Friday, September 30, 2011

Barren Islands Update #5 (19 SEP 11)





First some of the breathtaking scenery of East Amatuli...
Freshwater lake on the east slope up from camp.


East Amatuli beach with the skiff tied out on the mooring.


Sugarloaf Island across the water.

Looking towards West Amatuli Island from East Amatuli.


View from puffin plot AC.

Work has fallen into a fairly steady pace out here. We had another 5-day rainy-windy spell come through a week ago. The last two days finally cleared up (we saw the sun!) so that we were able to take the boat out to the murre colony at the point to finish up our observations for the season. We expect this stormy spell to last for 2 days and then die out so that we can leave by the end of the week. Our expected pick up date is Friday, the 23rd. We’ll have a charter boat come out to pick the 4 of us up with all our gear (and there’s quite a lot of it!).

Looking downslope on East Amatuli Island with West Amatuli Island across the water.
The white tents below are camp.


Besides finishing up our field work, we’ve begun to pack and take care of things around camp that have been needing to be done—paint the cabin, demolish an old wooden tent frame that will be rebuilt for next season, sort through wood and take out old rusty nails and screws, and generally prepare the camp for 40-60 knot gusts to roll through. It seems fitting that our last week here we’d get another storm. This season has been very stormy, with just enough good weather to placate us and keep us from going insane indoors. Arthur, the field station supervisor, said that this last 5-day spell of SE wind is the longest sustained spell he’s seen out here and he’s been out here for 20 some years.

The finished tent frame and a view of camp.

Despite the weather, we’ve been keeping our spirits high by playing Yahtzee, watching episodes of the IT Crowd (a great British comedy), making pizza and calzones with iron skillets and our “hot box” oven. The hot box is literally an aluminum box with a door hinge that you place directly on the propane burner. The oven can usually get up to ~300 degrees, which is enough to bake cookies, bread, and other yummy things.

As for the update on the field front…. All of our TUPU (tufted puffin) chicks that we have been measuring are gone—the last two fledged or perished a week ago. Sadly, this was a bad season for TUPU chicks (on the plots we measured anyways). It seems as though many of them perished by otters or starved—many weighted less than expected based on past fledge weights. Hopefully TUPU’s on other portions of the island have done better. This otter problem is quite the dilemma still. There are at least 6 river otters here on the island (that we’ve seen) and maybe more. We’re seen 3 you

ng that seem to be from two sets of parents. There are otter trails all over the island and we often see tracks on the beach coming down the streams. I’m curious to know what effect the otter population has on the TUPU nesting success next year. If the otter population continues to grow, they very well might continue to decimate the TUPU population.

The COMUs (common murres) are nearing the very end of their nesting season. The last few times we’ve visited our plots, there has been a steep decline in number of birds. Once the chicks fledge, one adult--the father-- will accompany the chick to the open water where it will learn to fish for itself. The mother will stay on the nest site to protect their claim for the next season. Eventually, though all the adults without chicks will clear off the cliffs to take to the sea again. The unfortunate adults who still have chicks are left exposed without the safety-in-numbers that their fellow COMUs p

rovide. When this happens, the ravens and gulls, those notorious aerial predators, flock in. Yesterday we visited out plots for ~1.5 hours. During this time I witnessed a slew of amazing stand-offs between the one adult left on my plot (bird 32) who was still guarding its tiny chick. What I saw is that every 10-15 minutes one of the 20 or so ravens that was soaring around overhead would come down to harass and try to steal the COMU’s chick. Now this COMU had a very good nest location. It was tucked back in a deep rock crevice that formed a natural shallow cave. This one COMU was able to stand in front of and defend its chick, who was tucked deep into the back wall of the cave. I watched, breathless in anticipation, as time and again this lone COMU adult would peck furiously at the approaching raven, making sure never to lunge too far away from its chick so as to leave it unprotected. At times the raven would hop up on the ledge above the rock cave and try to grab the chick from above. The COMU adult was quick to respond to this shift in position and pressed its body up against the rock wall, directing pecking lunges upwards at the raven.

Photo courtesy of Sarah Youngren.

Now ravens are large birds, far larger than the common crow. They outweigh COMUs by nearly a half pound and their wing span is twice as long. Ravens are not interested in attacking the adult COMUs anymore than is necessary to steal the chick. They are cautious in their approach, even though they could muscle their way past a COMU if they really tried. I figure that those ravens were being cautious of the sharp peck of the COMU bill so close to their precious eyes.

During the time I was watching the COMU on my plot, I witness four ravens succeed in stealing chicks from other COMU adults. It was the fourth and final attempt that I witnessed of bird 32 that was the grim finale. This time there was not just one, but two ravens preying on bird 32. (I’m convinced that bird 32 would have continued to successfully defend its chick ad infinium if there was only one raven present). What happened, however, called into play the old divide-and-conquer trick. One raven, perched atop the ledge, under which the chick was hiding, drew bird 32 deep into the cave, while the other, down below, tried to find an opening to sneak in and grab the chick. Bird 32 would frantically peck first at one raven, then the next, again making sure not to lunge too far from its chick. Those ravens are awfully smart creatures and only by working together could they have succeeded in snatching the chick. I noticed that the raven below the COMU was not trying to grab the chick. It was trying to grab the wing of the adult COMU! After a few failed attempts, the raven grabbed the wing and pulled the COMU down far enough, that in the half second the chick was ungarded, the second raven was able to hop down and grab it in its bill. The COMU and the raven continued to scrap and fall down the cliff face as the other raven flew off, meal in tow. Needless to say, I personally was distraught, having become much too entangled in the fate of this last surviving chick. I swore at the ravens and slumped down pathetically, as if my favored sports team had just lost the playoffs after a long 7 game series. My one consolation was that the raven who grabbed that chick flew off to a location unknown to me to devour its winnings; at least I didn’t have to watch until the very end. Looking back, it’s amazing that I was able to witness the final chick on my two plots meet its end. It’s better than not knowing, I suppose.

After witnessing the ravens’ predation for the first time, I wrote this:

17 SEP 11--Ravens

Death glides swiftly on black wings. He soars up invisible columns of air against perilously steep cliffs. He lingers just out of sight above parents who protectively cradle soft bundles of life. He hops closer now so that they may recognize the face of the grim reaper who is to take their long awaited chick away. This chick, who has survived a steady downpour of soaking rain and winds reaching 70 knots for nearly a week, will now meet its end in the gleaming, glossy-eyed face of a raven cloaked in black. These murre chicks, who are one week, a few days, some mere hours away from fledging will never feel the swell of the ocean beneath their boyant bodies—the ocean they were born above and nourished by, the ocean that sang them lullabies on calm, moonlit nights. These chicks have seen the journey their fellow fledgers have taken. They have watched with anticipation the long fluttering drop down to the sea and they have heard the relieved chicks’ cries that were answered by anxious and proud parents.


This chick’s parents, however, are quiet now. They twitch their heads up and down in nervous motions, continuously looking down to see their chick, who was so recently tucked beneath their wings, now gone. In the mouth of a soaring raven is the dangling body. The raven lands and as the chick, still clinging to life, struggles against the assailant, the raven casually pulls out mouthful after mouthful of feathers until he is down to the thin neck skin. Peck, pull, peck, pull. A massive bill penetrates skin, severs fate’s cord and feasts on bright red entrails pulled from the severed body of its meal. A second raven begs of the first—a pitiful display of groveling that disgusts, not just me, but the feeding raven too, for off he flies with his partly eaten prey to find another place for death to perch. The sky is darkening in the fading sunlight, but that is not the darkness I see. All around me more ravens soar. Their shadowy figures continuously, constantly circling, evermore.


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I love that out here the only drama is the stuff of real life--of living and dying, of attempting to raise young against the perils of storm and raven stomach. Despite having a radio and peripherally knowing what is going on in the world, our world is so small out here, so intimate, that it begs one to examine, “Just what is worth paying attention to?” I am quite content in knowing that I find the natural world, more than deserving of our attention. We’ve had a few good evening dinner conversations out here that have turned into thought provoking debates. One evening, we were discussing whether watching movies is a worthwhile behavior for our human species. Movies, it was argued are masterfully created to manipulate our human emotions, tug at our heartstrings, pull us in and warp, alter, or just generally dislodge our world view. This is arguably a good thing, but what happens when the drama created in movies becomes more interesting than the true drama, the stuff of real life? Well then, real life takes a backseat. If movies can more concisely, effectively, and cleanly inform us about all there is to know, then why would we seek out our own learning experiences, which are by definition uncomfortable (for growth is uncomfortable)? Why would someone willingly choose to live in an environment for 2 months, for a year, for their entire lifetime, which is, by all sane standards, uncomfortable, while he or she might just as easily learn about the experience via blogposts, articles, books, etc. . My answer? The way I see it is that living vicariously through someone else's experience has never, and will never, pass as really living. When we are faced head-on with the uncomfortable, the extreme, the stuff that brings one nearest to their breaking point, then, and truly only then, is when we fully begin to live.

Tide goes out at moon rise in Lonesome Cove.

As I have been writing this, I have twice needed to run outside to see the damage done by the 60+ knot winds. The tent that we use to shelter our boat gear (survival suits, gas cans, etc.) is threatening to blow off its frame. With every gust it inflates like a hot air balloon ready for flight. The stitches that I put in so carefully at the beginning of the season have ripped out in this final battle. The outhouse, which has already blown over once this season, has shifted nearly off its foundation, and would probably blow all the way off if we hadn’t caught it in time. Needless to say, using an outhouse made of plywood boards in a storm like this is unsettling.

Dan surveys our outhouse.

Lastly, the hut, which we pieced back together upon arriving to find it blown apart by the winter storms, has just had part of the wall blown off. We re-nailed in the plywood wall and have propped up wooden braces on the side. Now all we can do is wait inside, in anticipation of the next project which will draw us out into the storm…

Now this all sounds a bit dramatic, and it is, I suppose, but my reality is that I am safe and sound, drinking my tea and anticipating with much excitement the end of this final storm and the final days here. I am ready to return to the mainland and continue to share my experiences with people. I am ready for a nice warm shower and the delight of eating fresh, non-canned food! I won’t trade my time here for anything. I still know that I’m one of the lucky few who get to witness this island in all its varied temperaments.

This will be the last email I write before we leave. If everything goes according to plan, I will be back in Homer by this weekend. I plan to send out photos and upload some online once I get the time. I will be in Homer for a week before I fly off to Vermont to see sorely missed friends and loved ones. I can’t wait to see you all!

Thanks for taking the time to read all my rambling thoughts and be a witness to my experience. I am encouraged by knowing that I have an audience to write for.

Love to you all,

Margaret Alice

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