Eye of the Cormorant

another odd bird who chases fish.

Tag: bird-watching

  • Birding Camargue

    Camargue is the floodplain delta of the Rhône, situated between the city of Arles, where we are staying, and the Mediterranean Sea. The terrain is flat and marshy, checkered with rice fields, brackish pools, small canals, salt ponds, and tidal estuaries. On the advice of my cousin Judy, we rented a car to visit Camargue.

    DAY 1

    Our first afternoon with wheels we headed down the west side of Camargue to the Parc Ornithologique.

    Enroute, we picked up a sweet young couple who were hitch-hiking, and drove them a bit beyond our turn-off to a better spot where they could find their next ride.

    The Parc Ornithologique is much like Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge on Assateague Island, Virginia, but better in important ways. Impoundments are well-maintained and are teaming with water birds. The maze of trails is for walking only. Observation benches and blinds are situated close to the birds.

    Greater Flamingos are everywhere.

    The multilingual signage is informative, even for an old pro like me. For instance, banding results show the flamingoes roam the Mediterranean, but particular individuals return to this park year after year.

    I learned that Cetti’s Warbler is one of the few polygynous passerines. My bird book told me that Cetti’s Warbler sings from concealed spots, moving quickly from spot-to-spot. My Merlin phone app played me the song. Ah ha!

    I had been hearing the beautiful liquid song of Cetti’s Warblers everywhere and getting only the odd peak at its sources (nondescript brown-backed jobs with a faint white eye-line) hiding in the dense vegetation. Cetti’s Warbler, and the handsome European Dipper I encountered while trout fishing, were my new birds for the trip.

    In contrast to the solid orange-pink of the American Flamingos, the Greater Flamingos are pinkish white, with their crimson wing coverts and axillaries visible mainly in flight.

    Photo by Gray Read

    Hearing whinnies from across the thick reed beds, we finally saw the sources. As on Assateague Island, wild horses roam the marshy terrain of Camargue, accompanied by faithful Cattle Egrets, which sometimes rode on their backs.

    Nutria, introduced from South America, don’t seem to be doing so much damage to embankments as they did in the southeastern US.

    Park staff told us we could remain after the park closed for the evening, letting ourselves out via the revolving gate. It’s been very dry of late – we saw just one mosquito and one no-see-um – so we stayed until dusk, watching the day birds put themselves away for the night.

    As night herons emerged against a pink and purpling sky, we enjoyed a picnic supper of Brillat-Savarin cheese and guacamole on gluten-free toast accompanied by fresh plums and figs. Pas mal.

    DAY 2

    Having parked the car overnight near our apartment in Arles for half a Euro, we spent the next morning exploring the east side of Camargue.

    We drove into the Reserve Nationale Camargue where sea salt has been evaporated and harvested from salt ponds at least since Roman times. Now it’s done with big machines instead of slaves.

    Sel de Camargue is found in all the local salt shakers. It’s good on fried potatoes and would go well with rice, if you could find rice.

    White dots in front of the salt mesa are flamingoes.

    We finally made it to the Mediterranean, where gleeful children splashed in the warm water and sweaty young Frenchmen enjoyed the manly art of hitting each other in the face.

    And Gray did what Gray does.

    For the birders among you, my bird list follows …

    18 Sep 2026, Parc Ornithologique &
    19 Sep 2026, Reserve Nationale Camargue

    • Great Crested Grebe
    • Great Cormorant 
    • Greater Flamingo
    • Great Grey Heron
    • Great Egret
    • Little Egret
    • Cattle Egret
    • Night Heron
    • Glossy Ibis
    • Mute Swan
    • Black Swan (1)
    • Common Shelduck
    • Mallard
    • Teal
    • Shoveler
    • European Coot
    • Moorhen
    • Western Swamphen
    • Yellow-footed Gull
    • European Herring Gull
    • Black-headed Gull
    • Caspian Tern
    • Sandwich Tern
    • Common Tern
    • Dunlin
    • Green Sandpiper
    • Greenshank
    • Redshank
    • Black-tailed Godwit
    • Avocet
    • Black-winged Stilt
    • Ringed Plover
    • European Kestrel
    • Sparrowhawk 
    • Marsh Harrier
    • Osprey 
    • Common Buzzard 
    • Kingfisher
    • Collared Dove
    • Rock Dove 
    • Barn Swallow
    • Sand Martin
    • Cetti’s Warbler
    • House Sparrow
    • Blue Tit
  • Taxi Tides

    Taxi Tides

    “Time and tide wait for no man.”

    A trip by paddle craft to the coastal marshes and flats can be a breeze or a slog depending on wind and tides. It took me one arduous kayak trip to Rabbit Key and another escaping the Snake Bight flat to become a tide chart addict.

    The wind. Paddling home against a stiff headwind is somewhere between exhausting and impossible. Returning from Sandfly Pass in the Ten Thousand Islands I was stopped in my tracks by a squall that forced me to get out of the boat in the rocky shallows and wade back to the launch, pulling the kayak behind me. My favorite hat blew off and disappeared in the distance.

    Tides are the same, but more predictable. Get the tides right and you get a free ride. Get them wrong, and you fight a river, ferry-crossing back and forth to seek eddies and weaker currents.

    My purchase of a motorized skiff made it possible to move against the elements, to cover long distances, and sometimes to dodge a localized thunderstorm. Very efficient, but I missed the quiet and stealth of the pedal kayak. And the exercise. It’s the difference between a car and a bike: the motor craft is useful, the pedal craft enjoyable.

    When I itch to be on the water, I open the marine weather forecast and the tide chart phone apps, looking for happy windows of winds and tides. Living on a peninsula provides choices. My choice of location and craft is based on the forecasts. If conditions are unfavorable on the east coast, nearby Biscayne Bay or the Keys, how about Flamingo on the southern tip of the peninsula? No? Then check the west coast out of Chokoloskee / Everglades City. If all three look threatening, I may opt for the interior mangrove creeks or central Everglades marshes. If it looks horrible everywhere, I stay home and tie flies while imagining the next outing.

    A TAXI TIDE

    I normally I take the skiff into Snake Bight in Everglades National Park to escape against the incoming tide, but the tide chart for Tuesday showed the rare, magical tide cycle that’s perfect for kayak exploration. One can ride the incoming tide into Snake Bight before sunrise, fish and bird well into the morning, then ride the outgoing tide back out again.

    Snake Bight’s tides are one hour delayed from the Flamingo tide chart shown here.

    I wake at 3:30 am and check the weather report. The wind looks to remain low through the morning. Rain looks iffy – it’s supposed to rain solid until 6 am, then let up until afternoon. Hopefully the algorithm running on the National Weather Service computer gets it right today.

    Scary-hard rain pounds my drive south to the bottom of the peninsula, then stops to let me set up and launch the kayak in the dark. I can see the odd lightning flash to the south. Gradually the clouds break up and I have a lovely morning waiting for me on the water with 50 minutes to sunrise. 

    The half moon is still blocked by clouds and it is DARK. I turn on the pole-mounted kayak light. Its #1 job is to keep me from being run over by powered craft, but as a bonus, it casts a bit of soft light in all directions. Sitting above and behind me, the light doesn’t shine in my eyes. It does, however, shine in the eyes of the crocodiles.

    American Crocodile perched on the marina wall. Amazing what the iPhone’s camera can do with the faintest of light sources.
    Here’s the same croc in motion.

    Several more crocs take umbrage at my passage and splash off in a huff.

    In time, the clouds melt away, allowing the half moon to illuminate the mangrove shoreline.

    A Spotted Sandpiper perches on a fallen log, bobbing up and down. The end of the log has eyes and large teeth. Eek!

    The sun glows as I round the corner into the Snake Bight flat. The north edge of the flat has a thin line of shocking pink. Though I’m looking for fish, Roseate Spoonbills always steal the show.

    Some spoonbills fly over my kayak enroute to their favorite roost of snags by a mangrove creek.

    I spot another kayaker approaching the cove where the spoonbills are roosting. He pulls out a camera with a giant lens, then paddles in too close, spooking some of the spoonbills. If that’s not bad enough, he starts paddling in even closer – too much.

    If I can use an iPhone to get this photo without spooking the spoonbills, a kayaker with a giant lens doesn’t need to crawl down their throats.

    First rule of not spooking birds is to act like you are interested in something else. Definitely do not aim your kayak directly at them.
    I call out: “That’s close enough!” He stops, turns around, and leaves. Good thing too. In half an hour, a carefully guided kayak tour comes by specifically to see the spoonbills.

    * * *

    FISHING REPORT (stop here if fishing bores you)

    Last weekend I tied a mangrove crab fly using whatever I had lying around, with a notion to try for redfish feeding in the mangrove roots along the edge of Snake Bight. It came out pretty well.

    Never mind the fish – I think it’s adorable.

    I try it out. Crabby casts fine and stays upright while it sinks, but the legs entangle too much sea grass detritus.  I’ll try it again in the Ten Thousand Islands where there’s less sea grass.

    Instead, the winning fly today is my weedless tie of the classic chartreuse-over-white Clouser Deep Minnow.

    It catches seven snook 18-22”.

    20″ male snook with Clouser fly.

    Snook in this size range are all males, turning into females when they get bigger, around 26-28”. I wonder if our Florida State legislators know that many of our prize game fish are transexual, “protandrous”, to be exact.

    Somewhere else out there lurk the female snook. Research by FIU professor Jenn Rehage indicates that most of the females are still up-river, fattening up on sunfish and cichlids for the breeding season. This rainy spell should get them moving downriver again.

    I have caught countless redfish on spinning gear but exactly zero on fly. I tied this sparkly fly in the hopes of temping a bite. Don Quixote jousts at yet another windmill.

    Snook are great but I am still hoping to catch at least one redfish today. I swap out the Clouser for a sparkly redfish attractor pattern. Instead of a redfish, it catches my biggest snook of the morning (23″) plus a pretty little sea trout.

    Lunch is leftover tamales from Moreno’s Tortilla Shop, re-heated in the sun. Gentle rain resumes on the drive home, kindly washing the saltwater drips from kayak and car. Fine morning all around.