Pepper Trail | Natural History | The Cry of the Marbled Murrelet

It is dawn in the redwoods. The trees loom out of sight into the fog, their height constrained only by the limits of imagination. It could not be more silent. Suddenly, a sharp cry rings out far above, echoing its way down to the bottom of the canyon of trunks. Another call, then another. You will never see the bird that makes that cry as it dashes at breakneck speed through the steepled canopy. The cry, but not the bird, was known well to the early loggers as they pushed their way into the immense forests of the Pacific Northwest coast. They called the unknown bird the “fog lark.” It would be over a century before true identity of the fog lark was known: it is the Marbled Murrelet.

The Marbled Murrelet leads a paradoxical life. This tiny auk, no larger than a stout and stub-tailed robin, spends most of its life riding the Pacific swells and diving for sand lance and other small fish. But when spring sends all other seabirds to nest on rocky islands or remote sea cliffs, the murrelet turns its back on the ocean and flies deep into the ancient forest. There, high in a redwood or Douglas-fir, the female lays a single egg on the mossy surface of a great horizontal limb. If all goes well, in 8-10 weeks the young murrelet will launch itself off that limb and commit itself to an astonishing maiden flight, covering the 10, 20, or even 40 miles between its nest tree and the sea that it has never seen. Only those who reach the ocean on this first flight will survive: a fledgling murrelet grounded among the towering trees cannot regain the air.

So unexpected was this nesting behavior, and so cryptic are murrelet nests, that the first tree nest in North America was not discovered until 1974. Since then, despite exhaustive searches, less than 100 nests have been found in Oregon and California. All these nests have been located in old-growth forests, from 1-50 miles inland from the coast (usually 25 miles or less).

Because murrelets do not make nest structures, but depend on the surfaces of large horizontal limbs, they require very large trees. Most murrelet nest trees in Oregon are over 6 feet in diameter and occur in stands more than 500 years old. This is over twice the average age of stands used by that more famous old-growth dependent bird, the Northern Spotted Owl. The murrelet thus requires the very largest trees in the most productive coastal forests, in a range that stretches from Santa Cruz County, California, north along the coast into Alaska. Within this large area, surviving populations are fragmented by the destruction of ancient coastal forests.
Many of these forests were cut long ago, in the Northwest's first logging boom in the late 19th and early 20th century. Most of the rest have been logged since, so that less than 5% of the murrelets' original range in California, Oregon, and Washington still contains habitat suitable for the species.

		THE CRY OF THE MARBLED MURRELET It is dawn in the redwoods. The trees loom out of sight into the fog, their height constrained only by the limits of imagination. It could not be more silent. Suddenly, a sharp cry rings out far above, echoing its way down to the bottom of the canyon of trunks. Another call, then another. You will never see the bird that makes that cry as it dashes at breakneck speed through the steepled canopy. The cry, but not the bird, was known well to the early loggers as they pushed their way into the immense forests of the Pacific Northwest coast. They called the unknown bird the “fog lark.” It would be over a century before true identity of the fog lark was known: it is the Marbled Murrelet. The Marbled Murrelet leads a paradoxical life. This tiny auk, no larger than a stout and stub-tailed robin, spends most of its life riding the Pacific swells and diving for sand lance and other small fish. But when spring sends all other seabirds to nest on rocky islands or remote sea cliffs, the murrelet turns its back on the ocean and flies deep into the ancient forest. There, high in a redwood or Douglas-fir, the female lays a single egg on the mossy surface of a great horizontal limb. If all goes well, in 8-10 weeks the young murrelet will launch itself off that limb and commit itself to an astonishing maiden flight, covering the 10, 20, or even 40 miles between its nest tree and the sea that it has never seen. Only those who reach the ocean on this first flight will survive: a fledgling murrelet grounded among the towering trees cannot regain the air. So unexpected was this nesting behavior, and so cryptic are murrelet nests, that the first tree nest in North America was not discovered until 1974. Since then, despite exhaustive searches, less than 100 nests have been found in Oregon and California. All these nests have been located in old-growth forests, from 1-50 miles inland from the coast (usually 25 miles or less). Because murrelets do not make nest structures, but depend on the surfaces of large horizontal limbs, they require very large trees. Most murrelet nest trees in Oregon are over 6 feet in diameter and occur in stands more than 500 years old. This is over twice the average age of stands used by that more famous old-growth dependent bird, the Northern Spotted Owl. The murrelet thus requires the very largest trees in the most productive coastal forests, in a range that stretches from Santa Cruz County, California, north along the coast into Alaska. Within this large area, surviving populations are fragmented by the destruction of ancient coastal forests. Many of these forests were cut long ago, in the Northwest's first logging boom in the late 19th and early 20th century. Most of the rest have been logged since, so that less than 5% of the murrelets' original range in California, Oregon, and Washington still contains habitat suitable for the species.