Features
From where I sit: Hamilton's International Perspectives
By Ivy Huang ’20
February 2, 2017
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Feeling exhausted after walking from Kirner-Johnson to the Taylor Science Center every day? While we struggle to reach a few thousands steps a day, flocks of intrepid shorebirds called Bar-tailed Godwits cover 7,000 miles in 9 days in a nonstop flight. Their migration is the longest known nonstop flight of any bird and also the longest journey without pausing to eat. It means no food breaks, no water breaks, no sleep breaks, no pausing–– just pushing through cyclones, storms, headwinds, flappity flap-flap for days and nights. Last spring, I was fortunate enough to observe them up close. Here is the story about these tough, long-distance fliers and me.
I worked as a research assistant for a shorebird research project conducted by Fudan University in China, the University of Groningen and NIOZ Royal Netherlands Institute for Sea Research. Annually during migration season, tens of thousands of shorebirds, including the Bar-tailed Godwits, come to the Yalu Jiang coastal wetland, the geographic border between China and North Korea, to fuel themselves before flying to the Arctic tundra. I was working on feeding ecology research of the Bar-tailed Godwits and stayed at the site for two months to monitor their entire stay.
Working with birds, no matter how strenuous or demanding the work might be, has always been a pleasure for me. As a birder, I had travelled to different places in China to spot rare species. Yet, to be honest, having watched perching birds for most of my birding experience, I could not deny my affection for petite kind of birds flapping and swiftly springing between branches. Before starting my research, I wondered whether shorebirds, which are slightly clumsier and larger, would disappoint me because of their lack of liveliness and animation.
However, the Godwits first struck me as an acrobatic dancing troupe. Usually the rising tide ignited the breathtaking and fluid aerial display, when the whole flock found their food too deep in water to reach and took off, flying together in beautiful, rhythmic formations. On a grand scale, the flock usually has thousands, and at its highest 50,000, birds who are displayed instantly turning in unison like a school of fish, creating their own squeaky melody as background music, and hovering over the tide. On the ground they often acted in concert as well; numerous tiny greyish dots densely gathered, scurrying along the shore like a wave, a remarkable choreography of nervous feeding on goodies washed up by the surf.
Take one step closer and they are even more stunning. With the descriptive genus name Limosa, meaning “muddy” in Latin, they have winter plumage in mottled brown, black and gray and breeding plumage in cinnamon color. Part of what is unusual about Bar-tailed Godwits, or shorebirds in general, is that they have evolved to be specialized feeders and have their own idiosyncratically shaped bill. By looking at their bill, one can easily guess what they feed on. The up-curved bills of Bar-tailed Godwits are useful for poking down sloped holes in the mud; the touch-sensitive tips allow them to locate animals deep in thick mud.
After spending such a long time with the Godwit flock, I found myself deeply bonded to them. I chewed on every heartfelt moment when I was accepted into their close community: the moment when they lowered their defense and approached me with intensive curiosity, when they flew very low over me and landed nearby, when we made an eye contact and felt solid rapport between us. Although to the Godwits, I may have appeared as a weird stalker, who always rudely stared at them while they eat, I considered them as my dear friends.
Yet when their precise, internal clock said it was time to go, they left, no questions asked. There was a certain kind of sadness, but I was delighted to see my departing friends had ballooned themselves up and prepared well for the upcoming journey. Completed molting into full breeding plumage in brick red, they looked radically different from the time they just arrived. Having carefully groomed themselves, they had shinier feathers than ever.
Usually on a sunny afternoon, with a wind from the south, they took off from the ground, gathered in the pose of arrow. In a noisier voice than usual, they bid farewell to Yalu Jiang in their own language after stamping the coast on their passport. I saluted these brave missionaries carrying the future of their Godwit community, who left with footprints in my heart and unforgettable stories. My eyes followed the flocks as they flew, and flew, and flew, and eventually disappeared from my sight.
Now on Hamilton campus, my memories still bring me back to the Yalu Jiang with those birds. While I am expecting an upcoming snowfall in Clinton, Godwits have finished their epic nonstop flight back to their wintering site. Once again, these ravenous travelers eat as much as they can to molt into new shiny feathers, preparing for next year’s migration. Flying thousands of miles from China to arrive here, sometimes I feel like a bird myself. With all my Hamilton “bird friends” flying from all over the world, we keep learning nonstop and filling ourselves with art, knowledge and experiences. Eventually we will depart Hamilton and continued our nonstop life journey, hopefully arriving at the destination of our dreams.