Shoreline Park, Oakland, March 16, 2013

Traveling through downtown Oakland a few months ago with my friend John Kirkmire, it was a bright, sunny Saturday, and we were on our way to do some birding. However, despite the pleasant weather and the upcoming chance to see some birds, I was apprehensive.

It was our destination that troubled me; we were on our way to Shoreline Park. This is a tiny park set in deepest industrial Oakland, in the Middle Harbor, set between the giant cranes of the Port of Oakland and the eastern terminus of the Bay Bridge (little more than a mile away).

From the map, you could see that the park was a narrow strip of green, with perhaps a mile of shoreline. I had never been there, since it’s not the kind of place I would choose for a scenic drive, much less birding. The location seemed antithetical to nature study of any kind. But I had been told by several friends, including John, that despite its location, this little crescent of shoreline harbored many birds, including ducks, shorebirds, grebes, gulls and even songbirds.

So when John offered to drive me down to the park, I wondered about it. However, as an East Bay birding personage (I’m not sure I’ve reached the level of authority yet, or for that matter, who gives out these designations), I figured I needed to know about every local birding location, including this one. So I stowed my apprehensions, drove down to his place near Lake Merritt, put on my most nonchalant air, and said “Let’s go!”

As we passed through an increasingly bleak industrial landscape, past Adeline, past 880, to Middle Harbor Road, my anxiety continued.  It was one block after another of anonymous gray buildings: large industrial/factory sites, chain-link fences, warehouses, vacant parking lots and railroad tracks. Forbiddingly inhuman. Occasionally, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the giant cranes in the distance.

After a short time driving, however, it suddenly became green to our left, and I could see the blue of the Oakland harbor beyond the park. We had reached Shoreline, and it looked fairly attractive after all, very pretty indeed. Not many trees, not very big, it was mostly green lawns sloping down to a crescent-shaped shoreline that stretched a mile or so to the south.

Beyond the parking lots and green lawns, you could see the tide was very low, which exposed hundreds of yards of mudflats. Best of all, both the mudflats and water were teeming with birds. Even before I took out my binocs for a better look, the tiny silhouettes looked reassuringly like shorebirds, ducks and grebes, among others.

Stepping out of the car, the giant cranes, the closest a quarter-mile away, were not too obtrusive. You only noticed them out of the corner of your eye, if you focused on the water. Straight ahead, across the bay, you could see San Francisco. You would never know it contained almost a million lives within its spiky blue-gray skyline – souls, people — all were invisible at this distance.

On our right, the Bay Bridge stood very close to us, a little more than a mile away. You could feel its power and its gravity very strongly. Looking up from our vantage point, from the water’s edge, it was hundreds of feet above us. It soared up several hundred feet into the sky, and you almost had to brace your feet to resist its pull. It was near-galactic in its mass, a black hole, the urban equivalent of the Grand Canyon.

But along the shoreline ahead of us, on the brown mud and in the blue water, birds of all kinds floated, foraged, swam and flew. Gulls, probably Western, flew in concentric patterns over us, searching for prey, their loud insistent calls echoing all along the shore.

Combined with the sun, the water, the pungent salt air, the expansive views and great sense of space, the sharp screams of the gulls, in great piercing waves, add their part to the excitement of the marine world. And thus was it today also; amidst all this stimulus our spirits could not help but rise.

I went into action: standing on the promenade that circled the park, I was in a good position to see a great deal of the waters spread out below us. Turning  90-degrees or so from right to left and back again, I saw, in quick succession, Ruddies, Canvasback, Western or Clark’s grebes, female scaup and Widgeon and an occasional cormorant. They were in small groups or individuals, almost randomly spread out over the water, possibly 50-60 birds total.

After 20 minutes here, we drove back to a lot within the park, and walked down toward the water. We passed one or two Black phoebes, large groups of Brewer’s blackbirds among the trees and bushes, noisy crows flying overhead – not to mention pigeons, of course — and blood-red House finches singing their hearts out. One lonely Tree swallow swooped and swerved in graceful arabesques, but separated from his mates.

Walking cautiously over the still-wet sandbars and mudflats, shorebirds appeared everywhere. Avocets, already pretty in their peach headgear, swept the water with their stiletto bills; Killdeer crept delicately over the sand, pausing now and then to listen. Black-belly plover, equally dainty, denuded of their dark bellies for another few weeks, plied the muddy beach. I spied some Semi-palmated plover off to our right, and I called out to John to make sure he saw them. These tiny plover appear to be “baby killdeer,” but they are a separate species. They were probably a first for him. So small they were, as they descended into the muddy banks of a tidal rivulet, that they disappeared, only to reappear later.

Sweeping my glasses over the acres of mudflats and along the shallow shoreline, I could also see godwits, willets and dunlin in small groups. Even several Long-billed curlews probing the muddy sand with their scythe-like bills, searching for unlucky worms and crustaceans.  All in all, this was a nice mix of birds.

Coots were scattered over the flats too, black and round, white bills, flat feet, plodding over the mud. Their shape seemed to suit their fate, a life of constant slow, tentative movement in shallow water or over sodden sand. Thus perhaps their blasé, relaxed demeanor — much more so than the excitable shorebirds. However, their way of life seems to suit them well; we hear of no massive Coot declines! Regardless of where you are, they are never in short supply.

Now and then Canada geese flew in noisy chevrons down the length of the park, honking and squawking, always big and powerful. I noticed an occasional Snowy egret along the shoreline, dainty and elegant, studying the water’s edge with the greatest interest, probing occasionally. Even running after its prey, if necessary.

We eventually returned to the car, and made for the far end of the park, a hundred yards south, to see what birds it held for us. John assured me it held many.

Arriving there, I saw that it consisted of a promontory several hundred yards long that jutted out into the bay, containing mostly scrubby vegetation, but with a few trees and a small marsh to one side. Even from the car you could see blackbirds in great flocks– Red-wings – swirling everywhere, and typically noisy as they are when they congregate in great numbers.

Several other features made it even more notable: a striking, dark 40-foot observation tower that dominated the area, which had stairs you could climb to take in the whole of the harbor. It had a modernistic-Asian influence to its design, like a giant steel Samurai tower, and very striking. Climbing the stairs we did, and savored the view, pointing out San Francisco and the bridge, a massive tanker passing by, several small sailing ships dotting the bay, and even a tiny kayaker headed over to Alameda. I also realized that the landmass directly across from us, to our left, separated only by a narrow channel, was Alameda Point, the western-most part of the island.

Close by was the third part of the visual triumvirate: equally impressive, but in a sinister way. It was the Hanjin Shipping Terminal, with its giant dark crane dominating the sky in back of us.  I kept my eyes, most of the time, straight ahead, pointed west, out to the bay, but it was hard to ignore. The 15-story body of the crane, including the legs, made of cyclopean steel-girders, gave it a post-apocalyptic air. I imagined it as part of a scene from a future War of the Worlds, still to be written, with the outcome in doubt. However, today, it was certainly other-worldly, tall, dark and ugly, but quiet, and not terribly threatening. I tried to ignore it as much as possible.

We headed out over the scrubby parkland to see what birds it contained. As we went out, great numbers of Red-wings flew up in great flocks of magenta-accented males, all making a strident racket as they flew, and they finally settled into a small marsh to our right. There they perched on the high green stalks of cat-tails and John shot them to his heart’s content, at close range, getting a number of good photos.

As we walked further, Meadowlarks also flew up in small groups, their white tail feathers showing for a few minutes, and then ducked down into the scrubby growth again. I heard a raspy familiar song, and thought it was  similar to a Song sparrow, and it was – a Savannah. They were singing, but somewhat secretive about it, and not very close. As a result, we never had very good looks of these little sparrows. However, once you see that dash of yellow near the eyes, you know you have them. The season, the place, the song — the behavior — all said “Savannah!” A small bird but a memorable one, perhaps indeed for its scarcity. White-crowns occasionally jumped up to sing their distinctive song from a bush here and there as we walked the paths also. As we walked, A Black Phoebe here and there graced us with its cheery — if not overly inventive — song, and fluttered out again to trap an unwary insect.

We continued our walk to the end of the point, and from several spots on the trail we looked over the Middle Harbor, viewing again the great variety of egrets, ducks, shorebirds, cormorants – even a Kingfisher at one point –but now infinitesimal in size due to the great distance.

All in all, it was an impressive sight, this great encyclopedia of visual impressions, seen all at once and together. The blue bay waters, the green crescent of the park sweeping gracefully a mile or so to the north, the blue-gray skyline of the city, and the great bridge directly ahead, dominating the northern horizon. I remembered to pause and marvel again, birds or no birds.

We walked back to the car, in the parking lot to the rear of the great tower. We were headed out for a late breakfast, to relax, count our “bag” for the morning. To discuss birds, impressions, and future possibilities. John showed me some of his many photos, some very good. Counting later, it appeared we saw about 34 species that morning in several hours — some in large numbers.

Not bad for, as I put it, deepest and darkest Oakland. Not bad at all, in the midst of a great modern port. The cranes we saw were not the ones I usually prefer – I like the Sandhill kind, flying through the delta skies in great waves, calling out to one another. I love to see their gray antediluvian forms dancing in the marshes, or standing majestically in the fields and wetlands.

But despite urban landscapes and blighted skies, it appears, as it often does, that many birds are not as impressed as we are by their occasionally steely, massive and unesthetic surroundings. That is, if they have a little piece of nature, at least moderately pure, embedded somewhere within it. Witness Shoreline Park, in deepest Oakland.