I was largely alone at the Green Cay Wetland. The word was out that the Cay was quiet — from a wildlife point of view — so very few of the visitors were photographers. There was one little man with a camera who I recognized from an earlier visit to Wakodahatchee, but he wasn’t the friendliest person in the world, so I kept my distance.
Something had caught his eye, but I sure couldn’t figure out what it was. Curious, I paused to lean against the railing and scan the area. That’s when I saw a great egret off to my right. I quietly walked over in its direction and it took absolutely no notice of me whatsoever. That’s the magic of both Wakodahatchee and Green Cay — humans are just part of the background.
I was far too close to get a whole-body shot of this particular beast. At about three feet tall when standing fully erect, the great egret (Ardea alba) is the largest of the generally white birds that we know as egrets. Only slightly smaller than the great blue heron, the great egret is close to the top of the food chain in the wetland ecosystems that it inhabits, but this is a strange position for an animal to be in.
An adult alligator could easily eat a great egret, but a great egret can easily consume a newly hatched alligator. Basically, either species will eat anything that it can catch and swallow, with the only real difference being that the alligator is able to eat larger prey. Although the egret focuses most of its attention on aquatic creatures like fish, frogs and even snakes, the bird will eat all sorts of things, as I would later see for myself.
So this particular egret was just a few feet away from the edge of the boardwalk and it was clearly in hunting mode. In what I thought was a friendly gesture toward a fellow photographer, I called over to the grumpy little man and asked him if he needed an egret for the day. His response was a surprisingly terse, “No!” So much for the fraternity of photographers. He was probably a Canon guy, anyway.
I turned my attention back to the egret. What it was staring at so intently, I could not fathom — a problem I seemed to be having with more than one species that day — but then the bird’s head suddenly snapped forward. When the bird pulled its head up from the water, I saw that it had captured a fish.
I was instantly transfixed by the beauty of the little fish, but when I blinked and broke the spell I noticed that it had been impaled by the heron’s lower beak.
Anhingas are known for spearing their prey with their sharp, tapered beaks, but I always associated egrets with grasping attacks, as one might attack a dumpling with a pair of chopsticks. I suppose when you consider the speed of the egret’s jab, combined with the fact that the intended prey might move, an occasional spearing is to be expected.
What really fascinated me was the delicate care with which the egret went about freeing the fish. This was perfect for me, because it meant that the bird stayed still and held the little fish up at an angle that allowed me to get a fantastic view of its markings. Ever so slowly, using a combination of head shakes and forward pushes with its “tongue,” the bird moved the fish down to the end of its beak. Then, with an expert flip of its head, the egret dislodged the fish while tossing it upwards where it could be caught and swiftly swallowed.
The grumpy little man had taken notice of my success, and as I reviewed my photos, I couldn’t help but utter a few quiet words of elation. This seemed to make the grumpy little man a little grumpier, but I didn’t feel too bad. I had offered to share, after all.
Fast forward to the next day of my trip and switch venues to the Wakodahatchee Wetlands.
I was visiting in the afternoon, rather than earlier in the day, because I had spent the morning writing my column. After a relaxing lunch, I coaxed my beautiful wife Susan to join me on a photo trip and we walked out onto the boardwalk in the bright light of day.
As I mentioned last week, I was particularly keen on finding birds with chicks, but to my great dismay I couldn’t seem to find any. Then, as if guided by the loving hands of Nikonus and Iso themselves, I happened upon that one patch of vegetation where chicks were active. In front of me was a pair of purple swamphens, but I’ll save their story for another day. Off to my left, I caught sight of a pair of common gallinules with several chicks in tow. Their chicks were very young and they all had the odd red heads that are characteristic of the rail family.
Mission accomplished.
On our way out of the wetland, we passed the nest of a black-necked stilt — still another species for a later column — and I stopped to take a few photos in the afternoon light. While talking with Susan, I happened to look over her shoulder and catch sight of a great egret making an excited leap and then a quick dash toward me. Apparently, the bird had just captured something and it didn’t want to share its prize.
The egret was quite far off, so it wasn’t until I brought my big lens into play that I was mildly horrified to see that the egret had captured a gallinule chick, which was still very much alive. I heard no squawking by outraged parents, nor did I see any adult launch an attack on the egret. The parents of the chick, if they were even aware of the events, were probably trying to get any remaining offspring out of harm’s way.
The egret struggled to swallow its prey, partly because the chick was still trying to get free, but there was no chance of escape at this point. After a firm bite to the head, the chick went limp, and after a couple of attempts, the egret was finally able to swallow its meal whole.
The life of a predator is defined by the fact that it eats other animals. When a bird eats a fish, it makes little impact on us, but when an adorable baby bird is on the menu, there is a tendency for us to become judgmental. The thing to remember is that the egret was just doing what egrets do. Seen from a scientific distance, it was an impressive display of one of the ecosystem’s top predators in action, and I consider myself lucky to have seen it.
Bill Danielson has worked as a naturalist for 16 years. In that time, he has been a national park ranger, a wildlife biologist and a field researcher. He currently works as a high school chemistry and biology teacher. To contact Bill, or to learn more about his writing, visit: www.speakingofnature.com.