Midway Across the Pacific

I’m typing this while lying on a double bed in an air conditioned room at the Charlie Hotel, on a remote atoll midway between California and Tokyo, appropriately named Midway Atoll. I can hear cockroaches rummaging through the garbage bin by the sink and thousands of Bonin Petrels calling from outside my window, as night takes over the street light free neighborhood. I just had one of those moments when I closed my eyes and wondered how the hell I ended up out in the middle of nowhere, in a setting as bizarre and unique as this. I finally made it to the Northwest Hawaiian Islands, a place I’ve also wanted to visit ever since reading Carl Safina’s Eye of the Albatross. Here is my synopsis of the first day.

Boarded a fancy G2 private jet around 7am, and left Honolulu and the famous Diamond Head behind us as we pierced the clouds. The plane was as smooth as butter in the air, with two couches facing the aisle and six bucket seats arranged in a non-traditional pattern towards the back. We were free to move around the cabin and could help ourselves to the snake bar and drinks (no alcohol of course). It was awesome to say the least, not sure I will ever fly in such style again. En route to Midway we followed the Papahanaumokuakea National Monument and flew over Oahu, Kauai, Nihoa, French Frigate Shoals (my soon to be home), what we thought was the shallow reef of Brook’s Bank, Laysan Island, Pearl and Hermes Atoll, and finally landed on the runway of Midway Atoll 2 hours and 45 minutes later. Aside from our ears popping and the blue ocean out the windows it was hard to notice we were flying 40000 feet up in a jet.

Once we landed hundreds of Brown Noodys and White Terns greeted us as we taxed to the hanger, where we disembarked and hopped onto limo-sized golf carts, passing by the power plant, greenhouse, and welcome to Midway sign. We were given an orientation and our rooms at the Charlie Hotel, and breaked for lunch. I was so excited to explore the island, but hungry enough to wait until after eating. 

 

After lunch, the fragmented Tern and complete Laysan team headed out on a bike tour around the island. We each get our own bike during our three day stay. The sheer beauty of this place is almost overwhelming. White Terns flutter around everywhere we look, perched in the trees and lazily flying in a lofty pattern overhead. Brown Noodys grunted at us as we passed their adult sized fledglings, occasionally swooping gingerly, although nothing compared to the aggressive assaults of the Western Gulls on the Farallones. White-tailed tropic bird chicks were crotched beneath walkways and low branches, and Great Frigatebirds chased Masked Boobies above the tree line. We even came upon a few Wedge-tailed Sheartwater chicks still in their downy stage sitting in the sun at their burrow entrances. In terms of shorebirds, Pacific Golden Plovers with their handsome yellow tinted heads, Ruddy Turnstones, and Bristle-thighed Curlews gave out alert calls as we rode past flocks of them on the roads. We even came across a few Laysan Ducks which were introduced to Midway from Laysan and seem to be flourishing here. It’s too early for Albatross, but in a few months the landscape will become overrun with thousands of Laysan, Black-footed, and if their lucky a few Short-tailed Albatross. The only albatrosses we’ve seen are the Short-tailed decoys on the hill and many plastic-filled carcasses of chicks that never made it the fledging.

We finished the day with a swim in the lagoon, which was slightly cooler than Oahu but all the more refreshing. The water is so green in the inner lagoon that the puffy clouds overhead turn turquoise in the reflection. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it’s only day one. Can’t believe this is going to be my life for the next 6 months.

Arrived in Honolulu



Hawaiian Archipelago. Main Hawaiian Islands on the right with a chain of
atolls extending to the northwest from Kauai, Tern Is roughly midway from
Midway in French Frigate Shoals.

After a rather painful two hour delay at LAX, and a relatively brief five hour flight halfway across the Pacific, I now sit on standby at the Fish & Wildlife Service bunkhouse (recently changed to the more friendly sounding ‘guest house’) in Honolulu on the Hawaiian Island of Oahu. I share the house with the refuge manager of Tern Island (my soon to be home), fellow Tern Island volunteer, and four other volunteers that will be working on Laysan Island, another atoll further down the Northwest Hawaiian Island chain. We’re essentially going to be marooned on Tern for six months, with no visitation from any boats during our stay (aside from a possible visit from the US Coast Guard). To prepare for our adventure, we’ve been sorting out how much of what kinds of food six people require for 180 days with no fresh provisions; a daunting task to say the least. On top of this is our limited budget, forcing us to omit luxury items like bacon, lunch meat, and candy for essential items like canned chicken, butter, and a whole lot of flour. So far we’ve spent around 2,500 dollars with a remaining 1,500 to spare. Not much when you think about the price of food these days, especially on a remote island. This will be a huge difference from the food we received on the Farallones; where we would spend roughly 1,500 dollars every two weeks on fresh, tasty, healthy food. Eating at Tern will be all about protein and survival rather than splurging on quinoa and pecan pie.

 The past few days have are filled with packing food, drinking coffee, and getting in a morning and evening surf at Waikiki when I can. The water here is so amazingly warm and beautiful, if it wasn’t for the sheen of coconut sunscreen from all the tourists (literally it burns your eyes) this place truly would be paradise. Thanks to a hurricane off Mexico and the south swell it’s throwing at the islands, Waikiki has been producing clean chest to head high long rides; and thanks to Illana ( a former Farallon volunteer who lives in Honolulu) generously offering me her surfboard, I can enjoy these waves until my flight to Midway in a couple weeks. This morning’s surf was particularly scenic, with white lofty tropic birds buoyantly cruising overhead, green sea turtles raising their heads for a breath, and a golden sunrise beaming through a morning shower on the jagged volcanic cliffs of the interior. I won’t be allowed to surf on Tern, so I’m trying to fit in as much board time as I can, while still helping with all the necessary work of packing.

Shipping containers containing our food.

As the Season Progresses

Through the partially opened windows of a blind I watch a misty morning fog whip across a colony of murres at Sea Lion Cove (SLC). Clutched to the ground and huddled tight, feathers ruffled in the cool salty breeze, several hundred Common Murres sit and incubate their mint green speckled eggs. Unable to leave these eggs unattended, they endure the persistent abuse of harsh spring winds and the occasional plastering of chalky pink uric acid (bird shit) from their neighbors above. Although some colonies on the island have already begun hatching chicks, the SLC birds have several weeks ahead before incubation ends and the duties of chick rearing begin.



Fringing the clustered patches of murres are Brandt’s Cormorants atop large nest bowls of woven dry Farallon Weed and algae. The early efforts of displaying males have paid off, as they now have switched gears and share the role of incubating a clutch of up to five eggs with their mates. Like the murres, it is early yet for the arrival of chicks, with some late males still flashing their brilliant blue gular pouches and setting up nests by stealing material from adjacent birds.

Western Gulls are reaching a new level of aggression as their chicks begin to emerge. The sheer volume and frequency of their combined screams render it virtually impossible for rational thought, as if our IQ immediately drops substantially upon exiting the relative peaceful calm of the house. Simply calling them loud would be a grouse understatement. Coupled with the acoustic trauma of their calls are the physical attacks. One most always wear a helmet when walking about the island now, for the solid yellow beaks and dive bomb swoops will surely draw blood to the unprotected cranium.  A few days back while attaching a temporary band to the tarsus of a freshly hatched gull chick, I was continuously swooped by the angry parent overhead; my helmet nearly knocked away by the force of the birds impacts. This will become a common occurrence as the season progresses and more chicks break free of their calcite encasements.

The Gannet is Back

Every so often if you’re observant enough life will present you with lessons to learn from. For example it is important when working in the field or traveling around interesting locations to always have ones camera ready for the unexpected. I have been observant enough in my experiences to recognize this lesson; however I seem to have failed to learn from it.  A few days back, during my routine evening Common Murre resighting at North Landing, I missed a unique opportunity to photograph a very lost and likely confused seabird. After spending just over an hour staring through a scope at murres incubating their eggs, a decided to take a break and do some initial tripod setup for photographing the stars later that night. My goal was to get the islets of Fisherman’s Bay and the North Star Polaris in frame and leave the camera out for 2 hours while shooting continuous 30 second exposures, to capture the rings of star trails around the northern point of the sky. As I was framing the shot and working out the best focus, Western Gulls which are now setting on eggs of their own, began giving out warning calls. They persistently scream at us whenever we walk down the paths and give out a high pitched repetitive shriek when they’re threatened, so I looked up expecting of seeing a Peregrine Falcon pursuing a helpless victim. Instead a saw a large white bird with black wing tips and a pale yellow head hovering above me. It took me a few seconds of disbelief before whispering to myself…”the Gannet!”. There it was, a Northern Gannet, a bird that should be hunting fish off the Eastern Seaboard, was holding stationary in the wind a few meters above my head. I happened to have my camera in hand, pointed it up at the bird, pressed the shutter release, heard the click of the shutter, pressed review to check the exposure, and read the following words “ERROR NO MEMORY CARD” on the LCD screen. Here was my one chance to photograph this highly unusual once in a lifetime sighting of a misplaced bird on the Farallones, and I had no memory to record it. Blast. This has happened to me on many occasions, American Oystercatchers in Baja, Yellow Nosed Albatross in Australia, Little Penguins in New Zealand, so I wasn’t surprised to be greeted with the error message again. I ran back to the house to grab a card, yelling ‘NORTHERN GANNET IS BACK’ to Ryan and Emma as I passed them by, but by time a had made it back to North Landing the bird was nowhere to be seen. Oh well, at least I still had enough memory space in my brain to see it again, and this time close enough to look it straight in the eye.

 Fortunately my plan to photograph the stars moving around Polaris (well the earth spinning in such a way that the stars appear to move around Polaris from our perspective) was a success. The photo is looking across Fisherman’s Bay at the most scenic cluster of islets and SE Farallon, from left to right: Aulon Islet, Arch Rock, Chocolate Chip, and Sugar Loaf.

Aside from unobstructed views of the night sky, this has actuallybeen an interesting month for celestial events. We witnessed a partial annular eclipse on May 20^th just before sunset. I had been watching the fog moving in and out throughout the day, and I was worried it would block our chances of seeing the eclipse, but actually it worked as a natural filter and made it easier to view. I set up a tripod and my long lens with a piece of welder’s glass tapped to the objective end to photograph the transit, and grabbed another welder’s helmet for others to look through. I was working out the exposure levels when I noticed a slight round sliver encroaching the bottom left corner of the Sun,  “It’s Happening!” I yelled as I ran for the others. We thought it wasn’t going to happen for another hour, so everyone was spread out on the island finishing up their daily tasks. Eventually everyone was alerted and we gathered to watch the entire event, beers in hands and smiles on faces. An annular eclipse is when the Moon is too far away from Earth to completely block out the Sun, instead leaving a thin ring of fire around the Moon during the climax. Our location on the Farallones was just outside the alignment for seeing a complete ring, but the crescent Sun was still impressive. On June 5^th an equally impressive and rarer celestial event will take place where Venus, the second planet from our star, will pass between Earth and the Sun. With the appropriate filters, or a pinhole camera, you can watch the tiny dot of Venus track across the surface of the Sun. This only happens twice in a lifetime. The first of our lifetime was 8 years ago, with the transit in June being the last; it won’t happen again for another 243 years, so it’s worth the effort to see.

Preface: It's Late, I'm Tired

Welcome to the mad house ladies and gentleman; the breeding season has officially begun. Eggs, eggs and, hey look over there, more eggs. Western Gulls are now for the most part aggressively defending full clutches of three eggs, Common Murres are popping out their single beautifully painted green egg, Brandt’s Cormorants have constructed fair built nests with some containing the first of five eggs, and Cassin’s Auklets are hatching their first chicks of potentially two broods. All of these eggs equate to many hours of sitting in wooden boxes staring through scopes; following the incubation, rearing, and fledging of all breeding species for the next two months. Luckily we get a fresh shipment of coffee beans every two weeks.

Last night was a double header, diet sampling for Cassin’s Auklets and mist netting for storm-petrels. Shortly after writing the daily journal and finishing the superb chocolate java chip brownies Emma prepared for use, we downed a healthy serving of coffee and under the cover of darkness made our way to North Landing. The team and I spread out in an area retiled with Cassin’s burrows and waited for the mates coming in for their nightly change over. Birds with chicks are now flying in with crops full of krill, and our mission was to intercept ten birds to collect this bounty of crop krill. Catching them proved difficult for me anyway, but luckily one flew right into my chest and landed in my arms. Unfortunately it refused to regurgitate any krill. This data is part of a long term look at the diet of Cassin’s Auklets, and has shown interesting trends in foraging bouts by parents when the krill is plentiful (which it appears to be this year), and when it’s scarce. Aside from the impact of a hefty incoming Rhino Auklet to the cranium, the sampling went well.

Shorty after wiping the euphausiids from our coat sleeves, we trekked up Lighthouse Hill and sit up a thinly threaded net designed to catch small birds (known as a mist net) in an attempt to snag some very interesting seabirds called storm-petrels. More than half of the world’s population of Ashy Storm-petrels breeds on the Farallon Islands. They are some of the smallest true seabirds, about the size of a barn swallow, and yet are closely related and share a similar life history to albatrosses, the largest group of birds that roam the open seas. Storm-petrels are crevice nesters, returning each night to relieve the mate from incubation and rearing duties. Ashy’s lay a single egg in a protracted breeding season that generally extends from May to October. We managed to capture, weigh, measure, and band 130 birds in a 3 hour period from 11PM to 2AM; mostly consisting of Ashy’s with a handful of Least and Dark-rumped Storm Petrels. Information gleaned from this long term banding data set has shown that Ashy’s can live to be at least 30 years of age, likely longer. Storm-petrels are fascinating birds that we know relatively little about…possible graduate work?

One for the Record Books

Much has changed on the island since I left for shore leave two weeks ago. The vegetation has matured and is beginning to brown, and more seabirds are occupying their respective nesting habitats. Brandt’s Cormorants are constructing feeble nest bowls with Farallon Weed, stealing their neighbors nest material at every chance. Males are now laying claim to their sites and have begun to advertise to prospecting females. Wings pitched outwards and shaking, neck cocked back, they display their rich blue gular pouches in hopes of enticing a mate.

Pigeon Guillemots are also increasing in numbers. Their high-pitched whistling calls audible over the chorus of screaming Western Gulls, growling Common Murres, and groaning pinnipeds. Pigeon Guillemots are crevice nesters, and can be found almost anywhere there’s a crevice on the island now. Their red mouths and white wing patches add another layer of contrast to the busy landscape.

Western Gulls are ramping up the volume of their alert calls, as a growing number of their nests now contain clutches of one to two brown speckled eggs (a few have maxed out with three). Soon we’ll have to dawn hard hats whenever leaving the protection of the PRBO House, to shield our skulls from the sharp pecks and heavy blows of gull beaks and breast bones.

Many of the shorebirds have flown the coop for their breeding season. Whimbrels, Black Turnstones, and Wandering Tattlers have decreased significantly in numbers. The most dramatic drop has been that of the Eared Grebe, from hundreds when I left to the teens now. Surf Scoters have become few and far between, and the Pacific Loons are finishing up their northern movements through the area.

Cassin’s Auklets are doing extremely well this year, almost all of the 402 nest boxes are occupied with mated pairs incubating eggs. They began breeding a few weeks earlier than average this season, with the first fluffy black puff-ball chicks found several days ago. Soon we’ll be up to the top of our “Extra Toughs” in Cassin’s chicks. As for the other Alcids, Rhinoceros Auklets and Tufted Puffins are settling in for the breeding season. A small number of the rhino boxes contain birds with eggs; we won’t see their chicks for another month or so. Common Murres are also popping out eggs, but much of the 500,000 plus birds still have a few weeks to go.

Normal breeding birds aside, we had one spectacular rarity visit the island that trumps all other rare bird sightings. Woke up the other morning, ate a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats garnished with strawberries, drained a voluminous amount of fluid from my nasal cavities, and headed out the front door for the morning sea watch. For sea watch, I set up a tripod and scope just outside the PRBO house, and stare at the ocean for five minutes noting any non-breeding birds that happen to fly by. This typically consists of Sooty Shearwaters, the occasional Black-footed Albatross, or Pacific Loons. This day, however, was exceptionally unique; during sea watch a Northern Gannet, a bird which only lives in the North Atlantic, flew through my field of view! The bright white bird with thick black primaries and cream colored head, similar to the Australasian Gannets I had seen in Australia, immediately caught my eye. Simply amazing. The team had sighted this bird last week during my shore leave, and I was hoping there was a chance it would still be around when I got back. Apparently a Northern Gannet was sighted last summer in the Bering Sea, possibly using the Northwest Passage as a route through the arctic when the polar ice cap melted. Who knows, given shifting climatic conditions Northern Gannets may be an increasingly common sight in the North Pacific in decades to come. Either way it’s a first for the Farallones and a first for me, so I’m stoked. 

The Murre Blind

I sit at my desk in the murre blind with an open window view of Point Reyes 17 miles beyond Fisherman’s Bay, listening to some tunes and noting the unique color band combinations of tens of thousands of murres chattering away and shuffling on the slope below. The wind has entirely died overnight; the sea is like a lightly rippled blue tarp, with gentle lines from the northwest lapping the weathered white guano covered granite of Sugar Loaf Islet. Fringing the murre colony, Pigeon Guillemots display their vibrant red mouths as they whistle a soft high pitched call; while regal Western Gulls stand in pairs on the cliffs around the blind window, ready to defend their patch of Farallon Weed from any foreign invader or challenger. Prospecting Tufted Puffins, the clowns among the breeding seabirds here, circle at eye level just meters from my window; their rock star head gear fluttering in the wind. Two resident Gray Whales break the calm of Fisherman’s Bay with their powerful exhalations, surfacing for a few quick breaths as they feed on Mysiids and other pelagic invertebrates. In the distance, spouts from a different kind jettison from the blowholes of the largest mammal ever known to breath – the Blue Whale – weighing over 100 tons. The goliaths are early this year, along with at least 40 Humpback Whales that scatter the horizon in all directions. I pause the MP3 device to hear the low growl of Steller (or is it Steller’s?) Sea Lions basking in the morning sun at Arch Rock, accompanied by the strange squealing vocalizations of Northern Elephant Seal weaners and the familiar dog-like bark of California Sea Lions. This chaotic symphony of pinnipeds emanates directly upwind of my perch, my nose full of the pungent odor of molting marine mammals in the light breeze. 

As seen in losfarallones.blogspot.com

The Calm After the Storm

Through the office window I can see rays from the rising sun illuminating Maintop peak on West End, big puffy golden clouds drift past in a light breeze. The roar of hefty 10-12 foot swells still linger from a big blow we experienced several days ago, with winds that peaked around 35 knots and waves triple overhead that nearly broke over Saddle Rock and completely swamped Middle Farallon 3 miles to the north. North Farallon, further up the archipelago, took on the image of a comet streaming across the Pacific, with a tail of mist and spray stretching downwind for miles. It was a dramatic event that postponed the scheduled patrol run indented to drop off a few new volunteers and fresh provisions – but an air of calm has settled over SEFI and it looks like a good day for a landing. There have been three of us on the island for just under a week now. Dinners have been quiet and journal entrees brief. We’ve spent a few late nights watching certain cinematic gems such as “Pirate Radio” and “Ghost Busters”, but most nights have ended early.

Spotted the first Tufted Puffin of the season while resighting murre bands up at the Murre Blind yesterday. The chunky black bird with bold broad orange beak buzzed by the cliffs of Lighthouse Hill in several circling flights before heading back out to sea (the were a lot of B's in that sentence); just checking out the scene and probably waiting until more puffins show up before it finally settles in. The Rhinoceros Auklets are also preparing to invade their cliff crevices around the island, we’re seeing a slight increase in Rhino Auklet peregrine kills about, which means there must be an increase in live ones about as well. Even the whales appear to be arriving for their feeding season off the island; I spotted another Blue Whale from the lighthouse yesterday just 2 miles east of Shubrick Point– the second confirmed sighting of the season.  

Good news, four fresh packs of Oreos are due to arrive on the delayed patrol run…the perfect midday snack.

Soiled Trousers

Pants have received its first layer of white and green bird crap, the smell of uric acid emanates from my hands; field work has officially begun. Attendance of birds in the wooden artificial burrow boxes strategically placed around the island is on the rise. Yesterday while enduring steady rain and blistering 30 knot winds, we discovered five new Cassin’s Auklets incubating freshly laid eggs during a scheduled burrow check. Taxonomically Cassin’s Auklets are in the Alcid family, closely related to puffins, murres, murrelets, and guillemots; and unlike other groups diving birds, use their wings to essentially fly through the water reaching incredible depths  (200+ feet) in pursuit of pelagic invertebrates and fish. 

Cassin’s Auklets are among the first seabirds to breed on the Farallones, with the male and female sharing the duty of incubating an egg and rearing a chick. Arriving under the protection of darkness, each parent will return to its burrow most nights to relieve the other from the nest; with a bill load of seafood during the rearing period once the chick has hatched.  Their unique calls can be heard in the late hours of night, so it’s been fun to see them up close and in hand (aside from the scatted carcasses we’ve been finding, bits and pieces from Peregrine and Burrowing Owl kills). 

Common Murres have also been loafing in vast numbers along the jagged hilltops that dominate the landscape, reclaiming their small patch of turf and strengthening pair bounds in preparation for their breeding season.  A few days ago we began resighting banded murres in a colony on the northeast side of the island from a blind atop a cliff facing Shubrick Point, using steady binoculars and a good deal of patience. Looking down from the blind, the stark contrasting plumage of the murres forms a fluid like motion of black and white, enough to induce motion sickness for those with weak stomachs. I occasionally had to look away for several minutes to let my mind manage the optical abuse.

The highlight of the day, more so than measuring the Cassin’s, was a spelunking expedition led by Pete (the PRBO biologist) and accompanied by Cat and Jonathan from the USFWS, Ilana with PRBO, and myself into Rabbit Cave, a deep crevice in Lighthouse Hill. A certain narrow passage into the main chamber required crawly through mud on hand and knees… and it was awesome. We visited a site where the embalmed remains of an Aleut woman were discovered many decades back. She was removed by a team of geologists I believe, rumor has it her ghost now roams about the island (no sightings as of yet).  Pete also pointed out some old graffiti that read “Stewart 1906” on a wall in the terminal chamber.  Supposedly the endemic Farallon cricket can also be spotted in Rabbit Cave ‘although we found little evidence of it’ (which is a mild reference to “The Life Aquatic” if you caught that). 

In other news fog has returned to the Central Coast, at least for the next day or so. A new system should bring us more rain with a high probability of strong northwesterly winds in the coming week.  Surf’s up.

Wind Blown and Marooned Once Again

Greetings from the islands of Farallon. I’m currently sitting at a desk in the PRBO (Point Reyes Bird Observatory) house on Southeast Farallon Island. The window behind the computer screen in front of me provides a view of Little Lighthouse Hill and Maintop Peak on West End. The weathered granite rocks, draped in the lush green leaves and small yellow flowers of a plant in the sunflower family called Farallon Weed, are littered with the contrasting bright white dots of Western Gulls evenly dispersed throughout the landscape. The males are establishing nest boundaries, and are beginning to battle over land rights. Common Murres in the tens of thousands, dressed in black and white tuxedos, huddle together in dense aggregations along the upper slopes of Maintop and the surrounding peaks. Occasionally a Peregrine Falcon swoops down from one of these high perches to investigate a Pigeon Guillemot drifting at sea; a sea which is currently plagued with sharp windblown white caps, tipping a plume of spray over an eight foot swell rolling in from the northwest. 

We arrived at the East Landing on SEFI on March 17^th, after a three hour crossing from below the main span of the Golden Gate Bridge, on a twenty something foot long retired lobster boat named Sari Ann.  Thus far the weather has been warm (warm being a relative term) with dense high stratus clouds. Today is the first completely clear day, although the temperatures are down due to the strong northwesterly blowing. My first few days have been everything I’ve come to expect from a remote field camp and its crew of volunteers; common living spaces, water rationing, the stress of cooking for large groups of fussy eaters, the awkwardness of meeting new people, and the excitement of experiencing something new.  Along with a few unexpected luxuries, such as a warm shower, reliable phone and internet, and a bed to sleep in. 

 Still early for breeding seabirds, however we have discovered an Ashy Storm Petrel in the walls of the carpentry shop (Carp Shop), and a Cassin’s Auklet with an egg in one of the artificial burrows; so most of the days have consisted of shorebird counts, Burrowing Owl roost checks, song bird sighting, and Elephant Seal re-sighting. There are a few terraces on SEFI where Elephant Seals hull out and pup. This time of year the bulls have finished their breeding, with a few still lounging around in the sun; the females have already weaned their pups and are back out at sea foraging in the depths beyond. Most hanging around are the weaned pups (termed weaners), adult females (termed cows), and immatures which haul out this time of year to molt. We go around and note the position and number of colored tags on their hind flippers; pink being from this site, with varies colors from San Miguel, Ano Nuevo, and other islands and beaches along the California Coast.

I’m hoping the weather stays clear tonight, with the new moon and lack of clouds overhead, there could potentially be good conditions for stargazing atop Lighthouse Hill. It’s been clear enough to see all the way to Bodega Head (40+ miles away) with amazing views of the Golden Gate and the city. I’m sure the clear conditions won’t last, so I should go out and enjoy them.

First I must check on the chicken enchiladas in the oven, people are beginning to linger in the kitchen. 

Photos: PRBO House with West End in the background from midway up Lighthouse Hill. East Landing. Bull Northern Elephant Seal with female in foreground. Venus above Jupiter setting over West End from atop Lighthouse Hill, white streaks are Western Gulls illuminated by the SEFI light.