And?  Then Sunday evening, a warm, calm, acacia-fragrant evening while it was still light, I looked down on the Nid from the upstairs window, and saw Fascinating Behavior.  The first was a definite look at a dark, fuzzy head with a now orange-yellow bill restlessly moving in and out of sight from the depths of the Nid.  This was very exciting.  Then nothing for several minutes — the Hen was away for quite a while on this outing.  It gave me a chance to study the inner edge of the far side of the Nid, and think how clean it was: no poop.  I realized I’d never seen a hummer carrying a white fecal sac away from a nest, like many songbirds do to keep their nests clean: food in, fecal sacs out.  I wondered if a nestling hummer produced a fecal sac that was just so small I’d never noticed.  Just then a gray fuzzy lumpish shape appeared over the rim: a second nestling!… but, no — it has no face?  What…? Then: SPLORTCH!  Like a jet of ‘baccy juice from the lips of a cartoon hillbilly, a tiny projectile squirt came shooting over the rim of the nest and arced towards the ground.  So that’s how it’s done!  No fecal sacs here for mom to cart away, just a butt-skywards and a quick squeeze, and business has been taken care of.

The second event was the Hen returning.  And, to my relief and fulfilled expectation, she perched on the edge of the nest and pointed her beak downward.  Just like in the nature films, two little heads rose up to meet her, and she poked her bill down one gullet and then the other, dispensing yummy liquid Gnat-in-Nectar stew to each Nidling in turn, the bigger one going first.

To the right is a close-up of an Anna’s hummingbird stamp on a Three Star Owl “Hummingbirds of Arizona” cylindrical vessel.  (Both photos: A.Shock)

No pictures of any of this excitement.  I’ll try, but I’ve decided to paper over the window until fledging.  It would be awful if our voyeurism, or the cats, who love to sit and “read the backyard newspaper” from this window, caused her to abandon the nest.  I’ll leave a flap to peek through, like an impromptu blind, and maybe before long I’ll manage to get a photo.  The best I can do is leave you with this link to someone else’s photo of exactly what I saw.

Cactus wrens are a large (for a wren), lively, and common presence all over the low-elevation deserts in the American Southwest.  The photo to left left shows one sitting on a cholla branch.  They do that a lot, often while making all sorts of  mechanical-sounding vocalizations like drbrdrbrdrbrdrr or krakrakrakrakrakra.  Cactus wrens are expert at landing on, perching on, and building in fiercely prickly vegetation, usually constructing their unruly globular “kitchen sink” nests weaving fiber, litter, twigs and plastic safely into the protective arms of seriously spiny cactus species like cholla.

Last week we found a Cactus wren dead in our yard, stuck in the leaves of a yucca.  Here’s a photo I took of it (take my word for it, the spotty plumage is diagnostic):

This was certainly sad, but it also seemed very odd.  We couldn’t tell how the bird died, but there it was, a sorry speckled-feathery carcass wedged in the leaves of a Soaptree yucca.  Was it stashed there by a predator?  Not likely; there are predators that do that, but they don’t frequent our yard.  Did it die in the foliage above and fall there?  That doesn’t seem likely, either — it was wedged in tight, and somewhat horizontally.  Did it get stuck there, somehow, maybe a foot caught in the narrow leaves?  Possibly.

Here’s another wren story, not sad and perhaps enlightening.

Just a few days after the macabre yard find, E and I visited Boyce Thompson Arboretum, and paused on our walk for a few moments to watch a pair of Cactus wrens (Campylorhyncus brunneicapillus) busily working on a nest in the upper branches of a tree Prickly pear, a really tall variety of Opuntia. You can see the main support pad in the photo on the left, with the fibrous nesting material sticking out to the right, and the streaky bird’s head poking out to the left.  The wren was about to launch itself into the next plant over, a Soaptree yucca, to continue rummaging between the rigid leaves to gather tough hair-like fibers (visible especially clearly in the carcass photo above) that grow along the yucca stem at the bases of the leaves.  It did this over and over again, each time going deep into the spiky growth to tug and pull at the free building material to use in its nest.  Below is the best photo we managed of the wren reappearing with its beak full of yucca fibers.  Considering the tough and pointy nature of the vegetation as well as the close quarters, it looked like hazardous work, although poking around in nooks and crannies, probing with their narrow, strong beak, is what cactus wrens are built to do.  (I’ve tried to extract unwanted volunteers like fan palm sproutlings and African sumac seedlings from inside yucca clumps, and let me say that gloves, eye protection and long sleeves are often not up to the task.)

So did our hapless yard wren get caught somehow while carrying out this dangerous domestic mission?  We can never know for sure, but it seems in the realm of possibility.  It’s hard out there for a bird.

(Top photo, from Wikimedia Commons, by Mark Wagner.  Other photos by A&E Shock)

Another dire tale of cactus wren-related nesting mishap casts the spectre of botanical revenge on this story: a couple of years ago, the continuous plucking of fiber off of a hairy “Old Man” cactus in the yard by a diligently nesting Cactus wren denuded the plant’s crown so much it experienced horrible sun-burn, and died.

It’s confirmed — the Hen’s egg(s) has/ve hatched!

This afternoon (Thursday April 2) just after one pm, I was finally able to catch the Hen away from the Nid — she’d been sitting tighter than usual this morning — and could look down on the nest from the upper window.  The first discovery was that the black thing on the rim of the nest is not a tiny beak; it’s just crud.  Having established that, I was about to put the binoculars down because the nest looked entirely empty. Just a second before lowering my arms, though, there was movement: a little yellow-gaped head briefly poked up, wavered around a little, and then dropped back in.  I kept watching, and saw the movement repeated a couple of times.  Once there may have been a glimpse of a second yellow gape (two would be the usual number of nestlings for Anna’s hummers), but I can’t be certain.  In between sightings the nest looked perfectly empty.  I determined to watch until the Hen came home.  After a couple of minutes she did, and just settled right in on top of her hatchling(s), no feeding, just sitting.  It/they disappeared entirely under her.  The nestling(s) must be very very newly hatched, because the little bill was still so very short and entirely yellow.  The head supporting the beak was pink and unfinished-looking.

I have no pictures yet of the ‘ling(s), but here’s yet another of the Hen from earlier in the day.  For now, you’ll have to imagine there are brand new pink-scalped dino-nestlings under her.  (Digiscoped photo A. Shock)

…a little pointy beak?

Here is this morning’s photo of the Anna’s hummingbird Hen on her Nid.  I began looking very carefully for evidence of nestlings yesterday, April 1, since that was my estimate of the earliest her eggs might hatch.  This morning, I checked first thing, and still didn’t see any sign of young birds.  But on examination of this digiscoped photo, there’s a tiny dash of a black line visible at the rim of the nest, showing against her gray fluffy undertail coverts.  Is it or isn’t it a little beak?  I can’t tell.

I’ll check back on the Nid when the Hen is away; more might be visible.  Stay tuned.

(Photo A.Shock)

One of my favorite places to go in the Phoenix area at any time of year (except perhaps in the heat of summer) is the Boyce Thompson Arboretum.  It’s a botanical garden of native and non-native desert plants up in the desert mountains around Superior Arizona about an hour’s drive east of Phoenix.  It’s spectacularly sited along craggy Queen Creek gorge at the foot of Picketpost Mountain.  And it’s great for plants, birds, walking, picnicking — even shopping, like now when their twice-annual plant sale is going on.  If this sounds like an ad, that’s okay, I’m happy to enthuse about the place.

We made a visit earlier this week: the place is rocking with wildflower color, the penstemons are at their peak, and the aloes are still going; the spring migrant birds are coming in and the residents are singing and nesting like mad.  For some reason, male Costa’s hummingbirds — sturdy little desert hummers with bright purple mustaches (in the right light*) — are particularly in evidence; the hens are probably on their nests now. Here are three images E captured of male Costa’s intently working over various penstemon blooms.

Three upper photos by E. Shock.  Remember to click on each for a slightly larger image.

Hen update: The Stalwart Hen (who you will recall is an Anna’s Hummingbird) is sitting tighter than ever on her tidy nest atop pine cones in the big Aleppo pine.  The breezy air has rearranged the branches around her, and although it’s still easy to see her on the nest, it’s tougher than ever to get photos.  But, she’s there.

Speaking of Costa’s hummingbirds and hummingbirds in the yard, I regret to report that we are currently not seeing Miss Thang, the female Costa’s who’s been so regular in our front garden.  There is one male Costa’s very actively performing display flights on the edge of the property, but he’s currently the one Costa’s individual who we know has stayed the entire season here.  We’re hoping Miss Thang (or a suitable replacement!) will be back sometime around the beginning of June, which is when there seems to be an increase in Costa’s in the yard.

*Here’s a bonus shot of just how purple a Costa’s gorget can look in the right light: it’s a head-on view of a Costa’s at one of our yard feeders (photo A. Shock):

One more post from our desert hike last weekend, because, well — Wow!

Right along the trail we encountered two specimens of individual cactus that seemed taller than most of their kin.  One was a towering, somewhat spindly saguaro. Of course, saguaros are known for their height, but this was one of the tallest I’ve seen personally.  Here’s a shot looking up at its crowns from the base. I’ve also included a picture of the saguaro with E, who is just over 6 feet tall.  If you figure you could stack about 7 of him to the top of the cactus, it’s probably close to 45 feet tall which is about maximum species height.  Maricopa County is the home of one of the state’s champion saguaros which is just over 50 feet in height, but it grows somewhere in Scottsdale.  By the way, although this saguaro has probably survived brush fires, the blackened, tough-looking skin on its lower section is more likely bark, developed with age, in place of the smooth green skin we’re used to seeing on younger individuals.  When the skin becomes calloused and barky, the spines are no longer as needed for protection against gnawing animals, and they gradually become the vestigial, button-like bumps you can see in the photo above.

The other picture also has E for scale, but that’s not a young saguaro he’s standing next to.  It’s a barrel cactus: a compass barrel, Ferocactus cylindraceus, one of the most commonly encountered barrel cactus in this part of the desert.  They’re big barrels, and when you come across an undisturbed cluster of elderly ones, they’re often 4′ to 5′ tall. But this one, with two small ones growing at its base — probably its own seedlings from many seasons past — looks to be more than 8 feet tall, which must approach the maximum height of the species.  The only barrel cactus I’ve seen to compete are the famously tall Diguet’s barrels (Ferocactus diguetii) which can reach 4 meters in height. They grow on just a few islands in the Sea of Cortez off the eastern shore of Baja California.  Below is a photo of one, but it’s only of average height — no more than 7 feet. And check out the tiny tiny bud of a baby barrel coming up at its base: it looks like a tennis ball. How cute is a baby cactus ?

All photos A. Shock (except Diguet’s barrel on Santa Catalina Island, by E. Shock), and with no camera tricks, like standing farther from the camera than the subject: no Hogzilla here!

Here are a couple of photos that show two excellent see-through specializations of Turkey vulturedom: the pervious nostril (already discussed here) and an inner protective eyelid called the nictitating membrane. The camera caught the vulture in mid-blink, so the membrane is visible in this photo as a bluish milky cast over the eye of the vulture — if you click to enlarge the photo to the left, you can easily see it, including the leading edge of the inner eyelid, which slides closed toward the back of the eye. Notice that you can faintly see the bird’s pupil through the membrane: if you can see it, it can see you (like a truck-driver’s rear-view mirror). The lower photo shows the membrane fully closed, and the vulture apparently looking through it at something to the left. (Top photo A. Shock; bottom photo E. Shock)

Most birds have a nictitating membrane (as well as some other animals, like manatees and horned lizards), and in every animal it has the same basic function — to provide a see-through protective lens over the eye which can be deployed during high-risk activities, such as rummaging through a ripe porcupine carcass with a couple of sharp-beaked buddies (in the case of vultures); plunging into a thorny mesquite bosque in pursuit of a road runner (Harris’s hawk); stooping at 100 mph after a mid-air dove (Peregrine falcon); digging in sandy soils, then cleaning and moistening the gritty cornea (horned lizard).

Brief etymology: “nictitating” is derived from Latin nictare, to blink.

HEN UPDATE: The Hen is still tight-on-Nid, having weathered yesterday’s quite breezy atmosphere.

Not much larger than the Verdin is another small gray bird of the Sonoran Desert, the Black-tailed Gnatcatcher.  A tiny, long-tailed, streamlined bird with a narrow gleaning bill, both sexes sport cool gray plumage, and in breeding season the male has a full black cap.  They actively forage for insects in desert vegetation, and are almost always found in pairs since they remain with their mate year-round.  (The similar Blue-gray gnatcatcher comes through the desert around Phoenix in migration, but Black-tailed gnatcatchers are permanent residents here.)  Like the Verdin and hummingbirds, Gnatcatchers are champion nest-builders, and build complex and neatly constructed nests inside thorny trees and shrubs like Palo Verde and Catclaw acacia.  (For more detail, see this life history from the Sonoran Desert Museum website)

On a recent desert hike in the Hell’s Canyon Wilderness west of Phoenix, E and I watched a pair of Black-tailed gnatcatchers nesting, repeatedly disappearing into the interior of a Palo verde just off the trail, only about 4 feet from the ground, which is a typical nest location for these tiny birds.  In the branches midway to the trunk we could see the oblong cup-shaped nest they were working on.

They were working on it, but not in the way we first assumed.  On closer observation, we realized that although the Gnatcatchers were a nesting pair, they weren’t building the nest we could see — they were robbing from it.  Here’s a photo of the male (to the right of the nest) leaving the scene with a bit of white fluff in his beak, on his way to the current construction site somewhere else.  A second later, he flew off, but was back for more in less than a minute.  The bird and the nest are both very well camouflaged in the gray sticks and twigs spotted with sunlight in the depths of the green-branched Palo Verde tree.  (Photo by E. Shock)

And, speaking of camouflage:

Bonus Nidification Challenge — Find the Hen

Obvious hint: look for the bright black eye.  Here’s a bonus if blurry photo of the backyard Anna’s hummingbird hen, from an upper window.  During the morning the Nid-bough is in the sun, and when the Hen sits on the nest with her back to the hot sunlight, it makes her glow like an emerald in the needles. At times when the sun would strike either eggs or nestlings, her incubating actually provides shade and insulation from overheating, rather than the usual keeping warm of eggs or offspring.  A previous successful nest built in the same general area also had the morning sun issue.  Every morning, that Hen would stick tight to the nest until shade returned, holding her wings out over the two nestlings under her, the sun beating down on her own head and back.

(Photo A. Shock.  The resolution of the photo suffers from being shot through a window screen.)

By now I’ve managed to get a look at the nest from the upper window when the Hen is away, and discovered you can’t see the interior from the angle that view provides.  I was hoping to actually see eggs, but no luck…

In an earlier post, there was an oblique mention of seeing “Feral Quadrupeds of Interest”.  These would be the wild burros who live in the desert around Lake Pleasant, Arizona.

On our hike the other day, E and I encountered a small group of them.  They are often described as “more likely to be heard than seen” and in fact, we did hear them first.  A loud braying filled the quiet air of the desert morning, drowning out the breeze in the saguaro spines, the jingling of the Black-throated sparrows, and the chup-chup-chup of the male cardinal.  It was instantly recognizable — after we remembered there were supposed to be feral donkeys out here! — and after looking around for a bit, E spotted a group of about 5 on the top of a ridge.  They were not very close, but we did get some distant images of them, one of which is above.  The adults are gray, and you can see them on the very right-hand edge of the photo, behind a saguaro and a palo verde tree.  There’s a younger, darker animal visible grazing near the left side of the picture.  (Photo by E. Shock.)

These are the naturalized descendants of work-burros brought into the region by miners and others during the 1880s when gold prospecting and other pursuits were a big deal in the area. (I’ve read that Phoenix, on the Salt River, actually started as an ancillary vegetable-growing supply community for the then larger population around Wickenburg, where the local river, the Hassayampa, lives mostly underground.)  There are approximately 200 wild burros living in the desert around Lake Pleasant.  (The photo to the right is of a Burro I met in Veracruz last fall.)

But there’s a sorrowful angle to this tale which we didn’t know when we saw these guys the other day: just a couple weeks ago, an ORV rider found the bodies of 11 wild burros including several jacks, a jenny, and some colts, not far from this trail, on BLM land.  They had been shot by someone, which is a federal offense, and now there are investigations, a $5000 reward, a hotline (call 1-800-637-9152 if you have info about who did this) and a great deal of deserved outrage about the shootings.  Is it my imagination, or does the desert west of Phoenix harbor more gun-totin’, Saguaro-plugging, burro-murdering, gila-monster-kissing ignoramuses than necessary?

The discussion of whether feral animals like these should be in wilderness areas is not one I intend to engage in here — these issues are complex and I have no expertise (although I will say that the Federal Government allows cattle on these lands, and I can’t imagine cattle are gentler on the desert than a relatively small number of dainty-footed burros).  They certainly are part of the human history of the land, like a ghost town or an old stagecoach track, but of course, living.  What I do know is that I’m happy we saw this small family group of wild burros at home in this part of the desert.

Etymology

A bit of a stuffy etymological point unrelated to burros: although always used as a noun nowadays, the word ignoramus is actually a verb: in Latin it means “we do not know”.  So the proper plural really is ignoramuses, not ignorami, which is a “pseudo-learned blunder” (a favorite concept of mine — a common example of which is saying “pro-cess-eez” as if processes is a Latinate plural for process, incorrectly based on the thesis-theses model, which it isn’t: it’s just a plain old -es plural added to a noun that ends in a consonant.  You would never pluralize address by saying “ad-dress-eez”).