Peanuts In My Pocket

On a recent vacation in Hawaii, I was fortunate enough to see an ʻalae ʻula (pronounced roughly ah‑lah‑eh oo‑lah). The name means “burnt” or “red forehead.” This squat little bird is the Hawaiian subspecies of the Common Gallinule. I’d been looking for it for six months and was surprised to finally find one in a small pond at a nature preserve while doing touristy stuff, of all things.

Birders know the Common Gallinule (Gallinula galeata) as a species found across the Americas. The Hawaiian population, however, is a distinct and endangered subspecies: Gallinula galeata sandvicensis (formerly Gallinula chloropus sandvicensis). While eBird gave me credit for spotting a Common Gallinule, it didn’t register the subspecies. That’s just how the system works.

Still, seeing the ʻalae ʻula felt like a privilege. Found only in Hawaiian wetlands, this bird holds a special place in native Hawaiian culture, where it’s associated with the legend of bringing fire to humans. Back home in California, it looks a lot like an American Coot and often goes unnoticed by most people.

Every time I visited a marsh this year, I looked for a gallinule but never saw one. In the Los Angeles and Orange County area where I live, reports of individual birds are fairly frequent. Still, actually finding one proved much harder than I imagined. I spotted plenty of other species, but never this one. Until yesterday.

Whittier Narrows turned out to be the exception. I saw at least ten.

It started with a distant bird paddling away from me toward a patch of reeds. I fired off a few photos of what was essentially a duck butt. I couldn’t see its face, but something about it seemed different. I had a hunch. Maybe this was my bird. It disappeared straight into the reeds.

About half a mile later, I spotted four birds feeding near a fishing jetty. I stopped, started shooting, and slowly worked my way closer. One of the photos was good enough for a solid ID. I was already thinking about how I’d tell my wife the story when I got home.

Then something unexpected happened.

As I continued my walk, I came across a group of Mallards lounging along the pond’s edge. They didn’t move when I approached. These were pond ducks, used to people and likely hoping for a snack. As I looked down, I saw a red face staring back up at me from less than two feet away.

A Common Gallinule, the same bird I had spent months trying to find, was standing there, practically begging. I didn’t feed it, but I did take its picture. I had a pocket full of peanuts, but those were for crows and squirrels.

I snapped a photo with my iPhone and sent it to my wife.

This is why I love birding. It wraps up solitude, nature, discovery, joy, and incremental improvement into something that keeps me motivated, even when frustrated. I never did spot or hear the Cedar Waxwings I was also hoping for. That’s another bird I’ve been chasing for months.

There’s always tomorrow.