Tuesday 5 July 2016, week 8: Buldir Island, 20:35

Last week as I was watching my ledgenesters – kittiwakes and murres – during productivity surveys, a pair of murres started to fight. Murres don’t build any sort of nest; they incubate their eggs between their feet and chest as they lean against rocks on cliffs. Shortly after TBMU 1 had stood up enough for me to see its egg and then settled back down again, what I assume to be its mate flew in and proceeded to try to get some action on this bird that was incubating. T1 was not in the mood and managed to convey this to the second bird, who hopped off and stood on a rock to the side, where it preened its feathers for a minute.

The next thing I know, T1 and this bird are using dagger-like movements to go after each other with their thin, powerful bills. I know from experience that they can move rapidly and put some real force behind their bites; I’ve seen murres draw blood from each other and myself. During the course of the incomer’s attack, it managed to land a choke hold on the throat of the incubating bird, who in turn found a way to get a grip on the right wing of its attacker. Locked in those grips, the 2 birds held that pose, sometimes pulsing with extra force, for over 5 minutes.

As I needed to be watching for other birds to move, I turned my attention elsewhere but made sure to check in on the fighting pair. What they were trying to accomplish, I can’t say, but I half-thought I was going to see the incubating bird die from lack of oxygen before relinquishing its hold. Witnessing this fight reminded me of why murres are one of my favorite birds: they don’t make much sense.

Mostly I enjoy murres just because I get such a kick out of watching them. These birds stare at the cliff face inches in front of them day after day. What do they think about? One second neighbors will kindly be preening each other, and the next they’re attacking each other, sometimes dragging the fight off the cliff. What changed in that moment? Neighboring murres just watch, using their voices to create a chorus of a fantastic “old man chuckle” as the fighters get out of hand. I love it.

When I handled murres for banding and measuring, I felt their strength for myself. We’d put a bird in a sock (toe end cut off) to contain its wickedly strong wings, but the murre still bit anything in reach. One time it managed to bite the sock it was in and refused to let go. Another time one bit me as I was taking it to the cliff edge for its release toss, so its toss didn’t go as planned. Eventually we parted ways.

Murres are awesome for scientific reasons, as well. Their eggs cover a colorful range from a rather plain tan with spots to the more common shades of light blue to brilliant turquoise. There’s nothing better than finally seeing the egg of a murre that just wouldn’t move, only to see a gem of an egg shining on the cliff. Murres don’t fidget much and are amazing at keeping eggs hidden beneath their feathers, so sometimes it takes a long time to finally get a glimpse of what’s down there. It’s a battle of wills: my need to see beneath them and their nature to not move.

Another fun fact: since murres are known as the penguins of the north, it should come as little surprise that they’re powerhouses. No, they can’t necessarily fly with the best of them, but they dive to depths of more than 100m and sometimes below 200m to forage!

When it’s time for fledgelings to leave the “nest,” they jump off the cliff and combination fly-fall-tumble down to the water with the accompaniment of a parent. From places such as the 1000-foot tall High Bluffs on St. George, that’s quite a leap for such a little bird.

From beautiful eggs to diving feats to fledging, murres are impressive birds that keep me entertained. They’re special enough that they get to hear me sing, which I don’t do for just anyone.