This is what a sub-polar temperate rainforest looks like on the dry side of a mountain. The first part of the trail gently meanders through a forest of hemlock, spruce and cedar. The understory is populated by blueberry, currant, salmonberry, devil’s club, twisted stalk, several species of fern and other plants.
On June 18 we took advantage of a warm day filled with sunshine to take on the Heney Ridge Trail near Cordova. Lingering snow fields above the tree line stopped us with about a quarter mile to go on this 4.1 mile trail, but from where we stopped, the sweeping views taking in snow-capped peaks and Prince William Sound were nonetheless spectacular.
As we gained elevation, the trees gradually thinned out and in places gave way to muskeg meadows. This is marshy, fragile terrain. Narrow boardwalks and steps installed by the Forest Service help minimize hikers’ impact. (Barbra is right of center – a tiny figure giving some idea of the scale of this landscape.
Getting even a glimpse of birds proved challenging, but along the way we heard the songs and chatterings of Boreal Chickadees, Golden-crowned Kinglets, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Orange-crowned Warblers, Wilson’s Warblers, Hermit Thrushes, Varied Thrushes, American Robins, Crows and Ravens. An American Dipper buzzed by as we were admiring the upper reaches of Heney Creek, and once we had climbed above the tree line we were able to look down on soaring eagles and gulls. Fresh bear scat. Fox scat dense with hair from its meal.
It was in these high meadows that we came upon an old friend: Shooting Stars, a favorite flower we didn’t have at Chignik Lake and were happy to reacquaint. This specimen is dusted with pollen from evergreen trees.
Several types of violet are native to Alaska. This tiny beauty is Stream Violet which we found growing near seeps and streams along the trail.
From approximately the halfway point, the trail became steep (there is a ladder in one place) and mostly rocky. No technical climbing involved, but Barbra and I agreed on the adjective “rigorous.” Totally worth the effort, though.
At the rocky terminus of our hike, we looked for alpine flowers. Small but beautiful, we found a few. Jewel of the mountains, Wooly Lousewort.
Narcissus-flowered Anemone
One often has to look closely to find the gems that are alpine flowers. This Wedge-leafed Primrose bloom is about the size of a fingernail…
…and these Alaskan Pincushion flowers are even small than that. But they’re all favorites, the two of us calling back and forth to each other with each discovery. Bell heather, tiny Vaccinium, minuscule Alpine Azalea, White Marsh Marigold (which might better be named Snow Marigold) in wet places…
Rock cairns mark the alpine portion of the trail. The last part is fairly lightly traveled, and it’s easy to confuse a rocky ephemeral creek bed for the actual path. Eagles soaring below, piping from perches in the distant forest, waterfalls rushing from melting snowfields, a light breeze, shirtsleeve warm, quiet… We’ll be back.
I found a jar upon a mountain and thought to open it it smelled of moonshine and spring winds upon that mountain top It gathered in the village below the lake and river and distant sea
I found a jar upon a mountain near the village where I lived it caught the light a certain way and seemed to hold it there It gathered in the autumn day the sky, the mountains, the distant sea
Quite a few of the images I capture are key-worded “vast” in my Lightroom catalog. Here, as I was walking along the glacial moraine at Sheridan Lake, I turned around just in time to catch Barbra and two visiting friends taking in the landscape. Located about 17 miles from our home in Cordova, a short walk through spruce and hemlock forests leads to this magical lake where, in wintertime people ice skate among massive structures of ice and in springtime and early summer kayak and canoe through the same setting.
It was June 12 when we visited the lake, but here on the edge of Alaska’s Chugach National Forest, the world’s northernmost rainforest, it’s still spring as these willow flowers attest.
That’s Sheridan Mountain on the left side of this image – another hike for another day. Just right of center is a peek view of Sheridan Glacier itself.
We’re hoping to visit this lake again soon with our pack rafts, hopefully on a day with a little nicer light. It’d be interesting to get a closer view of the ice, and to put a watercraft of known size in the picture to provide a sense of scale.
Having arrived in Cordova by ferry from Whittier (a 100-mile cruise across Prince William Sound) on May 15, although most of our time has been given to setting up our new home, we’ve already managed to feather in a handful of hikes. With nearly 20 named Forest Service trails within a short drive – and all of them changing with the seasons, all of them beautiful as they wind through stands of moss-draped evergreens, through muskeg, up mountains and along lakes, rivers and streams, there will be lots more to come. So stay tuned!
A landscape seen by fewer than 100 living people….
The Hike Up Flattop
There’s a small mountain behind our village. We call it Flattop, though once you reach the peak you find that it is somewhat rounded. Although reaching the summit constitutes an elevation gain of only about 1,200 feet (a quarter of a mile; four football fields), because it is the foreword-most mountain facing the village, the summit provides an unobstructed 180 degree view sweeping from the corner of Chignik Lake to one’s left where Clarks River enters, down the lake and through the village, and then down the Chignik River all the way across the estuary to the next village, Chignik Lagoon, a vista encompassing about 12 miles. But in fact, the view is more grand even than that, for one can see mountains 20 miles beyond Chignik Lagoon where a portion of the Alaska Peninsula curves out into the Alaska Gulf, and while gazing across Chignik Lake the landscape disappears in haze over Bristol Bay. Keeping in mind that a few steps beyond the last house in the village one is entering a landscape fewer than 100 living people have seen, the view from Flattop is even more exclusive.
The roundtrip hike from our home to the summit and back is fairly rigorous. We begin by following the community’s main thoroughfare, a dirt road that curves along the lakeshore, crosses a small, willow-crowded stream inhabited by char, and then branches off to the left past a few houses beyond which is a honda trail. For about two miles, the trail alternately cuts through stands of scrub alder and willow, open tundra, and shoulder-high grasses, fireweed, ferns and salmonberry brakes.
The trailhead leading up Flattop is easy to miss if you don’t know where to look. People – young men who are hard on their machines – very occasionally take their quads up the mountain, though scarcely often enough to beat back the jungle-thick vegetation waiting to reclaim any seldom-used path in this part of the world. Not long ago, a neighbor was lucky to get clear in time to avoid injury when the mountain took control of his honda. His quad is now somewhere on Flattop’s steep flanks, hung up in alders, unrecoverable. One’s own two feet are the more prudent – and satisfying – option for ascent.
In the early morning of September 17, we entered the trailhead through a field of tall grasses and fireweed gone to downy seed, colored with autumn, made dripping wet with low fog. As we gained elevation, the grasses, ferns and flower stalks gave way to thick stands of salmonberry bushes. It wasn’t long before our pants were soaked and our water-resistant boots were saturated through to squishy socks. Sunshine in the forecast promised dry clothing once we climbed beyond the vegetation.
Landmark by landmark, salmonberry brakes began to thin. Alders grew smaller and more wind-twisted. We ambled through openings where, back in early June, we’d come across patches of heathers and wildflowers – vaccinium, geranium, yarrow, paintbrush, candle orchid, fireweed. At times we lost the faint trail, the path buried in tall, thick grasses or barely discernible through tangled tunnels of gnarled alders. Just as the sun broke free from mist and crested the summit we emerged onto the first treeless scree, the sudden warmth and open landscape a joy, handfuls of lingonberries, tart, sweet, energizing.
As we continued up the slope, I studied the loose scree for signs of the Weasel Snout, lousewort, Alpine Azalea, Alp Lily, Pincushion, Moss Campion, Roseroot, avens, saxifrage and Purple Oxytrope I’d photographed in June, but aside from a few lupine still clinging to periwinkle-colored blooms, the rest were gone, the few remaining leaves various hues of yellow, red and orange. Near the top we were surprised to find blueberries, wind-stunted bushes hugging thin soil, leaves crimson, berries big and frost-nipped sweet.
We had chosen a day when the forecast predicted calm air, offering the hope of mountains mirrored in a glassy lake and pleasant loafing at the top. We scanned the lakeshore and flats for moose and other wildlife, but aside from a few Black-capped Chickadees, Pine Grosbeaks, a sparrow or three and clouds of midges dancing in filtered sunlight, animals were scarce, though near the summit my spirit bird, a Northern Shrike, materialized from out of nowhere to hover a few feet above my head in order to puzzle me out. Bear tracks all the way at the top. Moose tracks and fox tracks along the way. Lynx scat… maybe.
The video is best viewed on a large screen. As you watch, notice the round, snow-crowned summit just barely peaking out from behind foreground mountains in the view across the lake. That’s Mount Veniaminof, an occasionally active volcano 24 miles southwest of Chignik Lake. The earth’s curve over that distance causes it to appear to be only as tall as the closer 3,000 foot peaks. But in fact, Veniaminof touches the sky at 8,225 feet. We hear it rumble from time to time and have occasionally woken to a smoke-clouded sky or a fine dusting of volcanic ash on new snow in the village.
The corner of the lake to the left, in front of those mountains, is where Clarks River debouches. A major salmon spawning tributary, in September Clarks offers spectacular, nearly untouched fly-fishing for returning Coho Salmon.
Then, looking up the lake through the gap in the hills and mountains, the landscape disappears into haze. Black River flows into Chignik Lake here, beyond which is miles of Black River itself, and then the upper lake, Black Lake. Past that is a vast area of boggy tundra and kettle ponds all the way across the peninsula to the ghost village of Ilnik and the coast where sandy barrier islands, The Seal Islands, front Bristol Bay.
Following the landscape to the right, the lake narrows as it flows past the village of Chignik Lake, a community of about 50 to 55 people, most of whom are of Alutiiq heritage. The large white buildings in the middle are the school gym (left) and the school itself (right) where Barbra teaches. Just as the village ends, the lake narrows further, picks up speed and becomes Chignik River. A narrow dirt road follows the river downstream and terminates at a boat landing across from the fish-counting weir, the buildings of which are just barely visible. There are no roads beyond this one, which terminates on its other end at the airfield.
I included a photograph looking downriver and across the estuary, locally referred to as the lagoon. The image zooms in on the village of Chignik Lagoon, the community closest to Chignik Lake. With no roads nor even trails linking the communities, the river and estuary serve as the highway. Virtually everyone in The Chigniks owns a skiff or two.
The end credits roll over a black and white photograph I made from Flattop’s summit in early June.
Hiking with us on this day were school faculty members new to The Lake: Melody Wiggins, Jacob Chapman and Melody’s son, Micah. Barbra is on the right in the group photo.
This summer, one of my goals was to reignite my writing spark. To that end, I signed up for a couple of writing workshops. First stop, Tutka Bay, Alaska.
Several years ago, I acquired the Tutka Bay Lodge Cookbook. It has become one of my two absolute favorite culinary resources. Through the book, I became acquainted with people whom I thought would be kindred spirits. The chefs sought to sustainably use and showcase what they could forage from the lodge’s nearby wilderness. The lodge’s location seemed idyllic – a fjord only accessible by boat surrounded by forest. The cookbook is filled with culinary wonders featuring harvested beach greens, foraged berries and mushrooms, and wild caught fish. When I first read the cookbook, I learned that a cooking school is held on site. I began dreaming of a visit. As with most lodge visits in Alaska, a stay there is expensive. So, it remained a dream – I would say a recurring dream. But I visited the lodge virtually and fueled this dream by regularly adapting the cookbook’s many recipes to create dishes and meals with items we forage and gather here at the Lake.
Set among spruce trees and overlooking a narrow fjord off Kachemak Bay, the deck at Tutka Bay Lodge was an ideal place for cooking classes, a soak in the hot tub, or just relaxing and listening to the songs of forest birds.
During this same time, Jack contributed writing and photos to a lovely “local” magazine called Edible Alaska. The magazine features food-related stories from all over our beautiful state. Earlier this past Spring, the Edible magazine people organized a culinary writing retreat at Tutka Bay Lodge. We were lucky to be invited to this retreat along with what turned out to be an intimate group of fourteen enthusiastic foodies.
What was a day in the life of an Alaskan culinary writers’ retreat like? As Tutka Bay Lodge is noted for being a dining destination, the days were filled with delicious food. Days started with spruce tip sprinkled breads, house-made lox, fluffy scrambled eggs infused with the lodge’s greenhouse herbs, and bacon sourced from a farm across Kachemak Bay. One of our lunches featured a fresh tossed raw vegetable dish with a grilled open-faced halibut salad sandwich accompanied by a bowl of cream of celery root soup topped with julienned Granny Smith apples. Each dinner began with appetizers paired with wines. Among other starters was a beautiful cold charcuterie lain out along with fresh pretzel bites doused in butter and a Moroccan eggplant tagine. Family-style dinners followed with menu offerings such as king crab infused mashed potatoes, a perfectly cooked beef tenderloin, tossed salads, and herbed biscuits. The most memorable dessert was a Spanish-style baked cheesecake topped with a caramel sauce made from foraged beach kelp.
Due to the workshop atmosphere, there were plenty of opportunities to learn about local foods. Across Kachemak Bay in the town of Homer, we went on guided tours of Stoked Beekeeping Company, Blood, Sweat and Food farm, and Synergy organic vegetable farm. At a dinner hosted by Synergy Farm, we tasted and learned about mead from Sweetgale Wines. Back at the lodge, we foraged the beach at low tide with naturalist guides. Tutka Bay Chefs taught classes on Moroccan spices, salmon preparation and sushi-making. A local oyster farmer taught us about her business followed by an oyster tasting session. I came home loaded with culinary ideas and goals for the summer. I am more inspired than ever to make bull kelp pickles and to find goose tongue and other beach greens from our nearby ocean beaches.
As writers, we were happy for the opportunity to work with Kirsten Dixon, author and lodge owner. She led us through a writing workshop, connecting modern and ancient stories to Tutka Bay. She shared some of her personal writing as well as other writing that inspired her. Kirsten suggested some writing themes and encouraged participants to share their work at the end of the retreat. The lodge features a cozy writer’s loft which Jack and I found to be ideal as we composed our thoughts surrounded by beautiful views and birdsong.
I departed our retreat inspired to write more regularly. But that wasn’t what left the biggest impression. One of the participants I met on the first day confided that she hadn’t been around people in two months. She seemed particularly uncomfortable in social setting settings that were part of life at the lodge. The funny thing is that as she shared this with me, I realized that I felt similarly. For all of us, this retreat was the first time since Covid began that we had been in an intimate setting with new people. A warm feeling was growing in the group. What was it? One person articulated it well. “This experience has been like coming out of a fog” she said. It felt freeing to be in place that invited the sharing of ideas and thoughts, a lovely counter to feelings of suspicion and worry that seemed to pervade social gatherings these past two years.
It was a wonderful visit with newly made friends. I now have a new group I can share culinary ideas with. I have more inspiration to gather and create. I have new ideas to draw writing from. I feel like my fog, too, has lifted.
In honor of this feeling and inspired by my new friends and my new cookbook, Living Within the Wild, I give you a small batch of “Coming Out of the Fog Cookies.”
In Kirsten Dixon and Mandy Dixon’s new cookbook, they shared a recipe for berry chocolate chip cookies. The idea is to take a great chocolate chip cookie and embed a surprise of berry jelly in the center. With this recipe bouncing around my head for a few days, I came up with my own version of this cookie. My idea is to take the best part of a monster cookie and stuff it with a complementary jam surprise. This batch is small. (Two people should only eat eight cookies between them, right?) Of course, this recipe can easily be doubled or tripled if need be.
I invite you to join me in coming out of the fog.
Coming Out of the Fog Cookies
Ingredients
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
2 tbsp granulated sugar
2 tbsp brown sugar
1 large egg, beaten
½ tsp vanilla extract
2 tbsp creamy peanut butter
8 tbsp all-purpose flour
6 tbsp quick oats
¼ tsp baking soda
Pinch salt
8 tsp jam
Directions
Preheat oven to 325° F (160° C).
Line baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a large bowl, mix together first 6 ingredients.
Stir in flour, oats, baking soda, and salt.
Chill dough for about 15 minutes.
Divide dough into 8 pieces and roll into balls.
Flatten balls.
Place 1 tsp of jam in center of flattened dough.
Close dough around jam. *
Place stuffed cookies, smooth side up, on prepared baking sheet.
Bake for 18-20 minutes, until lightly browned.
Let cookies cool on baking sheet for a few minutes and finish cooling on wire rack.
Enjoy slightly warm or room temperature with a glass of freshly brewed ice tea.
*If your dough is too sticky, butter your hands to work with the dough.
This photo of a pair of Horned Puffins was taken in late May, right in the heart of their breeding season which runs from mid-spring through mid-summer. This is when their enormous bills are at their largest and most colorful – literally fluorescent. Males and females are monomorphic; that is, they show the same plumage. (Alaska Gulf)
Who knew that in some species of birds, bill shape, size and color changes with the seasons? Such is the case of the Horned Puffin, which grows additional layers of colorful keratin – the same material hair, feathers and fingernails are made of – during the breeding season. When the season concludes, puffins sluff off the additional material and their beaks become smaller and duller. The vibrant lemon-yellow coloration mostly disappears and the tangerine-orange becomes a more mellow peach. While relatively large, the bills of juveniles are smaller than those of adults and appear gray or a coal-dusted orange.
Juvenile Horned Puffin, Chignik Lake, September 11, 2021.The Chignik Drainage cuts through mountains, creating an avian corridor across the Alaska Peninsula at a point where it is about 40 miles across from the Alaska Gulf on the southwest side to the Bering Sea to the northwest. From passerines falling out in nearby spruce groves to oceanic species seeking refuge during storms or pausing during migration to forage, you never know what you’ll encounter along the Chignik.
With puffin breeding colonies on nearby Alaska Gulf islands as well as additional sites on peninsula headlands, the estuary and seas near Chignik Lake are an excellent year-round place to encounter Horned Puffins. Here they feed on abundant herring, sand lances, juvenile salmon, sculpins and other forage. Dense, well-oiled feathers and wings that become flippers propel puffins to depths of 100 feet and possibly more. Feeding for themselves, puffins swallow most of their prey underwater. If you see one with a beak overflowing with silvery sand lances or herring, it’s undoubtedly taking them back to its nest.
It is reported that a Horned Puffin can carry dozens of small fish in its bill. I counted eight sand lances here. (Alaska Gulf near Chignik, July 28, 2020,)
In former times, puffins were shot and salted down for food by the barrelful. They were even considered acceptable fare on Catholic holy days when fish rather than other forms of meat was to be consumed. In Alaska, both Tufted and Horned Puffins were traditionally hunted with hooks baited with fish a well as with hoop nets on long handles. Also, a type of bola was thrown into the air to entangle seabirds returning to their nests. In addition to utilizing puffin meat and eggs, the skins and feathers were used in clothing. Historical accounts describe puffins as curious and friendly, but they are apparently still hunted in some areas and anytime that’s the case they can be challenging to approach.
Horned Puffins, so named for a small, fleshy point protruding above each eye (see the first photo in this article) are easily distinguished from Tufted Puffins, above. Both species are present in the Alaska Gulf near Chignik.
The best time to see puffins along the Alaska Peninsula is during the summertime breeding season. The weather is often mild, the seas calm, and the birds, hunting for themselves as well as for their chicks, can often be found close to shore. Look for the same sorts of current breaks you might look for when salmon fishing, as these rips concentrate baitfish.
In flight, they skim the seas like some form of exotic bee, chunky dark bodies pulled along by those wonderfully colorful bills, determined wings rapidly beating the air into submission. Suddenly they glide upward along the face of a rocky headland and unerringly disappear into a crevice where a chick or mate is waiting. Over and over they repeat the circuit – the flight out, the deep dives, the return flight – until one day they gather their forces and all the puffins and perhaps other nearby nesters as well head en masse out to sea where they will spend the winter months. Juveniles, no longer under the care of their parents, will struggle at first to tag along, often not making it far before they need a rest. And then, they too will find themselves over the sea’s depths. For the youngsters, it will be two years before they return to their natal headlands or island. But the adults return each year, finding familiar ledges and spaces between rocks, watching over a single egg, and joining other puffins, murres, auklets and guillemots over shoals of herring, sand lances and out-migrating salmon smolts. It is an amazing sight to behold.
Horned Puffin Fratercula corniculata Order: Charadriiformes Family: Alcidae Genus: Fratercula – Medieval Latin fratercula = friar for the semblance of their plumage to monks’ robes Species: corniculata – Latin for horn-shaped, referencing the bill
Status in Marine Waters near Chignik: Common to Abundant; rare or accidental in the freshwater drainage
Five degrees, calm, a raven’s throaty croak echoing across the ice. Gaining about four minutes of light each day now, the earth moving into position to give us back our beautiful sunrises.
After a big Sunday morning breakfast we hiked across the lake and up into the foothills for a couple of miles. Otters, mergansers, other ducks and a pair of Pacific Loons in the little bit of open water where the lake empties into the river. The acres of tundra where we picked berries this past summer locked beneath two or three inches of hard ice, the result of snow melt and rainwater accumulating atop frozen ground and another cold snap. Icy snow firm as hardpan. Soft crunch under our boots. Easy hiking.
Once in a while a Red Fox trots across the lake or along the frozen shoreline. Arctic Hare tracks everywhere the snow is soft enough to show them. Yesterday I counted 80 birds at the window feeders – Pine Grosbeaks, Redpolls, Black-Capped Chickadees, Oregon-race Juncos, a couple of Pine Siskins. Bears denned up two months ago. Gulls and eagles gone. Wolf tracks lacing trails just beyond the village. We keep watching for a wolverine in the place we’ve seen them before. Tomorrows forecast says rain. Hope not.
Having encountered them only once on the Chignik River in the past five years, Short-billed Dowitchers would have to be considered a rare species here. I was happy to be surprised by a small flock of them one late-summer day while looking for teal.
It’s a bit difficult and somewhat sad to think that not so long ago, shorebirds such as dowitchers were considered fair game by many shotgun-toting sportsmen. Ernest Hemingway mentions this in a couple of his books, noting (happily, I think) in his posthumously published Islands in The Stream that he loved watching the little plovers and other peeps and could no longer think about shooting them. Perhaps the early American ornithologist Elliot Coues said it best in a passage he wrote in the 1917 edition of Birds of America:
“(The dowitcher’s) gregarious instinct, combined with its gentleness, is a fatal trait, and enables gunners to slaughter them unmercifully and sometimes to exterminate every individual in a ‘bunch.’ To turn a 12-gauge ‘cannon’ loose among these unsuspicious birds, winnowing in over decoys with friendly greeting, is about as sportsmanlike as shooting into a bunch of chickens. To capture them with a camera requires skill and patience, and herein lies the hope for future existence of our disappearing wild life – substitution of the lens for the gun!”
Note the bill serrations on this dowitcher which has just come up with a tidbit of some sort – perhaps the larval stage of an insect or a mass of invertebrate eggs. The tip of the bill contains sensitive receptors called Herbst corpuscles which aid it in searching for food. Short-billed and Long-billed Dowitchers both have exceptionally long bills, and as the bill lengths fo the two species vary and overlap, it is not a reliable diagnostic. In fact, unless the birds are vocalizing, distinguishing Long-billeds from Short-billeds in the field is quite difficult. The flock of over a dozen dowitchers I encountered were in freshwater on the Chignik, several miles above the estuary – habitat where one might more likely encounter Long-billed Dowitchers. They were not vocalizing, but I believe these are Short-billeds based on more overall spotting than barring, a more sloped forehead, and the fact that Short-billeds are more common than Long-billeds on the Alaska Peninsula. But I am happy to have someone with more experience with these peeps offer a correction. It is also entirely possible that both dowitcher species were represented in this flock.
In recent years, dowitchers have experienced rather steep population declines. According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology All About Birds website, reasons include sea level rise, loss of habitat due to development and other factors, and hunting. Regarding the latter reason, I have to agree with Messrs. Coues and Hemingway. With the species in decline, it would seem the better part of discretion to stow the shotgun and opt for chicken breasts.
It’s common for shorebirds to travel in mixed flocks with each species taking advantage of slightly different feeding strategies. Here a pair of Least Sandpipers get in on the action.
The dowitcher’s needlelike bill probes silt, mud and sand with an astonishing speed that has been compared to that of a sewing machine. I’ve recently begun broadening my documentation to include video and was happy to have had the presence of mind to do so with these birds. The “sewing machine” feeding style is well demonstrated – as is the challenge of getting a good, clear still capture of these frenetic birds in typical Chignik low-light conditions.
Dowitchers feeding at Devil’s Flats on the Chignik River, Alaska
Partially concealed behind tall grasses, sedges and Arctic Dock, camera at the ready, its long lens wrapped in a camouflage sleeve, Barbra and I watch as a group of shorebirds bank in unison, the white of their underwings flashing. A short way upriver, they wheel and come back, pass overhead, bank and wheel again a little ways down river, and then return to settle in over the shallows we’ve been watching. I look at Barbra and she smiles. New birds. Our 99th species in the freshwater portion of the Chignik Drainage between Chignik Lake and the estuary. Hemingway was right. They are wonderful to watch.
Although the range map below does not indicate the presence of Short-billed Dowitchers on the Alaska Peninsula, David Sibley includes the peninsula on the range map in his field guide as does the Audubon website.
Short-billed Dowitcher, Limnodromus griseus Order: Charadriiformes Limnodromus: Ancient Greek limne = marsh, and dromos – racer. marsh racer griseus: Medieval Latin for gray
Status at Chignik Lake: Only one sighting in five years, however it is likely that this species is a regular if brief late summer migrant in the drainage and may even nest in nearby areas of tundra or marsh.
In breeding plumage, a male Redhead. The question is, how did one of these get mixed in with a flock of Greater Scaup out on the Alaska Peninsula? (Photo courtesy of Kevin Bercaw, Wikipedia)
One of the most fascinating aspects of birding in the Chignik River drainage is that at any given moment, you might encounter something rare or unexpected. Under the “rare” category are species such as Northern Shrikes, Gyrfalcons, Yellow-billed Loons and xanthochromic Common Redpolls – birds that are seldom seen outside the far north, and even in Alaska are generally not frequently encountered. But, in part because of the unique geography of the Chigniks, there are also fairly common birds that unexpectedly end up here, many miles beyond what is generally considered to be their range. Our river cuts a path between rugged mountains on the Alaska Peninsula creating an obvious migration route for passerines, raptors and waterfowl. And then there are the fierce winds that funnel through this valley, so that Pied-billed Grebes, Red-breasted Nuthatches, White-throated Sparrows, Great Blue Herons and other birds that “aren’t supposed to be here” occasionally find their way to The Lake.
Some of these birds may represent the vanguard of a species expanding its range. I’ve documented Oregon-race Dark-eyed Juncos as wintertime residents from fall through early spring every year at the lake since we first arrived here in 2016. In fact, there are a dozen in the village right now, hundreds of miles from what is considered their range. And a pair of male and female Red-breasted Nuthatches that stayed in the village for awhile this year may portend things to come for that species as the climate continues to warm and more trees populate the peninsula.
And the Redhead? I suspect that something else entirely was going on with the lone male I photographed in a group of Greater Scaup last spring. Brood parasitism. Among all ducks, female Redheads are best known for their habit of laying their eggs in the nests of other birds. According to Audubon, Redheads have been documented leaving their eggs to the care of at least 10 other species of ducks, American Bitterns and even a raptor, the Northern Harrier. Scaup are a frequent target of their brood parasitism. Knowing how ducks imprint on whatever or whomever they take to be their parent, it is quite possible that this Redhead thinks of himself as a Greater Scaup.
This is part of a flock of perhaps three dozen Greater Scaup and a few Red-breasted Mergansers. Just left of center, the bird flying highest is the Redhead. We do occasionally see Canvasbacks out here, a close relative of the Redhead. By comparison, the red of the Redhead is brighter, the head is much more rounded, and the wings in flight are darker.I searched the flock for a female counterpart, but found none.(Photo March 11, 2021, Chignik Lake)
Whether he is traveling with brood-mates or he simply fell in with a flock of fellow diving birds, it’s likely that eventually this Redhead will eventually get things sorted out. On the other hand, with breeding season fast approaching when the above photo was made, hybrid crosses between scaup and Redheads have been recorded. You never know what will turn up next at The Lake.
Redhead, Aythya americana Order: Anseriformes Family: Anatidae Aythya: from the Latin aithuia for an unidentified seabird referenced by Hesychius, Aristotle and others americana: Latinized version of America
Status at Chignik Lake, 2016 to present: Rare or accidental.
CutterLight 