Category: photography

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 13, 2026 • 8:15 am

Abby Thompson, a UC Davis mathematician, is back with more photos (and a video!) from the intertidal of northern California. Abby’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge her photos by clicking on them.

Jellyfish!

I thought I’d throw some jellyfish into the lull between the great winter tides and the great summer ones.

The reproductive cycles of the tidepool creatures are wildly varied, with behaviors ranging from maternal (see Epiactis prolifera from my last post), chancy (see mussels), through incessant (see nudibranchs).   But for sheer baroque complication, I vote for the jellyfish.    Many who stroll on a beach will see the quivering gelatinous masses of jellyfish stranded by the tide, and the less fortunate will have encountered their stinging tentacles while in the water.  This describes, a little, how they get there.

There are several jellyfish species common on the Northern California beaches; here are some of them:

Aurelia labiata (Greater Moon Jelly):

Chrysaora fuscescens (Pacific sea nettle):

Chrysaora colorata (purple-striped sea nettle) These are big, about a foot across:

Another Chrysaora colorata (handsome creatures):

Genus Aequorea (crystal jelly):

Polyorchis haplus:

Scrippsia pacifica (giant bell jelly):

The Chrysaoras and Aurelia labiata are in the class Scyphozoa; the rest are in the class Hydrozoa.

For all of these, males and females get together in the same vicinity, and release eggs and sperm (see “chancy” above), which form little “planulae”.    Then things get complicated.     Because (usually) the planulae settle down and attach themselves to something, and become polyps.  Like these tiny things:

Genus Sarsia:

Hydrocoryne bodegensis:

But how do they get from here (e.g. something like Sarsia) to there (e.g. something like Polyorchis haplus)?   Well they don’t, always, and sometimes they don’t get from there to here, either, but here’s an illustration of the process when it goes through a “typical” complete cycle:

And in fact if you look closely at that photo of H. bodegensis, you can see a little medusa just budding off, circled in the photo below:

Here’s a video of a set of newly-formed “baby jellyfish” (they look excited) which swam into my microscope view.    I didn’t know what I was seeing, so don’t have a photo of the polyp from which they likely emerged.   This means I have no idea of the genus (or even the class- if these are Scyphozoa then these are really ephyrae which will turn into medusae).

There seem to be many species for which the complete reproductive  process is not documented –  for example, if you search for the polyp stage of Polyorchis haplus, the answer is that we don’t know what it is, nor where it can be found.

 

A final oddity of this elaborate reproductive process is the existence of the so-called “immortal” jellyfish. (not found in the cold waters of Northern California).  If damaged at the medusa phase, this one can revert to its earlier (genetically identical) polyp phase- and so on ad infinitum, apparently.  As though, when things go wrong in your life, you could go back to your childhood and try again.

I’m grateful for help with IDs from experts on inaturalist and elsewhere.    All mistakes are mine.

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 12, 2026 • 8:15 am

And we have more photos. Today’s come from Jan Malik, documenting the birds of Barnegut Inlet in New Jersey. Jan’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

My previous batch from the Barnegat Inlet covered geese and ducks. It’s time for some of the other coastal birds now.

Immature Double-crested Cormorant (Nannopterum auritum). In contrast to diving ducks, these birds have no buoyancy problem and submerge easily.

Common Loon (Gavia immer). Judging by the slightly pinkish gape at the base of its bill and the fuzzy transition between black and white, this is an immature bird that stays on coastal bay waters before maturing and returning to quiet inland lakes to breed:

Another loon, this one with a mangled crustacean that I suspect is an Atlantic blue crab (Callinectes sapidus). I wonder if a diving loon preferentially picks a freshly molted crab the way we select ripe fruit:

Not a great loon picture, but we can see enough of the prey’s fins to identify the fish as an Oyster Toadfish (Opsanus tau), a species in which males provide parental care to eggs and young. The fish was big and bony, so the loon struggled a bit to swallow it. That fish would be a terrible choice for performing the Fish Slapping Dance. For the loon, it would be preferable to swallow its catch underwater, because at the surface it may be stolen by gulls, who know where a bird has dived and circle above waiting for it to reappear:

A couple of Savannah Sparrows were hopping on the rocks. I suspect that this pale bird with very little yellow in its brow is an Ipswich Sparrow, a subspecies (Passerculus sandwichensis princeps) that breeds on the sand spit of Sable Island off Nova Scotia:

Three species of shorebirds are common in winter at the Barnegat Inlet, all quite similar at first glance in size and plumage, but each occupying a different ecological niche. First, the Ruddy Turnstones (Arenaria interpres), here trying to sleep—probably using only one half of their brain to watch for predators, in unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. Their bills are short, stubby, and slightly upturned, adapted for—just as their name suggests—turning over beach debris to search for invertebrates hiding underneath:

Next, the Dunlins (Calidris alpina). They feed, roost, and migrate in large flocks. Unlike Turnstones, their bills are long, slender, and sensitive, used for probing tidal mudflats for worms and crustaceans:

Last, there are the Purple Sandpipers (Calidris maritima). Their bills are more “general purpose” than those of the other two species. Their covert feathers do show a purple sheen in the right light:

Purple Sandpipers and Dunlins are not very afraid of people on their wintering grounds; they may rest a few meters from a quiet observer. But the slightest hint of danger can trigger the whole flock to take flight in an instant—only to land nearby a moment later:

Purple Sandpipers are adapted to rocky coasts, where they feed on mussels exposed during low tides and on other invertebrates. The undersides of their feet must have a texture that allows them to walk sure‑footed on slime‑covered, slippery rocks:

 They have also evolved Silly Walks:

A distant Harbor Seal (Phoca vitulina), a frequent sight in the Inlet, always seems to look at the jetty with disappointment when it notices that this prime haul‑out spot is occupied by people:

As I was about to leave, the colors of the sunset behind a distant house caught my attention, so I took a picture, thinking little of it. Only back home—rather like the character in Antonioni’s Blowup—did I realize that the picture hides a predator the sleeping shorebirds must be on guard against. To be honest, I can’t be sure this was a flesh‑and‑blood predator and not one made of polystyrene, but the impression remains:

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 11, 2026 • 8:30 am

Hooray! Two more groups of photos came in this morning and so we’re good through Friday (I have one in reserve and can cobble together a few others).

The regulars are pulling their weight, and here we have an informative text-and-photo educational post by regular Athayde Tonhasca Júnior. The subject is one of his favorites: bee behavior. You can enlarge Athayde’s photos by clicking on them, and his text is indented.

Witty impostors

On its release in 1956, Invasion of the Body Snatchers did not impress the critics. A spiel about alien plant spores growing into sociopathic duplicates of human beings was considered too outlandish. While the intelligentsia trashed the film, the producers laughed all the way to the bank because it was a commercial hit: the public loved it. One of the reasons for the film’s success was its ‘aliens among us’ theme. The idea of ill-intentioned beings circulating freely and unsuspectedly in the mist of our society is disturbing and gripping – especially during the McCarthy era, when Americans were inspecting their closets for hidden communists. ‘Enemies within’ inspired and inspires countless tales about spies, infiltrated assassins, covert extra-terrestrials, psycho cyborgs and zombified humans.

Fig 1. Invasion of the Body Snatchers received numerous accolades and is today considered a science-fiction/horror classic © Allied Artists, Wikimedia Commons:

Despite what assorted internet sages tell us, tales of aliens’ secret forays into world domination are entertaining fibs. But the natural world provides many real body snatching thrills such as parasitic flies that zombify their victims or induce them to dig their own graves, or wasps that make their hosts work for them. These cases involve species we may already suspect to be mischievous. That some bumble bees could play similar tricks may surprise many.

Superficially, cuckoo bumble bees, Bombus species of the subgenus Psithyrus, look like any of their social (non-parasitic) relatives. But a close inspection of a female’s hind leg shows no pollen basket (corbicula), which is a shallow cavity surrounded by a fringe of long hairs, a structure used to store pollen to be carried away.

Fig 2. Hind legs of a vestal cuckoo bumble bee (B. vestalis) on left, and a buff-tailed bumble bee (B. terrestris) © Alvesgaspar, Wikimedia Commons. [JAC: the buff-tailed bee has a pollen basket.]

She has no corbiculae because she gathers no pollen; cuckoo bumble bees do not found their own nests nor produce a worker caste: there are only male and female reproductive forms. Instead, a female invades the nest of a social bumble bee, lays her own eggs, which are cared for by her unsuspecting hosts. Raising the young at another species’ expenses is known as brood parasitism, a behaviour displayed by some cuckoo birds (order Cuculiformes) – hence Psithyrus bees’ common name.

Fig 3. A  common reed warbler (Acrocephalus scirpaceus) feeding a European cuckoo (Cuculus canorus) who has dispatched rival offspring by pushing them out of the nest © Per Harald Olsen, Wikimedia Commons:

Cuckoo bumble bees go beyond brood parasitism; they don’t just lay their eggs in a host’s nest and leave them to themselves like cuckoo birds do. These bees take over the victim’s colony, a form of exploitation known as social parasitism. Among insects, this strategy is employed mostly by bees, wasps and ants – of which slave-making ants are notorious – but also by other taxa such as the large blue butterfly (Phengaris arion). Once inside the host’s nest, the female cuckoo and her young live off pollen and nectar pilfered from their hosts, so they are also kleptoparasites – animals that steal food or prey from another animal.

We should pause to appreciate the challenges a cuckoo bumble bee faces. First, she has to locate the nest of a suitable host. She must then get in through a narrow entrance protected by a mob armed with poisonous stings and sharp mandibles. Once these defences have been overwhelmed, she must be able to usurp the colony from the host queen, lay her own eggs and induce the host workers to feed her and her developing brood. A tall order for any brood, social and klepto- parasite.

Fig 4. Cuckoo bumble bees coveting this tree bumble bee (B. hypnorum) nest must pass its sentries © Orangeaurochs, Wikimedia Commons:

Finding a nest is reasonably straightforward: like most social insects, cuckoo bumble bees rely on chemical signals from cuticular hydrocarbons to recognise nestmates, co-specific competitors and potential hosts. But locating a nest is just the start. It must be of suitable size: if too big, the defenders are likely to overwhelm and kill the trespasser; if too small, there will not be enough workers to care for her larvae. As an example, there’s a 100% survival for vestal cuckoo bumble bees invading buff-tailed bumble bee nests with five workers; survival drops to nil for colonies with fifty workers (Sramkova & Ayasse, 2009). To avoid disaster, the female cuckoo bumble bee assesses the size of the host colony possibly by their chemical signals and workers’ traffic (Lhomme & Hines, 2018).

After picking an appropriate target, the female cuckoo bumble bee must confront the residents, who understandably are not obliging. But the nest defenders face a formidable enemy: a cuckoo bumble bee is sturdier and better armed than her social counterparts. She has larger and stronger mandibles, more powerful sting muscles, an enlarged venom gland, and her ventral underside, a particularly vulnerable spot, is protected by thicker exoskeleton plates (sternites) (Richards, 1928). So, some cuckoo species use brute force: they bite, push and sting their way in.

Fig 5. Armed for breaking and entering: the variable cuckoo bumble bee (B. variabilis), a critically endangered North American species © USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab:

But violence is not always necessary. Some species are let in because they mimic their host’s chemical signs. Others have no chemical signatures and display no aggressive behaviours; the host bees are not aware an enemy has sneaked in. The cuckoo will hide in a corner of the nest for a few days, long enough to acquire the scents of her host and blend in (Dronnet et al., 2005).

Once inside, our intruder has to deal with the queen, the only egg-laying member of the colony and thus the mother of all other bees, whose activities are controlled by their mum’s pheromones. Most cuckoo bumble bees don’t beat about the bush; they kill the queen and eat her eggs. Some species spare the deposed monarch, who loses control of her colony for reasons not completely understood: probably the usurper’s pheromones and physical aggression assure her dominance over the queen.

Fig 6. A brown-belted bumble bee queen (B. griseocollis) is strong, but no match for a cuckoo bumble bee © USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab:

After sorting out the queen problem, the cuckoo bumble bee is free to lay her own eggs and induce the host workers to feed her and her developing young, although how this is done is largely unknown. The resulting male and female cuckoo bees will leave the nest by late summer and look for mating partners. Like most other bees, the male dies soon after intercourse, while the female will search for a safe spot underground to overwinter, just like her hosts. She will emerge from her slumber late, giving sufficient time for her hosts to establish their nests. The female cuckoo bee spends some time hopping from flower to flower, sipping nectar while her ovaries mature, so that she will be ready to find and conquer a bumble bee nest.

Of the 250 or so Bombus species, roughly 30 have evolved into parasitism. We have a poor grasp of cuckoo species’ biology and ecology, partly because they fly about for a relatively short time and their numbers are naturally low, since they don’t have a worker caste. Thus they are difficult to find and study. But the lack of information comes largely from prejudice. Parasites in general are not viewed sympathetically, especially those that target ‘cute and lovable’ victims such as bumble bees. As a result, cuckoo bumble bees are often absent from local species lists and conservation plans. But that’s a misguided view. Parasites and predators are integral components of ecosystems, preventing over-dominance of some species in favour of rarer ones (Frainer et al., 2018). Cuckoo species should be admired and valued for their physiological, morphological and behavioural adaptations that allow them to overcome the defences of highly organised colonies. These bees of ill-repute are in fact evolutionary marvels.

Fig 7. A female red-tailed cuckoo bumble bee (B. rupestris), a widespread European species and a parasite of the equally abundant red-tailed bumble bee (B. lapidarius) © Ivar Leidus, Wikimedia Commons:

References

Dronnet, S. et al. 2005. Bumblebee inquilinism in Bombus (Fernaldaepsithyrus) sylvestris (Hymenoptera, Apidae): behavioural and chemical analyses of host-parasite interactions. Apidologie 36: 59–70.

Frainer, A. et al. 2018. Parasitism and the biodiversity-functioning relationship. Trends in Ecology and Evolution 33: 260–268.

Lhomme, P. & Hines, H. 2018. Ecology and evolution of cuckoo bumble bees. Annals of the Entomological Society of America 112: 122–140.

Richards, O.W. 1928. A revision of the European bees allied to Psithyrus quadricolor Lepeletier (Hymenoptera, Bombidae). Transactions of the Entomological Society of London 76: 345–365.

Sramkova, A. & Ayasse, M. 2009. Chemical ecology involved in invasion success of the cuckoo bumblebee Psithyrus vestalis and in survival of workers of its host Bombus terrestris. Chemoecology 19: 55–62.

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 10, 2026 • 8:15 am

We have no more batches in the tank, so if you have photos, send them along. Thanks.

Today’s final tranche comes from reader Ephraim Heller, which will be in two parts. Ephraim’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge his photos by clicking on them:

Q: Why do chickens (Gallus gallus domesticus) in Trinidad & Tobago cross the roads?

A: To eat the tarantulas.

During my recent visit to Trinidad and Tobago, a local birding guide explained that one of the reasons people commonly keep free-range chickens in their yards is to eat the tarantulas. This gave me a new respect for these domestic fowl, as I witnessed venomous tarantulas larger than my XXL-size hands, such as this female Trinidad chevron tarantula (Psalmopoeus cambridgei):

Trinidad harbors a diversity of arachnids that rivals anywhere in the Neotropics. On my night walks with my new macro lens I observed spiders (order Araneae) and harvestmen, also known as daddy long legs (order Opiliones). Both arachnids are eight-legged members of the class Arachnida, but they belong to entirely separate orders and are not closely related within that class.

Returning to the Trinidad Chevron tarantula: it constructs silken tube retreats in tree crevices, behind bark, and among epiphytic plants. It also readily adapts to human structures (e.g., tin roofs, metal pipes, and abandoned buildings) making it something of a synanthrope:

Females are large and fast-growing, reaching 18 cm (7 inches) in leg span, with striking chevron-shaped dark markings on the abdomen and green-brown coloration accented by red or orange flashes on the legs. Males are smaller, with a more uniform grey-brown appearance, and can mature in as little as one year. The species is notable for its broad diet: bats, frogs, lizards, grasshoppers, mice, and other insects have all been documented as prey.

Pharmacologically, the Trinidad chevron tarantula is of medical interest. Its venom is the source of psalmotoxin and vanillotoxin – inhibitor cystine knot (ICK) peptides that may have therapeutic applications in stroke treatment.

The pinktoe tarantula (Avicularia avicularia), is the most commonly encountered tarantula in Trinidad and Tobago. This arboreal species is named for the distinctive pink coloration on the tips of its legs in adults:

Adults reach about six inches in leg span. They are ambush predators that construct silken retreats and trip lines in tree canopies, using webbing as both trap and sensor. Unlike most tarantulas, pinktoes can jump short distances (3-4 cm), and their defensive repertoire includes propelling feces at threats, a behavior that, while unglamorous, is effective. Their venom is mild, even by New World tarantula standards. Here’s a closeup from the previous photo focused on the body:

The Giant Fishing Spider (Ancylometes bogotensis) is a semi-aquatic giant. Females reach roughly 26 mm in body length with an impressive leg span, while males are somewhat smaller at about 21 mm. These spiders walk on water using air-trapping hydrophobic hairs on their leg tips, much like water striders. When disturbed, they can dive below the surface and remain submerged for over 20 minutes by breathing air trapped in the hairs surrounding their book lungs. Their diet ranges from aquatic insects to small fish, frogs, lizards, and geckos:

Ancylometes bogotensis is sometimes confused with the infamous Brazilian wandering spider (genus Phoneutria, photo below): both are large, ground-active, nocturnal hunters with similar body plans. The name Phoneutria translates from Greek as “murderer,” and the genus has appeared in the Guinness World Records as containing the world’s most venomous spider. There are eight described species, found primarily in tropical South America with one extending into Central America.

Phoneutria species are best known for their potent neurotoxic venom, their characteristic threat display (raising the first two pairs of legs high to reveal banded leg patterns) and their wandering, non-web-building habits. They famously hide in banana bunches, boots, clothing, and dark shelters, which brings them into frequent contact with humans. Their venom contains a cocktail of neurotoxins, but fatalities are rare with modern medical treatment.

Though Ancylometes and Phoneutria were both historically placed in the family Ctenidae, Ancylometes was transferred to its own family (Ancylometidae) in 2025, reflecting the growing understanding that these semi-aquatic fishing spiders represent a distinct evolutionary lineage:

We now turn to a species of orb-weaver. The golden silk spider (Trichonephila clavipes) is one of the most conspicuous spiders in the Caribbean and Neotropical forests. Sexual dimorphism in this species is extreme: males are tiny (5-9 mm body length) and weigh roughly one-thousandth what a female does. Here is a female:

The silk itself is remarkable. It has a golden hue visible to the naked eye and is the strongest natural fiber known. Researchers have fully annotated the T. clavipes genome, identifying 28 unique silk protein genes. These spiders produce and utilize seven different types of silk. Their large, asymmetric orb webs can exceed a meter in diameter, and in the South Pacific, relatives of Trichonephila spin webs strong enough to be used as fishing nets by indigenous communities:

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 9, 2026 • 8:15 am

I have a few batches now, so I’m complacent (never happy!). Today’s photos of Costa Rica come from reader Rachel Sperling.  Her captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

In January I took my first (of many, I hope) trip to Costa Rica. We spent about a week in Manuel Antonio, on the Pacific Ocean side. We took a couple of nature walks in and around Manuel Antonio National Park, and we saw plenty of wildlife. One of these days I’m going to treat myself to a really good camera, but these were all taken with either my mirrorless Olympus or my iPhone camera, which are light and easy to stash in a backpack. I did see a couple of sloths – both three-toed (Bradypus variegatus) and Hoffman’s two-toed (Choloepus hoffmanni), but they were high up in the trees, so I wasn’t able to get a good photo of them.  These are the photos I was able to capture:

On the drive from San Jose to Manuel Antonio, we stopped at a creek to view some American crocodiles (Crocodylus acutus):

We saw a number of Central American Squirrel monkeys (Saimiri oerstedii), which were incredibly cute:

Then there were these little beasts: the Costa Rican mafia, aka the Panamanian/Central American White-faced capuchin (Cebus imitator). According to our guide, these monkeys can be pretty vicious with animals their own size, and they’ll just riffle through your backpack if you’re not watchful. Someone had to be on guard whenever we went to the beach.

We went on a nature walk in the rainforest at night (with a guide), which gave us the opportunity to see a lot of nocturnal animals. Among them was the Red-eyed tree frog (Agalychnis callidryas):

Masked tree frog/New Granada cross-banded tree frog (Smilisca phaeota) in Manuel Antonio National Park. I’m sorry I’m not better at identifying plants, to the disappointment of my botany-teacher father:

Black iguana (Ctenosaura similis), at the beach at Manuel Antonio:

We also saw a coati (Nasua narica), which Wikipedia tells me are diurnal, but it was definitely after sunset and that is definitely a coati. They’re relatives of the raccoon, and our guide told us that a mature one can hold its own against a jaguar. This one wasn’t afraid of us, anyhow:

Back at our b&b, this Black-hooded antshrike (Thamnophilus bridgesi) came to visit me as I read on the veranda a few times. I think it’s a female, though the sexual dimorphism of this species doesn’t seem terribly dramatic. I did see her building a nest:

On my last day in Costa Rica, I heard a tremendous ruckus in the trees outside my hotel in San Jose. I looked and discovered that the trees (American oil palms —Elaeis oleifera —I think) were full of Crimson-fronted parakeets (Psittacara finschi). They were LOUD and they were going to town on those trees. There were too many to count. Fortunately, they quieted down after sunset:

Manuel Antonio National Park from the water. These little islands are bird sanctuaries that tourists are not allowed to visit:

Sunset over the Pacific, near Manuel Antonio National Park:

Nauyaca Waterfalls, near Dominicalito, where we swam:

Finally, I thought you’d like these because they’re jaguar-inspired. We spent an afternoon at a village belonging to the Boruca, an indigenous tribe. They cooked us a delicious lunch, and showed us how they made dyes from local plants, and carved and painted balsa wood masks. The masks were first used to frighten the Conquistadores. Now you can buy them just about everywhere:

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 6, 2026 • 8:15 am

Reader Todd Martin sent some photos from the Yucatán (don’t miss the Ocellated Turkey!).  Todd’s captions are indented and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

WEIT Yucatán

Here are some photos from a trip in November to the Yucatán in Mexico. The original purpose of the trip was to see Mayan ruins, but the natural beauty of the area turned out to be equally remarkable.

The first few pictures were taken during a boat tour of the mangroves in the Ría Lagartos Biosphere Reserve along the northern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. The tour began at dawn and we were greeted by the rising sun and a welcoming committee of Monohelea maya, a species of predaceous midge discovered with some fanfare by scientists in 2000 (and with somewhat less fanfare on this very morning by myself):

The reserve is home to many species of birds, the most famous of which is the American flamingo (Phoenicopterus ruber), which can be observed trawling for brine-shrimp in the brackish water:

This is a Magnificent Frigatebird (Fregata magnificens). The male is easily recognized by the bright red throat pouch which looks like a life vest when inflated but actually serves to attract females. The females can be recognized by their frequent calls of ‘Well, if you’re so magnificent why can’t you take out the trash’:

The largest avian species we saw was this haughtily regal Brown pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis):

This is a Neotropic Cormorant (Nannopterum brasilianum) a diving bird sometimes used by the indigenous people of Bolivia and Peru to catch fish:

Hopefully this Wood Stork (Mycteria americana) has a good personality because it is (as my grandmother might have quipped) ‘not conventionally attractive’. It is, however, the only native stork in North America:

The Osprey (Pandion Haliaetus) is sometimes known as a fish hawk because fish make up the majority of its diet (not unlike Kevin Bacon or the singer Meatloaf):

Some birds are naturally elegant like this Great Egret (Ardea alba).In case you want to know how to avoid confusing it with a Snowy Egret … a Great Egret has a yellow bill and black feet, while the smaller Snowy Egret has a black bill and yellow feet:

Green Heron (Butorides virescens). Here’s a fun fact I cribbed from Wiki: “Green herons are one of the few species of bird known to use tools. In particular, they commonly use bread crusts, insects, or other items as bait. The bait is dropped onto the surface of a body of water to lure fish. When a fish takes the bait, the green heron then grabs and eats the fish”:

This American White Ibis (Eudocimus albus) was quite accustomed to people, which allowed me to get a pretty good close-up:

Morelet’s crocodile (Crocodylus moreletii). They look somewhat fearsome, but our one-armed tour boat operator said this one was ‘practically domesticated’”

Yucatan Jay (Cyanocorax yucatanicus) Jays are the noisy, argumentative neighbors of the animal kingdom. They are often described as ‘gregarious’ which I take to mean that they’ll take food from your plate without asking:

Those who frequented Glamour Shots in the 1980’s might confuse this photo with others of the genre, but it’s an Ocellated Turkey (Meleagris ocellata). The bird was the original inspiration for the marketing tag-line ‘taste the rainbow’. Unfortunately the bird is considered ‘Near Threatened’ by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) with numbers that are sadly on the decline:

Whoever named the Black Spiny-tailed Iguana (Ctenosaura similis) wasn’t particularly creative, but I’m inclined to give them a pass because … that spiny tail!:

Finally – we stopped by Florida before returning home and my wife couldn’t resist adopting one of those hairless sphynx cats from the local shelter (Alligator mississippiensis). We love him very much, though he does have the unusual habit of sleeping in his water dish:

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 5, 2026 • 8:15 am

Send in your good wildlife photos, as I’m out save for singletons and doubletons.

Today’s photos come from reader Jan Malik from New Jersey and are geese and DUCKS. The captions and ID’s are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

Here are some Barnegat Inlet ducks (and other visitors) from the last day of this February.

Canada Goose (Branta canadensis) and Brant (Branta bernicla) in flight.  Same genus, similar body form, and a fairly recent common ancestor—only about 1–2 MYA in Pleistocene North America. Anne Elk’s (Mrs.) theory about brontosauruses could be adapted to geese: they are thin at one end, much, much thicker in the middle, and thin again at the far end. My new theory is that these two species split when the Laurentide Ice Sheet separated the American coast from the inland regions. The Brant specialized in coastal habitats and feeding on seaweeds, while the Canada Goose evolved inland, feeding mostly on herbs and grasses. Perhaps this theory is not new. Or not mine.

Arguably the biggest stars of the winter Barnegat Inlet are the Harlequin Ducks (Histrionicus histrionicus). The drakes’ plumage is so dramatic—and their calls so comical (resembling a bath rubber ducky)—that many people come to Barnegat Light just to see them. The hens’ coloration is more subdued but still lovely.

JAC: You can hear their calls on the Cornell page for this species. Just below is a hen:

Every year I see them bobbing along the jetty, sometimes tossed around by heavy seas but always masterfully avoiding the rocks. They seem attracted to heavy surf and avoid the open sea. They stay mostly in a loose flock, which in recent years appears to have declined from 20–30 ducks in 2010 to just 10–15 in the last couple of years.

Drake:

They can preen while in the water, but they do catch a breather by climbing onto slippery rocks. Their feet are set a bit farther back, like in other diving ducks, but they can walk on land—although a bit awkwardly. By late February most of them are gone, heading back north to their nesting grounds on Labrador’s whitewater rivers and streams:

Like other diving ducks, they dip their heads before diving for fish. My other theory—Theory Number Two—is that by doing so they defeat the air–water interface diffraction and better locate prey:

They are exceptionally buoyant, which makes sense given their rocky surf habitat, but it also means they must put extra effort into diving. They have to jump slightly into the air before the dive to gain momentum, then use their wings as paddles to become submerged:

I once heard that the difference between geese and ducks is that ducks can launch themselves directly into the air from a resting position, while geese need to run for a while, either on water or land. This is probably true for dabbling ducks (like Mallards), but a Harlequin—with its feet set back a bit—must run some distance to become airborne:

Another common winter visitor: the Red-breasted Merganser (Mergus serrator), drake. Their bill serration is more pronounced than in other diving ducks, helping them catch fish:

Merganser hen. These are the most sea-loving mergansers. The other two I’m familiar with—Common and Hooded Mergansers—rarely appear in coastal waters. They are said to be very active underwater predators pursuing fish, but I’ve never seen that myself:

Common Eider (Somateria mollissima), probably an immature drake in transitional plumage. They are quite large and plump, which—together with the proverbial “eider down”—makes them well adapted to nesting in the Arctic. Reportedly, hens with ducklings may form crèches on their nesting grounds (a defense against polar foxes and skuas perhaps?) One day I must see that: