Bird of the Forest and Sea
ONE MONTH BEFORE I left for the Peace Corps in August 1992, an unexpected visitor arrived at the Powers Ranger District office in the Siskiyou National Forest (now Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest). A man visiting the forest had found a bird unable to fly along the paved road adjacent to the South Fork Coquille River. “It’s very unusual looking,” he said before opening the box in which he’d transported it to our office. “Got funny feet, all black and white, and I don’t know, it’s just a bit strange.” As I listened to his story, I felt a familiar sinking feeling. People regularly brought in birds they’d found in the forest. Maybe they were owls or song- birds, frequently hit by cars or, like this one, just “sitting there” along the road. Maybe a young robin, or a young wren, or one of the many summertime sparrows had left the nest too soon with shaky flying abilities. Perhaps a spotted towhee, a species that is often in low shrubs, had made an ill-timed dash from one side of the road to the other. No matter the circumstances, the rescuers always expected us to save the bird. Much to my surprise, the bird on this day was not a robin or a sparrow. It also wasn’t a wren or a Steller’s jay or a towhee. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of a songbird. The black-and-white youngster offering high-pitched chirps from the bottom of the box was a marbled murrelet. Biologist and author Besty Howell writes about caring for a rescued murrelet chick 30 years ago, and how so many years on, land managers are still trying to understand this endangered species and its habitats.
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