The five great blue herons were strung out on the bay’s edge, standing in several inches of saltwater, although at a closer-than-usual spacing. Once away from a rookery, great blues are generally solitary birds, wanting elbow room in relationship to their sizes – lots of it.
But these were evenly spaced, five sets of bodies-on-stilts fewer than 50 feet apart, a veritable crowd around a buffet table.
The grouping may have been fledglings with their parents, out for a lesson in foraging just before dispersing to their own territories.
I’ve seen herons on low-lying shoreline rocks, floating kelp, buoys and deadheads, but always in the same mode: patient, methodical and relentless, body shape ideally matched to its aquatic habitat.
Spearing a fish that’s moving under water and wriggling for its life post-capture is something that takes practice.
The success rate can be a way to tell the young birds from the adults, since fledglings are nearly the size of its parents when they leave the nest to forage, something that doesn’t happen for 60 to 80 days.
It takes time to develop the skill to successfully strike a moving target, hang onto its wriggling mass, and swallow it.
Younger ones simply miss, or drop, more of their prey than the experienced adults, especially when having to flip a larger fish so that it goes down head first.
Foraging hours on tidal waters are usually dictated by the tides, and there’s a longer window of opportunity during spring and summer tides than there is during fall and winter tides.
And if a great blue heron leaves the nest in early summer when fish are more plentiful, it stands to reason that its skill level will be higher going into winter than a fledgling that reaches the water in late summer.
A British Columbia study showed that when the fishing window is reduced, the adults’ skill can make up for fewer targets. Young birds usually opt to go inland to ditches and fields simply because they aren’t successful enough in the water to meet their energy requirements.
Even with a wider hunting area, only about one-quarter to one-third of them make it through the first year.
In hunting mode, the great blue heron gives a hint that it’s about to strike, a minimalistic arching of its back and neck.
Special vertebrae make it possible for the neck to be held in a spring-loaded ‘S’ position stretch and shoot out after prey or be held in a folded position when flying at about 25 mph on slow-beating, 6-foot-long wings.
Although few predators go after a great blue, the 5-pound birds’ takeoffs lack speed and grace, wing beats slow and long legs dangling and making them vulnerable.
North America’s largest heron’s preference for a wide safety zone around them is thus justified. It’s rare to be able to walk close to one without triggering the flight mechanism, even though when in a car, you might zip by them while they’re feeding in ditches 25 feet away.
Sometimes at night when I step out on the deck, I’ll be greeted by a single irritated croak in the lower register. I’ve startled it in the top of a nearby tree.
It’s in no danger from me, but in the 19th century the great blue heron population was decimated for their feathers.
At least they no longer die for fashion.
Local trail work
Work parties are installing signs and historical markers on Lime Kiln Trail as well as working on Old Robe Trail, according to Steve Dean.
On July 20, brushing and treadwork are also on the Lime Kiln Trail schedule; with Old Robe Trail seeing workers on Aug. 5 and Aug. 12.
If you can help with the efforts, call Dean at 360-652-7181.
Columnist Sharon Wootton can be reached at 360-468-3964 or www.songandword.com.
Dan Bates / The Herald
A great blue heron fishes the shallows during a low tide.
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