The Tune Without the Words

Charcoal gray gulls fill the air with a rush of wings on the last evening of April at Westward Beach. This species, Larus heermanni, or Heermann's gull, is abundant on Malibu's beaches in late spring, but it's also near threatened, with a population estimated at just 150,000 breeding pairs. It's a reminder that many of the things we take for granted here in Malibu are rare and remarkable. All photos © 2015 S. Guldimann

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul, 

And sings the tune without the words, 

And never stops at all, 

And sweetest in the gale is heard; 

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm. 

 I’ve heard it in the chillest land, 

And on the strangest sea; 

Yet, never, in extremity, 

It asked a crumb of me.

—Emily Dickinson

The tune without the words, the song of hope, is everywhere in Malibu in May. In the garden, morning is a symphony—and sometimes a cacophony—of bird calls: the oriole ticks and clicks like an overactive geiger counter, the parrots in the neighbor's palm tree exchange opinions with the crows in the eucalyptus tree and the oak titmouse alternates between announcing "sweet, I'm sweet!" and scolding the resident blue jay with a cry that sounds like "cheater, cheater, cheater." At dusk the sky is full of the rush of swallow wings and the silent acrobatics of the bats. 

The beautiful hooded oriole is a frequent garden bird, but it is shy and often more likely to be heard than seen. Its call is a combination of ticks and twitters that sound like a geiger counter.

All along Westward Beach and Surfrider, thousands of  elegant terns swirl and call, transforming the scene into a tableau from a snow globe, and the pelicans have returned, too, graceful, huge and pterodactyl-like.

A flock of California brown pelicans takes to the sky. You can see the little puffs of sand kicked up as they launch themselves into the air with powerful wings. Brown pelicans really are giants, their wingspan ranges from six to eight feet.

Last week, it seemed that there were just a few of each, this week, hundreds have gathered at Zuma and Surfrider. Flights of pelicans can be spotted all along the coast and the clamor of cries from the huge convention of terns at Surfrider can be heard from PCH.

The sky fills with the sleek white wings of the aptly-named elegant terns.

Like the Heermann's gulls, the terns have returned from their breeding grounds in Baja. And like the gulls, the elegant tern  is also listed by the IUCN (the International Union of Conservation for Nature) as near threatened, although you wouldn't know it to look at the numbers currently present in Malibu. 

A group of elegant terns gather on the sand at Westward Beach.

May is also a good time to look for more unusual species. There were stilts in the main channel of Malibu Creek this week—wading birds with impossibly long, thin, pink legs, and a pair of white-faced ibises—a species this bird watcher had never seen in person before. The brants were there, too—small wild geese stopping for a rest on their way north, but the terns and the pelicans are the most conspicuous harbingers of summer. 

A trio of brants—small, short-billed wild geese—dabble in the main channel of Malibu Creek. 

These are white-faced ibises. The photo doesn't do their spectacular iridescent plumage and bright pink eyes and legs justice. I know the ibis is the symbol of the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom, Thoth, but they looked more like something out of Lewis Carroll to me.

While I was trying to get a good shot of the ibises I was photobombed by an black-necked stilt, another candidate for a Wonderland native.

The pelicans and terns were late this year. The crash in the sardine population that is being blamed for the sea lion unusual mortality event may be responsible for that, but its grunion season now, and the tiny silver fish that spawn on the beach at the new moon in spring and summer are essential for marine mammals and sea birds.

Grunion will be running almost every night during the first week of May this year, thanks to the full moon. The May grunion run is an opportunity for to observe, not join the feast.  The first three months of the grunion breeding season are off limits to human fishers to give the fish a break. It's a bonanza for birds and marine mammals, with many diurnal species showing up in the middle of the night to take advantage of an all-you-can-eat fish dinner. 

Raccoon footprints in the mud near the mouth of Malibu Creek indicate grunion may have been on the menu for more than sea birds.

Here is the May grunion run schedule. Click here to see the Department of Fish and Wildlife's entire 2015 grunion run time chart. 

4 5 6 7 18 19 20 21

Mo 10:00 p.m. - Midnight Tu 10:30 p.m. - 12:30 a.m. We 11:05 p.m. - 1:05 a.m. Th 11:45 p.m. - 1:45 a.m. Mo 10:00 p.m. - Midnight Tu 10:40 p.m. - 12:40 a.m. We 11:20 p.m. - 1:20 a.m. Th 12:05 a.m. - 2:05 a.m.*

For the struggling sea lion population, the arrival of the grunion couldn't come too soon, and the tiny silver fish also attract common and bottlenose dolphins—absent for much of the spring due to the lack of bait fish, back to the Malibu coast. 

Sea lion pups rescued by the California Wildlife Center, being treated for malnutrition and dehydration in March.

Two of the same CWC sea lions, healthy again and headed back to the ocean for a second chance. You can read about the release event, and view more photos here.

Grunion are an essential food source for the Malibu Country Mart's colony of egrets and herons, too. Raccoons, coyotes and the ever opportunistic crows joining in on the fish feast. You never know what you'll see on a grunion night, darkness and silence, or something extraordinary. 

Harried egret parents are taking advantage of the spring grunion run to provide food for their young. Nesting real estate at the Malibu Country Mart was at a premium this year. The ficus trees at the shopping center that are the favorite rookery—or heronry—for snowy and great egrets and black-crowned night herons, were pruned hard over the winter. The foliage is just starting to grow back, but there's at least a few nests like this one, which is already full of hungry and vociferous nestlings. 

May is the time of rebirth, of love and joy and exuberance, of hope, but in Malibu it also brings a sense of loss. It's the end of the gray whale migration. All through the winter there’s the chance—and the hope—that a morning walk or a trip to the beach at sunset will offer a sight of whales. When the last few stragglers have left the warm southern seas and sailed past Point Dume on their way home to the arctic it feels as if some essential magic has gone with them. 

A gray whale and her calf pause at Zuma Beach on the long journey north to the arctic circle.

For me, part of that is grounded in the fact that when I was a child there was the very real fear that the whales would go and not come back. Whales still need protection, they face serious threats that range from pollution to ship strikes and Navy sonar, but they are still here, thanks to passionate conservation advocates who fought and continue to fight for their right to live.

There's an added poignancy in Malibu, since Point Dume was the location of the last commercial whaling operation in California. A total of 250 California gray whales were caught, killed and diced into dog food off Paradise Cove. 

In 2014, the City of Malibu passed a proclamation supporting the safe passage of Marine Mammals:

Whereas, whales and dolphins are known to be highly intelligent and emotional creatures that live in families and other social groupings, associations that last for most, if not all, of their lives and therefore deserve the right to their own freedom and lives.

The proclamation was a purely symbolic gesture, since the city has no authority over anything below the mean high tide line, but it was the first time an American city has officially recognized the right of cetaceans to live undisturbed.

A pair of bottlenose dolphins swim past Point Dume, enjoying freedom and life.

May is a reminder that that things can change for the better. The California brown pelican, the snowy and great egret and the gray whale have all been snatched back from the edge of extinction. The tern's fate is less certain, despite special protections in California, but there's hope for it. There's hope for everything. The "tune without the words" is the anthem of the conservation movement.  

While it's fun and interesting to observe the natural world, it can also be important. We have to know what is there if we are going to protect it. And appreciating it isn't enough, we have to fight for it, too. So there will continue to be grunion, and sea lions, and dolphins, and so there will still be terns in May, and the whales will return in December—this year, and next year, and a hundred years from now. 

“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”

― Jane Goodall  

Suzanne Guldimann

1 May 2015

Winter Birds

The gregarious and fearless yellow-rumped warbler is one of the most common Malibu winter garden birds, but it's just one of dozens of seasonal avian residents. All photos © 2015 S. Guldimann

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet's face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn.
—Alice Meynell, In February


There are a lot of poems about February. Many are bleak and full of snow, and often the poet mourns the absence of bird and blossom. It makes me feel inexplicably guilty, since quite a lot of those lamented birds missing from there are actually here for the winter.

February in Malibu is a paradise for birds, and birdwatchers often find they have a front row seat for the colorful panoply of winter migrants right in their own garden. Here's a look at some of the winter visitors spotted here at the Malibu Post.

The American robin usually arrives around Christmas and heads north again as soon as warmer weather arrives.

The spotted towhee is sometimes mistaken for a robin. This year-round Malibu resident is smaller, darker and shyer than the robin and only has red on its sides, not its breast. Those long claws visible in the photograph help the towhee dig for grubs and other treats. Ours like to dig up the bulbs of the oxalis flowers. This towhee is feasting on the fruit of an ornamental pear tree.

I often see Western bluebirds in the more remote parts of the Santa Monica Mountains, and especially in Malibu Creek State Park, but we've had an unusual number of Western bluebirds this winter here at Point Dume, more than I've ever seen. I hope that's a good sign that the population, which dwindled to almost nothing in this area during the 1980s and '90s, is rebounding. 

The dark-eyed junco used to be a winter-only visitor, but last year these gregarious garden birds decided to stay all summer, nesting near our front gate and making a ticking sound like a Geiger counter whenever anyone went in or out. I'll be interested to see if they stay or go this spring. This little bird has distinctive white-striped tail feathers that are often the only part of the bird one catches a glimpse of as it darts past.

The lesser goldfinch is a year round resident, but we only see them in the garden during the winter, when they come to forage for the seeds of the Mexican evening primrose plants and other wildflowers that have been left to go to seed. 

The oak titmouse is a favorite winter bird in our garden. This tiny bird is fierce and feisty, scolding anyone who comes too close. Although we have lots of small gray birds and they can often be hard to tell apart, the oak titmouse is unmistakable. It's the only solid gray species in this area with a peak of feathers on its head.

Here's one of the aforementioned hard to identify gray birds. I think this one is a female hermit warbler. The male has a much flashier black and yellow design, a little bit like the yellow-rumped warbler, but more vivid, the female is less conspicuous, but a regular winter visitor at the birdbath.

There's nothing inconspicuous about the western kingbird. This large gray and primrose yellow flycatcher is an aerial acrobat—I once saw one snatch a swallowtail butterfly out of the air just inches above the windshield of my car, and then reverse itself midair and swoop up to the nearest telephone line to eat its prize. Kingbirds have a loud, distinctive metallic call and aren't afraid of anything. They've been know to dive bomb hawks and crows and will let you know in no uncertain terms if you stray to close to their territory, snapping their beaks and attempting to intimidate the unwary trespasser. Some kingbirds reside in Southern California throughout the year, but ours appear to be winter migrants, most often seen in February and March. However, this species seems to thrive in the urban setting and in Malibu, at least, they seem to be increasing in number.

The western meadowlark is one of our shyest winter residents. It's easy to recognize this bird in spring by its beautiful call, which you can listen to here. In winter, the usually solitary meadowlark gathers into flocks, but they are almost always silent and can be remarkably hard to spot. Although the front of the bird is bright yellow and marked with a heraldic-style black chevron, they keep their bright colors carefully hidden, presumably to avoid standing out to predators (and photographers).

It may seem an unlikely candidate for favorite winter garden bird, but for me, the swift black wings and the hoarse cry that announces the arrival of the winter ravens embodies the essence of the season. People often confuse crows with ravens, but no one mistakes a raven for a crow: they are much larger and more dignified than their smaller, more numerous corvid cousins. Crows are smart, but ravens are reportedly one of the most intelligent bird species on earth, with complex problem-solving skills and long memories. Most of the year, if you want to find ravens, you have to look in the less developed corners of the Santa Monica Mountains, but in winter they come down to the coast and haunt gardens and backyards. Their presence infuriates the crows, but the ravens don't care. I love to watch their graceful, acrobatic flights, which sometimes involve roles and dives and the raven equivalent of the Immelmann turn—upside down and around. I love to hear their rough, wild cry. We may not have the snow and the dark and the isolation of the northern winter, but I hear it every year in that cry and in the rush of wings.

This post contains a small sample of Malibu's winter birds. It features just the ones that held still long enough for me to snap a photo, recording their passage. 

I recently read a State Coastal Conservancy report that described Malibu, the Santa Monica Mountains, and the entire South Coast region as "considered to be one of the 25 most important 'hotspots' of biological diversity on earth." 

Birdwatchers who would like to help document the local bird population are encouraged to take part in this year's Great Backyard Bird Count, February 13-16. The event, cosponsored by Cornell University's Bird Lab and the Audubon Society, attracts participants from around the world. Last year, nearly 150,000  checklists were submitted, recording nearly 18 million birds and 4,296 species. There were 263 species just in Los Angeles County, and the Malibu Lagoon and Point Dume State Park were among the top bird hot spots. More information is available here.

While cameras and binoculars are helpful, all that is required to participate in the bird count is the time to go out and look, and it's always worth taking the time to look. You never know what you might see. 

Happy birdwatching!

Suzanne Guldimann

7 February 2015

An osprey glides across the Malibu sky at sunset.

Peter's Birds

In 1978, Malibu Junior High School student Peter Williams reportedly took quaaludes, a prescription sedative-hypnotic medication officially used as a muscle relaxant that was a popular recreational drug in the '70s. He was last seen alive swimming out to sea at Zuma.

A drug education and prevention program called Peter's Project was founded following his death. Part of that project involved building a park on Cross Creek Road across from the Malibu movie theater. It had a brick courtyard with benches, trees, flowers and a plaque with Peter's name on it.

The park has been gone for so long that I couldn't find a photo of it for this post, but the trees are still there, and the birds are there now, too. Rumor has it the landlord, working with Audubon Society volunteers, plans to install a sign with information on how remarkable it is to have all of the species of birds nesting together in one place in the middle of a shopping center.

This year, the herons and egrets have been joined by cormorants. It's not Peter's Park anymore, but it's still a special place, a place where nature has found a way to thrive in the middle of development. That's a profound and, I hope, lasting legacy for Peter.

Suzanne Guldimann
6 July 2014

Persephone's Return

The pomegranate's crimson flower is one of the first signs of spring in many Malibu gardens, which is appropriate, since it has a long and mystical connection with Persephone, the Greek goddess of spring, who in Greek mythology was bound eternally to the Underworld for the months of winter after eating a seed from the pomegranate offered to her by Hades. Photo © 2014 S. Guldimann

The vernal equinox officially occurred on Friday. Persephone, the flighty Greek goddess of spring, tarried in the Underworld this year. However, Spring, late even in Southern California where drought, not snow, tempered her arrival, is here at last. In the Santa Monica Mountains, annual flowers like lupin and California poppies have just beginning to spring up in the aftermath of our one big March rainstorm. 

In the garden, everything seems to be rushing to make up for lost time. The first thing one hears stepping out of the back door is the buzzing of honey bees so loud it sounds like live electricity. They are drawn to the thicket of wild pear saplings that are covered with white blossoms. The thicket is really rootstock run wild after the ornamental pear tree grafted onto it died. It's much tougher and more drought tolerant than the original tree. It also blooms spectacularly in the spring, produces a crop of tiny bitter fruit in the fall that are eaten by the wild birds, and ends the year in a blaze of crimson leaves. The bees aren't the only ones who have come to love it.

A domestic honey bee gathers nectar from the blossoms of the wild pear tree in the garden.  We've been seeing more honey bees lately, most likely due to revived interest in backyard beekeeping in the neighborhood.  Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

A tiny syrphid fly pollinates a lavender flower. These elegant little native pollinators are also known as flower flies or hover flies. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Most of the winter migrants have moved on, even the robins, but the dark-eyed junco is still here. I can hear its whistling song and geiger counter-like ticking, alternating with mad splashing from the birdbath, as I type this. Most of the local birds are busy building nests. 

I anticipate the loud, insatiable shrieks from baby crows and conure parrot hatchlings any day now—both species are nesting in the neighbor's eucalyptus trees again this year. The great horned owls are back, too. All three species nest early and are already raising their young by the time most of the songbirds are nesting.

The dark-eyed junco prepares to take a bath. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Bathing is a serious business for this energetic winter bird. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

The spotted towhee is another early bird. Its rusty squeak and high-pitched song is part of the spring soundtrack in the garden. You can hear it here.

Spotted towhees are ground nesters and will sometimes take advantage of manmade items like upended pots or abandoned construction materials to shelter their nests. I'm always careful this time of year about picking things up in the garden. I once found a nest under a fallen trash can lid, and another in an overturned bucket. 

A spotted towhee forages for breakfast using his claws to dig up grubs and other tasty morsels, including the bulbs of the invasive oxalis plant, which seem to be a towhee delicacy. This bird's bright coloring and fearless nature makes it a favorite garden resident. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

This spotted towhee nest was constructed under an old plastic trash can lid. It appears to be made mostly out of palm tree fibers and grass, but it's held together with thick, sticky black widow spider webs, and is lined with a warm, insulating layer of dog fur. I suspect humans could learn a lot from the towhee about the art of building with recycled materials. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Here's another backyard character who is busy building a nest. The Western scrub jays have set up shop in the center of an old bougainvillea vine this year. They weren't thrilled when the paparazzi showed up with a camera. I was told to leave, in no uncertain terms. Scrub jays are members of the crow family, and like their larger cousins, they're intelligent and have good memories. Ours know just where the squirrels stashed their autumn supplies. We often see them snacking on stolen acorns long after acorn season is over.  Photo © 2014 S. Guldimann 

Here's the rightful owner of the acorns. The fox squirrels aren't nesting here this year (perhaps the great horned owls are a little too close for comfort?) but they come to eat pinecones and play tag in our liquidambar trees. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

The liquidambar trees are one of the most dramatic manifestations of spring in the garden. They've gone from bare branches to an explosion of chartreuse leaves and rusty flower catkins almost overnight. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Spring green is always transient in Southern California. It's arrived later than ever this year and will fade faster than usual, unless more rain arrives soon. All the more reason to seize the day and spend the rest of it in the garden, or in the hills, or on the beach, celebrating the presence—however fleeting—of Persephone.

Suzanne Guldimann

21 March 2014

A little madness in the Spring

Is wholesome even for the King,

But God be with the clown—

Who ponders this tremendous scene—

This whole Experiment of Green—

As if it were his own!

—Emily Dickinson