Kinglet Conversations

We were in Bolinas again this week. We drove and met two classmates in Fairfax at 8 AM, then left the cars and made the rest of the journey by bike over Mt. Tam. I still felt charged up from last week’s class, and the trip over the mountain was much easier than before. We arrived at Commonweal Garden early so that our classmates could attend their Cultural Mentoring classes, and we two Native Eyes students had some time to chill.

While I set about putting my stuff in order, I noticed that Jon Young and some other teachers were talking on the front porch of Penny and James’s house. I also expected that at this time of day, around the other corner of the house, there would probably be Juncos feeding either on the ground or a little higher in the trellised bush among the solanum vine. I needed to get to our campsite on the other side of the house, so I would need to pass by one gatekeeper or the other. But I can stay calmer and less self-conscious around Juncos than I can around human teachers, so I chose the Junco path. Sure enough there were Juncos on the ground, but they let me pass quite close without a twitter, flutter, or so much as a suspicious look, which made me feel pretty good.

I grabbed what I wanted from our campsite, dropped off some other stuff, and realized that I’d left something else important near the front gate. I didn’t want to go back the way I had come so I decided to cross in front of the house where Jon and the others were talking. As I walked up closer, I got a little nervous and a quiet voice in my head started chattering, “What if you set off a bird alarm? What if Jon sees your nervousness? What if…?” I could feel myself holding the upper-body tension attendant to brain chatter and tried to let it go.

A few more steps toward the porch, and from the creekside willows not five feet away came a harsh staccato ratchet, doubtless from the accusatory beak of some little brown bird pointed straight in my direction. As soon as the bird gave the alarm I heard a shout from the porch.

“Hey! Why is your concentric ring so big?” Though they came with a smile, Jon’s words still stopped me in my tracks, deer-in-the-headlights style. Welcome to another week of Native Eyes!

Jon quizzed me for a bit about why the bird had alarmed at me, and asked what the bird was. I thought I had a good idea of it’s identity, but the shock of being shouted at by Jon Young had scattered any analytical thought and I was left scrambling for the scraps. “I’m not sure. I think I know the bird but I’m blanking on the name. Something like a wren, lives in thick brush, behaves sort of like a wren but it has a longer tail and a differently shaped beak. The name has wren in it.”

“Oh a Wrentit. No, I don’t think so. I think it might be a Ruby-Crowned Kinglet but I’m not sure. I’m still getting used to the little birds around here,” Jon said. “So now what you should do is sit down with that little bird for a while and see if you can see him, see what he does.” Perhaps he saw the knee-jerk rebellion rising in me against the “should” statement, and amended himself, “Or not, do what you were going to do. But watch for that little bird.”

I retrieved my items, feeling crestfallen and angry at myself, wishing that Jon could have seen the ease with which the Juncos let me pass. I sat by the Native Eyes fire circle and whittled a hearthboard for a bowdrill. Soon, I heard the same alarm from the slope behind me. Looking up, I caught a fast-twitchy birdlet in olive and yellow with pale wing bars and incomplete white spectacles around its eyes, which made it look aggressively focused. The culprit was indeed a Kinglet. I hadn’t even identified the species correctly when I was talking to Jon! As I sat whittling and thinking, feeling angry and depressed, I heard the Kinglet in the willows go off a full four more times, with no human standing near him. What was he alarming at?

Finishing the board, I decided to go walking up a trail that I hadn’t explored before. Everywhere I could hear Kinglets alarming. Ascending the ridge, I found a spot to sit and watch the sunset. The Kinglet in the tree above me started ratcheting out an alarm, then stopped, and started again at odd intervals. A flock of Juncos flew near, foliage-gleaning and twittering to each other. They seemed unconcerned about the Kinglet’s alarm, other than their extra fondness for the cover of brush. A Cal Towhee flew up near me and jumped around under the brush as well. Small birds flew in bobbing and darting flocks high overhead. As I rose to return to the fire circle, somewhat refreshed, the Kinglet went off again. As I left the thicket area, I could hear the Juncos behind me becoming more and more agitated. They rose to higher branches and gave intermittent “Chip! Chip!” calls from high in the trees, which I could hear for a long way down the path.

Throughout the next few days, I was extra aware of the Kinglets alarming, wondering what was setting them off so frequently when other birds seemed vigilant, but not alarmed enough for vocalization. Raptors of many types, including Accipiters, have adopted this little valley, so perhaps the Kinglet alarms were related to predatory birds. Or perhaps not.

Something that felt like an answer to my Kinglet questions, though did not compute intellectually as one, came on Wednesday as I was standing in the orchard. I stood quietly by a tree, watching birds gleaning bugs, when a Kinglet flew up to my tree and began feeding and chirping softly. I looked at her, and she looked at me while jumping from branch to branch pecking for aphids. When I was satisfied that she was calmly cognizant of my presence I asked, “Why are you guys shouting so much?” I did not actually expect an answer, I was merely trying to vent some confusion. But she looked me straight in the eye after I’d said my piece, paused for a heartbeat, opened her little sharp beak, and shouted out her alarm call. Baffled, I walked away, but could hear the alarm continuing for a long time after I left.

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The Kinglets were the biggest teachers for me this class, but other things happened as well. Here’s a quick rundown:

Jon brought a hand drill set from N!gow, a bushman from (I think) Namibia, who had given it to the German Art of Mentoring people, who gave it to Jon in thanks for the metaphorical coal that he brought from the USA to light their traditional fires. We lit our RDNA fire with N!Gow’s hand drill, sung our new fire song from the Vermont Art of Mentoring, and heard the Deer Honoring song played by Jon and Evan. We brought a coal from the RDNA fire and lit the Native Eyes fire, producing a spectacular tower of flame before settling down into a calm little fire. We stayed up late discussing Native Eyes, chatting and laughing.



The next day we had a bird sit that was again saturated with Accipiter signatures, then we went on solo wandering expeditions looking for buck day beds. I took the lower field, and found Doe Land, but little buck sign and no buck beds. My classmates on the ridges had different experiences, however.

Later in the afternoon, we went out to the sewage treatment ponds to look for cougar sign. We heard some good stories from a local person about the resident female but found no definite sign.



That evening we debriefed the bird sit, finding more accipiter patterns, and Evan led more songs.



The next morning we rose before dawn, broke camp and embarked on our bicycle journey over the mountain as the sun was rising.







May the dawn find you on as bright a trail.