So we get to the place and Kevin is right! It is crawling with foxes! Beautiful American foxes who are unafraid of two unique guys such as us.

These foxes are not only very beautiful, they are very young, making them easy to cruise for swinging guys like us with our loose nylon shorts.

And here is something I will tell you–these young American foxes were not even afraid to come right out on the road, right in front of us. Such a thing would never have happened back in Czechoslavakia, where young foxes will only talk to high party officials!

This hot young American fox is coming right over to check out Kevin. Hey look! She is even smaller than the very impressive bulge on his tripod!

Then this fox went off to the side of the road, where she started digging some kind of crazy American fox hole. My cousin Kevin and I could not believe how wild this fox was! Never before have we had a fox dig a hole right at our feet.

Just when we thought our evening could not get any wilder and more successful, well, I have some news for you–the fox’s sister showed up! Now, there were two foxes for us to cruise.

When the one fox sister was done digging her small hole, the two foxes decided to get a little more comfortable, pretending to not even be concerned with me and my cousin.

You can even see that their ears are full of large American ticks, which make the hot young foxes very, very itchy.

Though they did not speak good English like me and my cousin, it was easy for us to see that the itchy young foxes wanted to swing with us!

We were ready to go back to their fox den right then, but the young American foxes told us that they still lived there with their parents, who might not like to see guys so unique as Kevin and me with large Japanese bulges on our tripods. So we said, “Hey, that’s no problem!  We can meet you back at our swinging pads. Just be sure to bring many birth control devices with you!”

Well, I am a little sorry to tell you, the foxes never showed. Perhaps their parents came home and told them to watch out for guys so swinging as us. But that’s OK–we will be sure to get back to that fox bar sometime very soon. Why don’t you make a bet on it, O.K.?

Ornate Flycatcher, Milpe, Ecuador

How often do you find the words cute and unmistakable in the same sentence with flycatcher? Bob Ridgeley combined them to capture much of what makes this bird special. My photo, unfortunately, only shows the ventral side of the bird. Add in the glowing yellow rump and rusty-based tail and you’ve got quite a cute, small, essentially unmistakable flycatcher.

That’s all I’ve got time for today! Off to teach a saltmarsh/bay ecology class to a bunch of 8th graders, then lead a birding boat cruise on the Delaware Bay and Broadkill River for the Delmarva Birding Weekend. Whew!

Even finding real bird nests in temperate regions tends to be pretty easy, especially in April and May. Again, there are some species whose nests are well hidden, but for every Grasshopper Sparrow there are a thousand Mourning Doves and American Robins, whose efforts at nest concealment are so minimal that one could easily imagine eggs being a regular menu item for our hunter-gatherer ancestors.

In tropical forests, finding bird eggs is generally so challenging that it would destroy the carefully nurtured self-esteem of nearly any temperate egg hunter. For starters, the habitat is impossibly thick and dark. The shot below is a long exposure (1/3 second) taken on a tripod in a fairly bright spot along the Cock-of-the-Rock Trail at Cabanas San Isidro.

I walked this trail a couple of times the first few days I was in Ecuador. I noticed that on two occasions, a medium-sized bird flushed off into the undergrowth from the same general area of trailside trees. I suspected a nest and made a few mental notes about exactly where the tree was. I still had no clear idea about what bird species was involved–the fleeing parent was little more than a shadow winging away into the green darkness. I returned to the site with Forrest and we spent several minutes staring into the dim light, trying to visually separate feathers from foliage–a surprisingly difficult process, given that we already knew exactly where the nest was located.

Finally, Forrest found a spot where he could actually see the incubating mother. “Glossy-black Thrush,” he announced. It was a relief to have the nest owner identified, but also a tiny bit of a letdown, I must confess. Though I knew the odds favored my having found something relatively common, in the tropics, there is always a very real chance of finding a nest that may never have been described before. Of course, few such nests would likely be placed right next to a trail, but hope springs eternal, you know.

Amazingly, this area has seen the discovery and description of the nests of several dozen species of birds. Why? Because people are looking here. Not only Mitch and the staff at Cabanas San Isidro, but also the researchers at the adjacent Yanayacu Biological Station, especially its director, Harold Greeney, whose nest-finding skills are legendary. Take a look here to see a bunch of photos of recent student projects, many of them involving the breeding biology of local birds.

Wanting to check the nest contents, we quickly approached and retreated, moving as swiftly and efficiently as we could manage in the dense conditions. Below is an exterior view of the nest. It’s nearly dead center. Look for a baseball-sized bare area of trunk just above a baseball-sized patch of especially thick green moss. Basically, the bird formed a deep cylindrical cup by walling in a fold in the trunk.

Here’s a peek inside the nest, a view I never actually saw myself. To get this shot, I had to hold the camera and external flash above my head and direct them down into the hollow. Two eggs, one more pigmented than the other, safe for the moment inside a lovely cradle of mosses, ferns and roots.

I’d like to be able to report on a happy conclusion for this nest. But unfortunately, it met the same fate as the vast, vast majority of tropical forest nests. When we returned to the area a week and a half later, there was nothing left but eggshells.*

Tropical nesting birds have some advantages over their temperate and polar counterparts. The food supply tends to be more constant and there are certainly a lot of nooks and crannies in which one can place a nest. But the terrible downside is that there are hundreds of adept egg predators. Snakes. Monkeys. Toucans. The list seems endless. As a result, tropical birds tend not to invest too much in each nesting attempt. Small clutches are the rule.

By contrast, “our” birds have it easy, whether they live with us year round, or migrate here for nesting. Space is abundant, prey (in summer) easy to find, and perhaps most of all, there are fewer nest predators. Not none, of course, but many fewer. One can understand why many of our birds have huge clutches, even why they aren’t always stealthy about where their nests are situated. And how people might get the idea that searching for eggs could be child’s play.

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For a nice photo of a male Glossy-black Thrush by Scott Olmstead on Flickr, click here.

*I realize that our looking at this nest may have been partly responsible for its discovery and destruction by a predator. I’m not happy about this possibility, of course, but I am prepared to argue that the incremental danger to the nest from our examination of it was small enough to be justifiable. But I’m aware it’s far from an open and shut case either way. I’ll discuss these issues in the comments, if anyone wants to.

The view east as we were leaving Sacha Lodge, 30 March 2009.

For more sky photos from around the world, check out Skywatch Friday.

The answer, of course, is that I was CO-leading the trip, in this case with Forrest Rowland, who lived in Ecuador for more than 4 years and has an exceptionally thorough knowledge of the country and its birds. So it would fall to me just to keep my head above water, ornithologically, while performing all the myriad support functions of a second leader.

Still, I was anxious to use the time I had before the tour to learn as much as I could about the country and its natural history. And 5 days is a blessedly long chunk of time, really. So I had arranged with our ground operator, Carmen Bustamente of BirdEcuador, to get out early and start seeing things. Principally, I was going to be based at Cabañas San Isidro, which is owned by Carmen and her husband, Mitch Lysinger. 

But the rather dry valley of Quito is separated from the cloud covered slopes where San Isidro lies by the massive eastern wall of the Andes. We’d have to go over that to get to our destination. Along the way, I’d visit a singular place and search for one of South America’s more storied birds.

Leaving Quito, a large, mostly modern city, it was clear that there was something rather unusual about this day: it was clear. We had glorious views back toward Pichincha, a volcano that rises to 15,696 feet/4,784 m.

As we left the congested urban area, we had an even more spectacular volcano sighting: the entirely snow-covered cone of Cotopaxi, which tops out at 19,347 ft/5,897 m.

I was enjoying the scenery, but I was itching to get out and see some birds. Finally, after an hour or so, my driver, Milton, pulled off down a short dirt road at the behest of my guide, Ernesto. It was odd and a little embarrassing to have two people assigned to taking care of just me that morning, but it was certainly luxurious.

We spent a few frantic (for me) minutes looking for birds in a brushy ravine. We glimpsed a couple of nice things, but others slipped frustratingly away. Finally, we spied a hummingbird off in the middle distance–a Black-tailed Trainbearer. Watching it swoop and dive, its absurdly long tail flexing behind it, I felt I had finally, truly arrived in Ecuador.

But Ernesto had other ideas than watching this rather common scrub bird. We drove onward and upward, leaving the highway and heading into ever more rugged country. Our pristine blue sky began to be interrupted by clouds, but we still counted ourselves blessed. Our primary birding destination, Papallacta Pass, is well-known for relentlessly foul weather.

As the altitude increased, the vegetation became shorter and well, weirder. The birdlife got a little weird, too. This bird might look like some kind of large-billed female grackle, but it’s really a Stout-billed Cinclodes (sin-CLO-days).

Here’s a White-chinned Thistletail, perched atop a low shrub that looked to me like it might well be some sort of heather.

These first two birds are members of the Furnariidae, an exclusively neotropical family of perching birds. Note that these are often and unhelpfully referred to as, “ovenbirds,” inevitably leading North Americans to confuse them with the quite unrelated species of warbler called Ovenbird. Furnariids, like antbirds, have radiated into a bizarre variety of forms and niches. So much so that looking at the Furnariid plates in the field guides is like listening to a loosely-organized mix tape. Most of them are brown–that often seems to be about the only link.

Flycatchers have also adapted to this harsh environment (Papallacta Pass, which by now was just a little bit below us, is somewhere around 14,000 feet). The Páramo Ground-Tyrant is named for the vegetation found here.

Below, a Brown-backed Chat-tyrant–another flycatcher–crowns a patch of páramo vegetation. Actually, probably sub-páramo, as true páramo is more dominated by bunch grasses and much of the vegetation here is at least partly bushy.

And as cool as the birds are, it’s that vegetation, plus the alpine scenery, that leave the biggest impression. In fact, I can think of a number of people (Liz, Mom, Julie, for starters) whose heads would pretty much explode on a nice sunny day up here–the plants are exceptionally wonderful.

Giant clubmosses, pincushion plants, on and on and on…it is crazy stuff!

Finally, I could see our ultimate destination for the morning, a patch of radio antennas that crowns a rocky peak.

Now, remember, I’d had just one night’s sleep at any altitude before coming up here. And while I couldn’t say that I was at all sick from the thin thin air, I wasn’t 100% well, either. There was the shortness of breath (mildly unpleasant) coupled with the feeling of having downed a strong martini (mildly pleasant). But the unique sensation I felt was a sort of pressure behind my eyeballs, like they might just pop out of my skull. This sounds awful, I know, but it wasn’t all bad. Different, for sure.

Ernesto, more accustomed to the lack of oxygen, went off to look for the true glamour bird of this spot–the Rufous-bellied Seedsnipe. Seedsnipes are shorebirds that have adapted to a niche not that different from ptarmigan in the Northern Hemisphere; i.e., they eat high-altitude produce. While Ernesto began his search, I feigned interest in something or other and tried to regain my breath and contain my eyeballs.

A thankfully short distance down the trail, Ernesto flushed a pair of seedsnipes, which went winging out of sight around the ridge, calling loudly as they went. Very, very luckily, they landed in the view of the guard stationed at the radio towers, who is used to breathless binocular-clad people coming up here to see these birds and he pointed us in the right direction.

At first our views were thrilling, but faroff. We could see the pair slowly making their way along the shoulder of a ridge, blending fantastically with the environment. His work done, Ernesto repaired to our van and I tried to get closer to the seedsnipes, moving in the most careful, non-carnivorous manner I could.

My efforts were repaid. I was able to view and enjoy the seedsnipes at a much more satisfying distance and still not flush them. Their plumage was simply exquisite. And remember, these are shorebirds! How incredibly cool.

What amazing birds! What an amazing place! What were my next four hours in Ecuador going to be like?

Behold the Pygmy Marmoset–the world’s smallest monkey. How small? Well, according to Wikipedia, males weigh 140 grams, females 120–about the same as a Royale with Cheese. Or perhaps a comparison with the Eastern Gray Squirrel will help illustrate just how tiny they are: the tails of the two species are of similar length, but the marmoset’s body is only about half as long as the squirrel’s. But it’s weight that really tells the tale. It would take about FOUR Pygmy Marmosets to equal the weight of one of those little sunflower seed vacuums hoovering around many of our yards. Well, maybe only 3, if they were big marmosets and a svelte squirrel, but still.

Pygmy Marmosets spend a great deal of their time chewing holes through the bark of favored species of trees, which causes sap to run. The little monkeys visit these wells and drink the outflow. You can see many small bite marks on the tree trunks in these photos. In the one below, notice that some of these little pits are enlarged into deep gouges–I would suppose that these are the honey holes, perennial favorite drinking spots. 

Some of these trees have obviously been in use by the marmosets for a very long time. In the above photo, it certainly appears that some of the large, quarter-sized holes have been abandoned and healed over.

Forrest told us that a common local name for these monkeys is leoncillo, or little lion. When the adult monkey below stuck his head into a shaft of sunlight, it was easy to see how that name originated.

Then, he or she did a quick 180 and peered downward, radically changing its look.

Photographed in the shade with a flash, the tiger barred look of the adult’s back was striking.

Here’s a final shot of the youngster. Yes, he really is sticking out his tongue! He’s also showing off his extravagantly long claws.

Watching these guys zip, chew, and drink their way up and down the trunks, vines, and lianas at such close range was surely one of the highlights of our trip. The only sad note was knowing that they are threatened by not only habitat loss but also by capture for the pet trade. While I can certainly understand how someone would think keeping something so very, very cute would be a good idea, it isn’t. Not for you and not for them. I’m glad this bunch needn’t concern themselves with such fates. Long may they suck!

I scheduled this post to pop during my net-absence while I was running around the forests and waterways at Sacha Lodge over the weekend, but somehow I managed to bungle it. Here it is as I’m heading home.

I expected the birds in Ecuador to be amazing, but the moths have been an unanticipated treat. I’ll have more to say about them in the future, but here’s a quick start.  I liked this shot of a silk moth that came to my cabin light at Cabañas San Isidro–isn’t the fuzzy thorax wonderful? It’s worth clicking on the photo for a larger view.

Purists, take note: I rotated this photo 180 degrees because I thought it was easier to interpret, especially for those not used to staring into moth eyes. In reality, she (I’m guessing she because of thin antennae) was hanging from the wood, not sitting on top of it.

Andean Condor soaring into the clouds below Papallacta Pass, March 25, 2009

We turned off the highway into the entrance road to Mindo Loma, a private reserve. As you can see from the signs, there are a number of attractions there, including the chance to see an incredibly rare and spectacular bird, the Black-chinned Mountain-Tanager.

The main building is a two-story, open-air cabin, with sugar water feeders for hummingbirds and banana feeders for tanagers and other frugivores liberally spread around the second-floor porch. Undaunted by the persistent mist/rain/drizzle, we quickly climbed the stairs and took our places, enjoying the by-now familiar spectacle of fearless hummingbirds swarming like insects just a few feet away.

One of the very special and very spectacular species here is the Velvet-purple Coronet–how’s that for a name?–a large and deeply iridescent hummingbird that ranges through a narrow zone of elevation.

It was marvelous to have these beauties all around us. But they definitely had to compete with the tanagers for our attention. The Blue-winged Mountain-Tanager is a relatively common species, but it would take quite a while to become inured to them. They are simply spectacular.

From time to time, one or two of their vanishingly rare brethren, the Black-chinned Mountain-Tanager, would put in an appearance. It was hard to pick which species was more lovely.

But it wasn’t all dazzlingly bright feathers for those 90 minutes. While Forrest and I were unsuccessfully searching a couple of favored trees for a pair of Orange-breasted Fruiteaters, I was amazed and delighted to discover, for the second time this trip, a giant earthworm. Driven from their burrows by the unusually long and intense rainy season this year, these behemoths are apparently seeking drier ground. It might be pretty hard for you to fully appreciate the scale on this photo, but try.

Here’s some help: my size 12 foot alongside the worm. Yep, this critter was a good four feet long! That’s a lot of worm, by any accounting.

All too soon, our time at Mindo Loma ended and we drove on toward Quito. While not every 90 minutes of this trip has been as action-packed as this, particularly not from a photography standpoint, I hope this post might give you a taste of some of the amazing experiences we are having.

The last evening of our stay was gray and misty, the light just a dim glow. Forrest Rowland and I were sitting in the lounge near the cabins relaxing. Suddenly the door burst open and three of the lodge staff rushed in. They were obviously excited, having run all the way from the kitchen area. They blurted out a stream of even faster than normal Spanish, which I couldn’t completely parse, but one word sent a jolt of electricity through me: “tap-EAR.” Roughly translated, what they were saying was, “The tapir is here, if you would like to come see it.”

If you know me at all, you’ll know what the next two or three minutes were like: a mad scramble to grab camera and binoculars, jam on some sandals and then cover the couple of hundred meters to the dining room at breakneck speed without actually breaking my neck.

I had been praying for this moment. Though tapirs of any sort are rarely sighted, the word that a Mountain Tapir had been showing up around the lodge had come as unbelievable news when I arrived. But hopes of perhaps seeing it were dampened somewhat by the fact that the animal hadn’t been seen in over a week. But now it was back and I was flying.

Arriving at the dining room, I saw Forrest gesturing excitedly toward the woods.

Not more than a bus length away stood one of the rarest most spectacularly unusual mammals on the planet

It munched its way through the undergrowth, seemingly unconcerned with our presence. How was this even happening? Tapirs are a) rare and b) shy. In essence, I think it boils down to a lack of persecution. Stop hunting almost anything and it will tame down.

The tapir disappeared into the vegetation and I, hoping for a last glimpse of this weirdly magnificent beast, snuck down a side trail hoping to intersect its route. Nothing. I walked back up toward the dining room and almost instantly, the tapir’s massive head emerged from the bamboo and the animal lumbered down the path. My heart was in my throat. I squeezed off a few photos and tried to soak in all I could of this moment. 

Forrest and I will be returning to Cabanas San Isidro with our tour group in tow on Sunday, March 22 for a 3-night stay. It seems almost to much to hope for a repeat of this encounter, but it seemed to much to hope for the first time, too.

For a very entertaining and informative post on Lowland Tapirs in Guyana, see this post by Julie Zickefoose.

PS: Forrest and I went shopping a few days ago in downtown Quito, buying some nice hand lotion, soaps, and a nifty-looking assortment of chocolates to give to the San Isidro staff as a special thank you when we return. I know that in running to get us when the tapir appeared they were just doing their jobs. But they were doing them really, really well.