Monthly Archives: August 2018

All About Alcids

Braden here.

“Pigeon Guillem-wait, no that’s just a pigeon,” my dad said as we stood underneath the ferry dock in Anacortes, Washington, “I must have guillemots on the brain or something.”

Just then, a football-shaped bird shot out from underneath the platform we were on. It was jet black, with white wing patches and strawberry-red feet—an actual Pigeon Guillemot!

“Awesome!” I said as we high-fived, “It appeared just as you said it! Wait a minute…Marbled Murrelet.”

Unfortunately for us, a Marbled Murrelet did not shoot out from under the dock like the guillemot had, but we weren’t that disappointed. My dad hadn’t seen a guillemot since the year we started birding!

 

A Black Guillemot, identified from a Pigeon Guillemot by the lack of the black stripe across the wing patch.

The Pigeon Guillemot is a seabird belonging to a family of birds called Alcidae, or alcids. Alcids are the penguins of the north, and share many similarities: they both are much better in water than on land, they both(for the most part) live in the colder parts of oceans, and they even share the same coloring! Once upon a time, there was even an alcid that couldn’t fly, the Great Auk. Sadly, it went extinct in 1844 thanks to hunting and invasive species. Guess where the last individual lived? Iceland.

Iceland is a great place to start learning alcids. It has at least six fairly-regularly ocurring species: the Atlantic Puffin, Common Murre, Thick-billed Murre, Razorbill, Dovekie, and Black Guillemot, the last of which is the Arctic-dwelling cousin of the Pigeon Guillemots we saw in Washington.

When I was in Iceland, I saw all of these except the Dovekie, which, during the breeding season, only inhabits the pack ice of the high Arctic. Each one was under slightly different conditions. When it came to colonies, Puffins were the weakest of the bunch, digging burrows in dirt, while Razorbills nested in cracks and ledges on sheer rock cliffs. Unlike most birds, Razorbills actually lay lopsided eggs so that they will roll in a circle and not off the cliff. If not for seasickness and an angry ocean, I would’ve gotten to see Latrabjarg cliffs as we passed it, a huge expanse of rock in western Iceland home to 40% of the world’s nesting Razorbill population!

Razorbills are named for the white stripe that crosses their beaks.

We also saw Razorbills farther away from shore than the other alcids, some accompanying flightless chicks. Once the chicks are ready to leave the nest, one naturalist told me, it would jump straight off the cliff! The parent, and sometimes parents would then join it and undergo catastrophic molt—molting all of their feathers at the same time, meaning that for a few weeks, neither the adults or the chicks would be able to fly!

Not all alcids are as devoted parents, though. After a while, Atlantic Puffins just stop bringing food to the nest, forcing the starving chick to leave and fend for its own. And while this may be for many reasons, it is not for lack of food—using the spines on their bills, puffins can carry up to 20 fish at a time, unlike other alcids. The record for one bird is 80 fish!

Atlantic Puffins are declining in southern Iceland, as their main food supply, the sand eels, moves north. This also is affecting Arctic Terns.

Some alcids live all over the Northern Hemisphere, while others are much more localized For instance, while I saw Common Murres in both Iceland and Washington, every other species was unique to one of the locations. If you are looking for alcids, I suggest you start in Alaska, which is home to 17 species alone!

 

Icelandic Seabird Storm

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Braden here again for my second Iceland post.

Saturday, July 14th, 2018. 9:00 a.m.

I have just finished breakfast and arrived on the bridge of the National Geographic Explorer. We are continuing our circumnavigation of Iceland, and this is our first day with some free time at sea. I have chosen to spend that time on the bridge, searching for marine mammals and possibly life birds. There are two seabirds in specific I am hoping for: Great Skua and Northern Gannet. Neither are particularly rare, but I have yet to see them.

Great Skuas, the “pirates of the seas”, will chase down other birds and steal their food. (Photo by Braden Collard)

James (Jamie) Coleman, one of the ship’s naturalists and leading bird experts, is also on the bridge, and he knows my quest. “You seen a Skua yet?” he asks me. “They’re everywhere this morning.”

“No, I’ve mostly been focusing on sleeping and eating.”

“Ah. I guess that’s also important. Anyways, keep your eyes open. We’ve also seen some White-beaked Dolphins.”

I settle into a chair, and, seeing no activity in or over the water, begin reading a large guide book titled Marine Mammals of the World.

“Is that the one by Bob Pitman?” Jamie asks.

I nod.

“He’s seen every marine mammal in the world but two, I think.”

“Has he seen a Vaquita?” I ask, knowing that the endangered porpoise’s last stand was going down in the Gulf of California.

“Yeah—he’s working with the Mexican government right now to save them.”

“Cool!”

“Oh, I’ve got a skua!” Jamie suddenly exclaims. “Flying right in front of the bow!”

I quickly raise my binoculars to see a large, dark bird with silver wing patches flying directly in front of the ship, its wingbeats heavy.

Approximately one second later, the Explorer’s captain, Aaron Woods, shouts, “Gannet! Even with the horizon—two o’clock and moving left!”

I again raise my binoculars level to the horizon. Far off, a bird that appears to be the opposite of a skua catches my eye. Its feathers are a clean white, with black tips on the wings, and its outline is sleek.

Like their southern cousins the boobies, gannets will perform spectacular vertical plunge-dives while hunting. (Photo by Braden Collard)

“How’s that?” Jamie asks, “Two lifers in the same two seconds!”

I grin. “Awesome!”

During the next couple of days, as we continue back towards Reykjavik, seabird numbers pick up. On my last full day on the ship, it all culminates in one big seabird showdown.

We have just left the island of Heimaey, the only inhabited island of the Westmann Archipelago, and the Explorer is headed for Surtsey, the new island to the south. I am on the bridge again, as is Jamie, talking about what else has been spotted. Suddenly, he looks up and spies a large, white cloud in the distance.

“Feeding frenzy!”

As our ship draws closer, I see large, straight dorsal fins rising from the water. Killer Whales!

Killer Whales, or Orcas, are actually dolphins–the largest in the world!

There are at least 30 Killer Whales, or orcas, on all sides of the boat now, feeding on whatever huge school of fish swarms below the waves. The whales aren’t the only ones feasting. A tornado of gannets has engulfed us, following the whales. At certain points, squadrons of them leave the storm to plunge-dive, torpedoing straight into the water.

Northern Fulmars, the common tubenoses here, are also in large numbers, and have attracted their rarer cousins, Manx and Sooty Shearwaters! These just remind me of how many miles seabirds have under their wings—the Manx’s have probably bred on the coast of Britain, while the Sooties could have travelled from as far as New Zealand!

Northern Fulmars are circumpolar–meaning they live all around the Arctic Ocean. (Photo by Braden Collard)