By Jess Beebe

Most people think of Point Isabel primarily as a dog park, and indeed it features one of the largest and most scenic off-leash dog areas anywhere. But this park is also the gateway to a premier birding destination, offering access to a delightful stretch of the San Francisco Bay Trail that meanders through a restored salt marsh and slough and past expansive mudflats.

Tires, shopping carts, and chunks of concrete remind us that this place – like many shoreline parks – has a checkered history of human use. (It was acquired by the East Bay Regional Park District in 1975 to offset the construction of the neighboring Postal Service facility.) Here, as elsewhere, the Bay Trail runs parallel to a busy freeway. Yet the place has a wild beauty that transcends the heavy impact by people, both past and present, and makes it a worthwhile destination even for nature lovers who generally prefer more pristine places.

The mudflats and salt marsh provide outstanding habitat for shorebirds year-round and ducks in winter. Upland habitat hosts warblers and other songbirds. But without a doubt, the star resident is the Ridgway’s Rail. This species was known as the Clapper Rail until 2014, when the West Coast population was declared distinct from Gulf and Atlantic populations and given its own name. The interpretive displays along the Bay Trail still refer to the birds as Clapper Rails. Whatever you call this species, it is classified as endangered, both federally and in California, mainly due to habitat loss.

Tidal channel west of the Bay Trail near Point Isabel / Photo by Jess Beebe Ridgway’s Rail (formerly California Clapper Rail / Photo by Bob Lewis

Rails are known for their secretive habits. They spend much of their time hidden deep in the salt marsh, venturing out onto the muddy banks of the channels only occasionally, and often for just moments at a time, before disappearing back into the marsh.

I saw my first Ridgway’s Rail on a trip to the Upper Coast of Texas. A fellow birder had told me that they could reliably be seen alongside a certain road on the Bolivar Peninsula. Determined to finally lay eyes on one of these elusive birds, I brought a sandwich and staked out the muddy marsh edge. About two hours later, a rail appeared. Having seen that rail – if only briefly – I felt more confident searching for them at Point Isabel, and later that season I spotted one there, too.…

By Jess Beebe
Most people think of Point Isabel primarily as a dog park, and indeed it features one of the largest and most scenic off-leash dog areas anywhere. But this park is also the gateway to a premier birding destination, offering access to a delightful stretch of the San Francisco Bay Trail that meanders through a restored salt marsh and slough and past expansive mudflats.
Tires, shopping carts, and chunks of concrete remind us that this place – like many shoreline parks – has a checkered history of human use. (It was acquired by the East Bay Regional Park District in 1975 to offset the construction of the neighboring Postal Service facility.) Here, as elsewhere, the Bay Trail runs parallel to a busy freeway. Yet the place has a wild beauty that transcends the heavy impact by people, both past and present, and makes it a worthwhile destination even for nature lovers who generally prefer more pristine places.
The mudflats and salt marsh provide outstanding habitat for shorebirds year-round and ducks in winter. Upland habitat hosts warblers and other songbirds. But without a doubt, the star resident is the Ridgway’s Rail. This species was known as the Clapper Rail until 2014, when the West Coast population was declared distinct from Gulf and Atlantic populations and given its own name. The interpretive displays along the Bay Trail still refer to the birds as Clapper Rails. Whatever you call this species, it is classified as endangered, both federally and in California, mainly due to habitat loss.
Tidal channel west of the Bay Trail near Point Isabel / Photo by Jess Beebe
Ridgway’s Rail (formerly California Clapper Rail / Photo by Bob Lewis
Rails are known for their secretive habits. They spend much of their time hidden deep in the salt marsh, venturing out onto the muddy banks of the channels only occasionally, and often for just moments at a time, before disappearing back into the marsh.
I saw my first Ridgway’s Rail on a trip to the Upper Coast of Texas. A fellow birder had told me that they could reliably be seen alongside a certain road on the Bolivar Peninsula. Determined to finally lay eyes on one of these elusive birds, I brought a sandwich and staked out the muddy marsh edge. About two hours later, a rail appeared. Having seen that rail – if only briefly – I felt more confident searching for them at Point Isabel, and later that season I spotted one there, too.…

By Jess Beebe
Most people think of Point Isabel primarily as a dog park, and indeed it features one of the largest and most scenic off-leash dog areas anywhere. But this park is also the gateway to a premier birding destination, offering access to a delightful stretch of the San Francisco Bay Trail that meanders through a restored salt marsh and slough and past expansive mudflats.
Tires, shopping carts, and chunks of concrete remind us that this place – like many shoreline parks – has a checkered history of human use. (It was acquired by the East Bay Regional Park District in 1975 to offset the construction of the neighboring Postal Service facility.) Here, as elsewhere, the Bay Trail runs parallel to a busy freeway. Yet the place has a wild beauty that transcends the heavy impact by people, both past and present, and makes it a worthwhile destination even for nature lovers who generally prefer more pristine places.
The mudflats and salt marsh provide outstanding habitat for shorebirds year-round and ducks in winter. Upland habitat hosts warblers and other songbirds. But without a doubt, the star resident is the Ridgway’s Rail. This species was known as the Clapper Rail until 2014, when the West Coast population was declared distinct from Gulf and Atlantic populations and given its own name. The interpretive displays along the Bay Trail still refer to the birds as Clapper Rails. Whatever you call this species, it is classified as endangered, both federally and in California, mainly due to habitat loss.
Tidal channel west of the Bay Trail near Point Isabel / Photo by Jess Beebe
Ridgway’s Rail (formerly California Clapper Rail / Photo by Bob Lewis
Rails are known for their secretive habits. They spend much of their time hidden deep in the salt marsh, venturing out onto the muddy banks of the channels only occasionally, and often for just moments at a time, before disappearing back into the marsh.
I saw my first Ridgway’s Rail on a trip to the Upper Coast of Texas. A fellow birder had told me that they could reliably be seen alongside a certain road on the Bolivar Peninsula. Determined to finally lay eyes on one of these elusive birds, I brought a sandwich and staked out the muddy marsh edge. About two hours later, a rail appeared. Having seen that rail – if only briefly – I felt more confident searching for them at Point Isabel, and later that season I spotted one there, too.…

Editor’s Note: Some people go birding to escape from the stresses of daily life. For birders of color, those stresses often continue into the field. This timely and compelling essay is excerpted with permission from J. Drew Lanham’s new book, THE HOME PLACE: MEMOIRS OF A COLORED MAN’S LOVE AFFAIR WITH NATURE.

By J. Drew Lanham

It’s only 9:06 a.m. and I think I might get hanged today.

* * * *

The job I volunteered for was to record every bird I could see or hear in a three-minute interval. I am supposed to do that fifty times. Look, listen, and list for three minutes. Get in the car. Drive a half mile. Stop. Get out. Look, listen, and list again. It’s a routine thousands of volunteers have followed during springs and summers all across North America since 1966. The data is critical for ornithologists to understand how breeding birds are faring across the continent.

Up until now the going has been fun and easy, more leisurely than almost any “work” anyone could imagine. But here I am, on stop number thirty-two of the Laurel Falls (Tennessee) Breeding Bird Survey route: a large black man in one of the whitest places in the state, sitting on the side of the road with binoculars pointed toward a house with the Confederate flag proudly displayed. Rumbling trucks passing by, a honking horn or two, and curious double takes are infrequent but still distract me from the task at hand. Maybe there’s some special posthumous award given for dying in the line of duty on a Breeding Bird Survey (BBS) route—perhaps a roadside plaque honoring my bird-censusing skills.

The Home Place, J. Drew Lanham’s new book

My mind plays horrific scenes of an old black-and-white photograph I’ve seen before—gleeful throngs at a lynching party. Pale faces glow grimly in evil light. A little girl smiles broadly. The pendulant, black-skinned guest of dishonor swings anonymously, grotesquely, lifelessly. I can hear Billie Holiday’s voice.

The mountain morning, which started out cool, is rapidly heating into the June swoon. I grip the clipboard tighter with sweaty hands, ignoring as best I can the stars and bars flapping menacingly in the yard across the road. The next three minutes will seem much longer.

On mornings like this I sometimes question why I choose to do such things. Was I crazy to take this route, up here, so far away from anything?…

Editor’s Note: Some people go birding to escape from the stresses of daily life. For birders of color, those stresses often continue into the field. This timely and compelling essay is excerpted with permission from J. Drew Lanham’s new book, THE HOME PLACE: MEMOIRS OF A COLORED MAN’S LOVE AFFAIR WITH NATURE.

By J. Drew Lanham

It’s only 9:06 a.m. and I think I might get hanged today.

* * * *

The job I volunteered for was to record every bird I could see or hear in a three-minute interval. I am supposed to do that fifty times. Look, listen, and list for three minutes. Get in the car. Drive a half mile. Stop. Get out. Look, listen, and list again. It’s a routine thousands of volunteers have followed during springs and summers all across North America since 1966. The data is critical for ornithologists to understand how breeding birds are faring across the continent.

Up until now the going has been fun and easy, more leisurely than almost any “work” anyone could imagine. But here I am, on stop number thirty-two of the Laurel Falls (Tennessee) Breeding Bird Survey route: a large black man in one of the whitest places in the state, sitting on the side of the road with binoculars pointed toward a house with the Confederate flag proudly displayed. Rumbling trucks passing by, a honking horn or two, and curious double takes are infrequent but still distract me from the task at hand. Maybe there’s some special posthumous award given for dying in the line of duty on a Breeding Bird Survey (BBS) route—perhaps a roadside plaque honoring my bird-censusing skills.

The Home Place, J. Drew Lanham’s new book

My mind plays horrific scenes of an old black-and-white photograph I’ve seen before—gleeful throngs at a lynching party. Pale faces glow grimly in evil light. A little girl smiles broadly. The pendulant, black-skinned guest of dishonor swings anonymously, grotesquely, lifelessly. I can hear Billie Holiday’s voice.

The mountain morning, which started out cool, is rapidly heating into the June swoon. I grip the clipboard tighter with sweaty hands, ignoring as best I can the stars and bars flapping menacingly in the yard across the road. The next three minutes will seem much longer.

On mornings like this I sometimes question why I choose to do such things. Was I crazy to take this route, up here, so far away from anything?…