I May 'Ode' To A Red-Necked

...but I never owed two rednecks.

Red-necked Grebe (Podiceps grisegena) in winter plumage.

They’ve been around all winter but they generally swim and hunt far enough offshore that you need binoculars to be sure. There are telltales; that large, heavy, yellow-highlighted bill is one. In silhouette, way out there on the water they don’t quite look like any of the three types of cormorants you might find around here; neither Pelagics, Brandt’s, nor Double-Cresteds. They are smaller than a loon, which I almost never see in the bay anyway, and larger and stockier, overall than the fiery-eyed, Horned Grebes who have generally outnumbered them in previous years here in Elliot Bay, during winter.

This image was taken with a powerful telephoto lens. Generally the Red-Necked Grebes are swimming so far out there that they appear a little dark specks. So you can see why finding one so close captured and held my attention.

This year Horned Grebes have been far less numerous than in the past handful of winters (not sure why), and instead of just one or, occasionally two of the more solitary Red-Necked Grebes in the back bay, there have been sometimes as many as six that I can make out, swimming and diving way, way out there in the deep water.

Knowing such trivia, along with five or ten bucks will get you something hot and delicious at Starbucks. But walk through those hallowed, coffee-scented doors without such knowledge and, believe it or not, you will pay exactly the same amount for your coffee and old-fashioned donut, as with it. Yep. Last time I checked, Starbucks still doesn’t give discounts for local bird trivia or take giant Leopard Slugs in trade for Cake Pops, so don’t go getting yourself all in a grinning twist thinking I’ve just handed you the keys to some fancy, exclusive or tasty kingdoms by clueing you in. And please, don’t ask me how I know that they don’t do these things. It’s a long and somewhat embarrassing story, and I’m already carrying enough shame from watching the way the President and Vice-President of these United States of America used the sacred office of the White House and rolling TV cameras to ambush and threaten, and attempt to belittle the brave, wartime president of another democracy just a few days ago. I do not much like the lingering taste of shame.

Speaking of ambushes…

The reason I am able to share such an intimate portrait of a winter-dressed Red-Necked Grebe is that yesterday, this one was hanging out in a sheltered area very near shore, as if sensing his/her vulnerablity, and trying to stay out of the open. My human presence seemed uncharacteristically low on the totem pole of grebe apprehensions and priorities, yesterday, and had me quite puzzled until I noticed the drooping right-wing. (There’s a bad pun just sitting there, isn’t there? “Not gonna take the cheap shot.” I whisper repeatedly to myself as I keep typing. Then have to backspace over the question, “What would JD Vance do?”) We know well enough what he’d do.

Looks like my feathered friend is wounded, or gone wing-lame. Something.

Normally, at least in my limited experience with grebes, an approaching human triggers a calm, steady paddling of those powerful, webbed, propulsion mechanisms in the opposite direction of said human’s approach. Yesterday afternoon, this beautiful creature, instead stayed put and really didn’t pay me much mind, which was pretty cool from a purely observational perspective, but unprecedented otherwise. I’ve never gotten to look at a Red-Necked Grebe nearly so carefully or close before, or over such a long period of time. But let’s face it, I was fretting, too.

Over the weekend, apparently, there were a pod of mammal hunting, Biggs Killer Whales hunting in Elliot Bay, and according to the video my friend Kersti recorded of some of their marine, mammalian melee, fresh grebe was definitely on the menu. Could this grebe have been one of those targeted and that somehow escaped the invitation to be an Orca appetizer? No way to know. I’ve seen Sea Lions trying to sneak up on them from below, too.

After an enlightening, pros and cons, conversation with myself, I decided to take a wait and see approach to the beautiful little feathered drama before me. Rather than trying to rescue something that might or might not actually need (or want), help, rather than playing that hard-wired, white-dude-to-the-rescue, savior card, I opted to check back in the morning (this morning), to see if the ‘problem’ still existed, if the grebe was still hugging the near shore in the back bay. If it looked like the ruddy-necked diver was doing better …or worse. If so, maybe I’d call in for a rescue. And if the problem had resolved during the night then I’d merely hold on to the curiosity, the wonder of it all and thank the universe for another close encounter with wildness and the cycle of life…

I found no smattering of grebe feathers on the shore. There was no Red-Necked Grebe anywhere to be seen. Could Beyonce, the broody, Bald Eagle who hunts this bay have found and nabbed a wounded grebe at first light and claimed its fuel to work in service to the eggs she seems about to lay? Yes. Could the grebe have rested, slowly worked out the cramps, or somehow popped the dislocated joint back into proper alignment? Yes, I suppose that too is possible.

I don’t know how this situation resolved itself. Nor do you. If a wounded animal became a meal for someone else, well that is exactly how the cycle is intended to work. And if a human did not step into something he was not intended to complicate, attempting to decide on the winners and the losers, then I’m ok with that too.

Either way…

there is ample evidence of magic afoot and I’m willing to share it with any of you who could use just a bit to get you through another day of achey affronts. Odds are most of you will never yet have gotten close enough to a Red-Necked Grebe to peer deep into its intelligent, yellow-ringed eye like this. And well, I mean, look …there’s an entire universe in there looking back at us.

How lucky are we?

https://www.cbsnews.com/video/pod-biggs-killer-whales-bird-hunt-seattle/

(Yes, I know my wordplay title is a bit rough around the edges. Play is play. The Beatles recorded songs with toy pianos and penny whistles that gave their songs sounds previously thought beneath great music. More play. Less, fear.)