Finding the Piratic Flycatcher: A Lesson in Discretion

By Schyler Brown, Houston Audubon Conservation Specialist

“Ethical behavior is doing the right thing when no one else is watching – even when doing the wrong thing is legal.”

– Aldo Leopold

I will not pretend for a second that I knew what the bird was. In fact, upon spotting it on our way out of the park on that windy, birdless Sunday, I stopped my wife Catherine to show her a rocket shaped bird with an olive grey back and black and white head perched calmly on an exposed branch of Mulberry and said “Catherine, it’s a Kiskadee!” The Great Kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus), while unusual in the Houston area, isn’t terribly rare. In fact, when reporting the Kiskadee on eBird (a bird counting/recording app) one isn’t required to verify their observation as they would some other rare birds. While hastily increasing my own count in eBird for the Great Kiskadee, Catherine replied “…no it isn’t.”

Catherine and I were all too familiar with the Great Kiskadee. We’d seen tens of hundreds of them on our honeymoon to the rainforests of Costa Rica just that October. We would watch the highly active and charismatic bird chase off other species of birds, after it woke us up like clockwork at 5:00 am each morning to its classic “kis – ka – dee” call (the call for which it was named after). So when the dissenting opinion came, I was forced to reassess my hasty exclamation.

Once we both had our binoculars pointed at the bird, I realized immediately that Catherine was right – this was no Great Kiskadee. For starters, its behavior was the exact opposite of the Kiskadee, as this mystery bird sat calmly and quietly while we took note of its every feature. This bird was also smaller than the Kiskadee, and had olive-grey plumage rather than rufous on its wings and rectrices (tail feathers). I retracted my Kiskadee from eBird, and in its place, marked Tyrant Flycatcher.

There are moments we experience that simultaneously speed up and slow down time. Where the sequence of events become difficult to recall, but when musing on, the feeling burns through our core in incredible detail; a first kiss, landing a large bass, a confrontation, an achievement. A cocktail of cortisol and adrenaline that might dizzy the earth beneath our feet as we become drunk on a moment so unusual in our daily lives.

While I had only been seriously birding for about 7 years, most birding experiences did not give me the excitement that they did when my professors at North Texas took me under their wing. However, I only needed to feel the trembling of my hands and weakness in my legs to know that this was one of those unusual moments.

While I was frantically trying to reach my fellow employees at Houston Audubon for help with an ID, my wife was already investigating the rare birds found in the back of field guides. She quickly and confidently decided it had to be either a Piratic Flycatcher (Legatus leucophaius), or a Variegated Flycatcher (Empidonomus varius). As if on cue, a co-worker suggested Variegated Flycatcher as well. As my wife and I were driving home to make some lunch, one of our biologists (and a world class birder) Wyatt Egelhoff, confirmed what my wife suspected – the bird in question was indeed a Piratic Flycatcher.

For those who are unfamiliar with how rare birds from faraway lands end up in the States, usually they are blown in due to a storm. I won’t go into detail about the flycatcher and its biology, that is not the purpose of this story. Anyone can get on any number of websites, or dig through many beautifully illustrated field guides to learn about the Piratic Flycatcher in more accurate detail than I can provide here. The point of this story is to relay a bittersweet conservation story about rare birds.

After we arrived home, I opened eBird to add my Piratic Flycatcher. I hesitated. Sylvan Rodriguez was my favorite place in the Houston area, and the coastal prairie restoration work done there was a rare and delicate gem easily disrupted by foot traffic and aggressive Chinese Tallow Tree (Triadica sebifera). A greater feeling of excitement overcame me as I decided my moment of fame was more important. I reported the bird, knowing full well that it would get attention, but I left a message on eBird begging for the careful consideration of the wildflowers, and respect to the bird.

 A team of co-workers went to look for the Flycatcher. Upon their arrival, they found other birders already scouting for the bird. Knowing my distress regarding the potential disruption to the park, my friends re-assured me that the birders present were few in number, and responsible in nature. A wave of relief flooded over me.

About an hour later, I began receiving text messages from phone numbers I didn’t recognize requesting details about the bird. My unease began to pick up again, particularly when one of the text messages said “Great find! You’ve made hundreds of people very happy!” My stomach twisted into knots as I realized my mistake. I frantically checked eBird to see how many people had reported the Flycatcher, in a desperate attempt to gauge the damage done to the park. Lots of reports.

Photos began appearing on bird related social media pages of people in big crowds with tripods breaching the vegetation line. The wildflowers and native grasses that previously grew along the trail were flattened or pulverized. My heart broke. A shot of guilt in my spine began to spread throughout my body.

I watched the hard work conducted by HPARD and Harris County as they tirelessly planted native plants, pulled aggressive invasive plants, and burned the prairie. After witnessing over a year of hard work, Eastern Meadowlarks (Sturnella magna), Loggerhead Shrikes (Lanius ludovicianus), and American Kestrels (Falco sparverius) began to appear, alongside an increasingly biodiverse composition of native wildlife (including a herd of reproductively successful White-tailed Deer).

I understand fully the excitement of seeing a new bird, and certainly birders have contributed to a much greater understanding of birds and their environments. However as a conservation biologist first and foremost, the dreadful feeling of causing harm to such a special place rested deep, as though I had been caught stealing some precious thing that belonged to no one and everyone. And precious this prairie remnant is.

Less than 1% of the coastal prairie remains. It is one of the most fragmented and endangered ecosystems on the planet, and the animals that rely on its ephemeral flooding and insect laden grasses are disappearing as quickly. No birder alone is responsible for the loss of the Coastal Prairie. In fact, no group of birders is responsible for this loss. Habitat loss is the result of human overconsumption – large scale agriculture and unnecessary suburban developments sprawling in unregulated reckless blithe. So why the upset? Many birders and photographers have been known to cause damage to biologically sensitive areas under restoration. Furthermore, this bird has probably experienced so much stress from the attention that it has garnered, that it may not survive. There is a colloquialism conservation biologists know well – a rare bird is a dead bird.

My takeaway message here is– be respectful to the planet that gives so much, and asks so little. For me, being discrete about finding a rare plant or animal will forever be paramount to my conservation ethic. Birding is a lot of fun, and many of the people who went looking for that bird are close friends who contribute significantly to conservation through volunteer efforts, donations, and even through birding itself. They meant no harm, but human nature drives us to make decisions we know can cause damage. We are making a difference as more and more people around the world connect with the planet on some level – lets keep making a positive impact, but in a respectful manner.

Sunday, April 28^th, 2024. 10:00am.