154 
THE CONDOR 
Vol. XV 
But to get back to our muttons. It is confessedly a dull year here in Santa 
Barbara. Migrations have been quite unostentatious. There has been nothing- 
like the stir and bustle in movement that there was last year. Moreover, the clay 
chosen, May 5, was a week too late for this latitude. With the exception of the 
IJmicolce, the migrant “hosts’’ were absolutely gone. Add to that a day severely 
handicapped by weather conditions, fog and wind, and you have a gloomy out- 
look for a record. 
William Ornithologicus, Jr. (Aet. 13), and his dad rose at 4 a. m. (our east- 
ern brethren start at 2:30), yawned peevishly at the closely investing fog, noted 
a temperature of 49°, woke up the Jolly Ellen, who in turn coughed sulkily with 
the fog in her “pipes,” and set out up Mission Canyon over an “automobiles for- 
bidden” road to the mouth of the new water tunnel, which pierces the Santa 
Ynez range at an elevation of 1800 feet. 
The first bird to peep is Anthony Towhee, at 4:37. House Finch follows at 
4:41, and San Diego Towhee a minute later. By the time the tunnel is reached 
at 5 ;45, we have risen above the fog bank and have 27 species to our credit. Here 
we leave the machine and take to the trail which leads up through the dense 
chaparral, piercing cover which a week ago was swarming with migrant warblers 
and flycatchers. The fog-ocean rolls at our feet and we are monarchs of all we 
survey ; but alas ! it is a silent paradise. Not a single species is added for half 
an hour’s work. Our guests are all gone. We plunge into the fog again and 
fight our way down into Mission Canyon for the sake of confronting a cliff which 
contains at one time and within the circuit of a flung hat, Cliff Swallow, Violet- 
green Swallow, White-throated Swift, Western Redtail, and Pacific Horned Owl, 
all nesting. Check, check, tally. All in. And a Nuttall Woodpecker just below 
for luck. 
The cool depths of the Canyon yield nothing else new save two nestfuls 
of shivering baby Allen’s ; but we know we shall not see these elsewhere, and the 
extra half mile is worth -wfl-iile. Fog! Fog! We bless the fog for our beautiful 
cool summers, but it certainly does give one a slow start on a spring bird horizon. 
We are back home at 8 o’clock with only 39 species brought to book. (I have 
recorded 90 species in Ohio by the same hour — but wait!) Nevertheless we 
doggedly resume at 8 130. A Phainopepla frets in a neighbor's yard, and two 
kinds of Kingbirds, Cassin and Western, rise from the same fence rail. 
The next objective point is Laguna Blanca on the Hope Ranch property, 
where I have seen fifty species of birds at one time on a winter’s day ; but need 
of gas and a road as smooth as a billiard table tempts us farther west, — first to 
Goleta and then to La Patera cat-tail swamp, where we pick up the three 
blackbirds and Cinnamon Teal, with Least Bittern for a plum. 
At ten o’clock the fog burns off (as it always does), and w^e hurry back to 
reap a harvest at Laguna Blanca. Faugh ! It is a watery desert. Coots, Ruddies 
and a few blackbirds comprise almost its entire population. These with a Sora 
and a passing Kingfisher — the latter a rare bird hereabouts, thanks to the jealous 
fisherman — scarcely reward us for our effort. 
The City proper yields English Sparrow ; and Steam’s Wharf, where we 
lunch, gives access to lingering Scoters, Shags and Gulls, much prized in a spring 
list. The Estero, usually crowded with birds, is almost deserted, and only a waif 
Phalarope redeems its sordid stretches from utter disappointment. On the beach 
opposite the outfall sewer sits a mixed company of gulls, always worth looking- 
over. This time it is the Glaucous Gull (Lams hyperboreus) which commands 
attention. There are two individuals among the crowd of lesser Westerns, one 
