Traverse, Northern Michigan’s – July 2019

Traverse, Northern Michigan’s Magazine | JUL ’19 81

to feed the chicks, as with robins). Piping
plover chicks run around chasing bugs
minutes after hatching.
We finally get close to the nest. I set up
my scope alongside Alice and focus on the
male plover sitting on the nest.
“He’s not acting like the eggs are hatch-
ing yet,” Alice says.
“How do they act?”
“They look surprised.”

Back at camp that evening, I try to break
the ice by asking questions.
“What’s your favorite bird?”
“The piping plover.”
I regroup. “What was the most fasci-
nating bird you’ve ever seen?” I crossed
my fingers that it wasn’t the piping plover
again.
“I once saw a Great Shearwater here.
Along the mainland.” Alice looks at the
perched dunes along the shoreline. I let
the silence draw the story out of her. “It’s
not normally found here. A hurricane blew
it off course, off the Atlantic.” She pauses,
remembering. “It was windy and rainy here,
not the best time to be out birding.” A small
smile showed briefly on her face, then
fades. “I was the only one to see it alive.
By the time others got there, it had died.”
“Because of the storm?”
“Probably. It wasn’t acting normally
when I saw it. They are usually powerful
in flight. I’d love to see one out over the
Atlantic sometime.”
A screeching in the treetops breaks the
moment. Alice looks at me.
“Monkeys!” I say with an impish grin.
“It’s a red-eyed vireo upset with the
blue jays.”
I am astonished that she got all of
that from a few screeches. “Blue jays are
bullies.”
“And they’ll eat the chicks of other
birds,” Alice adds.
“And there’s that,” I concede to the
expert.

During my days on the island I learn to
walk slowly, to adjust my tripod without
wrestling it, to sight birds at a distance,
then quickly bring them into focus with my
scope. I learn to be still.

On the final morning, I wake before

sunrise to accompany Alice on her pre-

dawn walk. She did this every morning,

but assured me I didn’t have to accompany

her. It was not part of the volunteer job, this

up-before-the-sun stroll.

“I’d like to. At least once. Maybe the last

day?” I half-plead. She didn’t approve, but

she didn’t forbid it. So, on that last morn-

ing when I hear her stirring, I shoulder my

scope and follow her toward the shoreline.

There is barely enough light to make out

the sandy pathway bordered with dune

grasses and poison ivy.

At the lakeshore, she reads the events

of the night, the history of the darkness.

She points to some tracks: paws digging

into the soft sand on either side of a thick

tail. I know this one: otter.

We walk slowly toward the end point

of land, that sandy hook reaching out into

Lake Michigan.

“Why don’t you stay here and look for

the third unbanded chick?” It wasn’t really

a question. She was dropping me here to

keep me from trampling her.

I set up my scope so I can sit on the dune

and sight up the point in search of three tiny

birds I could easily have balanced together

on one palm. They were so newly hatched

that they hadn’t been banded yet. In a few

minutes the top of the sun crests above the

lake and there is enough light to find one

of the birds darting about at the top of the

waves. Its sibling joins it a few minutes later.

The challenge of finding the third chick

was to keep track of the two I had already

found while scanning the area for the third.

If another chick appeared apart from the

two, it was essential to quickly locate the

first two to make sure the third wasn’t

actually one of the first two that had just

wandered. I do this for the next hour as the

sand begins radiating the sun’s warmth.

Alice appears at my elbow, startling me. “I

think a coyote got most of the chicks from

West Six’s nest,” she says. “I saw tracks.

Tracks, then a pounce.”

“No,” I say. I had seen one of the chicks

when it was still wet from hatching. I was

the first person to see it, this endangered

bird on the brink of extinction, hatched into

existence on this wild island. Such hope

running around on toothpick legs, a puffball

of energy and ancient migration maps. “Did

any survive?”

“I saw only one.”

Of the five eggs in that nest, only one

chick survived.

When it was time to leave the birds,

Alice meets up with me. “Hoppy is using

both legs now. He’s all better.”

“He’ll need a new name,” I smile.

Alice records my sightings onto her data

sheet. On this last day, I had finally gotten

the hang of it. What I thought would be a

fun bird-watching outing turned out to be

some of the most meticulous, difficult work

I had ever done.

We return to camp to pack and straight-

en up for the next shift. Since most of the

chicks had fledged, the time monitoring

the birds was almost finished. Many of

the female adults had already flown off

leaving the males to guide the chicks south

to their winter home along the Carolinas or

the Gulf Coast.

Alice leaves notes for the next team

about the birds and especially about the

coyote. She was sure the evidence was

there, the tale of carnage in the sand.

Finally, Alice shoulders her enormous

pack and her scope and we haul our gear

to the beach. Once there, she turns on the

radio. We see the ranger boat approaching

and hear the voice on the radio say they

were en route to Dimmick’s Point to pick

up Alice. She looks at me. “You weren’t

mentioned,” she says with the slightest

tease in her voice. “They may not let you

on the boat.”

“What?” I say with mock horror. “They

can’t leave the delightful volunteer behind!”

Finally. I get a smile from Alice, the

master birdwatcher and protector of the

endangered Great Lakes piping plover.

Loreen Niewenhuis is a scientist, adventurer

and fast hiker. She has written a trilogy of books

about our Great Lakes. Loreen travels widely

giving dynamic presentations about our Great

Lakes. Learn more at laketrek.com