Gray and nondescript, the American dipper nonetheless delights birdwatchers with its nonstop antics.
September 19, 2014 American Dipper
I would wager that most folks have heard of the Big Dipper, the famous constellation. Shoot, even astro know-nothings like me can point it out in the night-time sky.
I also believe people know about the Little Dipper, although it can be harder to pick out here in not-so-dark suburbia. (Hint: Find the Big Dipper, and draw an imaginary line through the two stars that form the outer edge of the “bowl.” Extend the line toward the bright spot that’s not too far away, and you’ll have found Polaris, the North Star. This Pole Star also forms the tip of the handle of the Little Dipper.)
Oddly enough though, today we’re not talking about stars. And the dipper in question, well, it’s not even in the sky. Nor is it in a bucket, an ice cream carton or a punch bowl.
Nope, this one happens to be a living, breathing organism. Indigenous to the American West, it makes its home in mountainous areas along clean, rushing steams.
It’s the American dipper, Cinclus mexicanus. Besides being my favorite bird—that is, of species found west of the Mississippi—it’s also a species I was lucky enough to observe, up close and personal, during a recent trip to Glacier National Park in Montana.
Watching the bird display its characteristic behaviors, I was reminded of the time I saw my first dipper. Although unremarkable at the start, it quickly turned into an encounter I’ll never forget.
We were on our way from Seattle to Trout Lake, WA, driving along a winding gravel road in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. A fast-flowing creek had caught my eye, and since it was time for a snack break anyway, we pulled over and parked. As I munched on a Snickers bar, I eagerly
anticipated some stream exploration–turning over rocks in the streambed to see what sort of benthic macroinvertebrates , or bottom-dwelling insects—I was certain laid beneath.
BMIs are a great way to quickly gauge the relative health of a stream. In general, the more diversity of life you find, the healthier the ecosystem. (It’s a fun hobby, for Nature Nerds. But I digress.)
As I crouched alongside the water, trying to figure out how I could accomplish my objective without slipping, tripping, or otherwise becoming benthic myself, I noticed a blur of gray darting here and there just upstream from my perch. I grabbed my binoculars and trained them on the dark shape, and quickly realized it was, my goodness, a bird.
But not just any bird. This creature was possibly the most nondescript critter I had ever seen: Gray feathers from head to toe. Charcoal bill. Lightish colored legs—well, as near as I could tell. The bird was standing in water, making it hard to see much of anything below its belly.
Stocky, with head and neck that sort of blended together, and a short tail that pointed up, like a wren’s, it had me wondering if I was looking at an unfortunate individual who owed its odd proportions to an accident, or maybe a fight. Worse, maybe it was some sort of mutant, and maybe the stream that looked so pure was actually raging with pollutants.
Weird eco-worries aside, this was one fascinating animal. It was constantly in motion–rocking, bobbing…dipping! I soon became mesmerized by the bird’s continual movements among the rocks of the streambank.
I shifted around to get a better view, dunking my foot in the process. (Golly that water was cold!) As I looked at my soaked shoe and sock, it occurred to me that the curious little bird still appeared completely dry, even though it submerged its head with nearly every bob and dip.
Then, just when I thought that my birdwatching experience could not get any more incredible, the bird walked into the water—the ice-cold, fast-rushing mountain stream—and disappeared.
What the…?
After what seemed like forever, but in reality was probably no more than 10 seconds, the bird reappeared, walked out of the water, bobbed and dipped a little more, then disappeared again into the current.
I must have watched this amazing performance another three or four times before the bird rounded a bend in the creek and was gone.
What I later learned—and what I suppose has me to this day feeling a certain kinship with this species—is that American dippers spend each and every one of their days poking under rocks in streams in search of BMIs—those benthic macroinvertebrates that I had on my mind that day. Though for completely different reasons, the American dipper and I were seeking the exact same things.
One of us, though, is much better suited than the other.
An amazing set of adaptations, including dense outer feathers and an oversized preen gland, keep the American dipper dry and insulated from the cold mountain waters—not just in summer, but year-round, as the species does not migrate. Nictitating membranes, or “third eyelids” enable the dipper to see underwater. And nose “flaps” in the nostrils keep water out and help prevent the bird from drowning in even the swiftest of currents.
If you’d like to see an American dipper for yourself, head west and find a clear-running stream in a mountainous area. I’ve had good luck in the Rockies and Cascades, but there are other options too, as the bird’s range extends north into Canada and south to Mexico.
Situate yourself alongside the water and start watching for a small, dark form that moves in a rapid, almost jerking fashion. Take your time, as sometimes the bird can be hard to spot.
Alternatively, you can do what I did a couple of weeks ago. Insert yourself on a walk in a national park—like Glacier—alongside expert birders Bob and Kathy Andrini and a nice young woman named Ranger Monica.
Like Dubhe and Merak, the two stars at the outer edge of the Big Dipper, and Polaris, the North Star, these three pointed the way, and in no time at all we were enjoying another fine performance by that icon of western streams, the American Dipper.
Pam Erickson Otto is the manager of nature programs and interpretive services at the Hickory Knolls Discovery Center, a facility of the St. Charles Park District. She can be reached at 630-513-4346 or potto@stcparks.org.