By IBO Volunteer Vicky Runnoe
In the predawn half-light, muffled footfalls herald preparation for hummingbird banding. Up the hillside, I make final adjustments to a hummingbird trap. When dropped, this mesh cylinder encloses a feeder and an unsuspecting hummer. I adjust the guyline, making sure the trap is operating smoothly. Sitting quietly in my chair, I am grateful for the layers that will inevitably be shed when the sun peeks over the mountaintop.
I am surrounded by the ebb and flow of birdsong. A MacGillivray’s Warbler chortles nearby in the undergrowth, his movements revealed by the changing location of his song. The raspy song of a Western Tanager rises from overhead. Then the sweet clear notes of a Mountain Chickadee sound alongside a plaintive Dusky Flycatcher.
A buzz punctures the birdsong, and a hummingbird appears. Darting back and forth, the bird inspects the trap before zipping off. I make note of the first trap checker of the day, my disappointment vanishing as the ethereal song of a Hermit Thrush ascends from deep within the pines. The writer Edward Abbey described these flutelike notes as “loveliest of bird song,” and I wholeheartedly agree.
Another buzz announces the arrival of a black-chinned hummingbird. Waiting for him to commit to feeding, I release the guyline, catching my first hummingbird of the day. Arriving at the trap, I am subjected to a verbal torrent of abuse, undoubtedly including every rude word within the hummingbird lexicon. It is humbling to be so thoroughly told off by such a minute bundle of feathers!
Quietly raising the edge of the trap, I follow the bird with my hand, forming a soft cage with my fingers. In a moment, I have the bird in-hand and it falls silent, observing me. Gently transferring the bird to a soft mesh bag, I pause to admire my catch. A throat of black velvet trimmed with violet set off by a glittering green back, he is a feathered jewel indeed. The bird remains quiet as I take the bag to the banding table and return to ready the trap.
A hummingbird swoops in, but is driven off by another bird which then perches nearby, keeping watch. In a whir of wings and a sputtering of epithets, this hummer drives off several others—pugnacity on the wing. Its momentary absence allows another hummer to drink.
Down goes the net and I find myself eye-to-eye with North America’s smallest migratory bird, a Calliope Hummingbird.
Small even by hummingbird standards, these wee birds surprisingly thrive at higher elevations. This one is a female and quite vocal in her utter disapproval of her current circumstances. She is caught and sent down to the banding table so she can be quickly banded and released. Females may be about to lay an egg, incubating or feeding nestlings hence the need for prompt handling and release.
With the trap reset, I resume my wait. As summer wanes, so does hummingbird activity as the birds leave on southbound journeys. By summer’s end, we catch few birds, but we watch and wait and hope. If “hope is the thing with feathers,” some of those feathers belong to these tiny birds.
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