stopped after a few rounds to avoid causing undue excitement, but the vocalizing continued. It was only a single individual calling this time, and I got the distinct impression that it was not an angry territorial sora, but an unmated sora hoping very much that it was about to get lucky. I thought sure this very excited rail would soon appear, but I must have sat there for at least fifteen minutes without so much as a glimpse--even a hint of movement--even though it sounded like it was ten feet away from me.
Just when I was about to come to the conclusion that I had gotten fooled by a frog, I saw it: a faint silhouette behind the reeds. For about five more minutes I watched the silhouette, its neck arching back with every "ker-wee." And then, at last, a curious face poked out of the tent of cattails.
1680x1050 wallpaper
When I came back through almost an hour later, it was still vocalizing. Sorry to get your hopes up, fella. I hope a real opposite-sex-sora comes along soon.
May 23rd, 2014
Here in Ottawa we have an ostensibly common bird called a Virginia Rail. It took me over a year of trying to see one. And it has taken me over five years of trying to get a picture of one.
Rails are incredibly bashful. They spend their lives creeping, mouselike, through thick stands of cattail. Their bodies are laterally compressed to allow them to squeeze through narrow gaps between reeds. (Supposedly, they're where the phrase "skinny as a rail" comes from.) You never see them in flight. They don't flush when disturbed, they just slink away.
The trick, as it turns out, is sound. When you play back a recording of their mating call at the right time of year (spring, mainly), they just can't resist checking it out. And that is to thank for this:
1680x1050 wallpaper
This handsome fellow came all the way out to the edge of the marsh for me. He and his mate had responded vociferously to my playback, and he emerged with the intent to send his (imaginary) rival packing. A car going by quickly sent him scurrying back into the reeds. Having had my one good look, I stopped playback. It's important to let the territorial male think he's "won" the exchange.
Look carefully in the water--you can see his toes splayed out. Rails are closely related to gallinules (such as the young Purple Gallinule I showed from the El Rey wetlands), and like them, have long spindly toes suited for walking on boggy ground.
It was only a few days later that I got my first picture of a Sora rail after five years of trying. Soras are the answer to the question, "could any birds be more impossible than Virginia Rails?" They're less common, and in my experience, even shier. I have read field guides claiming that Soras are bold and confiding (y'know, for rails) and will readily feed out in the open. I don't know what kind of cruel joke those field guides are trying to pull, but needless to say, that has not been my experience. Even Sora calls are a form of camouflage. Their most common spring vocalization is a plaintive "ker-wee?" that sounds just like a spring peeper.
(And neither Virginia Rail nor Sora can hold a candle to the famously impossible Yellow Rail. In Larry Neily's words, "to actually see one, you'll need a miracle." It is not yet on my lifelist.)
At the Nortel wetland, a Sora began to vocalize nonstop soon after I started playback. I stopped after a few rounds to avoid causing undue excitement, but the vocalizing continued. It was only a single individual calling this time, and I got the distinct impression that it was not an angry territorial sora, but an unmated sora hoping very much that it was about to get lucky. I thought sure this very excited rail would soon appear, but I must have sat there for at least fifteen minutes without so much as a glimpse--even a hint of movement--even though it sounded like it was ten feet away from me.
Just when I was about to come to the conclusion that I had gotten fooled by a frog, I saw it: a faint silhouette behind the reeds. For about five more minutes I watched the silhouette, its neck arching back with every "ker-wee." And then, at last, a curious face poked out of the tent of cattails.
1680x1050 wallpaper
When I came back through almost an hour later, it was still vocalizing. Sorry to get your hopes up, fella. I hope a real opposite-sex-sora comes along soon.
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