I thought seeing 19 bald eagles would be the highlight of our bird-watching venture today -- until I saw the porcupines.
They are pictured above, resting in the thick limbs of a Russian olive tree. (I am aware that, from this perspective, they look like a couple of cheap wigs left over from a New Year's Eve bash gone awry. Next time, you get closer with the camera, and I'll watch.)
We spotted them while roaming Antelope Island State Park with the local Audubon Society for the last of this season's Christmas bird counts. Audubon groups across the country take to the fields, marshes and parks of their local communities throughout the month of December to identify and count birds.
It is based solely on volunteer birders whose abilities range from expert to beginner. So some would argue that it probably is not the most scientific tally available. But the surveys date back about 100 years in some regions, and, over time, that kind of information can indicate trends -- such as occurrences of rare species or changes in habitat and populations of common birds, which often are brought about by suburban sprawl and development.
Participating in these counts not only is a great way to learn more about birds, but also is a terrific way to spend some time outdoors with a purpose. The latter is very important, for the most wondrous sights on any hike or scenic walk are those we discover by accident while looking for something else.
For example, while searching for birds tucked in the towering cattails (good) and feathery phragmites (bad) that bordered a small pond today, we found tracks made by coyote, fox, small game birds and rabbits, along with the feathered remains of what looked to be a quail that had recently made someone a hearty lunch.
Oh, yeah -- and we saw a bunch of red-wing blackbirds and a couple of magpies.
But it was on our return trip that we stopped to gaze upon the porcupines sleeping in the olive tree. We were helping our party's leader look for a northern shrike, which he had hoped to see but hadn't. In focusing our gaze upon the trees along the side of the road, we saw what I thought were two large nests or balls of twigs and leaves. (As one who has mistaken about 300 clumps of leaves for birds in this season's counts, I was not about to say anything about these dark spots in the tree.)
"Those are porcupines," our fellow birder said. He and the other two people in our group waited patiently while I trudged through the snow to the edge of the gully where the olive tree stood and snapped a few pictures.
While I was shooting, guess what landed atop a nearby tree?
The northern shrike.
If that turn of events doesn't strike you as funny, the appearance of a porcupine certainly would. One of them raised its head momentarily revealing a creature that looks as if Tina Turner's hair stylist had a hand in its creation.
Porcupines are plant-eaters (herbivores) that sleep in rocky or brushy dens on the ground or sleep in trees. The choice depends on the amount of cover
available on the ground and the number of predators in the area.
In the Great Basin region that encompasses Utah and Nevada, porcupines
often take refuge in trees. Given the number of coyote and fox tracks I
saw today, I cannot blame these two for choosing the penthouse option. According to other members of our group porcupines are a common sight during the Christmas counts.
I suppose "common" depends on one's point of view. As we emerged from a cattail forest earlier that day, one of the new birders asked me, "What's the rarest bird you've ever seen?"
Tough question. My so-called "life list" names fewer than 200 species, none of which are particularly rare. For me, "rare" can mean I recall seeing it once before and can identify it. "Rare" also describes what birds were doing when I saw them -- such as the pair of bald eagle parents teaching their youngster how to hunt in a secluded cove in Grand Teton National Park late last summer.
"What's the rarest bird you've ever seen?" If he had asked me 35 minutes later I could have told him.
Porcupines.
