… or, saving shots by going artsy…

Not all photos are created equal, especially if you’re an amateur photog like me who asks my competent but limited point-and-shoot digital camera to do things it wasn’t meant to do, like capture images of cryptic birds high in trees with too many leaves against the light on an overcast day through a fogged-up scope (see previous potoo posts) in a hurry.

And, some birds don’t have the courtesy to pose standing still six feet away in the open in the light for an hour while some fudge-fingered camera-camel like me tries to get a shot off before they get on with their lives finding scarce food, competing for mates, and evading swift-grasping predators.

<< app-altered digital image of an Orange-billed sparrow (photo and alteration A.Shock).  Orange-billed sparrows (Arremon aurantiirostris) are striking but rather skulking sparrows inhabiting moist woodlands from southern Mexico to northern South America, not terribly uncommon or hard to see but tough to photo.  A bold black-and-white head pattern, a lovely olive back, golden epaulette and neon orange bill make them distinctive as they hop about the shadowy forest floor in small flocks.

So, not all photos are created equal.  I have lots of “unequal” photos from trips, including this last Costa Rica visit.  Despite expert bird-finding leadership turning up an unexpected number of fabulous sightings by eye, dim and moisty cloud forests, furtive species (and you know who you are, Silvery-fronted tapaculo), and awkwardly-wielded umbrellas all cut down the number of useful pix to post here.  Some species (Quetzales for instance) I missed entirely; others, such as the Orange-billed sparrow, I only got blurry, distant, or otherwise unusable images of.  Photoshop (even the archaic version I’m still using) and iPhoto are both hugely helpful, and have saved many a photo for publication.  But now I have new tools — cribs, if you insist — to produce internet-ready images for this space from unpromising jpegs.  (Let me add FYI, in case the reader hasn’t read the fine print at threestarowl.com, that this is not a commercial blog, and I receive no compensation whatever for testing, using, praising, demonstrating, criticizing, or even just mentioning any product, service, or company).

A recent fairly unintentional acquisition of an iPad has given me tools that are similar to Adobe Illustrator and its kin, but are even more user-friendly: SketchmeeHD, SketchbookPro, and TypeDrawing.  Here is the step-by-step process by which I used these apps to turn an unusable jpeg image into a lively illustration for this post:

<< Far left, original unaltered shot of Orange-billed sparrow: subject too small to see.  Near left, cropped to zoom, the colorful plumage and bill are captured, but the lack of focus due to movement and low light is painfully evident.  Verdict: not publishable in either form.

So, I sicced the iPad app “SketchmeeHD” on the cropped version of the original jpeg.  This cool application renders an original image into an algorhythmically-generated series of layered colors and strokes, as if it were drawn from colored pencil.  It’s easy and quick for the operator (and entertaining, as the image is produced in stages as if being drawn before your eyes by an invisible hand), and nearly but not entirely idiot-proof: there are choices to make, such as opacity, density and substrait.

<< These were the results. It looks adequate artistically (click to enlarge to see pencil-marks), but it’s a bit mechanical looking, sterile.  Annoyingly, but not surprisingly, the lack of focus was faithfully transmitted from the source image, and not magically cured.  Worse, from a birder’s point of view — and probably a bird’s, too — all the distinctive colors have been muted to the point of dullness.  Where’s the olive back?  The golden epaulette?  The eye? The eponymous orange bill, for crying out loud? These are Important Characteristics, Field Marks, and not to be done without, even if this is not a field guide.  Especially if they’re only eradicated by the mere randomness of digital manipulation.  Verdict: insufficient improvement, unpublishable.

But, I have recourse.  At this point, I opened the SketchmeeHD-altered jpeg with SketchbookPro, another iPad app.  By “drawing” with my finger on the iPad’s interactive screen and selecting parameters such as color, point type, width and opacity, I was able to restore liveliness and color to the automatically-generated “pencil strokes” by adding my own hand-controlled digital marks which, even through the electronic medium, supply the human touch, visible in the finished version.

<< The final step was to use the app TypeDrawing to add the bird name caption.  This app allows you to enter type in a color, size, font of choice and place it in your image; the path of your finger on the screen determines the line and position of the text.

Verdict: Publishable illustration of Orange-billed sparrow.

The photos I use on this site, whether taken by me or others, are minimally altered for clear viewing, and never “faked” (except for fictional effect and with full disclosure). Altering photos to prove the identification or occurrence of a bird in a particular place or time is obviously just wrong (for instance, my Maroon-chested dove shots are unaltered except for cropping to enlarge the bird, and the video is entirely unaltered).  Images in this blog, for the most part, are intended to tell a story, please the reader (and myself), and provide visual interest besides text.  Most are digital photos.  Some, like the joyfully garish Resplendent Quetzal image are produced entirely from scratch from a blank “page” with SketchbookPro, driven by the touch-interaction of the iPad screen with my nail-bitten finger.

By contrast, an image like the Orange-billed sparrow above is heavily altered — in fact, it’s published only because of my ability to alter it. I do “real drawings” too with pencil, colored pencil, and water color, and to me the apps are not going to replace those techniques — they’re just a different medium than those more traditional paper-born tools, with different limitations and different advantages. Maybe you’re comfortable with this process, maybe not.  Possibly, by posting the techniques behind the results, I’ve made readers think less of a finished product like the Orange-billed sparrow image, as not being real “art”, or requiring less skill than a “real drawing”.  That’s up to everyone to decide for themselves.  Personally, I consider it illustration, and I’m thrilled to be able to present a pleasing visual image of a lovely creature that otherwise would have remained uselessly stuck in the craw of my computer.

Like most enthusiasts, birders can get excited about seemingly unexciting things. As proof, first there was the Maroon-chested ground-dove, a seriously exciting species that most of my non-birding friends think looks like a “boring” Mourning dove, but was easily one of the most thrilling sightings of the entire Costa Rica trip, which was full of thrilling sightings. Now, here is the strange, statuesque potoo, a bird so fascinating it can’t be distinguished from a broken branch. I posted yesterday on the Great potoo (Nyctibius grandis), but can’t resist adding more today, including another photo of the same bird.

<< Great potoo at La Selva OTS (digiscoped by C.Gómez)

I assure you, this is a different photo — look, the bird’s head has turned a skosh farther to its left, revealing BOTH slitted, bulbous eyes. The action of turning its head so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible is pure Potoo, and it was the most exciting thing the bird “did” while we watched it — in fact, it was the only thing it “did” other than hold perfectly still — thrilling us to the core (for another account of how even seasoned birders lose their cool seeing potoos — I would have sacrificed a finger to see it scratch its face with its foot!– click here). Since this potoo was safely perched high up in the canopy, we were lucky to see it in a fluff-feathered, neutral roosting pose, rather than the usual sleeked-down, beak-pointing alarm pose in which these birds are most often detected.

Those eye slits are part of what makes potoos cool. Each lid has three tiny notch-like folds in it — a so-called “magic eye” — enabling the Potoo to see with its lids shut. Most photos you can find of potoos show them in their diurnal cryptic perching pose, eyes closed. Open, their eyes are owl-like and, in most species, bright yellow. Here’s a link to photographer Michael Fairchild’s site, showing a potoo in mid-blink, with partially open eyes. You can clearly see the notches in the lid-skin: one near each corner, and one over the pupil.

Here’s another exciting Potoo fact, if you can stand it. Their cousins the nightjars have specialized whisker-like feathers at the corner of their mouths called rictal bristles, thought to be used to help catch or detect prey. Not Potoos — they have loral bristles instead; specialized feathers between their nares (nostrils) and eyes, at the base of their bills, like flycatchers and some wood warblers. Pretty amazing, right? Right?

That’s almost all there is to say, except: here’s a picture of one, trying its best to look like a tree trunk, and doing an expert job of it:

I’ve always longed to see a Potoo, and when we got to Finca La Selva OTS (known to most North American birders as La Selva Research Station) in Costa Rica, I was excited to hear that the La Selva researchers and guides (Joel was ours) had been seeing a Great potoo around recently. Sure enough, they re-found it, napping and waiting for night to fall so it could start its day.

>> Photo of Great potoo (Nyctibius grandis), at La Selva OTS (thanks to Charlie Gómez for digiscoping with my camera through his scope)

It was roosting high overhead against a light gap in the foliage, but we were able to get a pretty clear view of the bird through scopes, and we filled our eyes (and cameras) with the glorious obfuscation that is what Potoos are all about.

I admit that part of my fondness for this bird is on account of its name, Potoo, but even without the humorous handle, it would be an excellent organism: look at that huge coin-purselike gap of a mouth — it’s capable of opening all the way to behind the bird’s eye. It’s mostly gape — the soft-skinned corners of a bird’s mouth that hinge the upper and lower mandibles of the bill, and it’s unique among its nightjar relatives (whipoorwills, frogmouths, and allies) in having a toothlike projection on either side of the tiny beak. The Potoo’s large mouth is for catching flying insects in mid-flight, at night. Potoos typically sally forth off their perches in the dark, nimbly for their odd shape, to catch and swallow insects, returning to a perch to await the next fly-by snack. This bird’s eyes are closed for sleep/camouflage (a branch with eyes is a dead giveaway), but even still you can see they’re big, like an owl’s. So big there’s not much room for a brain, which is purportedly the same size as a hummingbird’s, a much smaller bird.

There are seven species of potoo, all native to Central and South America. Everything about the genus is distinctive — click here to hear a recording of its “song”, a loud, rough, croak-like call (I recommend the second one in the top row of samples). On the same page are excellent photos, which give a good idea of this bird’s strategy of sleeking its feathers, sticking its beak up and holding stock still in order to look as much like a broken branch as possible.

Yes, you guessed it, this is not a photo from the recent Costa Rica trip. I thought a frosty retreat from the steamy tropics was in order, and decided to insert this flashback of a favorite photo and sighting from a 2004 trip to the Antarctica Peninsula: a Gentoo penguin parent about to feed its chick. This is the bill-tapping action that encourages each bird to open wide to complete the transfer of semi-digested krill from the adult to the chick.

Enjoy!

(I didn’t have a weblog back then, so periodically I post flashbacks from this trip and a later Galápagos adventure, which were both fabulous voyages with family.)

Living in Arizona there’s no room for complaint about the quantity and loveliness of the hummers which visit our yard feeders. In the Phoenix area we have Costa’s and Anna’s year round, Black-chinned in summer, with Broad-tailed and Rufous making migratory appearances. I’ve seen a brilliant Broad-billed just two miles from here at the Desert Botanical Garden, so it’s a potential yard bird, as well. Further southeast in the state, hummer numbers swell to around 17 species — by contrast much of the U.S. hosts only one species, the Ruby-throated.

So only a truly spectacular hummer turn-out would impress a southwestern observer. Without doubt, Costa Rica provided that. During a thirteen-day trip, in various habitats and elevations, we saw about 34 species of hummers. Most I couldn’t capture in pixels: with a zoom-impaired camera, the best chance I have for snagging hummingbirds in photos is at feeders. These three posed obligingly on and around the feeders of Savegre Mountain Lodge.

<< Green violet-ear (Colibri thalassinus). These were quite common, and quite beguiling. A bit crabby, too: when another hummer got too near, those violet-ear patches would flare outward. Very threatening; we quailed at the sight. This bird has new feathers molting in on its forehead, visible as tiny white quills, still wrapped in whitish keratin like shoe-lace ends to facilitate outward growth.

>> Right: male Volcano hummingbird (Selasphorus flammula). These little toughies are related to our norte americaño Selasphori like Allen’s, Rufous, and Broad-tailed, and are just as glittery green-gold-bronze. This Cordillera de Talamanca subspecies has a plummy sheen in its gorget, slightly visible in this photo.

And lastly, below is a female White-throated mountain gem (Lampornis castaneoventris) feeding at an aloe, or perhaps a Kniphofia, flower. Her mate (not shown) has a spotless white throat and an azure forehead, but the female is marked with a handsome rusty underside, the “chestnut-belly” of its species name, castaneoventris.

(All photos A.Shock)

To say that pygmy owls are sparrow-like isn’t entirely true.  But it’s almost true.

To start with, there’s their size: they are Very Very Small (the technical term).  Almost sparrow-sized.  Perched in a conifer, they look like a tiny pinecone. Also, like sparrows, they’re largely diurnal, and can frequently be found glaring down from a high branch in daylight hours.

Ferruginous pygmy owl, San José CR.  (photo A.Shock) >>

Then there’s their fierce, predatory nature.

OK, that’s not like a sparrow at all, unless you’re a seed.

But then, there’s their population density: they’re almost as numerous as sparrows.  Of course this is hyperbole too, but, for a predator, whose numbers are usually limited, they are fairly numerous.  In a walled garden of our hotel in San José, Costa Rica, we encountered (heard or seen) at least three if not more Ferruginous pygmy owls, simultaneously responding to their own staccato calls, recorded and played back to them. (By contrast, in Arizona, Ferruginous pygmy owls reach their maximum northward range in the southern part of the state; they’re not terribly numerous.  In fact, the Cactus ferruginous pygmy owl is endangered in the state)

<< Here’s another pygmy owl in Costa Rica, making its repetitive “poop” call, at the rate of about 3 per second, each note accompanied by a slight lift of its tail, showing the whole-body effort that goes into making a noise that’s pretty loud coming from such a small entity. (Photo A.Shock)

Costa Rica is especially well-supplied with pygmy owl species: Ferruginous, Costa Rican (endemic to the country), and Central American pygmy owl all make their homes there, varying slightly in appearance and voice, but not overlapping much in range.

Three Star Owl blogging resumes after a hiatus of two weeks in Costa Rica…

Volcán Turrialba at dawn, from Rancho Naturalista (photo A.Shock).

In the view above only a small plume of steam and gas is visible from the most active of the three summit craters of the nearly 11,000 foot stratovolcano.  Its last major eruption was in 1866, but a recent increase in activity and a release of volcanic ash in January of this year, resulted in the evacuation of two nearby villages.

Gray-headed chachalacas (photo A.Shock) >>

Local residents may be used to living in view of this steaming giant, but for visitors it can be a little unnerving.  However there’s lots to distract, including vocal groups of Gray-headed chachalacas eating bananas at a fruit feeder, and a Crested Guan perched and silhouetted against the green valley far below.

<< Crested guan (photo A.Shock)

One of our destinations during the recent eastern California trip was the dramatic and amazing Mono Lake and its crumbly, gradually ephemeral tufa groves.  Tufa towers are mineral formations deposited underwater when calcium-rich spring water pours up into carbonate-rich lakewater.  The resulting mixture precipitates calcium-carbonate which builds upward into the lake water, sort of like stalagmites in a cave, but underwater.  If the lake level drops or the lake dries up, the towers are exposed (like the Trona Pinnacles).

>> Osprey-nested tufa tower, Mono Lake.  The tips of the hen’s primaries look like a little black alligator head, if you click to enlarge.

Lots of birds and mammals use the pinnacles to perch, shelter, forage, and nest.  This tufa tower, about 15 feet tall, is completely surrounded by water — a pair of ospreys has built their nest on the platform of its top.  The Osprey hen, sitting tight on either eggs or chicks, is barely visible as two black wingtips sticking up just over the the middle of the untidy stick nest.  She’s hunkered low down in a whipping wind.  Her mate, not in the photo, was coursing low over the water nearby.

This streaky, buffy-lored Savannah sparrow was hunting along the highly alkaline, hyper-saline water’s edge, like a very tiny T-rex, searching for alkali flies and larvae, yum.  The cold temps and wind made it fearless or at least heedless — hunger does that — and it passed right by me, intent on finding a late afternoon meal. >>

Mono Lake is also the second-largest California Gull rookery in the U.S.  Below is one, bright and bold, who landed on our truck roof to see if we had anything to eat.  I suppose this photo might qualify as a “The Bird Spots You.”

(All photos A.Shock; click to enlarge.)

The Mono Lake story is a complicated one of rich natural history, ruthless water-greed, and hard work by a lot of dedicated conservationists and politicians, for better or for worse.  Check it out here.

<< check out the orange “gape” or flexible skin at the corner of the mouth, all the better to gulp down bickies with.  We did not oblige.

After much battling, litigation and legislation, current policy is to let the lake fill naturally, so the South Shore tufa towers pictured above are slowly being inundated.  A good reason to visit now, if you’ve never been; in a few short decades, these tufas will be underwater.

[This is a Spot the Bird, although it’s less of a quiz than a photo series. All photos A or E Shock.  Click to enlarge.]

Here are some feral date palms, growing wild at a substantial oasis in Death Valley, CA.  The date palm is Phoenix dactylifera (“finger-bearing”), but in this case we could call it P. bubifera, “owl-bearing.”  There’s an owl in this palm, although you can’t see it. >>

Owls seem to like roosting in palms.   Every birder the world over checks palms for owls.  Great horned, Barn, Grass, whatever the local species are — if there are owls and palms together in a habitat or region, they are likely to be acquainted.  This is because palms (like pine trees) provide what owls like: concealing, sturdy roosts, and habitat and food source for prey items.  An owl perched hidden in palm fronds has a grand view of scurrying, foraging rodents at its feet — imagine regularly finding dinner on your very own kitchen floor… or, to quote Homer: “Mmmm, Floor Pie!”  (that’s the epic Homer Simpson, not Homer the epic poet).

Spot the bird: In the center of this photo, you can see a vague milky blur on the right edge of the darkest dark: the vermiculation, or fine breast barring, of a Great horned owl, Bubo virginianus. >>

It’s nearly invisible because its distinctive yellow eyes aren’t visible; owls roosting in plain sight will often consider themselves concealed by squinting.  When even one eye is revealed, the bird become easier to spot. <<

I’ve checked a lot of palm trees.  I never find owls in them (although I know others who have), but I keep checking.  This repeated optimistic searching is known in our family as checking for lard. The term was coined after a cat named the Beefweasel found an unattended pile of chopped fat on a windowsill in our St. Louis apartment, waiting to be put outside for winter-hungry titmice and chickadees.  Making good her name, the Beefweasel wolfed down the yummy chunks.  Balancing on her hind legs and sniffing hard, she checked that bountiful window-ledge for years hoping for a fatty repeat.  Birders are well-known to check for lard, too: there was a nut tree in St. Louis that was searched every winter by local birders on field trips because once in a decade past it had hosted an out-of-range Bohemian waxwing.  Among birders, places to check for lard are passed down as oral tradition: I knew about that pecan tree, but the waxwing that made it famous alit there long before my time.

So out of habit and hope, I was checking these particular palms with my binoculars, searching the deepest shadows for Good Feathery Detail (vermiculation).  And there was an owl.

>> The bird never fully unhid; this was the maximum best sighting it allowed.

It was a Great horned owl, tucked in out of the breeze, and not at all worried about us (although we didn’t go very close, being equipped with telephoto lenses and optics — owls are like cats; sometimes you have to respect their invisibility, even if it’s just in their heads).

It’s so delightful to luck into a surprise owl (which, mostly, they are), that we talked about it for the rest of the trip.  We referred to this bird as “the Boss in her Office”, because she reminded me of a boss I once had, who lurked invisible at her desk most of the time.  Although she was hidden from us as we scurried around busily, it was never a good idea to forget she was there…