Reporter’s Notebook: Two birders, a Few Wastewater Ponds, 104 Species of Birds

‘Tis the season for counting birds.

This year’s Christmas Bird Count, or CBC, kicked off on December 15 with “Cheep Thrills,” a count based in northeast Marin County. I was lucky enough to tag along with PRBO Conservation ornithologist Rich Stallcup and partner Heather Cameron for the afternoon. The two are veterans of hundreds of CBCs–Rich once did 12 counts in a single year.

If the Christmas Bird Count elicits visions of blue-haired biddies strolling through the woods pointing at songbirds, think again. A CBC is an intense, all-day birding marathon. Rich’s day began as he stood in the pre-dawn rain playing tapes of owl calls.

Each count takes place in a specific 15-mile diameter circle, divided into sections with teams assigned to each one. (Check out our earlier CBC overview story.) The Cheep Thrills circle includes parts of San Rafael, all of Novato, and a chunk of West Marin. Rich and Heather’s section included some of the Novato Sanitary District’s wastewater treatment ponds.

Here are some moments in the life of a couple of lifelong birders on the biggest birding day of the year.

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: Like many wastewater ponds, the Novato Sanitation District ponds are a surprisingly good birding destination. Photo by Juliet Grable.

The first pond was dotted with ducks. Rich counted, Heather kept notes and pointed out things Rich might not be seeing through his spotting scope.

“One eared grebe.”

“Three hundred shovelers.”

“Five more turkey vultures.”

“What about ruddies; anyone count ruddy ducks yet?”

: Eared grebe, Creative Commons photo by Yathin.

Birds were everywhere: ducks, coots and grebes in the ponds, blackbirds in the tule, sparrows flushing from the coyote-bush alongside the dirt roads, ruby-crowned kinglets flitting in the eucalyptus, raptors perched on distant wires, skeins of geese threading through the air.

“Say’s phoebe!” Rich announced. He turned to me. “Do you know that bird? Gray chest, rusty tummy…”

“One more red-tailed, in the oak,” Heather said.

Rich confirmed. “One 2011 model red-tailed hawk.”

I was still staring after the four ring-necked ducks that were paddling away from the shore when Rich stopped the car abruptly.

“What is it?” Heather asked.

“Swallows. This is big. Let’s get out.”

: Violet green swallow. Creative Commons photo by Rob Robinson.

The three of us spilled out of the car and scanned just over the horizon with our binoculars.

“Violet-green and tree swallows,” Rich said. “See their white ‘saddlebags’?” The swallows swooped and turned, crossing paths, appearing and disappearing. I had trouble following single birds, much less estimating their numbers.

“How in the world do you count them?”

“Practice,” Rich replied, then told a story about honing his counting skills with friends. One would turn over a jar full of beans on the floor, then cover them up a few seconds later. Each person would have to make a guess.

“We were strange youth.”

: A loggerhead shrike on a fence. Creative commons photo by Henry T. McLin.

Rich had turned his attention away from the swallows and was scanning a field in the distance beyond one of the ponds. He tapped my arm in excitement.

“Look, look; just in front of the green sign on Highway 37, on the fence just in front.”

“In front of the green sign…”

“Oh, beautiful!” Heather exclaimed. I finally found the bird; it was a loggerhead shrike.

The shrike is a striking bird, gray with a black mask and black-and-white wings, but the sighting was beautiful for another reason: Over the years the CBC has revealed a steep decline in this species, which likes to perch strategically on fenceposts. It preys on insects, which it skewers on thorns or barbed wire.

Despite the decline in shrikes, many trends revealed by the CBCs are positive, Rich says. Marin Audubon has been actively buying land and restoring marshes, including Bahia Wetlands in northeast Novato. The abundance and variety of birds suggests this strategy is paying off.

At another pond Rich took on the task of counting Canada geese clustered on the far shore while Heather hunted for kinglets in the windbreak. Rich called Heather over to the scope.

: Ross’s geese in flight over the Sacramento River Wildlife Refuge. Public domain image, USFWS.

“Oooh…”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Ross’s geese?”

“Three of them are, but look at the one; it’s a little darker, with a thicker neck.”

“Oh, it’s a snow goose!”

The four smaller white geese stood out among the dark, heavy bodies of the Canada geese. Then Rich spotted a white-fronted goose camouflaged among them. This bird is dark like a Canada goose but much smaller, with no cheek patch. I was still looking for it when, for reasons known only to the geese themselves, dozens of them flushed, flew to the east, circled, then returned, splash-landing back in the pond, honking all the while.

“This should be a needle in a haystack,” Rich said. There were over 600 Canada geese in the pond. The three of us scanned the pond, looking for a single white-fronted goose.

“I see it!”

“It’s near the white geese.”

“Four Canadas over from the white ones.”

A needle with feathers.

: Rich Stallcup uses a birding scope to search for geese. Photo by Juliet Grable.

“Nobody pretends that we count every bird,” Rich had told me earlier. “But when the Count is done year after year in the same place with the same level of expertise, over time we start getting a reliable database.”

Late in the afternoon we crept along the levee, a full pond full of geese on our right, a drained pond on our left. As we drove, a small flock of American pipits flushed. The pipit looks kind of like a sparrow, kind of like a sandpiper, and a lot like the ground it blends into. Its most distinguishing features are a necklace of buffy streaks and white-edged tail.

“How many did you say?” Heather asked.

“Twenty-two. That probably means there’s forty-two.” The car continued creeping along the levee. Another small flock of pipits flushed. Then another.

“How about fifty, exactly.”

“Not one more,” I joked. As soon as I said it, a single straggler took to the air.

“Make that fifty-one.”

: Common yellowthroat. Creative commons photo by Len Blumin.

Birding is a paradoxical activity. You must be extremely focused, yet at the same time highly distractible. After flushing the pipits we stopped on the east side of the pond to see if we could find anything else hiding among the Canada geese. Something caught my eye: half a dozen fluttering white forms against the blue of sky.

“Peeps!” I said, happy to be pointing something out myself. Rich swung around.

“Six or seven least sandpipers,” he called out. I kept tracking them, but Rich had moved on.

“Merlin! Merlin!” he cried, excited. I tore myself away from the sandpipers just long enough to see the falcon swoop out of view. The brief presence of the raptor set the geese off; the honking sounded like an agitated traffic jam in a crowded parking lot. I was still looking for the merlin when Rich called out again.

“Common yellowthroat! On the fence, hurry; it won’t be there long.”

Some species were impressive for their sheer numbers, like the hundreds of northern shovelers and Canada geese in the ponds, and the dozens of red-winged blackbirds jammed wing-to-wing along a barbed wire fence. It seemed like there was a black phoebe on every fence section, chirping and swooping, and almost any time I scanned the sky, at least one turkey vulture soared overhead, wings see-sawing on the currents.

Other species impressed us with their rarity or uncommon beauty, such as the shrike and the pair of cinnamon teal we saw next to the tule in one of the smaller ponds. Still others were memorable for a particular combination of grace and humor, like the pair of great egrets fighting over a piece of prime real estate next to one of the ponds. They took to the air, the one in front nearly grazing the water with its regal white wings, the one on its heels croaking audibly.

“It’s a personal space issue,” Rich explained. “One landed on the wrong levee; now it must be chased for half a mile.”

This year’s Cheep Thrills circle yielded 161 species. Rich and Heather documented 104 in their section.

Learn more about the Christmas Bird Count.

Holiday seasons come and go, but not the Canada geese

Nothing heralds autumn and the holiday season like the evocative sound of geese, honking their way South on a blast of Arctic air.

In the Bay Area, it’s a sound heard all year long. Golf courses, parks and playing fields throughout the region host resident populations of the western Canada goose, a handsome, heavy-bodied bird with a distinctive black neck and white cheek patches.

While some of the birds migrate via the Pacific Flyway to summer breeding grounds in Canada and the northern U.S., others take advantage of the absence of predators, abundant food, and ideal nesting habitat and stay put.

“We’ve made it so comfortable for them to reside here,” says Denise Laberee, co-owner of 4 Paws Goose Control. Laberee takes trained border collies and Labrador retrievers to sites with goose problems.

Geese like open, grassy areas with access to nearby water. Many people enjoy geese at their local park, especially during the breeding season, when pairs can be seen leading fluffy goslings to the water.

But there is such a thing as one goose too many. A large flock can denude lawns, pack down the soil, and paint parks and walkways with droppings and feathers.

“We’re not talking about five to 10 birds. It’s more like 200 to 300,” says Laberee, whose clients include municipalities, golf course managers and homeowner’s associations.

Once a population establishes, it can spike dramatically in a short period of time. Geese are monogamous and long-lived. In fact, one female goose can produce 50 young over the course of her lifetime. And in the absence of predators, mortality is low.

“They’re pretty good at reproducing,” says Mark Williams, general manager of the Las

: The Las Gallinas Valley Sanitary Districtin Marin is prime territory for 250 Canada geese.

Gallinas Valley Sanitary District in Marin. He has witnessed the phenomenon first-hand at the wastewater treatment plant’s storage and wildlife ponds, which host a resident population of nearly 250 Canada geese. He worries the population will explode if left alone, potentially out-competing other bird species that use the ponds.

“We’re also concerned we’re going to have some type of bird flu,” Williams says. A high concentration of geese increases the likelihood of an outbreak of disease among them, which could then be transferred to other species.

It’s hard to believe now, but the Canada goose was in serious decline at the turn of the 20th century. The Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 banned hunting or the taking of eggs without a permit. These protections, combined with an increase in desirable real estate—parks, golf course and the like—spurred a dramatic turnaround for the species. Canada geese began breeding in the Bay Area—the southern end of their range – in the late 1950s.

Case in point, the athletic fields at Tamalpais High School in Mill Valley host a healthy flock of geese. In the aftermath of a rainstorm one recent day, a dozen of them methodically waddled across the lacrosse fields, necks arched over the juicy grass.

They were boldly nonplussed by cars, people, or even cut-outs of coyotes that had been planted in the fields to deter them. Everywhere underfoot were distinctive grass-stained droppings, highlighting one of the main reasons some people aren’t wild about having these not-so-wild birds around.

“They make a tremendous mess,” Laberee says. “And people make it worse by feeding them. It gets to the point where people can’t use grassed areas or walking paths.”

According to a report on goose management published by the Cornell University Extension Service, one goose can defecate 28 times a day and produce one and a half pounds of excrement. Aside from aesthetics, the droppings can compromise waterways by adding large nitrogen loads.

“It’s a huge water quality issue,” says Williams, adding that the goose droppings drives up the cost of treating water from the ponds, which is used to irrigate medians and parks in San Rafael.

Park managers and golf course owners can choose from a number of options to manage their resident goose populations. The simplest is to stop feeding them. Modifying the landscape is another option. Geese prefer an unobstructed route from feeding areas to the water, so planting shrubs that block their view can make the area less appealing.

: Canada geese with goslings at Lake Merritt, Oakland, California. Photo courtesy of Larry McCombs on Flickr.

Conversely, providing a more appealing habitat close by can lure them away. More proactive solutions include hazing or scaring the birds with strobe lights, loud noises or dogs.

Still more invasive (i.e. expensive) methods include inhibiting the birds’ ability to reproduce, or removing the birds themselves, either through direct harvesting or relocating. Each method has its pros and cons, but none is a sure bet.

“There’s no way to permanently get rid of the geese, especially in parks with waterways,” says Laberee, noting that many methods lose their effectiveness once the geese get used to them.

Once 4 Paws lands a contract, she and the dogs must go to the site daily. Repeated patrols send the message that the geese aren’t welcome.

“If they know us they’ll leave as soon as we show up,” says Laberee. “Sometimes we don’t even let the dogs out of the crates.”

At Las Gallinas, the presence of other birds limits the types of control methods they can use.

“We have 200 species of birds using our wildlife ponds,” says Williams. “We don’t want to use ‘poppers,’ [pyrotechnic devices] because they would disturb all the birds, not just the geese.”

The district has hired an avian biologist to help come up with an integrated management plan. They have come up with a two-pronged approach: coating goose eggs with corn oil, which prevents embryos from developing, and altering the landscape to make it less desirable to the geese, most likely by planting shrubs between the water and open areas.

“We’re hoping to deal with the problem in a humane way,” says Williams, adding that the community has recognized the need to do something and supports the proposed solution. Community participation is a large part of the equation, according to both Williams and Laberee.

“We do a lot of educating when we’re out and about,” says Laberee, who offers presentations to schools that ask for her services. She believes the most constructive thing people can do is to stop feeding resident geese.

“There’s plenty of grass and seeds for them,” she says. “They don’t need supplementing.”

The geese at Tamalpais High seemed to be doing just fine on their own. On that day, a cold wind gusted and several of them took to the air, honking as they made their way across Bothin Marsh.

It sounded just like fall.

Construction Begins on Largest Restoration in San Pablo Bay Refuge

At first glance, Cullinan Ranch isn’t much to look at.

Bound by Dutchman Slough to the north and Highway 37 to the south, the Solano County property consists of 1,500 acres of low-lying fields, dotted with clumps of cattails and coyote brush. Only some earthmoving equipment parked on the site hints that this former farmland is about to become the largest restored marsh in the San Pablo Bay National Wildlife Refuge.

“The Cullinan Ranch project is the greatest effort for the refuge so far,” says Don Brubaker, refuge manager. Even more significant, this project is adjacent to the North Bay Salt Pond Complex, a series of evaporation ponds formerly owned by Cargill Salt Company that have already been restored.

“The largest restoration in the San Francisco Estuary to date has taken place in the North Bay, but it’s been done without the pomp and circumstance of the South Bay projects,” says Marc Holmes of the Bay Institute.

So far, nearly 5,000 acres in the Napa River estuary have been converted back to marsh. (Bay Nature detailed the big vision in a 2007 special section, Highway to the Flyway.)

Each new chunk helps turn back the clock.

: Cars and trucks speed by the marshes along Highway 37. Photo by Juliet Grable.

The San Francisco Estuary once supported 200,000 acres of tidal marsh, not including the Delta. “It’s hard to conceive of the vastness of the marshes, to imagine what the Spanish sailor standing in the crow’s nest saw,” says Brubaker.

Ninety-two percent of these marshes were drained and destroyed, mostly between 1850 and 1930. But the majority of these 180,000 acres lost were not actually filled; instead, earthen dikes cut off tidal flow, and water was pumped out to “reclaim” the land for farmland and pasture.

: Cougar Mountain looms over the wetlands and farm fields along Highway 37 between Napa and Solano counties. Photo by Juliet Grable.

“It wrought havoc with the ecology,” says Homes. “Species that lived only in the San Francisco Estuary were driven to extinction or to the brink.”

After World War II, a growing awareness of the value of marshes checked large-scale fill projects, expressed most clearly in the movement that led to the founding of Save the Bay, which is celebrating its 50th anniversary this fall.

“Organizations began suing to stop development,” says Holmes. “Many cases went all the way to the Supreme Court, and it became very expensive for developers to get their projects approved.” Next came the push to acquire wetlands with public funds.

: The bridge to Vallejo in the fog, on the eastern end of Highway 37. Photo by Juliet Grable.

The history of Cullinan Ranch typifies the shifting attitudes toward land use and wetlands over the last 150 years. Some of its marshes were diked and drained at the turn of the 20th century, others in the 1940s. For decades farmers grew hay and oats here, but in the 1980s the ranch almost became “Egret Bay,” a housing development in the same vein as Bel Marin Keys in Novato. After that project was denied, the US Fish and Wildlife Service purchased the property.

The pace of change here is also typical. Though the land was acquired more than 20 years ago, funding for restoration lagged behind. Construction finally began in October 2011. Westbound commuters stuck in traffic may have already taken note of the growing berm alongside Highway 37.

“The most expensive aspect of the project is to protect the highway from flooding once tidal flow is restored,” says Brubaker.

That won’t happen right away. Work on the protection levee will continue into next year, when construction of acceleration and deceleration lanes will also begin.

Then there’s the issue of land subsidence. “A marsh is like a sponge,” says Brubaker. “Take away the water and the land contracts.” After decades of exposure, parts of Cullinan Ranch are six to eight feet below sea level.

As a result, it has functioned as a seasonal wetland for years. “It has wildlife value right now,” says Brubaker. The ranch attracts dabbling ducks like gadwall, pintail and mallards, along with assorted shorebirds–avocets, black-necked stilts and greater yellowlegs–in winter. A “host of raptors”–including red-tailed hawks, harriers and white-tailed kites– use the area year-round.

At its simplest, marsh restoration involves punching holes in a dike and letting the tides do the work. In many cases, marsh vegetation returns on its own. But sites with subsidence, like Cullinan Ranch, require a more hands-on approach.

“In time, sediment will naturally fill in a little bit,” says Brubaker. “But we’ll still need to bring in several hundred thousand cubic yards of material.” Otherwise, the area would likely become shallow, open water, too deep for marsh vegetation to get established.

Dredged mud from the nearby Napa River will most likely serve as the source of the fill. “But you can’t just dump the material on the site,” says Brubaker. “You have to account for sedimentation rates and other factors.”

That’s where the engineers come in. Engineers from Ducks Unlimited will guide the tides by recreating original channels, which are still evident even after years of farming. Once the prep work is completed, the most dramatic part of the restoration will happen: letting in the water.

“If you ever get to watch a breach, do it!” Holmes says. “The birds are immediately there, and they just go crazy.” The birds are attracted to a bonanza of invertebrates, some of which are already present in the mud before the breach occurs. “As soon as you reconnect the land with the tides, that just explodes.”

The vegetation will come later. The restoration team hopes that cordgrass and pickleweed will colonize naturally, providing habitat for two endangered species: the California clapper rail and the salt marsh harvest mouse.

The restored marsh will serve as a buffet for migratory birds making a pit stop along the Pacific Flyway, and a nursery for resident and migratory fish.

But marshes provide more than ecological benefits; they also improve water quality by filtering sediment and pollutants and helping control flooding.

The benefits far outweigh the cost of restoration projects, says Holmes, but lack of funding is often the only thing standing in the way of actually doing them. “There’s been an absurd failure of government to do something of very significant benefit,” he adds.

“The funding for Cullinan Ranch has been cobbled together,” says Brubaker. Sources include National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and $6 million from the California Wildlife Conservation Fund. The total cost of the project will be $16 million.

Other restoration projects are on hold, waiting for the money to come in. One potential solution to the budget shortfall may lie in a piece of federal legislation called The San Francisco Bay Restoration Act. San Francisco Bay is currently part of the National Estuary Program (NEP), the objective of which is to protect and restore “estuaries of national significance,” as designated by the Environmental Protection Agency. Money for restoration projects for these estuaries comes from a common funding pool. Under the new legislation, San Francisco Bay would be authorized as a separate project and qualify for $20 million over five years. The bill has been introduced in both the House and the Senate (follow its progress).

“We get up every day and try to find money,” says Holmes, who also worked with the original team on the Cullinan Ranch acquisition two decades ago. “Right now, the Bay Institute is focused on getting this federal legislation passed.”

Meanwhile, back at Cullinan Ranch, the earthmovers will continue piling up material, each dumpload taking the land one step closer to its pre-Gold Rush abundance.

Brubaker hopes the restored marshes will attract both avian and human visitors. Though they may be a few years away, new facilities will include parking, trails, fishing piers, and even a boat ramp for kayaks.

“We’re putting several million dollars into this project; we want people to come enjoy it,” says Brubaker.

Fur Seals Making a Comeback on the Farallones

Such a loveable face could melt even the stoniest heart. The docile expression and liquid eyes of the northern fur seal make this creature the perfect poster child for animal welfare groups.

Don’t be fooled.

Jim Tietz, a PRBO Conservation Science biologist who helps monitor the colony on the Farallon Islands National Wildlife Refuge, says these marine mammals are playful and curious–even aggressive. And they’re making a comeback, at least on islands off the California coast.

“It was a good season for pups,” says Tietz. “We counted over 180 pups during one survey.”

The rocky Farallones, 28 miles west of the Golden Gate, serve as a refuge for thousands of seabirds and five species of pinnipeds: elephant seals, harbor seals, California and Steller sea lions, and the northern fur seal. At one time, fur seals may have dominated the islands, but relentless hunting in the early 19th century exterminated most of the colony and sent the rest fleeing. Biologists have spotted individual seals over the years, but it wasn’t until 1996 that the first fur seal pup was born on Southeast Farallon Island. Today hundreds of fur seals breed here, and the colony is growing exponentially. The high count for 2011 was 476 individuals, a 69 percent increase from the year before.

The burgeoning colony has settled on Indian Head Beach, a rocky area on West End, just across a narrow channel from Southeast Farallon Island. When Tietz first started monitoring the population in 2006, this area was dominated by California sea lions–and to a lesser extent, elephant seals.

“The population has shifted dramatically,” says Tietz. “The sea lions have been displaced to Southeast Farallon Island, despite the fact that they’re bigger than the fur seals.”

Fur seals are far more aggressive than the shyer sea lions. Even a fur seal pup moving through a group of sea lions will bare its teeth.

“When we go to count we have to be careful not to spook the sea lions because they’re scared of humans,” says Tietz. “With fur seals it’s very different. If one’s blocking the path, we have to use a pole to push them back.”

Fur seals are also extremely playful. Pups, immature “adolescents,” and even adults play in the intertidal area, chasing each other and engaging in mock battles.

: A fur seal (left) and Stellar sea lion pup playing on the Farallon Islands. Photo by Jim Tietz, courtesy PRBO Conservation Science.

“Sometimes you see them doing endless circles,” says Tietz. “Or they’ll have something in their mouth, and they’ll be playing with that.” Tietz has even witnessed a prolonged play date between a fur seal and Steller sea lion pup.

The northern fur seal is an “eared seal,” in the same family as California and Steller sea lions. These seals have external ears, long front flippers, and a pelvis that rotates forward, making them much more nimble on land than “earless seals” like harbor and elephant seals. All members of this family show extreme sexual dimorphism–males are up to four times larger than females, with thick necks and “linebacker” shoulders.

Unlike other seals and sea lions, the northern fur seal relies on dense fur rather than blubber for insulation.

“They’re very skinny,” says Tietz. “Their waist is narrow, which is opposite of harbor and elephant seals.”

Their fur is incredibly dense–up to 300,000 hairs can crowd an area the size of a postage stamp. Thanks to this insulation, fur seals spend most of their lives at sea aside from the few months spent on land during the breeding season.

Their dense fur also got them into trouble.

In 1807 American trading companies began harvesting fur seals on the Farallones. Between 100,000 and 150,000 seals were killed in a five-year period. Later, Russians and the Aleuts they hired as hunters got into the act.

This destructive pattern occurred throughout the fur seal’s range. Over half the global population breeds on Alaska’s Pribilof Islands, in the eastern part of the Bering Sea. Hunting devastated the population, which declined from 2.5 million to 215,000 by the early 20th century. The International North Pacific Fur Seal Treaty of 1911 between the United States, Russia, Canada and Japan put a stop to the plundering. The population rebounded, but has recently begun to decline again.

The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) lists the northern fur seal as “vulnerable,” and the Pribilof colonies are listed as “depleted” under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Seals may only be taken by subsistence hunters. Yet despite protections, the Pribilof colonies are not thriving; the pupping rate has been declining steadily. Today the fur seal faces different, more complicated threats than hunters: pollution, disturbance, climate change, deaths due to entanglements in gill nets or marine debris, and over-fishing that depresses prey populations. In particular, the pollack fishery may be affecting the availability of one of the seal’s preferred foods.

Unlike a species like the elephant seal, which nurses its pups constantly, fur seal mothers take foraging trips and are often gone for a week at a time.

“If prey is scarce, mothers may have to spend even more time away from their pups,” says Tietz. Sometimes mothers even abandon them.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that colonies have reformed, both in the Aleutians and off the California coast. The southernmost colonies are thriving and growing. Fur seals began breeding on San Miguel Island, one of the Channel Islands, in the 1960s.

“They started to see flipper tags on seals at San Miguel,” says Tietz. “And they were all from the Pribilof or Commander Islands (in Russia’s Bering Sea).” Today the San Miguel colony, which may have peaked, numbers around 10,000 animals.

Almost all of the Farallon Island fur seals, on the other hand, hail from San Miguel. These pioneers first hauled out on Southeast Farallon Island, then moved to the colony’s current location on Indian Head Beach, which Tietz calls a “sensitive area.”

“California sea lions and several species of seabirds also breed there,” says Tietz. “The pupping season (for fur seals) coincides with the nesting season of seabirds.”

To avoid disturbing them, Tietz and the other biologists limit the amount of direct interaction with the seals by monitoring the colony from Lighthouse Hill, a high point on Southeast Farallon Island. The disadvantage is that part of the colony is obscured by Maintop Hill, which means the count of 180 pups for the 2011 season is likely a conservative number. Tietz hopes to start using aerial photographs of the colonies to obtain more accurate counts without causing additional disturbance.

Though they avoid the area during the seabird nesting season, the biologists do trek to West End several times a year for a closer peek at the fur seal colony. This time of year, the pups are mostly weaned and are starting to leave their island refuge. Many of them won’t see land again for a year or more.

Turning a Weedy Island into Prime Habitat in Richardson Bay

Can a pile of dredge spoils covered in a jumble of invasive weeds be transformed into an island paradise for shorebirds, songbirds, and seals? The folks at the Richardson Bay Audubon Center and Sanctuary think so. And after years of planning, ground-breaking on their ambitious restoration project has finally begun.

Aramburu is a 17-acre island just east of Richardson Bay’s Strawberry Peninsula. Shaped like a long, skinny spoon, it’s the largest of three islands that rub watery shoulders with the Audubon Sanctuary in Tiburon. This modest archipelago originated as a dumping ground for dredged and excavated material, but birds and other wildlife colonized the islands almost immediately. For many years, it was an important harbor seal haul-out site, and in 1997 Marin County officially declared Aramburu a wildlife sanctuary.

But Aramburu isn’t fulfilling its potential. It’s smothered in non-native plants. Much of the eastern slope is steep and rocky, not ideal for shorebirds that prefer foraging on expansive mudflats. It’s also getting smaller, as erosion gnaws away at the eastern shore.

The restoration project addresses these shortcomings. The first phase–smoothing out the island’s edges–has already begun.

In the last two weeks earth-movers have scraped off non-native vegetation and re-graded the steep erosive scarp on the eastern shore. Next, barges delivered the new beach material: a combination of pea gravel, sands and crushed oyster shells.

“The difference is already pretty dramatic,” says Audubon Sanctuary Manager Kerry Wilcox.

: Invasive plants like these are being removed from the island, and the eroded bank seen in lower left will be smoothed out into a more gradual slope, preferred by shorebirds. Photo courtesy Richardson Bay Audubon Center, tiburonaudubon.org.

The Audubon Center worked with restoration ecologists Peter Baye and Roger Leventhal on a beach restoration plan using material with differently-sized grains that will interlock with each other, creating a stable “fabric.” In addition, large eucalyptus logs placed along the beach will help hold the material in place. This large woody debris will also create a “wave shadow” that reduces wave energy.

“We’re taking a soft engineering design approach” says Audubon ecologist Kathi Borgmann. After the initial sculpting and earth-moving, nature will be left to take its course.

***

A few days before the bulldozers rolled in, I paddled out to Aramburu with Borgmann and another volunteer to search for any active bird nests. It was a little late for nesting, but she wanted to make sure the earth-moving equipment wouldn’t disrupt any birds using the island to breed.

I felt privileged to step foot on Aramburu. Though only a pebble’s toss from the tony Tiburon neighborhood across the channel, access to the islands is highly restricted.

My first step was a slippery one, as we scaled rip-rap crusted with barnacles, dragging the kayak and canoe behind us. But unless we wanted to be up to our thighs in Bay mud, this was the best place to haul out.

“Let’s meet back here in two hours,” said Borgmann, once we were safely ashore. Without ceremony we struck out in three different directions.

I headed for the north end of the island, winding through thickets of thistle and clumps of broom, stopping occasionally. Nest searching is simple, but not an activity for the over-caffeinated: stop, look, listen; then look and listen some more.

A rustling in the broom caught my eye: a song sparrow with a fat green grub in its beak.

I crouched under an oak tree and watched, and before long spotted a fledgling, beak open and wings fluttering. With its crisply streaked breast and pristine feathers, the young sparrow looked freshly painted. Though it was still begging for food, the bird could fly, so after a few more minutes I moved on.

Although we were primarily looking for songbird nests, the biggest beneficiaries of the restoration will be the shorebirds that already frequent this and the neighboring islands, particularly the northernmost one, dubbed Pickleweed.

Pickleweed is several times smaller than Aramburu, but it consistently attracts more birds. The juxtaposition of the two islands has helped inform the restoration strategy.

“Having Pickleweed as a control site is really important and really unique,” says Borgmann.

Wilcox initiated shorebird surveys on all three islands in September 2009. He and a group of volunteers conducted surveys several times a month at both high and low tides.

“It became clear pretty quickly that Aramburu was the least utilized by the suite of shorebirds that visit the islands,” says Wilcox.

Two years of data have allowed him to start quantifying the striking differences among the islands. Not only are shorebird densities up to eight times higher on Pickleweed, overall numbers are higher as well.

: Mount Tamalpais looms over the rocky shoreline of Aramburu Island. Photo courtesy Richardson Bay Audubon Center, tiburonaudubon.org.

Pickleweed has several things going for it. “The island has a low profile, so it’s more or less inundated at high tide,” says Wilcox. The saltwater discourages nonnative plants, most of which can’t tolerate high salinity. In contrast to the collage of weeds on Aramburu, the dominant plant on Pickleweed is the island’s namesake salt-loving marsh plant; native cordgrass grows in the channels winding through the eastern shore. In addition, the island’s beaches slope gently; at low tide the exposed mudflats reach far beyond the island toward the channel. Birds flock to them.

“We see a lot of birds foraging at low tide, and a lot of birds resting at high tide,” Wilcox says.

I’ve witnessed this myself when helping out with shorebird surveys. The birds sort themselves out along the beach: marbled godwits stand in shallows, long beaks plunged into the mud, black-bellied plovers and sandpipers scurry along the shore, and clumps of gulls rest further back, heads tucked under wings. Other winter regulars include willets, long-billed curlews, dunlins, dowitchers, sandpipers, greater yellowlegs, and black turnstones. At high tide many of those same birds take refuge in the vegetation.

The combination of birds is never the same, and there’s always a chance to see something unusual. One week a couple hundred elegant terns might show up, only to disappear a few days later. The birds vary from year to year, from season to season, from day to day, and from tide to tide.

Back on Aramburu, I was hoping to find a surprise of a different kind. A pair of black-necked stilts had been caught acting suspiciously like anxious parents, yet so far no chicks had been seen.

I found the stilt pair–or rather, they found me–near a small pond at the north end of the island. One of them swooped past me–a handsome black and white bird dragging peppermint-stick legs–and immediately began scolding me with sharp cries. I turned and retreated toward the eastern shore, then snuck back through the oak grove towards the pond. Squatting behind clumps of weedy Harding grass, I spied on the pair. Both had returned to the pond. I kept watching. Something was moving in the pickleweed between the two adults. It had to be a chick! And it was. I finally glimpsed the distinctive black and white markings among the vegetation. The young stilt was half the size of its parents, and remarkably well-concealed.

The area near the pond is one of the few extensive pickleweed patches on Aramburu. Much of the island is overrun with nonnatives: thistle, Harding grass, French broom, acacia, and iceplant, among others. The restoration will create native tidal marsh near the shore and grassland habitat in the uplands. In addition, some of the low spots in the upland portion of the island will serve as vernal pools, which are often refugia for rare native plants.

The new landscape won’t happen overnight.

“This phase will take several years,” says Borgmann. After re-grading, the island will be capped with a thin layer of Bay mud and seeded with saltgrass, which will act as a natural barrier to discourage weeds from re-colonizing. Restoration workers may also put in saltwater irrigation, which has been used successfully in the South Bay to control invasive plants. Audubon staff will get native plants from Richmond’s Watershed Nursery, though they have also started a plant nursery on their property in Tiburon.

The re-vegetation phase won’t even begin for at least a year, and additional sources of funding must be found. Already the project is costing more than was anticipated.

***

It was easy to set aside worries, financial and otherwise, while watching the stilt chick thread through the pickleweed, flanked by its vigilant parents. But two hours of stopping, looking, and listening had passed. I hurried back to join the others and compare notes. We’d each seen several song sparrows and goldfinch fledglings, but none of us had found an active nest. It was time to paddle back.

Though it was exciting to learn that stilts are breeding on Aramburu, the pair is something of an anomaly, since stilts usually breed in colonies. Wilcox points out that the goal of the project isn’t to create breeding habitat. He says there probably isn’t enough area on the islands to support breeding colonies or individuals like rails. The greatest value of the islands is for foraging and resting.

Because birds are so opportunistic, they may take advantage of Aramburu’s newly enhanced shoreline sooner than later.

“Shorebirds are so mobile,” says Borgmann. “The new habitat could be colonized right away.” The next phase of the project, which may or may not happen this year, will be to import fine-grained sand to supplement the sandy foreshore a little further out from the beach. Sediment sampling has revealed a good variety of invertebrates in the foreshore area, so a plentiful buffet should welcome any newcomers.

Wilcox plans to continue the shorebird surveys in October, once the first phase of construction is complete. He’s not making any predictions, but he’s optimistic.

“It’s exciting to think about the possibilities.”

To follow the progress of the Aramburu restoration, see tiburonaudubon.org or visit them on Facebook.

Artist Finds Graphic History at the Farallones

San Francisco artist Eva Chrysanthe has always been intrigued by the Farallon Islands, those distant humps on the western horizon. “They’re enticing and forbidding and mysterious,” she explains. And then adds, “There are a ton of sharks out there.”

As a fourth-generation SF native, Chrysanthe takes pride in her knowledge of local history. She already knew about the egg-poaching that devastated seabird populations on the Farallones during the mid to late 19th century. The trade, thought to be dominated by criminal Italian immigrants, was so lucrative that competing companies and individuals squabbled over their claims on the islands.

“One day I started rattling off a standard response to a question about the islands and started to wonder,” says Chrysanthe. While fact-checking her own answer, Chrysanthe stumbled across a cache of old letters at the San Francisco History Center.

Eva discovered that blame for the egg-plundering had been erroneously placed on the shoulders of the “Mafiosos.”

“Egg company employee rosters revealed very few Italian names,” says Chrysanthe. “At the time of the egg wars, most of the Italians in San Francisco were Northern Italians, who had no connection with the Mafia.” Many of them were supporters of the revolutionary Giuseppe Garibaldi and his progressive agenda. “They were very cultured and educated. Many were merchant marines and had been all over the world.”

: One of a set of Farallon Egg War trading cards created by artist Eva Chrysanthe.

Extensive research at the San Francisco History Center, the Maritime Museum and the California Academy of Sciences also revealed that the Farallones, though 27 miles west of San Francisco, played a central role in the city’s early history.

“Almost immediately I wanted to do something with the material,” she says.

That something has turned out to be a full-length graphic novel called “Garibaldi and the Farallon Egg War.” She’ll be talking about the project this Thursday evening at the Randall Museum.

For Chysanthe, the graphic novel was the natural medium for this story. She has worked for several New York-based publications, including the New Yorker, as an illustrator. “It was really fun,” says Chrysanthe of her time with the New Yorker. “They’d send me out to draw what I saw, such as a mob funeral in Chinatown.”

But in her current project, Chrysanthe seeks more than to correct a historical misrepresentation. Egg harvesting climaxed in 1864 with a violent skirmish between the Pacific Egg Company and rivals who wished to stake a claim on the islands. The period of the Egg Wars coincided with the Gold Rush–a time of tremendous growth, as well as tremendous waste and destruction. The mining of seabird eggs was emblematic of this destruction, even as it literally helped to feed it.

: One of a set of Farallon Egg War trading cards created by artist Eva Chrysanthe.

“What struck me was their inability to plan,” says Chrysanthe. “They couldn’t figure out how to get chickens here, so they started poaching seabird eggs instead.” At one point, 500,000 eggs were taken in one two-month period. Populations of birds like the common murre were devastated.

Chrysnathe is careful to point out that even then there were people calling for protections.

“It wasn’t just poaching that was happening on the Farallones. There was a lot of amateur science.” She became intrigued with Charles Melville Scammon, a whaler from the East Coast. “Even as he was hunting gray whales to extinction, he was lovingly taking notes on their skeletal systems and habits,” says Chrysanthe.

It’s easy to look back on that period critically, she says, but the contradictions of the period intrigue her–and they remain relevant. “We think we’re so environmentally sophisticated,” she says “But I see a similar mentality at work today.”

Chrysanthe was in New York on September 11, 2001, but she moved back to San Francisco afterward: “I decided I’d rather die in California.”

But she didn’t immediately return to art. Instead, she wanted to do something hands-on and for three years she worked in the emergency room at UCSF (where she was born, incidentally).

“I was stunned by the last-minute approach,” she says. Many of the patients she saw were suffering from preventable diseases, yet the focus was on treating the symptoms and sending them home, an approach she compares to the one that drove the poaching at the Farallones.

She doesn’t see Gold Rush greed as a thing of the past, either.

“Our need for “much-ness” is too much,” Chrysanthe says. “We have big houses, big cars, big everything.”

For her own part, Chrysanthe chooses not to drive; in fact, she has never driven a car. When I spoke with her she was on an Amtrack train to Tahoe. The last time she went to the lake, she rode her bike.

Though Chrysanthe has worked on other graphic novel projects, this is her first full-length illustrated book. She trusts she will find a small, independent “niche” publisher to take on her project.

Eva Chrysanthe will be giving a lecture on the Farallon Egg Wars on Thursday, August 18th at the Randall Museum. To see more of Chrysanthe’s artwork and learn more about her project visit her blog at faralloneggwar.blogspot.com.

Protecting the Little Fish, Food for Many

They’re the little guys. Small, silver, nondescript fish that are so hard to tell apart that many people simply call them “baitfish.” But though they don’t command the attention of a breaching humpback whale or trophy tuna, these humble creatures known as forage species–from anchovies to squid–play a starring role in local marine ecosystems.

New legislation aims to force fisheries managers to consider that role when writing plans for the state’s commercial fishing fleet. On June 28, 2011, the Forage Species Conservation Act (AB 1299) was heard before the Senate Committee on Natural Resources and Water, marking the latest milestone in a big debate over little fish.

Sponsored by Oceana, an international non-profit that advocates for the restoration of ocean ecosystems, AB 1299 requires that California recognize the value of certain aquatic species as food for other creatures when crafting or revising Fishery Management Plans (FMPs). Assemblymember Jared Huffman (D-San Rafael) introduced the bill last February, and now it’s still winding its way through the legislature.

State Fishery Management Plans themselves are the result of relatively new legislation. The Marine Life Management Act of 1999 mandated that such plans be created for each established fishery to help achieve the goal of long-term sustainability.

Several groups support AB 1299, including Audubon California, PRBO Conservation Science, The Marine Mammal Center, the Sierra Club, and the Coastside Fishing Club. Opponents of the bill include organizations representing the commercial fishing industry, such as the Pacific Coast Federation of Fishermen’s Associations and the California Wetfish Producers Association, along with the Cities of Morro Bay and Monterey, which have strong ties to the industry.

The bill would provide a model for ecosystem-based management and would encourage state management officials to collaborate with their federal counterparts to promote the policy’s objectives for protecting forage fish.

“The California Current Ecosystem is like a body, with energy being exchanged from top to bottom and from bottom to top. Forage species play the key role in energy transfer in marine ecosystems around the world.”

William Sydeman, president and senior scientist at the Farallon Institute, describes the role of forage species this way: “The California Current Ecosystem is like a body, with energy being exchanged from top to bottom and from bottom to top. Forage species play the key role in energy transfer in this system and in marine ecosystems around the world.”

A number of species fall under the forage species umbrella, including krill, northern anchovy, Pacific sardine, market squid, Pacific herring, Pacific mackerel, various smelt, and the young-of-the-year of certain species such as hake, rockfish, and salmon.

The list of creatures that depend on these mid-trophic level species is long, and includes larger fish like tuna and mature salmon, marine mammals like sea lions and porpoises, and several hundred species of seabirds.

“The California Current ecosystem is a magnet for wildlife all over the Pacific,” says Anna Weinstein, seabird conservation coordinator for Audubon California. She cites the sooty shearwater as an example. The most abundant bird in California, it travels all the way from New Zealand to Monterey Bay to gorge on squid. Thirty-eight breeding species and 200 visiting species depend on the generous buffet of food delivered by the California Current.

Darrell Ticehurst, chairman of the board of directors for the Coastside Fishing Club (a group of 13,000 recreational anglers), became concerned about forage species while representing recreational fishermen on the Pacific Fisheries Management Council several years ago.

“Forage species are the linchpin of the ocean,” he says. “These species concentrate the energy of phytoplankton and zooplankton and transfer that protein into something usable by larger predators. If forage species disappear, so will other species.” He believes the situation is especially critical for recovering species like yelloweye rockfish and canary rockfish. “Sardines and squid are being harvested at record levels. Removing large quantities of forage fish is like taking medicine away from the patient.”

But Diane Pleschner-Steele, executive director of the California Wetfish Producers Association, says there is no crisis. “California Current fisheries are recognized as having some of the lowest exploitation rates in the world. All evidence shows enormous productivity in marine mammals and birds.”

Four for Forage

So what forage species do California fisheries target? Mostly northern anchovy, Pacific sardine, market squid, and Pacific herring. The state of California manages market squid and the San Francisco Bay herring fishery; sardines and anchovies are under federal management.

The herring fishery occurs almost exclusively within the fish’s spawning grounds in San Francisco Bay. Though it brings in only a fraction of the revenues of some of the state’s larger fisheries, the tenacious herring fleet is notable as the Bay’s last remaining commercial fishery. Herring are harvested primarily for their roe, which the Japanese eat as a delicacy on New Year’s; the male fish are used for bait.

The California Department of Fish and Game sets herring quotas annually based on a biomass estimate from data gathered during the spawning season. Though numbers normally fluctuate, the past several decades have showed a steady decline. When they reached a new low in 2008, the department closed the fishery for the 2009-10 season to allow stocks to recover. Numbers have rebounded enough in the last two seasons for managers to set a conservative quota of 5 percent of estimated biomass.

Despite what appears to be a positive trend in herring numbers, populations are still well below historic averages. Weinstein says herring are “terribly regulated.” She would like to see a quota of zero for the foreseeable future.

One of the problems with the herring fishery, she says, is not just the overall declining numbers but the “truncation of age-classes.” There are fewer older and larger fish in the population. “They’re catching smaller and smaller fish,” claims Weinstein, who witnessed spawning surveys and age-class structure surveys last season.

Market Squid

: Boats fishing for squid in Monterey Bay. Creative commons photo by Marcel Holyoak.

Most people probably don’t think about squid unless they’re dipping fried calamari in remoulade, and even then they may not realize what they’re eating. Market squid (Loligo opalescens) aren’t fish, but cephalopods, cousins to the octopus. Squid congregate in huge numbers to spawn, then die, and their populations fluctuate wildly in response to oceanic conditions. They all but disappear in some locations during warm-water El Nino years.

In recent years market squid has become California’s most lucrative fishery; in fact, most of the global harvest is landed off the California coast. Thanks to demand from Japan and China, which had depleted their own stocks, the fishery exploded in the 1990s, growing 400 percent between the 1990-91 and 1997-98 seasons.

Squid have short life spans; most live only for a year or so. Consequently, the population replaces itself each year, and it has been assumed that squid can handle high fishing pressure. Ticehurst says some managers and fishermen liken squid to “cockroaches of the sea.”

“Squid just breed and breed, and nobody sees anything wrong with taking as much as they can catch,” he says. “But when squid die and fall to the bottom of the ocean, they’re feeding all the rockfish down there.”

The state’s Market Squid Fishery Management Plan includes measures to reduce pressure and lower the potential of overfishing, such as closing the fishery on weekends and capping the number of fishing permits. Fishing is prohibited in several Marine Protected Areas around the Northern Channel Islands and in several Ecological Reserves.

The plan also establishes an annual harvest limit of 118,000 tons. However, there is no way of knowing what percentage of the total biomass this number represents; the management plan even states that “no direct, statistically sound estimates of populations are available.” Sydeman argues more needs to be done to ensure there’s enough squid to go around, since they comprise at least a part of the diet of countless predators, including white seabass and halibut. “Market squid represents the largest fishery yet we don’t have techniques in place to establish abundance,” he says. “All we know is how much is caught.”

Sardines and Anchovies

Sardines and anchovies are managed under the Coastal Pelagic Species Fishery Management Plan. According to a “Fish Watch” fact sheet from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association (NOAA), anchovy populations are thought to be healthy, but the last stock assessment occurred in 1995. As with squid, management of the species is based on landings.

“It’s circular,” Sydeman says. “We think if we catch this much this year we should be able to catch this much next year. But the environment can drive the populations (of forage fish) down very quickly, and we don’t have good ways of tracking the changes.”

Sardines are more actively managed. After the Cannery Row-area fishery peaked in 1936, the population crashed in 1950s, most likely due to a combination of natural cycles and overfishing. A moratorium on sardine fishing persisted until 1986, and the fishery enjoyed a resurgence; however, in recent years sardine numbers have begun to dip dramatically once again.

Sardines thrive in warmer ocean conditions; the current cold water cycle that has caused squid and krill populations to bloom is probably negatively affecting sardines.

One thing people on both sides of the issue agree on is the need to rethink the way managers assess sardine biomass and set harvest guidelines. Since sardine productivity is based on ocean temperature, a fraction reflecting that relationship is used to determine harvest guidelines. Oceana, in a recent letter to NOAA, says this is too generous.

Pleschner-Steele, on the other hand, claims that reports of the sardine’s recent decline are overblown. “The techniques used (to assess biomass) are the best available, but they’re not necessarily the best science,” she says. Her organization is hoping to work with NOAA on developing a new protocol.

Meanwhile, she points out that the current management plan prevents overfishing by not allowing any fishing once the bimass estimate reaches a number thought to represent three times more fish remaining than the base “overfished amount.” She also notes that harvest guidelines go down with the stock assessment. In fact, the final rule for setting 2011 harvest guidelines states that “the recent decline led the Council to recommend for the 2011 season the lowest harvest level since the onset of Federal sardine management in 2000, a direct result of the precautionary nature of the harvest control rule.”

Though AB 1299 won’t directly apply to this federally-managed fishery, the law would require state representatives on the federal Pacific Fisheries Management Council to advocate for the policies of AB 1299.

Food for Thought

Even if the Forage Species Bill passes, will it become another victim of the state’s dismal budget climate? After all, one of the reasons state fishery management plans aren’t forthcoming is their costliness. Opponents claim the research mandated by AB 1299 would require five years of staff time and over $4.5 million.

But supporters argue we can’t afford not to pass the bill. Supporters and detractors alike use economics to make their cases. Weinstein claims that protecting forage fish populations not only ensures the health of the predators that eat them, but the health of California’s economy. She cites the $7 billion dollars in yearly revenues generated from wildlife watching, while Ticehurst stresses the $1 billion saltwater anglers spend every year.

Pleschner-Steele counters by pointing out the importance of squid and sardines to the state’s economy. “Wetfish make up 84 percent of the volume of all commercial landings, and 40 percent of the value,” she says. “And that’s multiplied several times through the community when you consider the processors, distributors and other peripheral businesses.” Squid landings for 2007 brought in $29 million.

But Ticehurst claims that fish for fish, recreational anglers do more for the economy than commercial industry. Of course, the anglers Ticehurst represents are targeting large predatory fish, the numbers of which are declining in ecosystems worldwide. As this happens, fisheries begin targeting smaller and smaller fish, a phenomenon known as “fishing down the food web.”

: Common murres eat several kinds of forage species, and though each bird is small, collectively, the species consumes an esitmated 175,000 tons of forage species each year. Creative commons photo by SGrace.

Sydeman doesn’t think we’re doing that in the California Current ecosystem: “Forage fish fisheries like the sardine fishery have existed alongside fisheries that target predators like salmon for a long time.” He does see aquaculture as a valid threat. “As salmon and tuna farms develop, we have to feed those fish something.”

But enough needs to be left in the ocean to sustain the many predators that feast on forage species. One of these predators is the common murre, a two-pound seabird that feeds on squid, anchovies, juvenile rockfish, and a host of other small creatures. One murre may not put a dent in the supply, but collectively the species consumes nearly 175,000 tons. That’s just one species of seabird.

“The needs of predators are substantial,” says Sydeman, adding that we need models to quantify those needs. Ideally, those models will incorporate the possible effects of climate change, too. Anthropogenic factors other than direct harvesting affect forage fish, including pollution and coastal development, but climate change may be the trickiest card in the deck, making an already variable system even less predictable.

“Forage fish are extremely responsive to normal climate variability,” says Sydeman. “Harvesting needs to be precautionary to mitigate the effects of climate change.”

Pleschner-Steele says harvesting is already precautionary. “I just wish we could get recognition for what we are doing–for the multiple levels of protection and management already in place.”

Progressive policies like the Marine Life Protection Act (which established Marine Protected Areas in California’s three-mile coastal zone) have helped California Current fisheries gain recognition as among the world’s most sustainable fisheries, including a 2009 article in Science that said current harvest rates in the California Current Ecosystem have declined to rates at or below the level required to ensure long-term sustainability.

Ticehurst acknowledges that management of West Coast fisheries is heading in the right direction and is gratified that recreational fishermen are making the connection between forage species and the rockfish they hope to reel in.

“We will continue to fight the battle to educate people,” he says.

AB 1299 has been amended four times since it was introduced in February. The Natural Resources Committee passed the bill by a 5-3 vote and sent it back to Appropriations. Follow the bill’s journey through the legislature at aroundthecapitol.com/Bills/AB_1299.

Of Mice and Birds at the Farallones

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has extended to June 10 the deadline for accepting public comments on a controversial proposal to eradicate nonnative house mice on the Southeast Farallon Islands.

The agency hosted a public meeting on Thursday, May 12, as the first step in drafting an Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) for the proposed project. Also on hand for the meeting were representatives from PRBO Conservation Science and Island Conservation. PRBO biologists have been conducting research on the Farallones since the 1970s, and Island Conservation is a nonprofit focused on eradicating nonnative species from islands around the world.

In April USFWS announced it was considering air-dropping pellets of a highly toxic rodenticide called brodifacoum on the islands. Several groups have voiced concerns over using the poison, which can harm or kill other creatures that either eat the pellets directly or consume poisoned rodents. Wildcare, a longtime Marin wildlife advocacy and rehab group, has launched a substantial public campaign arguing against the proposal.

At the May 12 meeting, Refuge Manager Gerry McChesney emphasized that no decisions have been made regarding which method will be used to eradicate the mice; however, the bulk of the meeting was spent discussing the pros and cons of using an anticoagulant poison called brodifacoum to achieve the agency’s goal.

It’s not surprising that the plan faces opposition. Allen Fish of the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory says the poison affects not only raptors and other birds of prey but foxes, bobcats, cats, and dogs. On the mainland, it’s a major problem because it has long been readily available, and it is especially pervasive in urban areas, where people use it to control rodents around homes and other buildings. In 2008, the federal Environmental Protection Agency approved restrictions on the use of brodifacoum to certified pest applicators, and banned the poison in home improvement stores. That regulation is set to go into effect this June.

Rodenticides are among the worst of poisons, according to WildCare’s Maggie Sergio. In her official comments on the proposal, also posted on the Huffington Post, she wrote, “The use of rodenticides in our world is prolific and all too easy. WildCare experiences the tragic end result of what occurs when a vital food source for wildlife (rodents) becomes poisoned. When wildlife consumes poisoned rodents, they too, die a horrific death.”

The Farallones proposal adds island ecology to the mix, and that may be a major difference from daily use of poisons on the mainland. For example, though the Washington, DC-based American Bird Conservancy opposes the use of brodifacoum generally, its official policy states that in certain cases using the poison “can be critical to protecting endangered and/or migratory bird species, e.g., in island situations to protect birds imperiled by rodent predation.”

The Farallones

: Ashy storm-petrels are small seabirds that nest on the Farallon Islands. Public domain photo by Duncan Wright.

The Farallones, a series of small rocky islands about 30 miles west of San Francisco, provide a refuge for 13 seabird and five marine mammal species. Although project proponents say the entire island ecosystem would benefit from the rodents’ removal, the biggest winner would be the ashy storm-petrel, a secretive seabird that nests on the island.

The ashy storm-petrel is listed as a California Species of Special Concern and is labeled “red” on the Audubon Society’s Watch List. About 2,000 storm-petrels nest on the southern Farallones, approximately half the world population. But in the last several decades, the Farallon colony has declined by 30 to 40 percent, and the house mice are at least partly to blame, mostly because they attract burrowing owls.

: Burrowing owls like this one, near the Berkeley Marina, are the subject of preservation efforts on the mainland. On the Farallon Islands, they threaten breeding ashy storm-petrels, another imperiled species. Creative commons photo by Doug Greenberg.

Burrowing owls are but one species of many migratory birds that make a pit stop on the Farallones on their way to their winter homes. Most migrants only stay a day or two, but a “smorgasbord of mice” has been enticing the owls to extend their stay through the winter. When the first of the season’s rains flood mouse burrows and send the mouse population plummeting, the owls turn to an alternative food source: ashy storm-petrels.

According to Pete Warzybok, a PRBO biologist who has been studying seabirds on the Farallones for over a decade, 15 or 16 burrowing owls spent the winter on the islands last year.

“A few owls can take a lot of petrels in a short time,” says Warzybok.

Critics are quick to point out that gulls also kill plenty of petrels; in fact, western gulls account for 60 percent of predation, versus 40 percent by burrowing owls.

“That’s true,” says Warzybok. “But there are 18,000 gulls on the Southeast Farallones, and only a handful of owls.” In other words, bird for bird, the owl has a much greater impact on the storm-petrel than the gull.

The mice might also be impacting the petrel directly.

The robin-size bird nests in underground rock crevices, returning to land on dark, moonless nights, probably to avoid predation by gulls. The ashy storm-petrels live a long time–one banded bird lived at least 36 years–but reproduce slowly. Each bird doesn’t necessarily breed every year, and they never lay more than one egg per clutch. Only half of eggs laid result in a fledged chick.

Warzybok’s team uses a fiberoptic camera at the end of a flexible tube to peer into petrel nests. Without catching a mouse in the act, the cameras have revealed the next-best evidence: petrel eggs marred by suspicious teeth-marks.

“If we go by what we see on other islands, direct predation is likely,” says Dan Grout, a project manager for Island Conservation. On Triangle Island in British Columbia, for example, deer mice were shown to prey on auklet eggs.

Most people at the meeting seemed to agree that ridding the Farallons of house mice is a good idea. But is brodifacoum, a highly toxic rodenticide, the best or only choice?

Case Studies: California and Alaska

Rodenticide bait has been used to eradicate rats and mice from hundreds of islands around the world. Two cases–Anacapa Island off the coast of Southern California and Rat Island in the Aleutian chain–reveal both pros and cons of such programs.

Anacapa Island, part of Channel Islands National Park, had been overrun by black rats since at least the early 20th century. The rats preyed heavily on seabird eggs, particularly those of the Xantus’ murrulet. In 2001-2002 Island Conservation partnered with the National Park Service to eradicate the rats from Anacapa. It was the first aerial broadcast of brodifacoum in North America. The situation on Anacapa was complicated by the presence of an endemic rodent, the Anacapa Island deer mouse, which was just as susceptible to poisonous pellets as the targeted black rats. The solution? The team held a number of deer mice in captivity and treated Anacapa’s three islets in phases, moving some mice to the refuge of the untreated island while treating the other islands.

Ten years later, Anacapa’s seabirds are thriving. Populations of the native deer mouse have returned to normal.

Any deer mice that weren’t protected died, as did all of the rats and at least 94 birds, which died either from consuming rodenticide bait directly (primary poisoning) or from scavenging rat and mouse carcasses (secondary poisoning). Most of the avian victims were songbirds. Raptors and owls emerged from the project relatively unscathed, in part because an organization called the Predatory Bird Research Group transferred 37 birds of prey off the islands prior to treatment.

Ten years later, Anacapa’s seabirds are thriving. The hatching success of Xantus’ murrulet has soared 350 percent and three new colonies of Cassin’s auklets have formed. Populations of the native deer mouse have returned to normal.

Download PDF about the eradication of black rats from Anacapa.

The Rat Island eradication, though it could also be considered a success, it certainly was not an unmitigated one.

Norway rats had ruled Rat Island for over 200 years, ever since a Japanese ship wrecked on its rocky shores. Though burrow-nesting seabirds like puffins and ancient murrelets are common residents on nearby rat-free islands, they were completely absent on Rat Island. The rodent’s reign ended abruptly in 2008 when refuge managers, the Nature Conservancy, and Island Conservation teamed up and decided to bombard the island with 46 tons of brodifacoum pellets.

A monitoring crew recovered 422 dead birds, including 320 glaucous-winged gulls and 46 bald eagles. Most of the birds tested positive for brodifacoum.

The campaign worked, but not without heavy collateral damage. A monitoring crew recovered 422 dead birds, including 320 glaucous-winged gulls and 46 bald eagles. Most of the birds tested positive for brodifacoum.

Rotting rat carcasses probably attracted many of the victims to the island. Gulls died after either eating pellets directly or from scavenging dead rats; eagles most likely died from eating poisoned gulls.

Because the number of non-target victims far exceeded predictions, the partners commissioned the Ornithological Council to conduct an independent review. The resulting report cited use of excessive bait and deviations from the strategic plan. The original plan called for two applications of brodifacoum pellets. The “bait rate” of the second round (measured in kilograms per hectare) was supposed to be half that of the first (presumably because there would be fewer rats to feed on the pellets); however, the bait rate of the second application actually exceeded that of the first, in part because the field team made a hasty decision to dump 11 tons of “contingency bait” on the island just before leaving.

The decision proved deadly.

The report states: “The excess bait increased the risk of non-target mortality in two ways: by leaving too much unconsumed bait on the ground for consumption by non-target species such as gulls, and by increasing the toxic load of brodifacoum in poisoned rats and other primary feeders such as gulls that were consumed by scavengers.”

The report also notes that collecting rodent carcasses after the baiting program could have prevented the island from turning into a deadly buffet for scavengers. Download the full report.

Any Alternatives?

Then there’s the question of the rodenticide itself.

Brodifacoum is classified as a “second-generation” anti-coagulant. It is highly effective, meaning it is highly toxic; typically a rodent eats it once and dies. The poison persists in animal tissues, increasing the risk of secondary poisoning. Other, less toxic rodenticides have been used in eradication programs, notably a first-generation anti-coagulant called diaphacinone. Because it isn’t as lethal, two or more applications are required to get the job done.

So could diaphacinone be used on the Farallones? According to Brad Keitt of Island Conservation, diaphacinone acts on mice and rats differently. Mice require a much higher lethal dose than rats; in addition, mice tend to be “neophobic,” that is, they are reluctant to consume large quantities of an unfamiliar food. In other words, using diaphacinone may not kill every single mouse on the Farallones.

And there are quite a few mice on the islands. Warzybok says biologists from Island Conservation have run trap lines to determine the density of the rodent. The tests revealed the highest numbers the organization has ever seen.

Assuming that brodifacoum is a better weapon of choice in the case of the Farallones eradication project, bait stations might protect at least some non-target animals from directly consuming rodenticide, but Keitt favors aerial broadcasting. Using bait stations would require transposing a grid over the entire island and placing stations at regular intervals. Since house mice have small home ranges, the grid would have to be very small, with stations no more than 25 meters apart. House mice also defend their territories, and could prevent other mice from accessing bait. Consequently the stations would have to be checked and restocked with pellets for a minimum of two years. By contrast, aerial broadcasting assures that every mouse has simultaneous access to the bait, which improves the likelihood of killing every single one.

“Eradication means 100 percent removal,” says Keitt. “The project won’t go forward if there wasn’t a high probability of success.”

Sergio of Wildcare calls rodenticides “the new DDT,” and cites major unanswered questions about the proposed poison: “What happens to the active ingredients in brodifacoum after the pellet breaks down into the soil? What about the inert ingredients? How will that affect plant life? What will happen when the poison penetrates the very permeable skin of the Farallon arboreal salamander? How will introduced anticoagulants impact aquatic life?”

Keitt says brodifacoum doesn’t pose the same danger as a chemical like DDT: Although brodifacoum persists in animal tissues, he says, it does not bioaccumulate like DDT, nor does it linger in the environment in its toxic form.

“It’s highly insoluble in water,” says Keitt. Water sampling on Anacapa calmed fears that the rodenticide would leach into the marine environment. Instead, brodifacoum binds strongly to the sediment, where microbes transform the poison into carbon dioxide and water. He also points out that treating the island would be a one-time event, whereas the chronic use of rat poison around homes and farms on the mainland continually exposes creatures to harm.

If the EIS process determines that aerial broadcast of brodifacoum is the way to go, planners would time the project for late November or early December, when the mouse population is at its lowest (requiring a lower rate of rodenticide) and fewer birds are on the islands. Officials are also looking into the possibility of trapping as many burrowing owls as possible and transporting them to the mainland. Western gulls would be the most likely victims of secondary poisoning.

Once the mouse is eradicated, the islands may respond in surprising ways.

“It will be interesting to see how the vegetation responds,” says Keitt. “There could be unanticipated positive benefits to other species.”

Proponents of the plan say the house mouse likely helps spread weed seeds, including those of a non-native grass that forms dense mats and clogs potential habitat. With the house mouse gone, the native vegetation should rebound.

However, in her comments to USFWS, Sergio points out that the burrowing owl, like the ashy storm-petrel, is a California Species of Special Concern and placed at some risk by this project: “The question that troubles me the most is how do we decide which species gets preference over the other? How do we make that judgment call?”

Ellie Cohen, executive director of PRBO, says the absence of mice might be better for the burrowing owls in the long run. “The Farallones is not a good place for owls or other migrants,” says Cohen. “Other than the non-native mice, there’s not a lot of food for them there.” In winter, the islands become an “ecological trap” for the owls that stay. According to Warzybok, petrels don’t provide the same nutritional value to owls as mice. Some of the wintering owls become weak; some even die.

Cohen points out that either way, animals are going to die, and humans are ultimately accountable for those deaths.

“I think of it as a trade-off. If you don’t do anything, you have all these petrels being killed. If you do something, a certain number of (non-target) animals will be killed, but at great benefit to the petrel and to the island ecosystem as a whole. Where do you want to be?”

Once the public comment period ends in June, the USFWS will begin drafting the EIS, after which the public will have another opportunity to comment. The agency hopes to complete the process by fall of 2012. Find information on commenting here.

Kids Clean Up and Make Art at Ocean Beach

How do you get 500-plus kids to sit still on the beach? Tell them a helicopter is about to fly overhead and take their collective photograph, and that by the way, they’ll also be on television.

On Thursday, May 19, students from five schools in Marin and San Francisco counties fanned out across Ocean Beach armed with milk jugs, orange juice containers, and tennis ball cans. These second- through fifth-graders–from Bahia Vista, Edna McGuire, Ulloa, Sunset and Willow Creek elementary schools–were participating in Kids’ Ocean Day, a coordinated West Coast beach clean-up hosted by the California Coastal Commission.

As the kids sifted through the sand for litter, a DJ spun techno tunes to help keep them motivated. Meanwhile, artist Carter Brooks and several volunteers flagged the outline of a giant bat ray and the phrase “Turn The Tide.” At the end of the day the kids would literally become art, using their bodies to fill in the outline of the impressive image.

Excited shouts echoed across the beach as kids found items for their containers. In their enthusiasm, some of the kids neglected to discriminate between trash and “nature-made” items like driftwood.

: Hundreds of kids gathered to help clean up Ocean Beach on Friday, May 20, 2011. Photo by Juliet Grable.

“I found a feather!” shouted one third-grader from Willow Creek Elementary in Sausalito.

“A feather is not garbage,” teacher Valerie Sprecht shouted back. Sprecht is an Ocean Day veteran, as are many of her students.

“We look forward to it every year,” she said.

Ocean Day is about more than collecting trash. The event is part of the Coastal Commission’s Adopt-A-Beach Program, which is funded by the Commission’s “Whale Tail” license plate sales.

Event coordinator Wendy Dalia, who is also education director for the Richardson Bay Audubon Center, says classroom presentations before the event teach kids about marine debris.

“We focus on the connection between the watershed and the ocean,” says Dalia. For instance, marine debris often starts out as land-based litter that ends up in creeks and storm drains. The lessons focus particularly on plastic, which takes a long time to break down and is especially harmful to wildlife.

While some kids covered a lot of ground, others took a different tack. Karen Lam, a teacher from Sunset Elementary, drew a large square in the sand and instructed her second grade class to stay within its perimeter. Not only did the square help Lam keep tabs on her kids, it forced them to search more carefully.

“That’s what the birds like to eat,” said one of Lam’s students, pointing out a neon-blue plastic straw.

Among the items kids collected were straws, plastic bags, food wrappers, bottle caps, cigarette butts, and countless unidentifiable plastic bits. They also collected a prodigious number of rusty nails, left over from lumber burned in bonfires.

: After the beach cleanup, the kids lined up on the beach to create a giant image of a bat ray on the beach (see aerial photo above). Photo by Juliet Grable.

The kids worked hard, but snuck in some fun, too. More than one spontaneous sand castle popped up on the beach, and many kids took a break from litter patrol to ham it up for the cameras.

After a sack lunch on the sand, volunteers helped arrange the kids on the bat ray outline, which Conservation Corps North Bay/AmeriCorps intern Andrew Frostholm designed. After a few minutes of anticipation, pilot Kevin Lozaw and his chopper buzzed into view. Soon the enormous sand creature began to wiggle, but not before the kids’ big statement was captured on film.

Dalia says she was pleased with how smoothly the day went, and with the weather, which was overcast but mild. Last year rain had threatened to cancel the event. To see more pictures from Kids’ Ocean Day, check out this website: kidsoceanday.org. If you would like to help ‘Turn the Tide” next year, contact Dalia at wdalia@audubon.org.

Feds Seek Comment on Farallones Mouse-eradication Plan

Through June 10 (extended from May 27), the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is seeking comment on a plan to use rodenticides to eradicate non-native house mice from the South Farallon Islands. Officials say the mice threaten nesting seabirds, but critics charge that the effort could actually endanger birds on the island.

The agency proposes aerial broadcasts of granular pellets of the rodenticide brodifacooum as the most effective tool to get the job done.

The service has identified mouse eradication as a critical step in restoring the native ecosystem on the Farallones, but some concerned groups and individuals worry that the use of a highly toxic rodenticide poses threats to species other than the targeted one. WildCare of Marin has publicly stated its opposition: “These horrible poisons will be dumped from the sky, will affect the entire habitat on which they fall, will hit target and non-target species alike, and will remain in the environment for a very long time to come.”

From a bluff in west Marin, the Farallon Islands resemble a series of bumps on the horizon. Just 12 miles off the coast, the islands have served as a refuge for nesting seabirds and marine mammals for thousands of years. Populations of both plummeted when seal hunters and Gold Rush-era egg harvesters discovered the Islands’ bounty. President Theodore Roosevelt stopped the plundering by officially establishing the Farallones as a National Wildlife Refuge in 1909. Populations have spent the last century recovering, and today public access to the islands is highly restricted.

One of the goals of the Fish and Wildlife’s Farallones conservation plan is to protect, monitor, and restore breeding populations of 12 seabird species, five marine mammal species, and other native wildlife. Among the seabirds is the ashy storm-petrel, currently a candidate for federal Endangered Species listing and a California Species of Special Concern. Over half the population breeds on the South Farallon Islands. Since 1972, their numbers have declined 30 to 40 percent, in part due to predation by burrowing owls and western gulls.

What does this have to do with the innocuous house mouse? Mice populations fluctuate annually, reaching a peak in the fall. Burrowing owls, themselves a California Species of Special Concern, fatten up on the rodents, and the abundance of mice persuades some to stay on the islands for the winter. When the mouse population crashes in the colder months, the owls turn to other prey, including adult ashy storm-petrels. Removing the mice will theoretically encourage the owls to abandon the islands for more fertile mainland hunting grounds.

Brodifacooum is a highly toxic anti-coagulant, and can harm animals that consume poisoned rodents. There have been several documented cases of dead raptors in the Bay Area that tested positive for brodifacooum and similar rodenticides, including two Cooper’s hawks found in a Berkeley swimming pool in 2007. In fact, the San Francisco Commission for the Environment has banned the outdoor use of “second-generation” (so-called because of its long duration of action and high potency) rodenticides like brodifacooum. (Read more in this 2008 SF Gate article.)

But rodenticide has been used effectively to help restore other sensitive island ecosystems. In the Channel Islands off Santa Barbara, the aerial application of brodifacooum on Anacapa Island in 2001-2002 successfully eradicated non-native black rats. Since then, populations of some seabirds, including Xantus’ murrulet, have increased dramatically. Individuals of non-targeted species such as raptors and rufous-crowned sparrows did fall victim to the poison, but according to the Fish and Wildlife Service, local populations of those species have since recovered. (For more information see this page from the National Park Service.)

In April the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service announced it is drafting an Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) for the proposed project at the Farallones. The agency will be accepting comments until May 27. Here’s all the info about commenting.