Curlew-ing

He's holding the gun loosely with one hand now, face crinkled into a squint from bright sunlight and confusion. "What'd you say you're studying? Curling?" Perched on a small knoll that is now home to an arrangement of shooting tables, critter-laden 5-gallon buckets, camping chairs and coolers is the man's son, unfazed by the appearance of our Fish and Game truck. Another bullet whizzes into the pockmarked hillside. Here we are, dust still lifting from the Blue Goose's path, on the arid, grassy hillsides of southwest Idaho and the man hears 'curling'? Sure makes our job seem obscure. Then again, this was also my introduction to the workings of a whistled pig competition. See who can shoot the most ground squirrels in a day? Hmm. Alright. Studying long-billed curlew populations? Oh. OK. Our thoughts were probably mirrored: Glad I'm not doing that!

We nest-search on the ACEC (Area of Critical Environmental Concern). Across thousands of acres lies the potential for fantastic encounters with wildlife, endless wandering, and prime curlew real estate. It's also the place to dump your unwanted appliances, mattresses, boats, and kill piles. And then shoot it up. Seasons turn, and we watch refrigerators and sofas succumb to the rigors of life in the wild. I guess we watch curlews, too. Obsessively. For about three months, Jon, Kurt, myself and a handful of dedicated volunteers are full-time curlew-stalkers.

Flaunting a Suess-inspired bill, lanky stick-legs, and quirky dueling habits, the long-billed curlew is North America's largest shorebird. Males in the midst of a territorial display aren't difficult to pick out. Rigidly they soar, spiral in large circles toward the ground, and then climb steeply upward on frantically beating wings to repeat the descent. A steady and nearly monotone call accompanies the slow gliding. Upon landing, they let loose a sharp "Cur-liii, Cur-liiii!!" wail. I think of them as little alien spacecraft. Finding birds on a nest is another story. Any success we scrape up with that is the result of one or more of these things:

1) witnessing nest-predation attempts

2) watching behavioral cues of the curlews

3) dumb luck

Thing number three is the most reliable.

I meander through the grass and tumble mustard, stepping over basketball-diameter holes. No doubt badgers possess a wicked sense of humor, because I'm sure they've singled me out as favorite burrow wipeout victim. At any rate, after weeks of nest-searching only certain curlew noises and behaviors are whiplash worthy. One is the distress call. By the time that wailing voice cracks over the adjacent ridge, I'm running. Getting to the scene as soon as possible, or at least being in good viewing range is critical. After chasing off a predator, curlews like to return to their nest quickly, crouch down, and vanish from the face of the earth.

So, I'm running. Mustard rips around my ankles, phantom badgers frenetically booby-trap my path, and the ridge looms ever larger and steeper. But I make it! A spastic female curlew courageously dive-bombs a sitting (sitting!) and apparently un-intimidated coyote. However, the sight of a crazy, binocular-brandishing curlew crew member does prove intimidating. Coyote darts off away from me, mama curlew right on its heels, and I'm just trying not to get dropped. I chug over the next ridge and scan the hillside. Coyote is nowhere to be seen. Mama curlew, basking in the glow of victory, takes a moment to pluck up snacks. She's a vigilant one, and after a few more quick probes, she pushes off and glides back over towards where we just came from. Scurrying, I follow her over the hill. She's got that glean in her eyes, that sneakiness in her wings...she's definitely headed for a nest. Her trajectory takes her just out of sight. Moving closer, I feel time whipping past me. The vanishing point approaches. I start second-guessing myself, scan the grass through my binoculars, and then, lo and behold, there she is! I feel like she telepathically asks me to keep her secret. Another quick look around and then sinking slowly behind a whispy cheatgrass shield, she fades into the environment.