10,000 Birds

Sacred Ibis

Duncan — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

This post is republished in our “From the Archives” series, featuring highlights of our vast back catalogue of more than 10,000 birding-related posts published over the last 15 years or so. I’m off to Sydney on Friday for a long weekend (I never get tired of saying that). I’ll be splitting my time between my family, diving and a spot of birding. I’ve written before about how Sydney is a great place to bird, and I’m hoping to add a few good species of bird to my year list, even a few lifers. I’m determined among other things to getting my lifer Rock Warbler, for example, the ultimate Sydney special, being as how it is found only in and around the Sydney. But is it the ultimate defining bird of Sydney? Probably not. Quite a few birds might qualify, but in spite of the conspicuous species like the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo, the Rainbow Lorikeet or the Blue Penguin, I would say that the bird that best represents Sydney is the Australian White Ibis or Sacred Ibis. Australian White Ibis (Threkiornis molucca) The name Sacred Ibis originates with the white ibis of Africa, and it was also applied to other, similar looking species; so similar do some of these species look that I didn’t realize at first that the Black-headed Ibis I saw in Thailand last year was a new species for me at first. Indeed part of the reason they are called Sacred Ibis is that they were once all thought to be the same species. But whereas the Black-headed Ibis is a rarity where I was, seeing an Australian White Ibis in Sydney is one of the simplest things you can do. Walk down a street in the city centre and keep an eye on the bins. Especially in the parks, or the Botanical Gardens, but even right outside Central Station. They are one of the most urban birds of Sydney. This Australian White Ibis is part of a study. This wasn’t always so. Australian White Ibis were originally birds of the inland marshes of Australia, a habitat they share with the Glossy Ibis (yes, the same species Americans are familiar with) and the attractive Straw-necked Ibis. But in the 1970s they began to move into the cities, from Melbourne in Victoria to Townsville in Queensland and found them to their liking. Coinciding with this species increasing in the coastal areas of Australia is a decline in their more traditional inland sites. While they are something of a pest in the cities, the cities have become crucial for the ongoing survival of this species. Current management plans for this species thankfully take this into account. It may be disappointing for a birders first tick of this species to be in the refuse outside the Sydney Opera House, but take solace in seeing a species that might otherwise be in real trouble adapting to a new way of living.

Salty Business: Birds of Puttalam Salt Works, Sri Lanka

Luca — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Salt works are often a great spot for birds. The same goes for the salt works in the town of Puttalam on Sri Lanka’s northwestern coast. This is not a place that’s visited frequently and I haven’t heard much about this spot. Accordingly, I didn’t arrive with many expectations, which was probably good as it allowed me to be pleasantly surprised both by some unexpected species and lovely sightings of the more common ones. My main target here as Temminck’s Stint, a very rare migrant to Sri Lanka. There were two teacher in my school who were birders as well, and we often exchanged sightings. One of them had told me that they saw this species here the previous year. Obviously this didn’t really mean anything but amazingly, the Temminck’s Stint was the first bird I saw as I drove onto the salt works, in exactly the same pool described by my teacher! I’ve never had such a sighting before, obviously it could’ve been pure chance but given how rare the species is in the country, I could imagine that it was the same returning individual. Temminck’s Stint The most common waders here were Marsh Sandpipers and Tibetan Sand-Plovers. These species were nearly everywhere, which provided a good opportunity to compare different plumages in each of these species. Marsh Sandpiper, Tibetan Sand-Plover and Little Stint Several Little Stints were also around, one of which seemed to need some solitude and decided to feed out in the open shallow water, with no other bird in sight. Because the water was so still, this was a beautiful sight with the bird seemingly placed in the middle of a huge pane of glass. Little Stint The nearby beach also held a few Sanderlings, another uncommon bird in Sri Lanka. I often have to laugh at their comical feeding behaviour of sprinting back and forth along the water’s edge, perfectly timing the advance and retreat of each wave. The frantic blur of their legs suggests a rather stressful existence, yet their soft expressions give an impression of complete calm – an odd contradiction. Sanderling Puttalam is an interesting place to go birding simply because very few foreign birders visit this town. The only way I could access the salt works was by tuk-tuk, and the driver first thought I was mad. This makes for some quite entertaining conversations, a good distraction when you’re trying to find a Red-necked Stint among the masses of Little Stints. In the end, the driver proved far more cooperative than the Red-necked Stints, and I was more than happy to trade a rarity for an enjoyable conversation about the town and its people.

Half-year stock take

David T — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 12:34:12 +0000

Well, here we are, half way through the year, and my UK year’s tally is a mere 179 species, so I still need another 21 to reach my 200 target. Twenty-one species in six months doesn’t sound a lot, but I have ticked most of the so-called easy birds, though there are some quite common species missing from the list. I’ve yet to tick a Spotted Flycatcher (pictured above in Greece earlier this month)…

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Interviews with 10,000 Birds Writers: Pablo Lewis

Editor — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Who are our writers, and why do they contribute to the site without pay and with no real benefits? We thought they deserved a proper introduction, so we started this series to find out. Your Birding History And Future How long have you been a birder, and how did you get into birding? Nerd that I was, I started paying attention to birds when I was a pre-teen. We’re talking about the early 70’s here, in the San Francisco Bay Area. I still own my Golden Field Guide to the Birds of North America, © 1966. (OMG, I just noticed that I marked in the back of that book that I had seen the Golden Eagle and Varied Thrush!) Of course, back then, there weren’t any digital photography or apps, so I mostly put up a couple of bird feeders and kept a handwritten list of what I saw with my binoculars. Has your attitude towards birding changed with time – for example, did it get intense, do you focus on different things now, etc.? I continued to bird casually during my college years in Santa Barbara, California. But the pickings were slim in the desert city of Mexicali, Mexico, and I stopped birding during my early adult life. It wasn’t until 2013 that I realized I now live in a birding paradise here in Morelia. And since I found I was something of “a voice crying in the wilderness” back then, I felt the responsibility for finding the best spots, expanding knowledge of our local species, and encouraging others. What were the ornithological highlights in your life so far? In Mexico, it is SO easy to make scientific discoveries regarding our birds! There are few birders, and even fewer ornithologists, so a discovery awaits around every corner. My highlights include finding the world’s best site so far for seeing the Sinaloa Martin, Mexico’s westernmost spot to see migrating Hudsonian Godwits, and range expansions for many other species. Chasing vagrants is fun, but expanding knowledge is incredible. Sinaloa Martin Hudsonian Godwit What are your plans for the next few years, as related to birding? For example, trips planned? My life already involves a lot of travel, and my wife is not a birder, so I take advantage of work trips for birding in new places. Next February, we will be doing ministry work in the area around Cancún, but big birding will happen. And at 68 years of age, I’m starting to slow down a bit. So I’m improving the habitat of our little garden as fast as possible, in case that is what I’m limited to watching someday. If you had to make a living off birding, what kind of activity would you try? I don’t have the academic preparation for research work, so I guess I would be a guide, which I already do for free on occasion! But the dream would be to purchase, preserve, and improve prime habitat areas here in Mexico. Your Life As A Non-Birder What do you do for work? I came to Mexico in 1983 to work with churches. Since then, I have worked with three and planted two more. I also composed and recorded 39 songs in the Mexican mariachi style. (You can hear them on YouTube by searching “Pablo Lewis”. That’s me in the charro suits.) Two years ago, we handed off our second church to younger pastors, but we are still helping there, and travel to where we are invited as guest speakers and, in my case, as a singer. As a side note, I am technically an American evangelical. Just so you’ll know, we don’t all hate the environment or humanity. Is there any link between your work and birds/birding? Not much! But birding is a great pressure release for this deeply introverted pastor! And traveling ministry has made it possible for me to bird in many parts of Mexico and the world. What’s your favourite thing to do outside of birding? I love to garden and cook. In recent years, I have mostly gardened for the birds, including on our half-hectare church lot, where I am doing what I can to create habitat. How does your personal environment (e.g., partner, children, etc.) regard your interest in birds and birding? Most people around me are, shall we say, bemused. My wife makes a half-hearted effort to act interested, but she does understand what a powerful force birding is for my mental and physical health. Our son has a mild interest in birds and, very occasionally, accompanies me. Our daughter can’t really understand any activity that doesn’t involve lots of talking. My grandchildren are a work in progress. Birding General Info And Advice What are some of your birding tips for beginners? If you are a social creature, find other birders or a club. If not, feel free to find your very own sites and go off on your own. But birding buddies are great teachers and wonderful company, even for an introvert like me. And as Kenn Kaufmann once said, “Birdwatching is something that we do for enjoyment, so if you enjoy it, you are already a good birder. If you enjoy it a lot, you are a great birder.” How important are apps for your birding? eBird is the best! If it had been around when I birded in my youth, my official life list would be a good deal longer, as I can’t remember much of what, when, and where I saw back then. And Merlin is a wonder. I used it as a simple field guide for a couple of years. But when I finally tried the audio identification function, I thought, “What black magic is this?” However, anyone trying to use that function in less-birded areas like Mexico needs to know that Merlin’s ID functions are much less reliable away from Europe, Canada, and the United States. Do you have any favourite birding-related media (e.g., books, podcasts, websites, magazines, videos, etc.) you can recommend? If you...

Species Spotlight: Chestnut-headed and Slaty-bellied Tesia

Kai Pflug — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

For those who like their bird names to be messy, the Chestnut-headed Tesia is a good choice. Its scientific name is Cettia castaneocoronata rather than the expected Tesia castaneocoronata. So, what, why, and warum? The Chestnut-headed Tesia was historically placed in the genus Tesia, along with other tiny, short-tailed babblers of the Himalayan and Southeast Asian undergrowth. Tesias are generally small, skulking ground warblers. Then, DNA analysis showed that the species is actually closer to the bush warblers in the genus Cettia. But the common name Tesia stuck. And I guess the Chestnut-headed Tesia does not mind much. Nor does eBird, warmly describing the species as an “adorably round and tailless small ground-dweller”. The HBW adds that it “rarely flies”. The Slaty-bellied Tesia has a similar shape and size but is a proper Tesia species. eBird likes this species as well, calling it a “charming tiny bird, brightly-colored but difficult to see”. The HBW adds a somewhat contradictory sounding “Active but extremely skulking, although often inquisitive and seemingly not shy.” To me, it looks exactly the same as the Gray-bellied Tesia, a fact that eBird first seems to admit, only to retract a moment later: “The very similar Gray-bellied Tesia has a paler belly, a distinct yellowish eyebrow, and a darker greenish crown” (I am now immediately suspicious if several minor distinctions such as “paler” or “darker” are needed to visually separate species). Both species were seen at Baihualing, Yunnan, China, in March 2026.

5 Things Birders See Differently

Kai Pflug — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

6:00 a.m. To a birder: already late—the best light and most active period are already underway. To a non-birder: a time that should not normally involve consciousness. “Just a short walk” To a birder: a loosely defined field expedition that may or may not include return before noon. To a non-birder: a phrase that consistently fails to predict actual duration. Silence in nature To a birder: something to be interpreted—possibly promising, possibly suspicious. To a non-birder: the main attraction. “It’s just a sparrow” To a birder: an invitation to look again more carefully. To a non-birder: a correct classification that ends the discussion. Binoculars To a birder: standard equipment for making the world properly visible. To a non-birder: an object suggesting either espionage tendencies or excessive commitment to outdoor activities. Photo: House Sparrow

Demotivational Posters for Birds (XXXVII)

Kai Pflug — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Another four posters join our continuing series of avian demotivation. As always, the captions should not be interpreted as an accurate representation of the birds’ thoughts, assuming such a distinction can even be made.

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One Island, Ten Thousand Pelicans, and a Lake Running Out of Time

a Guest — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 11:27:55 +0000

By John Cavitt John Cavitt is a Distinguished Professor of Zoology at Weber State University in Ogden, Utah. For over two decades, his research has focused on the ecology and conservation of Great Salt Lake birds. He has tracked shorebirds from Utah to the coast of Mexico, banded birds in Siberia, and spent more field seasons than he can count watching a lake he loves grow smaller. He writes and speaks regularly on Great Salt Lake conservation and can be found on Instagram @birdecologyguy and LinkedIn at linkedin.com/in/johnfcavitt There are moments on the water in the American West that stop you cold regardless of what else you came to do. I have had that experience more than once, watching American White Pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) lift off the surface of freshwater impoundments surrounding Great Salt Lake (Figure 1). The birds run hard before becoming airborne, each one laboring briefly before those broad wings take hold. Once up, they circle to find lift, and when they locate a thermal, the transformation is immediate. The chaos of the takeoff settles into a long column of white birds tilting in unison, rising until the flock becomes a slow spiral. After more than two decades of fieldwork on this lake, that sight has not lost its hold on me. It is a striking display, but it masks a deeper reality. Despite this species’ massive size, these birds are vulnerable. Gunnison Island (Figure 2), a barren ridge of desert rock in the northern arm of Great Salt Lake, … … hosts what was for much of the past three decades the single largest American White Pelican breeding colony in the interior West (Figure 3). I know this firsthand from the years spent compiling the Atlas of Breeding Colonial Waterbirds in the Interior Western United States[1], a systematic survey of colonial waterbird colonies across eight states. In that work, we documented 41,709 breeding American White Pelicans at 24 colonies. Gunnison Island, with more than 10,000 birds in 2009, dwarfed every other colony. For most of its recorded history, it has stood in a category of its own. The written record reaches back to May 1850, when Captain Howard Stansbury of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers conducted the first scientific survey of Great Salt Lake. During this survey, he explored Gunnison Island, writing that the ground was literally “covered in eggs and young birds”. He described thousands of adults forming massive, unbroken white blankets across the rocky ridges. Stansbury’s account shows that this island served as a pelican colony for at least 175 years[2]. Pelicans have returned to it generation after generation. That colony is now in serious trouble. The reasons for its decline tell us a great deal about how saline ecosystems collapse and reveal some hard truths about society. The Crossing: Heavy Water and Vanishing Geography I visited Gunnison Island on July 23, 2014, as part of a pelican banding effort. We loaded onto two research boats that morning, unsure if the weather would cooperate. Winds had kicked up across the lake, and the crossing was uncertain. Boating on Great Salt Lake reveals a strange hydrology. The brine is heavy and dense, behaving by its own peculiar physics. Because the basin is so shallow, a stiff wind causes waves to stack into rapid, steep walls with almost no interval between them. Rather than riding over the chop, the boat’s hull plowed through dense barriers of brine, each wave slamming into the bow and forcing us to a crawl. On the way out, we passed the remnants of the old Lucin Cutoff trestle, the twelve-mile wooden railroad bridge completed in 1904 to shortcut the transcontinental route directly across the lake. Most of what remains today are scattered pilings and beams, encrusted so heavily in salt that they have effectively become concrete. (Figure 4, 4b) I couldn’t resist touching it. The surface was hard and completely mineralized, a bizarre artifact suspended somewhere between history and geology. As I reflect on that day and these pelicans, that petrified trestle is a monument to a time when humans thought they could permanently conquer the lake’s geography, but now frozen in place by an ecosystem that reclaims everything eventually. The loss of the lake’s water is doing the exact opposite to the pelicans. Rather than preserving the island’s geography, we are erasing it, converting a water-locked sanctuary into a terrestrial corridor for predators. We could not bring the boats close to the island without risking grounding them, so we hopped out and waded the last stretch through hip-deep salt water, holding our gear above our heads (Figure 5). Once ashore, we hiked to one of the island’s high points to locate the largest crèche of pre-fledgling pelicans we could find (Figure 6). Into the Crèche Young American White Pelicans present a deceptive picture. By mid-July, they are nearly adult-sized but still entirely dependent on their parents for food and completely incapable of flight. They congregate in crèches, dense aggregations of young birds waiting for their parents to return with a meal. Because they cannot fly, they are relatively easy to capture and band. What followed was as close to a military field operation as I have experienced in research. A team of drivers spread out wide around the back of the crèche while the rest of us quietly moved downslope to a narrow bottleneck in the terrain (Figure 7). We erected a large snow fence in a U-shape, its open mouth facing the approaching birds, and stationed ourselves at the ends, staying low and still. As we waited, I could feel the air changing. A heavy reek of concentrated uric acid and fish oil swept down the draw well before the first white bodies broke over the ridge. Hundreds of young pelicans waddled at maximum speed down the slope and funneled straight into the fence (Figure 8). Once they crossed the threshold, we pulled the ends together, securing roughly 250 to 300 birds in our makeshift corral (Figure...