I first saw Y0U on the Delaware Bay. That is, Y-zero-U, the alpha-numeric code used to identify a banded shorebird. This particular bird, a member of the rufa subspecies of red knot (Calidris canutus), is the focus of an ongoing effort to attach geolocation recording devices to these small, long-distance migrants as a means of tracking their movements throughout the Western Hemisphere.
Roughly the size of a robin, these birds forage on the shores of the Bay by the thousands each spring, outfitted in their reddish breeding plumage and on their way north to nest.
Part of an initial cohort of 47 Delaware shorebirds outfitted with geolocators in May of 2009, Y0U was one of the few re-captured the following year—giving wildlife researchers an unprecedented window into the flight paths and patterns of an animal currently being considered for “threatened” status under the U.S. Endangered Species Act.
I was on the Bay as a volunteer and observer, doing research for a dissertation in the history and sociology of science. Shorebird research, particularly on the imperiled red knot, seemed a perfect case study on the interactions between science and policy in North America. I wanted to understand this research within a broader history of U.S. wildlife conservation. But I also wanted to understand the nitty-gritty processes of knowledge generation on the shores of the Delaware. The teams of scientists banding shorebirds there shared with me their techniques, of course, but also the variety of hopes, anxieties, and expertise that motivated and shaped their research.
Systematic, scientific bird-banding in North America goes back to the early 20th century. Spearheaded independently by numerous local and regional ornithological associations, the practice of affixing birds with individually encoded bands was centralized under the authority of the Federal government in 1920. Originally housed in the U.S. Biological Survey, a forerunner of the Fish and Wildlife Service, today the “Bird Banding Laboratory” is located at the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Maryland, under the auspices of the U.S. Geological Survey. According to the Center, over the past decade alone over 1 million banding records have been received per year.
Banding shorebirds like red knots on the Delaware Bay has been carried out by New Jersey and Delaware state wildlife managers, biologists, and interested amateurs for several decades now, but adding individually-coded, colored “flags” to birds like Y0U and K0H (pictured above) began in 2003. Light-level geolocators provided by the British Antarctic Survey, able to record the actual flight paths of shorebirds, were a much more recent innovation—awaiting a degree of miniaturization that would work for these smaller animals. The complicating twist, however, is that unlike satellite transmitters used on larger birds, these “dataloggers” have to be re-captured. In other words, once you tag a bird and let it go, you have to catch it again a year later, manually remove the geolocator, and download the data.
This is no simple task. I first joined teams of shorebird researchers on the Bay during the spring migrations of 2009. My very first catch was a foggy morning on Reed's Beach, New Jersey. The team was led by Mandy Dey, the principal zoologist for the State's Endangered and Nongame Species Program, and Larry Niles, retired Chief of the same Program. Their team varies somewhat from year to year, but includes a core group of academic, state, and avocational experts—some traveling internationally on “busman's holidays” to take part in the Delaware Bay migratory phenomenon. As an interested amateur working on a graduate thesis, I was given step-by-step instructions as we readied a “cannon net” on the beach. These large nets are buried and camouflaged in the sand, the projectiles on their leading edge fired from black-powder “cannons” over flocks of unsuspecting shorebirds that wander into the catch zone.
I remained huddled behind sand dunes with other volunteers while Niles watched the beach for conditions suitable for a safe catch. Dey spoke with us while we waited, giving us a rough idea of what to expect and reassuring us that though there were likely to be some, say, harsh directives for keeping the catch safe and efficient, we shouldn't become rattled or take it personally. When the cannons went off, I found myself racing down the beach and into the surf around a “wet catch”—an instance in which the net fires partway onto the water, necessitating a quick recovery so that all the pinned shorebirds are moved onto the sand as soon as possible. Once on the beach, we covered the hopping, chirping mass of net with covering material to protect and calm the birds, and began moving them to shaded “keeping cages.” Once secured, we passed each shorebird around a small circle of researchers, each responsible for a different task: taking various biometrics, affixing bands and flags, and keeping careful records.
It was a few days later on a beach a little further up the Bay that I helped catch part of the first cohort of red knots to carry light-level geolocators. These one-and-a-half gram data-loggers have already paid dividends in new data, but this was by no means certain at the time. Each release of a shorebird was and is an act of faith, albeit a carefully considered and monitored one. I watched as a subset of the red knot catch was outfitted with their leg-mounted tech, and then placed under a “tent” for observation. If Rutgers behavioral ecologist Joanna Burger gave the okay, according to protocol, the birds were presumed unaffected by the catch and new gear, and released. In other words, each red knot fitted with a geolocator was given a clean bill of health before being released. The hope was that at some point in subsequent migratory travel between the Arctic nesting sites and South American wintering grounds, these same red knots would be re-trapped, and the data recorded in their geolocators downloaded for analysis.