Expanding at a Snail’s Pace

The Magee Limpkin feeding on a snail in the genus Pluerocera.

In early July 2019, a juvenile Limpkin turned up outside of Akron, Ohio, superseding the species’s most northerly US record from Maryland in June of 1971 by nearly 250 miles. News of the state record spread throughout the birding community, and by nightfall, a binocular-clad crowd had gathered around the suburban pond where the young bird was calmly feeding on snails. Reports soon flooded in that this was no isolated incident, either. Just a few days earlier, another bird had been seen in Mentor, Ohio. One month later, a third Limpkin was reported from Magee Marsh, and in mid-October, a fourth from Mentor’s Veteran Memorial Park.

Range Map of the Limpkin in North America (Source).

The Limpkin (Aramus guarauna) is the only member of its genus Aramus. Cross the long legs and serpentine neck of a heron with the skulking gait and plump body of a rail and you will have something that quite resembles a Limpkin. These brown and white birds are inhabitants of southern swamps from Florida to Central and South America where they specialize on apple snails (Pomacea sp.) and other freshwater mollusks. With such a specialized diet, it’s a small miracle that the Limpkin has survived the draining and dredging of its wetland habitat.  Limpkin population trends are poorly understood, but the species appears to be stable in Florida. Recent declines in the northern portion of its range may represent a contracting distribution, and historical records suggest the Limpkin once inhabited Mississippi, Texas, and much of Georgia. 

Sightings of Limpkins north of Florida and extreme southern Georgia are rare, but records of vagrant Limpkins reaching northern latitudes date back to 1950s when an injured bird was found in Nova Scotia, Canada. Sightings of Limpkins in northern latitudes are typically one-offs and are short-lived. The Magee Limpkin on the other hand, has been seen on and off for nearly five months. 

Ohio isn’t the only state in 2019 to see its first Limpkin record. In August, Illinois’ first confirmed Limpkin was spotted on a lake near the city of Olney. In 2017, Louisiana had its first Limpkin record when a group of four appeared in December. The following month, a pair successfully reproduced for the first time in the state. This represents breeding nearly 350 miles west of the nearest confirmed breeding record. Two years earlier, Georgia had its first state breeding record near Albany. Decade long surveys suggest that vagrant Limpkins have been turning up with increasing regularity since the early 2000s. Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina have seen the bulk of these vagrants, but Limpkins have found their way to Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, and now Louisiana, Illinois, and Ohio.  

A bird turning up outside of its natural range is nothing special. Major weather events like hurricanes can blow birds off course, landing them in states where they have rarely or never been recorded before. In 2013, a Brown Pelican, a native of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Gulf coasts, awed birders when it spent the summer along Lake Erie after being swept up by a low pressure system. It represents only the third record of a Brown Pelican in the entire state.

For recently fledged birds, migration has a steep learning curve. Juvenile Scissor-tailed Flycatchers follow their parents as they use visual, magnetic, and celestial cues to navigate. These internal compasses allow them to travel from the prairies of central North America to the southern Caribbean and back each year. During these travels, juveniles can often become disoriented, landing them well outside the usual range for their species. Migration is not all learned either. Sometimes, a genetic mutation can cause a bird's internal navigation system to go haywire. This may partially explain why scissor-tailed flycatchers (as well as many migratory species) occasionally deviate from their set migratory trajectory and have been sighted across North America from Alaska to Nova Scotia. 

Then there are the dispersers, which Joseph Grinnell described as “the exceptional individuals that go farthest away from the metropolis of the species; they do not belong to the ordinary mob that surges against the barrier, but are among those individuals that cross through or over the barrier.” Dispersers travel farther than 90% of the population and are responsible for the rapid colonization of human-introduced species like the European Starling and House Finch. How else would birds that rarely travel farther than 50 km in a lifetime colonize eastern North America from one, small founding population in just a few decades? 

Due to its exploratory nature, dispersal is a highly risky endeavor, and many birds do not survive their forays into unknown territory. In 2018, a juvenile Great Black Hawk, a species native to central and South America, was found in Maine. It represents the first and only record of a Great Black Hawk in the US. Just why this bird traveled from the tropics to the northern forests is a mystery. The hawk was able to sustain itself on a diet of gray squirrels throughout the summer, but as winter encroached, the tropically-adapted bird suffered severe frostbite and later died in a rehabilitation center.  

When successful, dispersal acts as a positive feedback loop for population growth. Lucrative years of reproduction increase the odds some juveniles will be genetically predisposed to wander. Establishment of new populations by a few lucky dispersers bypasses the slow expanse of home range leapfrog that most individuals employ to avoid inbreeding. Newly colonized habitats are not subject to the same limiting resources that stall population growth, allowing a rapid expansion of the species across a wide geographic area. 

So what is responsible for Ohio’s sudden Limpkin mini-invasion? Limpkins are non-migratory birds, and the first sighting in early July and August precede the hurricane season. Following sightings have not been linked with any major storm events. A single Limpkin might indicate a faulty navigation system, but mutations are rare events and are unlikely to account for the multiple Limpkin arrivals in northern states. Juvenile birds dispersing from their natal territories seem the most likely explanation.  

Range of the native Florida Apple Snail (Pomacea paludosa). (Howells 2006).

Limpkins are closely tied to the distribution of their primary prey, the Florida Apple Snail (Pomacea paludosa). Florida Apple Snails are the only native apple snail in the continental United States and make up over 70% of the Limpkin’s diet. Extending from peninsular Florida to the panhandle to the southern edge of Georgia, the Florida Apple Snail matches the distribution of the Limpkin almost perfectly. Extensive wetland loss during the 20th century greatly reduced the density of native apple snails and contributed to Limpkin population declines and local extinctions. Today, the Florida Apple Snail is considered an indicator species for successful wetland restoration. 

A large invasive Island Apple Snail from Arthur R. Marshall Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge in Florida.

In the late 70s, several species of non-native apple snail, including the Island Apple Snail (Pomacea maculata), became established in the US. Due to this snail’s greater size and fecundity, it has been able to outcompete the native Florida Apple Snail and has spread from North Carolina to Texas and across much of the southeastern US. 

Range of introduced Island Apple Snail (Pomacea maculata formerly P. insularum). (Byers 2013).

Invasive apple snails are veracious consumers of aquatic vegetation and pose a serious threat to agriculture and native ecosystems. As they consume algae, these snails bioaccumulate toxins that make them a health hazard to both humans and wildlife. Snail neurotoxins have been linked to Avian Vacuolar Myelinopathy (AVM), a lethal neurologic disease found in waterbirds and raptors. Snails can also carry rat lungworm (Angiostrongylus cantonensis), a parasite that causes eosinophilic meningitis in humans.

The invasive P. maculata is a tropical species, and while it is currently limited to a handfull of southern states, climate change is poised to expedite its invasion. On average, ten new P. maculata populations are discovered each year. Many biologists feared that the replacement of the native Florida Apple Snail with its larger, tropical relative would spell doom for apple snail specialists like the Limpkin and the endangered Florida Snail Kite (Rostrhamus sociabilis). These larger snails are harder for juvenile Snail Kites to handle, reducing their ability to forage and, in extreme cases, leading to starvation.

Snail Kite from Loxahatchee. 

What is truly remarkable, however, is that these hardy invasive snails seem to be supplementing the declining native P. paludosa and have jump started Limpkin and Snail Kite population growth. Both species have been documented readily feeding on invasive snails, and the latter may even be adapting to this novel prey (Snail Kites are increasing in body size and bill length). The introduction of P. maculata into novel watersheds has been directly linked with Limpkin range expansion. Limpkins were once exceedingly rare in Lake Seminole, Georgia, but following an unprecedented increase in P. maculata, some twenty birds were recorded in 2017. The first Limpkins to breed in Georgia did so within 5 km of the first P. maculata colony to become established in the state. Nearly all vagrant Limpkins in Georgia, South Carolina, and Alabama have turned up in watersheds that have known populations of invasive apple snails. 

So there we have it; a growing population in the stronghold of their range has allowed Limpkins to disperse into new regions of the country. Even the small, imperiled population of Snail Kites seems to be following this trend. In October, the first record of a juvenile Snail Kite was reported from Presque Isle, Pennsylvania. But will these birds survive in the northern latitudes? Ohio has no native or invasive apple snails. While we do have our own introduced species of large snail, the Chinese Mystery Snail (Bellamya chinensis), our winters can drop well below freezing for months on end. Establishment of a new Limpkin population in the northern US is extremely unlikely. The best we can hope for at the moment is that our vagrant birds will leave for the winter, and if Limpkin populations continue to grow and expand in the southern US, Limpkins may become increasingly common Ohio vagrants.

Limpkin from Loxahatchee feeding on a mollusk. 

References

Bloom, P. H., Scott, J. M., Papp, J. M., Thomas, S. E., & Kidd, J. W. (2011). Vagrant western Red-shouldered Hawks: origins, natal dispersal patterns, and survival. The Condor, 113(3), 538-546.

Byers, J. E., McDowell, W. G., Dodd, S. R., Haynie, R. S., Pintor, L. M., & Wilde, S. B. (2013). Climate and pH predict the potential range of the invasive apple snail (Pomacea insularum) in the southeastern United States. PLoS One, 8(2), e56812.

Cattau, C. E., Fletcher Jr, R. J., Kimball, R. T., Miller, C. W., & Kitchens, W. M. (2018). Rapid morphological change of a top predator with the invasion of a novel prey. Nature Ecology & Evolution, 2(1), 108–115. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41559-017-0378-1

Cattau, C. E., Martin, J., & Kitchens, W. M. (2010). Effects of an exotic prey species on a native specialist: Example of the snail kite. Biological Conservation, 143(2), 513–520. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2009.11.022

Chaine, N. M., Allen, C. R., Fricke, K. A., Haak, D. M., Hellman, M. L., Kill, R. A., ... & Uden, D. R. (2012). Population estimate of Chinese mystery snail (Bellamya chinensis) in a Nebraska reservoir.

Cottam, C. (1936). Food of the limpkin. The Wilson Bulletin, 48(1), 11-13.

Dobbs, R. C., Carter, J., & Schulz, J. L. (2019). Limpkin, Aramus guarauna (L., 1766)(Gruiformes, Aramidae), extralimital breeding in Louisiana is associated with availability of the invasive Giant Apple Snail, Pomacea maculata Perry, 1810 (Caenogastropoda, Ampullariidae). Check List, 15, 497.

Greenwood, P. J., & Harvey, P. H. (1982). The natal and breeding dispersal of birds. Annual review of ecology and systematics, 13(1), 1-21.

Horgan, F. G., Stuart, A. M., & Kudavidanage, E. P. (2014). Impact of invasive apple snails on the functioning and services of natural and managed wetlands. Acta Oecologica, 54, 90-100.

Howells, R. G., Burlakova, L. E., Karatayev, A. Y., Marfurt, R. K., & Burks, R. L. (2006). Native and introduced Ampullariidae in North America: History, status, and ecology. Global advances in the ecology and management of golden apple snails, 73-112.

Kennedy, T. L. (2009). Current Population Trends of the Limpkin (Aramus guarauna) in Florida. Florida Scientist, 72(2), 134.

Marzolf, N., Smith, C., & Golladay, S. (2019). Limpkin (Aramus guarauna) establishment following recent increase in nonnative prey availability in Lake Seminole, Georgia. The Wilson Journal of Ornithology, 131(1), 179-184.

Mills, E. L., & Laviolette, L. (2011). The Birds of Brier Island, Nova Scotia. Nova Scotian Institute of Science.

Mouritsen, H. (2001). Navigation in birds and other animals. Image and Vision Computing, 19(11), 713-731.

Posch, H., Garr, A. L., & Reynolds, E. (2013). The presence of an exotic snail, Pomacea maculata, inhibits growth of juvenile Florida apple snails, Pomacea paludosa. Journal of Molluscan Studies, 79(4), 383-385.

Rawlings, T. A., Hayes, K. A., Cowie, R. H., & Collins, T. M. (2007). The identity, distribution, and impacts of non-native apple snails in the continental United States. BMC Evolutionary Biology, 7(1), 97.

Ricciardi, A. (2015). Ecology of invasive alien invertebrates. In Thorp and Covich's Freshwater Invertebrates (pp. 83-91). Academic Press.

Smith, C., Golladay, S., Waters, M., & Clayton, B. OF LIMPKINS AND APPLE SNAILS: INVASIVE SPECIES, NOVEL ECOSYSTEMS, AND AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE.

Veit, R. R. (2000). Vagrants as the expanding fringe of a growing population. The Auk, 117(1), 242-246.

Wilcox, R. C., & Fletcher Jr, R. J. (2016). Experimental test of preferences for an invasive prey by an endangered predator: implications for conservation. PloS one, 11(11), e0165427.

A Field Guide to the Birds and Birders of Magee

Black-throated Blue Warbler (Setophaga caerulescens)

In early spring, weather radars pick up dozens of mysterious “little blue donuts,” moving across north America.  These bizarre weather patterns aren't weather at all.  They are hundreds of thousands of migrating birds traveling in mass nocturnal flocks to their northern breeding grounds. 

Radar image of migrating birds.

The most famous Ohio migrants are the neotropical warblers.  Many of these small, insectivorous songbirds nest in the northern latitudes during the spring and summer.  Once fall sets in, their insect prey begins to die off and the birds head to Central and South America where food is abundant year round.  As photoperiod (day length) increases in spring, the warblers’ internal clocks tell them it’s time to move north.  There is less competition in the northern breeding grounds than in the tropics, and an abundance of untapped resources as insects begin to emerge.  This makes for ideal nesting habitat—the only trouble is, the breeding grounds and wintering grounds are thousands of miles apart.

Magnolia Warbler (Setophaga magnolia)

Some species, like the Prothonotary Warbler, can travel some 5,000 miles in just three weeks. Warblers heading to Canada must cross Lake Erie in the process.  Before embarking on this arduous, long-distance flight, entire flocks drop down to the lakeshore to refuel, turning the forested wetlands along the Lake Erie Peninsula into a "Migrant Trap."  During the first weeks of May, Magee Marsh, Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge, Howard Marsh, and Maumee Bay become some of the best locations in the state (and the country) to see a plethora of species in a very small area.  In their pre-migration gluttony, the birds display little fear of people.  They can get so close that telephoto lenses are often completely useless.

Prothonotary Warbler (Protonotaria citrea)

Magee Marsh is Disney World for Wildlife Watchers.  It’s famous.  It’s crowded.  But, depending on who you ask, it just might be worth the hype.  I have visited the Magee boardwalk many times over the past few years, but never during the famed “Biggest Week in American Birding.”  I’ve always been a little too early or a little too late for the mass arrival of over twenty warbler species.  Each trip still brings loads of birds, unusual rarities, and a lifer or two, but I’ve always been curious about the Big Week.  On May 10th of this year, I headed up to Birder Mecca, braving the crowds for the promise of rare migrants.

Cape May Warbler (Setophaga tigrina)

Magee is as much about the birds as it is about the bird watchers themselves.  This is ground zero for everyones’ binocular-clad grandparents and eccentric, RV-driving uncles.  Spend just five minutes at Magee and you’ll invariably encounter dozens of these indigenous boardwalk rarities.  Around the wooden path’s main entrance you might have to bob and weave between several mated pairs of Beige-legged Tickers, spectacled older-couples leafing through their field guides murmuring to one another about the “white eye-ring” they just saw as their partner jots down another species to the list.

Northern Parula (Setophaga americana)

A little bit further on and you’ll start encountering Three-legged Sit and Shoots.  These old-fogies gather in prime ambush locations, having lugged their enormous cameras on flimsy monopods through the crowd.  Any bird that startles them by jumping into the open will be met with a defensive clatter of snapping shutters to scare it back into the brush.  If the bird is particularly persistent, you can expect a Flashing Pacer to arrive and finish the job with a few shots from a mounted speed light.

Chestnut-sided Warbler (Setophaga pensylvanica)

Flocks of Bobbing Looker-ons whisper amongst one another, chattering to any unlucky newcomer about the bird that was last seen ten minutes ago.  The real rarities are usually located by the flock’s Sharp Spotters.  These energetic, audible field guides migrated to Magee years ago and never really left.  They have seen it all (or so they say) and are all too happy to lead fledgling Looker-ons to new lifers, for a small fee.

Bay-breasted Warbler (Setophaga castanea)

I kid of course.  While there are a few birding practices I really do find distasteful (like those Flashing Pacers with their lights), I think it is inspiring and a bit humbling to see so many people captivated by this yearly, natural spectacle.  Magee is a place to meet fellow wildlife enthusiasts and reconnect with old friends.  In all my time pursuing wildlife, I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.

Tennessee Warbler (Leiothlypis peregrina)

On sunny mid-morning days during the Big Week, birds might be outnumbered ten to one by birders, but don't let that fool you about the shear abundance and variety that can be found here.  Like fish that occupy different water columns in an aquarium, there is a bird for every level of the swampy woodland.

Palm Warbler (Setophaga palmarum)

Keep a close eye on the ground for little, brown birds with bobbing tails.  The Northern Waterthrush can be expected anywhere the ground is wet.  Despite its name and drab colors, this is in fact a warbler.  Another thrush-like ground-dweller, the Ovenbird, is a common species throughout much of the state.  Moving up into the understory shrubbery, you can expect to see foraging Black-throated Blue Warblers, Palm Warblers, and the occasional Wilson's Warbler.  Be sure to take a second look at any peculiarly patterned nuthatches—they might turn out to be Black-and-White Warblers creeping up the tree bark.  

Northern Parula (Setophaga americana)

At the mid-level range, a good day will bring Magnolia warblers, Cape-may warblers, Bay-breasted warblers, Black-throated Green Warblers, American Redstarts, and Prothonotary Warblers.  Two of the most common warbler species often dominate this section of the forest: Yellow warblers and Yellow-rumped Warblers.  The dense, shaded vegetation may harbor Hooded Warblers, or the rare Canada Warbler.  

Black-throated Green Warbler (Setophaga virens)

You might have to strain your neck peering into the canopy to spot these warblers, but with any luck it'll be well worth it.  Foraging in the very tops of the trees are Northern Parulas, Tennessee Warblers, Nashville Warblers, and maybe even Cerulean Warblers.  My favorite of the bunch, the Blackburnian Warbler can be seen picking insects off the ends of branches right above the boardwalk.  

Extreme rarities occasionally turn up at Magee during the Big Week.  Saying the words Connecticut warbler, Mourning Warbler, or the endangered Kirtland’s Warbler on the Magee boardwalk is akin shouting fire in a crowded theater. 

Blackburnian Warbler (Setophaga fusca)

If you are just getting in to birding, then the shear number of similar-looking warbler species might be a bit daunting (it certainly was for me).  In that case, I’d recommend a spring trip to Magee even more.  There is no better way to learn your birds than getting out in the woods with a pair of binoculars.

And, if all else fails, just ask the birder next to you what he or she is looking at. 

Yellow Warbler (Setophaga petechia)

More soon!

Keep living the field life

Ryan

Ecuador Birding: A Long Way Down

Heights have never been my thing, but I’ll do just about anything to see wildlife.  That being said, I refused to budge from the lefthand corner of the birding platform.  That particular corner, I had decided, looked the most structurally sound.  If I didn't move, and just focused on the thick layer of treetops around me, my mind could almost be convinced that I was at ground level.  I didn't dare look at my feet and down through the thin layer of metal mesh that separated me from a two-hundred foot drop to the jungle floor.  

As I had climbed the three stories of the tower, I could feel the entire structure shudder under each step.  We had run out of carabiners, so our guide Daniel, did his best to tie my harness straps into a large knot across my chest.  There’s not really such a thing as “up to code” in the Amazon.  The floor at the top level of the tower had an unsettling springiness to it, popping out from beneath my boots with a jaw-clenching TWANG.  The guard railings only came up to my hips, not that they needed to be any higher, but I’d still have appreciated it.

Myself at the top of the bird tower.

It was full darkness when we had arrived.  Now, an hour later, the sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon.   I could hear the deep whooping calls of howler monkeys from almost every direction.  One group grew so loud that I kept expecting to see a brigade of the orange primates tumbling through the trees towards us.  For better or worse, none ever appeared.  A few parrots flew high over head, winged shadows too distant to identify or photograph.  I waited patiently, anticipating a flock of colorful birds to engulf us at any moment.  

Double-toothed Kite.

As the sun rose, the air quickly began to heat up.  Soon I was sweating, and I still hadn't seen so much as a single bird at close range.  Finally, the birding gods seemed to take pity on me, and a raptor landed on the tree in front of me.  It was a female Double-toothed Kite, a striking hawk with a bright, red belly, and a gray back and head.  As it sat there, however, I began to realize that this predator was keeping all the other birds away.  After another hour of this, it was time to head back to the station for breakfast.  As I began my decent, the kite flew off, and I watched in agony as two unidentifiable bird species took its place, squawking back and forth at each other, taunting me.  

Many-banded Aracari.

Despite the bird tower being something of a bust, the understory birds were anything but shy.  Highlights of the trip included toucans, several species of kites, a very friendly captive parrot, and countless hummingbirds (these were seen in the cloud forest—more on them later)

Each morning, I was woken by a cacophony of bird song.  After our first night at the station, I hadn't been planning to wake up early, but the birds had something else in mind.   Still in my pajamas, I walked out of the air conditioned dormitory and was abruptly slapped in the face by a wave of hot, humid air.  I staggered forward feeling as if a brick had been dropped on my chest.  My nostrils stung from the thick mustiness in the air and I could practically feel water condensing on my skin as I wiped the fog from my glasses.  It didn't take long to realize that the nighttime katydids and frogs had been completely replaced by a totally new cast of daytime characters.  

Masked Crimson Tanager.

As the sun was beginning to rise, I looked down from the balcony at the source of the mourning chorus.  Birds of bright primary colors danced on the branches just feet from where I stood.  A scarlet bird with a black face, wings, and tail landed in the tree in front of me and hopped down into what I realized was a nest full of babies.  It dropped off a juicy caterpillar before fleeing to an adjacent tree and chasing off a black-colored bird with a blue-gray bill (which upon closer inspection actually had a dark maroon head that was only black at a distance).  

Silver-beaked Tanager.

These turned out to be the Masked Crimson Tanager and the Silver-beaked Tanager, both species of modified habitat and some of the most frequently seen birds at the station. They would often fly from tree to tree uttering a loud tchink call before examining the foliage for insects.  North America is home to only three tanager species; Ecuador alone has upwards of 120.  With a documented 1,600 different bird species across the country and nearby Galapagos Islands, Ecuador is an epicenter of avian diversity.

Tropical Kingbird.

The more I looked, the more birds and the more colors, I saw.  A brilliantly yellow Tropical Kingbird, scanned the lawn from an exposed perch.  It darted into the air in a wide arc, hawking insects on the wing, before returning to the same branch.  A similar looking species called a Great Kiskadee watched nearby.  Its head was strikingly patterned with stripes of black and white.  

Great Kiskadee.

Unlike North American birds, most species in South America don’t bother to migrate.  Food and resources are abundant all year round at the equator.  The species that do travel are often Neotropical migrants from North America.  The same bird I might catch a glimpse of at Magee Marsh in northern Ohio could travel thousands of miles to overwinter in Ecuador’s tropical rainforest.  I knew to keep a lookout for familiar faces while observing Ecuador’s avifauna, but I never expected to see a Red-eyed Vireo feeding alongside the Amazonian tanagers.  Red-eyed Vireos breed in Ohio and across much of the United States and Canada.  Their hear-I-am, over-here call is a common and conspicuous sound in summertime Athens.

Red-eyed Vireo.

I hadn't seen a Red-eyed Vireo since late last summer as they were beginning their southbound migration.  It was a bit of a shock to see one here looking as exotic as any of the other Ecuador birds.  I could have easily mistaken this little songbird for another indigenous South American species—but, luckily I knew better.  Not unlike myself, this bird was here for only a little while and would soon make the trek back north. 

Oropendola nests.

As I continued to explore the research station, I quickly noticed a large tree that held at least thirty huge, teardrop-shaped structures.  These turned out to be a colony of Russet-backed Oropendolas, large songbirds which build the structures from the surrounding vegetation.  Oropendolas are boisterous birds, extremely active during the day as they gather nesting material.  Their call is a loud, water-droplet like gurgle, which is made by leaning forward, wings outstretched, before rapidly arching back up into a sitting position.

Russet-backed Oropendola.

Just hiking around the field station provided new species at almost every turn, but I was eager to see what lived beyond its boundaries.  The third morning, we boarded a canoe and began a trip down the river.  Almost immediately, a huge, black bird took off from the adjacent bank, something long and orange trailing from its talons.  I focused in with my camera, and my jaw dropped.  The bird was holding a snake!  

Great-black Hawk with a snake.

Lucky for us, the hawk perched just around the bend, and I was able to get a better look at the predator and its prey.  I would have liked to have seen the snake alive (snakes can be pretty hard to come by in the tropics—this was the only one I saw) but it was incredible to witness this predator in action.  At first, I thought the huge bird must be some sort of eagle, but after inspecting my field guide, I realized it was a Great-black Hawk. This is a widespread species, ranging across much of South America and into coastal Mexico.  One recent individual even found its way into Maine this year, to the delight of local birders.

Great-black Hawk with a Snake.

The canoe would eventually bring us to a salt pool, known among the local tribes as a prime wildlife hotspot.  Tapirs, wild hogs, and countless species of birds flock here to drink the mineral rich water.  As we approached the muddy shore, we scared a half dozen charapas, or Yellow-spotted River Turtles from a log.  A large Cocoi Heron (South America’s version of the great blue heron) took flight as our guide tied our boat to some exposed tree roots.  

Yellow-spotted River Turtles.

One by one, we proceeded to scale a very steep, very slippery bank.  Being the dry season, the river was unusually low, making our exit that much more ungraceful.  Using the rope to steady myself, I felt my palms being rubbed raw as I struggled to keep my feet on the rapidly eroding ground beneath me.  As we hiked into the jungle, our guide motioned for us to stop.  He knelt and removed a leaf from a small depression in the mud.  “Jaguar,” he said.  My jaw dropped again.  There, in the substrate in front of us was a fresh jaguar footprint.  I could clearly see the animal’s footpad and toes preserved as if the big cat had made them seconds ago.  Our guide informed us that the animal very likely had made them seconds ago.   Our loud group would have warned the cat to flee, but luckily, it left behind this small clue of its presence.  As we kept hiking, our guide began to suspect that there had been two animals based on the number of prints we found.

A Jaguar Footprint.

The largest wild carnivore I have ever seen is a coyote.  To be in the realm of a jaguar (the indigenous word means “one who kills with a single pounce”) was breathtaking.  I looked at the surrounding jungle with new eyes.  Moments ago, the world’s third largest big cat had stood in the exact spot I was standing in now.  It could be watching us from only feet away and its camouflaged pelt would make us none the wiser.  I held my breath as we continued down the trail.  The salt pool itself held little of interest, but that single paw print made it all worth while.  Just to share the landscape with such a mysterious and impressive carnivore was one of the highlights of the entire trip.

That night, an even larger species of rain forest mammal would pay us an unexpected visit.

More soon.
Keep living the field life.
RBW