Life and Death in an Urban Forest Fragment

Douglas fir stand with healthy, native understory. Yellow leaves left of center belong to a beaked hazelnut, which grows above a thick patch of salal interspersed with red huckleberry and trailing blackberry. This forest in Seattle's Lincoln Park is the setting of our story. Other trees in this exceptional patch of urban forest include western red cedar, grand fir, western hemlock, bigleaf maple and red alder. The native plant community here makes Lincoln Park an oasis of wildlife habitat. Most of the large mammals generally found in this type of forest are absent because it's in the city, but it is rich in bird life. 

There was a lot on my mind as I headed to Lincoln Park last Saturday. Nothing too weighty though. As usual when I'm going to the woods I had my telephoto lens with me and was thinking of what birds I might encounter. There are a handful of species I can generally count on seeing at this time of year, and some that I usually only hope to see. This particular park has a bird that can't be seen many other places in Seattle, and I was particularly hopeful that I would see it: the raven. 

The much larger cousin crows, who have achieved extraordinary numbers in the urban/suburban matrix of the greater Seattle area, ravens all but disappeared with the bears and wolves when the ancient forests were cleared. For years I actually thought there were no ravens in Seattle because I never saw one here and because I associated them with wilderness. So strong was this supposition in my mind that when I first heard a raven at Seward Park I thought to myself "that crow sounds like a raven." But after a few more quorks hit my ears I suddenly realized with delight that they did in fact come from the syrinx of an urban raven. Of course I use "urban" lightly here. Seattle is not a particularly urban city, and Seward Park is home to a small stand of old-growth trees. The neighborhood next to the park, also called Seward Park, has trees lining almost every street, like so many in the Emerald City. But still, ravens in Seattle!

Well, it turns out I was a little late to the party on this one. But that didn't diminish my excitement. There is a dry erase board at the Seattle Audubon Society's Nature Center near the entrance to the park where people report wildlife sightings. After having the good fortune of visually confirming my ID of the raven, and discovering that there was actually a pair, I checked the dry erase board and there it was: "two ravens." After reporting my "discovery" to a group of fellow bird nerds I learned that while they are uncommon, if not rare, here they are present. I believe at least one of them told me about ravens in Lincoln Park. Regardless, I did soon see ravens there, and as with Seward Park, I'm always hoping to see them when I go there.

The first raven I saw in Seattle, at Seward Park. This is not a character in our story, but since I mentioned it, and have this photo, why not? "What's that in it's bill?" you say. "It's a mole" I reply. Like crows ravens are omnivores, but a much larger percentage of their diet is made up of animals.

So ravens are definitely on my mind when I get to Lincoln Park, but I don't see or hear them as I walk the forest trails. I can hear chickadees and golden-crowned kinglets up in the trees, but they're hidden by branches. The light level is not great for photography anyways. Cloudy weather and the shade of tall conifers don't give one much to work with, at least not for the fast exposures generally required for wildlife photography. Of I course if I let low light stop me I would only shoot for half of the year, and that's not an option. But at the moment I want to get out into the open. The lower part of the park is Puget Sound shoreline, so I head down to the beach. 

When I was at this beach last winter I saw harlequin ducks on the water, and managed to get some decent shots of them. I'm pleased to discover that they're here again, but they're too far away from the beach to photograph. Orcas pass by here, and as always I'm hoping to see them. As usual I don't though. Across the sound is the Olympic Peninsula, and I admire the jagged, snowy peaks of the Olympic Mountains for a few minutes. It's a great view and a lovely day to be by the water, but my avian amigos are calling to me from the forest. I take a couple pictures of the Olympics and head back up.

The Olympic Mountains seen from the beach at Lincoln Park.

It wasn't that overcast at this point, as seen in the picture above, so I find a south-facing forest edge to take advantage of the light. There's plenty of activity with the little feathered ones there, and a sciurid from back east.

This Hutton's vireo was sallying from various branches in a thicket, and is seen here hiding behind an orange honeysuckle vine in order to thwart my efforts at a clean shot. It's their nature and I don't hold it against her.

While every little bird on the face of the planet is a lousy model, city-dwelling eastern gray squirrels are total hams. I don't particularly want to photograph an eastern gray squirrel, but he basically gives me no choice. 

A female house finch snags an orange honeysuckle berry. Like most birds she can't hover, and there's no perches for her to access the fruits from, so she was doing flybys from a tree branch below. 

And here she is enjoying the fruit of her efforts (which is also the fruit of the orange honeysuckle plant). Girl, you better wash up when you're done. You're bill is a mess.

A song sparrow forages on a Pacific madrona log. More orange honeysuckle to her left. Pretty background colors are courtesy of the invasive small-leaved cotoneaster, which I kill when given the opportunity. 

I'm on a bit of a roll at this point, but my time at the edge of the woods is about to end. I hear raven calling, and he's calling loudly. No quorks this time. More like a deeper, harsher version of the kaw of a crow. The calls are coming from above and away, and with a little moving around I manage to get a clear view of him at the tip of a tree.

Raven calling to his mate, and inadvertently summoning a wildlife photographer. 

Now that raven has spoken I'm headed back into the woods. The shot above was taken at about 150 feet away, and I'd love to get closer to this mystical forest being. I'm not likely to get a clear view of him up in the trees, but I change my camera settings in hopes that I do. Time to crank up the ISO's, open the aperture all the way and significantly slow my shutter speed down. I walk toward the Douglas fir he's been calling from then follow as he flies into a thick stand nearby. I lose sight of him but his continued calling leads me his way. I spot him again through many branches. Then I'm made aware of his mate's presence thirty feet above me by her rustling in the branches. 

Soon they both take off, and again I follow. Walking briskly but calmly I move in the general direction of their departure. Suddenly I am aware of the angry voices of dozens of crows. I consider that they may be yelling at the ravens, who they often rightly see as a threat (at least in nesting season). "But maybe they're yelling at a hawk or an owl" I think to myself as I walk towards the racket. Moments later a large owl sweeps silently over the path and into the trees with three noisy crows on its tail. The chorus of alarmed crows extends up into the trees, following the owl's path. I creep through the forest scanning every branch for the beleaguered raptor. The loud swishing of raven wings overhead interrupts my search. The crows' massive cousins are in the middle of the fray. Stalking below the corvid mob I have no expectations of actually finding the owl, but as I round the straight trunk of a large grand fir I see it only thirty feet away. I immediately freeze, then slowly lay down on the forest floor. This barred owl doesn't seem threatened by me though. It gives me a good look then turns it's attention back to the corvid vigilantes. 

A crow-beleaguered barred owl assesses the person lying on the ground with a long lens pointed at it and rightly determine that it's not a threat.

Her attention returns to the crows incessantly announcing her presence from the trees above.

"Sigh... they know exactly where I am. Gotta find a better hiding place. I seriously just want to go back to sleep."

And so she makes a bee line through thick low branches, and I hope that I'm the only one who sees the dark perch she squeezes into. I'm thankful to have had this encounter, and to even get some pictures of this owl. And now I wish her good day and good luck.

Through the cries of the crows I hear the the ravens' long wings again. Intrigued by their presence in the middle of the crows I head their way for a look. I spot them up in the trees surrounded by crows, but they swoop down to a lower branch by the trail. This gives me a chance to get a better view. One moves out of sight, but amazingly I get a clear view of the other, and even get a couple quick photos.

Raven in all of his glory. The blue sheen on his black feathers is striking, and his eyes hint at the mysteries of wildness. 

Exhilarated by raven's presence I follow him yet again as he arcs up into the air then back into the trees beneath the yelling crows. Through many branches I am able to see him land in a snag not twenty feet tall. He's picking vigorously at some moss at his feet. I manage to get a better view through the trees and begin to photograph him again. 

Raven found something. Something he wasn't meant to find by it's owner. At first I didn't know what he was standing on or why he was pulling it apart. But when I realized that it was a nest it all made sense. I don't know for sure, but this appears to be the nest a barred owl. The barred owl I just showed you. 

And this of course is what he was after. Eggs are very nutritious, and there aren't many animals out there that won't eat them if the chance arises. Some specialize on exploiting this valuable resource, such as ravens. 

My blood and mind racing from all that I've seen I make my way through a narrow trail behind the raided nest. What a terrible day that barred owl had: mobbed by crows, and a raven took advantage of the situation by raiding her nest. I feel for the owl, but I don't judge the crows or ravens. Everything in nature is struggling to survive. And in our modern lives humans have forgotten what that feels like. That's not to say we don't struggle, but the life-and-death struggles that pervade every moment outside of the man-made world are at best an abstraction to most. If we had predators that would eat us we would certainly mob them to prevent that from happening. And if we had no farms, money or grocery stores we would certainly raid nests to stay alive. Stepping over a fallen tree I see the signs of one bird's struggles ended to sustain those of another.

The feathers of blood of what appears to have been a red-breasted nuthatch. It was most likely killed and eaten by a Cooper's or sharp-shinned hawk.

Moving on I am drawn towards the enchanting little voices of golden-crowned kinglets. A flock is working over a thick stand of trees and shrubs for the insects and spiders on their branches. I watch through my lens, honing in on one who is only fifteen feet away from me. I mostly just enjoy the beauty of her plumage and the incredible grace and speed she employs in her furious foraging. So rarely do they hold still long enough to take a shot or two, let alone do so without branches between them and your lens. But after following her repeated relocation for a few minutes I find myself with a clear view of this incredible creature. So tiny in form, but as fierce as any large predator you can imagine. And she's lovely. Just so astoundingly beautiful.

Golden-crowned kinglet. This one's a lady. The fellas have a red/orange stripe through their golden crowns.

After being gifted this photo opportunity I slowly walk out of the park feeling grateful. Grateful for the native trees plants that comprise this urban forest fragment, and all of the wildlife they give home and sustenance to. Grateful for Hutton's vireos, house finches, song sparrows and crows. Grateful for ravens and barred owls.  And what the hell, even grateful for eastern gray squirrels. 

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