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Birding Column: California-Quail Close Encounter |
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Mathew Tekulsky The Birdman of Bel Air |
| January 6, 2004 |
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Mathew Tekulsky writes a regular column about birding in his backyard and neighborhood in Bel Air, California. You can follow his encounters with the birds of the Santa Monica Mountains here on National Geographic News BirdWatcher every fortnight or so. The California quail is a beautiful creature. The male has a scaled belly, black chin, and a big, black topknot sticking out of the top of his head. He was first discovered and catalogued by Europeans in 1791 by members of the Malaspina Expedition, led by the gallant Spanish explorer Alejandro Malaspina. Jose Cardero, an artist on that expedition, painted a lifelike rendition of the California quail, along with paintings of the California thrasher, the northern flicker, the red-winged blackbird, and many other species of plants and animals, during that expedition's stay in Monterey and other parts of the California coast. The California quail has flourished in the far Western U.S. and Baja California for the last 200 years, and it's a pleasure to be able to see him every day in my yard. He eats mostly millet and milo seeds, which I throw on the ground for him after I've filled up the platform feeder with mixed birdseed. (The scrub jays take care of the black oil sunflower seeds that are left on the ground.) The quail lives in a covey, and by the soft, gurgling or popping sound that I hear from under the lemon tree, I gather that this is his jumping off point for approaching my side yard, where the birdseed is. First, the male pokes his head out from the path alongside the tree, then his whole body appears on the patio. He walks slowly on delicate feet, seemingly uninterested or unaware of my presence. However, the tiniest move on my part, however slight, will cause him to duck instantly for cover. I would say that the California Quail is the most skittish bird I have ever seen. Even from 35 feet away (ten meters), the slightest movement by the viewer or photographer will cause him to disappear into the brush that lines my side yard. Ever wary, he might poke his head or body out of the brush a few minutes later—or perhaps not. Indeed, more often than not, the slightest advertisement of your presence will cause the California quail to disappear from your yard for hours. However, there is one time when they are almost sure to be in the side yard, and that is in the very late afternoon, just about when the sun goes down—for about an hour. There was one time, however, when I had an extremely close-up view of the California quail. I was sitting in my TV room at about 8 a.m. on New Year's Day of 2001, when I heard a loud thump against the picture windows lining the canyon side of the room. From prior experience, I knew that this sound could only mean that a bird had crashed into the window—and a rather large bird at that! Upon examining the area just outside the sliding glass door, I discovered a male California quail lying motionless, on his side. I thought he was dead at first, but closer inspection revealed that he was indeed breathing, and quivering slightly. I thought that maybe he had broken a vertebra in his neck and was partially paralyzed, but I didn't want to give up on him just yet. I immediately called the local vet that takes in injured animals, and I told the receptionist that I would be over in about an hour with the bird. Meanwhile, I lifted the bird up and put him in a shoebox. In the meantime, I finished eating breakfast, thankful that someone was available on New Year's Day to take care of this bird. As I got ready to go down the hill, I marveled at how soft the quail's feathers were, and how intoxicatingly beautiful the scaly parts of its plumage were, when viewed from only a few inches away. Then, I decided to put some mixed birdseed into the shoebox, just in case the bird woke up while it was waiting to be treated down at the vet. Thinking that I wouldn't bother the slumbering bird, I poured a scoop of birdseed into the shoebox, and it made a loud sound when the birdseed hit the cardboard. Suddenly, to my amazement, the bird sprang to life and hopped (or rather, exploded) out of that shoebox, trotted across the patio, and hid himself between two potted plants on the canyon side of the patio, just where the soil began. He remained motionless in this shady spot. I figured that either he'd be eaten by a predator or he'd survive, but I thought it was best for me to leave the bird alone in its natural surroundings. With my heart in my mouth, I went down the hill for my morning coffee, and when I returned to my yard a couple of hours later, that California quail was gone and I was left to enjoy the rest of my New Year's Day. Side Bar: Photographing the California Quail Although the California quail is a ground-dwelling bid, it will readily fly onto a platform feeder that is either hanging from a tree or mounted on a pole. When flushed, a covey of quail with wildly beating wings makes a rumbling sound as these balls of feather fly past me and down into the safety of the canyon. Sometimes, I talk to the quail and encourage them to visit the yard. "Who-whoo-who," I say, in a falsetto voice, with the middle syllable higher and longer than the other two. One word of caution: with their long toes and sharp claws, California quail are expert at scratching and digging at the ground to uncover insects and seeds. Therefore, a group of them can dig into patches of your lawn from time to time. I just place the birdseed onto a different area of the lawn when this happens, giving the original area time to recover. Photographing the California quail is best done from a blind. I set one up in a window of my TV room, and took a lot of nice photographs of the quail, including newly hatched chicks. Even then, I would flush the quail from time to time, as they can see me through the window and are very sensitive to even the slightest movement. In 1932, in his book Life Histories of North American Gallinaceous Birds, Arthur Cleveland Bent describes photographing the California quail at the home of J. Eugene Law in Altadena, California: "I was able to photograph some of these birds one morning from a blind, but I found them very nervous; at the slightest noise or movement they would all fly off but would soon return." How little things change. Previous columns by The Birdman of Bel Air: New Bird-Watching Column: "The Birdman of Bel Air" The California Towhee, Boldly Bland At Home With Hooded Orioles Scrub Jays Go Nuts for Peanuts Northern Mockingbird is a Wary Neighbor Christmas With the Pelicans National Geographic BirdWatcher Regularly updated news stories, features, and columns about birds and birding: Go >> |
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