Over the years I’ve become somewhat of a bird nerd. I enjoy watching them and love the challenge of trying to ID a species based on its markings, call, behavior or flight pattern. Given there are over 10,000 unique species of birds, many of which are nearly identical, I find an odd pleasure in confirming one.
A few years ago, I took a tracking course in Botswana. It was my turn to lead a bushwalk for the class, so I bent down and attempted to read print marks in the dirt. “You damn well better be confident in how long ago those prints were left there,” the trainer advised me. “Otherwise, you’re leading this group to their funeral.”
Not wishing to ignite a charge from startled cape buffalo or offer any of my classmates up as a leopard’s dinner, I asked for help. “It’s been windy all morning and it just rained. You need to forget about the prints. Study the birds,” my teacher advised.
Identifying birds and analyzing their behavior and language quickly became the focal point of that particular day’s lesson. It became clear that if we could understand the birds, we would have a successful (and survivable) bushwalk.
For example, red-billed oxpeckers eat ticks off their mammalian hosts, so their presence meant a cape buffalo, giraffe, rhino or another large herbivore with the ability to charge was nearby. A shrill wailing sound from a whalberg’s eagle was likely to be an alarm call, indicating a lurking cat or other predator was in the area. Vultures circling overhead were a sure sign of a recent kill, meaning lions and hyenas weren’t too far away. Identifying birds and understanding the meaning behind their vocalizations — song, courtship, internal politics, a juvenile demanding dinner or an alarm — is an ancient and fascinating science that has kept humans alive for millions of years.
Of course, birds aren’t limited to communicating essential messages solely about their personal environment — more and more, they’re communicating about THE environment. There’s no shortage of peer-reviewed studies showing climate change has manipulated bird migration patterns. They follow food sources and raise their young where it’s plentiful — and destinations and times of arrival are changing with the weather. Quite literally.
Some of Park City’s favorite annual visitors include sandhill cranes. Most years, these magnificent, if not a bit awkward, creatures are the avian calendar equivalent of St. Patrick’s Day — they arrive every year in mid-March to mate in roughly the same spot as years past. Except for when they don’t.
This year I’ve already spotted two, one on Feb. 3 and another on the 10th. To be fair, it might have been the same bird both times, but the locations were far enough apart to make me question that hypothesis. And even if it was the same bird, it’s still six weeks early, which is likely an indication of something. Sure, it could just be a literal “early bird,” but that seems doubtful, assuming there were indeed two different cranes. I’m more inclined to believe the sandhill crane(s) know something we don’t. An early spring, perhaps.
The first official day of spring, or as we call it here in Park City, the 217th day of winter, is still a few weeks off. On the calendar at least. It remains to be seen if our plumaged pals are just getting a jump start on their summer nesting plans, or they are tuned in to nature and spring is about to sprung.
Amy Roberts is a freelance writer, longtime Park City resident and the proud owner of two rescued Dalmatians, Stanley and Willis. Follow her on Twitter @amycroberts.